~The post is a work of fiction. It does not represent myself or anyone living~
I had many sex partners despite my youth.
If I'm 24 years old, then the guys I've been with, are twice my age in number.
I love the cock. I hate the cock. I even want a cock myself.
I've fucked with poets, with artists.
I've fucked with revolutioners.
I've fucked with policemen.
I've fucked with virgin perverts in puberty and with sinful perverts at middle-age.
I've fucked with happy people and with depressive ones.
And the only thing I kept from them, is the bitter taste of disgust in the end of my tongue every time they layed their bodies on mine and a single tear in the end of my eye when the pleasure and the delightfull rapture after the orgasm was gone. It's funny when I think about what a pal once told me: That, periphrastically, the orgasm in french is called "la petite mort" which referes to "the little death".
That was all I ever craved from them. That little death. The more depressed I was the more intense the orgasm.
Instead, they yearned all kinds of different things.
The poets desired inspiration. The artists the lack of loneliness.
The young desired experience and the old desired reassurance.
Some of them loved me. Some of them thought they did. They actually hated me. They could not keep up with who I am, they were possessive -and it's not in my nature to be owned.
But I could not keep up with all of them, either. Especially with the ones that tended to be more social. The ones that insisted on talking and asking about me, because eventually they would try to show me their affection. So I just interrupt their monologue in the early begining, stroking them gently 'till they become silent again, 'till their manhood starts to grow.
It's strange how much I enjoy this ecstatic sensation of sex and yet when it's over I'm left completely disgusted and eternally unsatisfied, filled with self-hatred and shame. People say you cannot get the whole aspect and pleasure of sex without the element of love. Well, when it comes to me, the element of love shuts down the pleasure. If I develop romantic feelings for someone I'm no longer sexually attracted to them.
There's nothing gentle and there's no love for me in sex. So that's why I compare it with a powerfull drug. It's like the first time I did heroin. When you inject it, in the begining, when the drug hits your blood, it feels like floating while falling, and then just imagine the best orgasms you've ever had, put them in line, and let them last for a couple of hours. That's how it feels. And then, the sensation goes awfully off. It leaves you completely alone with the niddle still attached to your vein, reminding you the only thing that's left. Detestation and loathing towards yourself.
That's heroin.
That's sex.
That's la petite mort of mine.
