Day 13: eroticka

Sunday the 13th

Breakfast , Lunch and Dinner


I think I know how sensual Catholicism is.  As a adolescent studying in the biggest rural Catholic school in our province, there have numerous times when I would ask myself if the nuns were indeed virgins whose body, mind and soul was married only to God.  I would then fantasize about their vagina being hairless – like a child’s – nimble and free and washed with holy water every morning before piano lessons.

In a line, marching to the cathedral, especially in October, the rosary month, I specially liked the dominance of silence over the sound of our khakis squishing melodically with our secret murmurs.  The whiff of leftover incense and candles that pierced the throat and dried the mouth.  I wonder which sensory inequity gave me that quarter hard-on rubbing slowly inside my coarse apparel every time I reach the pews, my eyes darting to the sweaty necks in front of me.  The strike of morning light coming from the glass stained windows magically turning those necks into multicolored glasses.  My 12 year old teeth would’ve sunk into them had I been a vampire.  But I was not.  I was a good Catholic boy who prayed the Angelus at 6 PM.  The same Catholic boy who was raised to believe in discipline and to obstruct evil thoughts the minute it steps in . . . I grabbed on to my rosary, closed my eyes, covered my face with my praying hands and recited my Hail Marys.  I rubbed my rosary until my thumb and forefinger became numb.  Praying my erection would cave in soon.

This is to tell stories of mental images – this is like going back to your 12 year old self – this is putting your nose to your armpits and inhaling the day’s sour vestige – this is rubbing your neck – closing your eyes – loving yourself deeply – touching your thighs with both hands and slowly going up to your abdomen, up up up to your nipples and then stretching your arms wide.  Wide enough to net the entire universe.  Wide enough to be consumed by the dissident recounts of your head, opening forgotten fantasies and at the same time, asking yourself if it is really just the fear of committing mistakes or it is about capitulating to a number of things that you found revolting – exciting –  evil – immoral – unstable – complicated?  In fact, this is not about asking yourself.  This is about allowing yourself to be threatened.  To be invaded by your own provocations.  And loving it too.  Even for a moment.

Did you ever use a vibrator?  Does it repulse you?  Will you tell your husband to perform cunnilingus to you because he doesn’t?  Will you come to your balcony naked?  Even only for a second?  Did your teacher just winked at you?  Did the sound of the ACU whirring in your ears remind you of your first tongue kiss?  Did you wish sometimes you had an incestuous affair with one of your cousins? Your brother?

When I was in high school we had an Irish rector in our school whose timidity eroded my sense of space oddity.  He would always do his sermons for 15 minutes tops, no more no less.  At 50 something years old, he exudes vigor with his lean calves and grey, smiling hair.  I remember I always watch him sitting at the principal’s office, in his black slacks and crisp shirt, not smiling, his mind off recessing to hollowness, thinking to myself how bored he must have been with his brows always pleated together.

Then I come to him.  He tells me to come to his quarters.  He tells me how bored he is and what can I do to diminish the monotony of his priesthood.  I come to him and hold him, without speaking.  He sags inside my pubescent arms – his breath scalding my neck – and we are locked in each others discontent.  I whisper, ” Everything will be alright.  I will make sure everything will be alright,” .

We kiss.  His lips fumbling nervously. He removes his clothes, folds them neatly by the side of the bed and stands there naked in front of me.  His pale, smooth skin illuminated and ready to be taken.  I kneel down and brings fire to his priesthood.  I suck his penis until he shudders, happy and weeping.  He looks down at me and smiles, his tears falling softly upon my cheeks, as his semen comes out of my mouth like rosary beads.  Full of guilt.  Full of love.

I snapped out of my stupor, asked God for forgiveness and ate my sandwich.

Did you ever get turned on by the smell of a freshly-worn sneakers?  Do you wish you were a prostitute?  Don’t you just feel sexy drinking warm, thick, hot chocolate? The way it slides down your throat, ticklish and sinful, warming your insides like an imp yanking it all the way through?  Did you want to be hurt?  Punished? Would you be willing to try sleep with another woman?  Swing with a couple?  Have you thought about getting a hand job from your best friend?

In my years knocking on almost every door I encounter, I have always been allured by the culpable behavioral phenomena called sadomasochism.  As we all know, it is an act of inflicting and receiving pain.  The acronym being two different poles – the good and the evil – pain and pleasure.

Masochism and sadism arise from such distinctive impulses that the combination of the two can very well relinquish the self for what it represents.  As an individual, as a manager, a first born and a winner in terms of self-buoyancy, I am actually the slave in bed and it works well for me mentally.  I want to be dominated.  Even emotionally.  The advent of leather, of whips and chains, the works – are mere costumes – purely theatrical – but it dissolves into characters, the switch as they say, of fleeting from one emotion to the next. Although I would not mind wrestling in a plastic sheet filled with body lotion – myself pinned down to the core.  My dominant’s bare feet on my face.

Like life actually.  Dominance and submission.  And my penchant for The Foot.  😉

Perhaps Madonna was right:  the one who inflicts the pain can take it away.

It is like smelling red roses and pricking your own finger in its thorns.  It can be a black cat walking straight at you, its eyes fixed on you.  It is the way your crush lightly touches your shoulders and you feel the hot wetness between your thighs but continues to sulk through the day knowing he does not give a shit about you.  It is the like the way you stare at someone’s swan-like nape that turns you on – and then she looks at you and the magic is gone forever.

It is right and wrong.

It is having an orgasm and driving to the grocery 5 minutes later.

I stare at a young man’s feet.  It’s long toes pointing up as he crunches them lightly, one by one, making livid rubbery sound in his Havainas.  His hair falls to his nose, his dry lips bathed by afternoon sweat.  We look at each other and I ask him how old he is.  He says he is 21.  He is lying of course.  He is only 17.  WE are in my truck in 5 minutes.  He necks me.  I grab hold of his robust buttocks, almost tearing a portion of his cargo pants.  I go down to his feet.  I nurse it with my teeth and softly lick his toes one by one.  He moans and chuckles at the same time.  He lets go of his rigid cock and began masturbating.  I gorge on his sole, sniffing the day, biting and nibbling on it.  I smell my spit in his feet.  He cums in my face.  I cum in his feet and I stare at my own lust, dripping, going down between his reddened toes.  I stare at it beautifully.  My mind silent at last.

10:34 PM

I did my laundry

and watched Revolutionary Road on dvd.

About this entry