Body Love

I forget just when it was that the bodies took over. It was so cool when it happened, and I have a hard time thinking about what it was like before. I just remember how sexy it was, and I guess I've been hard ever since. At first it was like being in San Francisco or Fire Island or West Hollywood or somewhere like that. You know. Incredibly good-looking young gay guys everywhere. Shoulders. Torsos. Bubble butts. Sweet hot lips, flawless hair, hot hands, beautiful legs, muscles everywhere, and wonderful flat, rippled stomachs. I could go on.

Thing is, most of these places have guys that you meet, get to know, and maybe something happens, maybe not. The changes came when it started happening all the time. It's been such a dream, and I no longer have the patience or inclination to think back to then. I don't know anyone who remembers well or who cares to. It was like this: you'd see a guy picked up by an incredibly looking guy with an awesome body, and it would be like the first guy just couldnt resist. That's something you do see from time, on a dance floor, in a bar, or even in a grocery store or locker room, but it began happening all over the place. It was like the guy's body couldnt resist the body of the guy picking him up. There was an inability to override it with better judgement, or excuses, or prior commitments.

I remember the first time I saw it happen, and the two guys walked off to the dance floor of the disco. The first guy had his shirt off, and hardly talked to the second guy, if he talked at all. The second guy was dazed, stunned, all over the first guy, licking his chest, worshiping his body, hardly able to dance because he was so turned on.

Later, the guy with the great body kind of hauled his awe-stricken buddy away. The next day I saw the two of them, but the second guy looked awesome himself, his body looked sleek and muscular, and he looked totally cool and turned on. Both were there dancing shirtless, their gorgeous torsos glistening with sweat and exuding male potency.I got hard just watching them, when a friend of mine I was with, obviously hard also, dropped his drink and went over to start dancing with them.

Other guys had the same idea, and soon each of the first two guys had about three or four other guys kind of in a worshipful daze around them, all kind of like groupies around a major star or world figure. It made me so hard to see them all so turned on, and I kind of envied them as they later headed out together, not saying much but looking totally aroused and turned on!

When I noticed them back the next night, it was like they had all been to the gym for about five years and lost about six years -- they just looked great! And they all had that totally cool model's aloofness and confidence to go with their spangled-up, muscled up bodies, which fairly radiated sexuality as they attracted yet other men to them, drawn by their magnificent shirtless bodies. Some were barefoot, too, kind of country-casual barefoot, totally relaxed about it and looking so cool in their handsome bare feet. Was it summer or spring? Probably spring, when the sap rises. Sure as the saplings sprout blossoms and new leaves, the city seemed to blossom with handsome young men, gorgeous gay men of every size and description, men whose bodies possessed a gravitational force, and irresistable sexual attraction, capable of derailing a man's thoughts and rendering him helplessly passionate and aroused.

It became so common to see men arm in arm, relaxed and contemplative of each other, soaking up the sun, playing and running together, sweetly kissing each other, oblivious to time and space, and radiantly healthy and potent. Some forgot to wear clothes, all the better for all to see, as their gracefully powerful bodies seemed to thrive in the fresh air and sunlight, their magnificent muscled hips gently grinding as they walked along arm in arm, their full erections gently bobbing in the warm air. They would run and play even during cloudbursts, laughing as they shook their rain from their clean and natural looking hair, bodies glowing in the brisk summer showers.

The thing I noticed was how they seemed to nourish each other with their love-making. Sex was mealtime, and they fed each other copiously, nursing each other with their massive hardons, or rump-feeding each other; it seemed all they needed. Sometimes you'd see a handsome nude stud calmly sucking himself, his huge penis rhythmically throbbing as it pumped thick hot rivers of come-nutrient into his own hungry lips, and when his buddy happened along, they'd laugh and suck each other and then rump feed each other and perhaps such each other off some more afterwards, then drift off to sleep in each other's arms before waking and feeding each other some more.

Life became like a long summer vacation -- it is amazing when you think of how many millions of beautiful and sexy gay men there seem to be now -- totally living on love, thriving on it. It seems they have overcome the question of replication, and for once the world is a beautiful place populated by millions upon millions of beautiful, gentle gay males of all types and colors, playing together, running, laughing, nourishing each other. It is a type of immortality that the planet was destined for, as men have attained the beauty of angels and have found their love in each other.

James - Joyce

Sodom and Gomorrah. All we faeries talk like that. Only in an Englishmun's dreams do we do.

So, I have a problem with my sexuality. Sometimes I'm James, othertimes Joyce. Depends on my mood, I guess. You should've seen me as ayoung man, maybe you would've wanted to paint my portrait.

Maybe it's my Irish roots showing through, but when you take Dubliners out of Ireland, transplant them to the U.S., let the seedling grow, something weird happens.

Now I'm a slave to the one-eyed trouser-snake, Ulysses' version of the Cyclops. I came into bloom, around my eighteenth birthday, and haven't looked back. My hero was a guy called Stephen, who was an up and coming writer, used the pen-name Daedalus. He showed me the ways of men, I was Icarus and flew too close to his Sun.

His room was full of books, pamphlets, dictionaries, theasauri, all manner of literary tracts, unfinished poems and rejection slips. Naturally seedy, worn carpets, a simple gas fire, that needed a shilling popped in the meter,to provide gas, to provide heat, much needed warmth. A non-descript bed, the only place to sit, as Stephen took the only chair, next to the simple table, where rested his trusty Underwood.

He was so literate, would quote all the contemporary poets, Dylan Thomas, Yeates,Borges, Eliot and of course himself.

He picked me up in a public-house, the 'Horn-a Plenty' just by the O'Connell Street, by the cobblestoned bridge. He was drinking Guiness and bought me a Black Velvet, which is half Guiness and half dark-thorn cider, a woman's drink, so I guess he'd got my number. Three of those, and I was anybody's; tonight his.

He had a strange way of talking, asked me if I were a quare fellow, would I be a nicens little boy, his baby tuckoo. Would I be amoocow and let him milk me. At first I thought it was the Guinesstalking, but it was the voice of a poet wanting to get his end away.

Those days you had to be discreet, there was always a BullMulligan who'd dash out the brains of any one 'quare'. So it was a goodjob Bull didn't see us out in the back alley, kissing like scholgirls with Stephen's hand down the front of my corduroy trousers, feeling me up and showing I was willing to go further, all the way back to his dingy bed-sitter, his study by day, and tonight his boudoir.

He offered me whisky in a cracked china cup, he offered his untidy bed and asked me to lie back. Did I want some air? His hands went to mytrouser fly and undidded, one by one the black buttons until out fell my hardon, soon to get harder as Stephen applied a coy massage. He madedevotions, cradling my cock in his fingers, taking purchase, gripping firm, exciting to me, to feel another's hand, different to mine own, gently rubbing, pleasure coursing through me, along with the whisky.

Hands windswept, opening my shirt, feeling over pale chest, radiating heat, nipples tremulous, lips embracing, full of incertitude, but breathing of passion, liplocked, tongues twining, eyes searching, body aching.

He quoted Milton: "Perfume of embraces all him assailed. Withhungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore."

"Bejasus..ohh..Beezlebub..!" He stood up, high o'er me and removed his tweeded jacket, leathered elbowed, and thin cotton-whited shirt, he unbespectacled himself, sat down, by me, whispered 'View Halloo', unbuckled his suspenders and offed his trews, and showed his man stuff, Priapus erect.

Bigger than mine, more seasoned, most pretty, and this prick Ikissed and guzzled, mouthfondling, tonguelicking, glans and frenum, acum-stick lollipop. He stroked my head, marching to a different drummer, but a 6/9 rhythm, a jazz-jizm tempo, running up and down his bulging urethal canal. Corpus cavenorum nostrum penis. Yummy.

Staring close at Stephen's perineum the heart-shaped mound betweenarse and bollocks, I could see faint traces of sweat, glistening-shiny,a wild hollow hoarlight winding, winking.

Mouthpump brought forth white lava, shoot, shoot. Drink divine. We laughed and giggled, not loud enough to wake his landlady and buried ourselves under the one grey blanket against the candy striped mattress, cock to cock and man to man. Rain crackled against the window-pane and a distant thunderclap sounded dark. We clinched together like two schoolboys having been told a ghosty story, and my hands clasped tight his bum-buttocks pressing him closer for comfort. Lying on a snail trail of man-spurt.

Stephen, victor,victoriamus, sat up, air cold around his shoulders and we partook of a shared cigarette, making arabic calligraphic swirls floating up to the ceiling, browning. Frabjous day, calloo calay, I made my move. Licking balls, head at groin-moved his hips, slip down with tongue protuding, enterdarkness, warm and wet and felt a man squirm overhead. Open wide, doctor style- with spatulate tongue to test the waters. I raised my hand, made into a pointy shape and slipped it in him, rotating gently.

They call this buggery and I a sodomite, but thus with my cock I entered him and pushed and pulled, crammed and jammed, packed my whang, thrust it up, went inside, felt dark syrup, wetness and wailing. His legs he raised, wrapped around my thighs and pulled me in, I pulled me out, and pushed me back in, riding, badgering his bunghole, cock needling, in and out like a tune played on a penny whistle, flexing gluteal muscles driving deep into his arse, sphincter tight, grasping my greasy marrow pole, unable to hold, to stop the friction as I burrowed in his meaty insides. His mouth oped wide, eyes tight shut, his arms clinging to my shoulders, fingers splayed, hanging onto my back, taking all of me in. Dingly dell. A groan escaped his lips, a signal for me to spend, orgasm I did, with ejaculation hot and greedy, and I seeded him with seminal shoot, bowels wet with my spunk, and shuddered he, as I came again, more than twice, thrice.

His belly frothed, as he gave his own comeuppance, spilling on belly, marshmallow whiteness, sticky, sticky between us.

Another shared cigarette, glowing like my penis head, sore with delight. Lickety, licking me, till all was dry. Stephen, my hero, butt-bandit, ass-outlaw, raunchily romantic, myopic, my sweetheart, I, now his bum-brother, smitten by his hormones, cock-beater; solo no more.

Later he had me, took me from behind, I bent to his will and succumbed to his lust. Poked, penetrated, bum-rodded, in Stygian depths. Palmy hands holding belly, butt bounced, dick stuck in, wibbly-wobblying, pink-cucumbered, arseslapped by minature coarse coconuts, containing cock-milk, swooshing, gurgling, till my arse drank, till prostate bruised, till fucked-tired, I swooned to his meaty beating, upended, downturned, everted, bent doubled, swooped and swallowed as dick pumped, plunged, till his dam broke, penis-puking, spunk spillage overflowing brown-pink orifice. Carnal cardinal sin. Genuflecting obeisance, we drifted to sleep. Slept like angels, till came the dawn, and both came again.

I can be James, but sometimes I like to be Joyce.