“P”

He walks in the door and falls straight to the floor, belly pressed against the boards, and begins slurping from the dog bowl of piss you have placed there. He breaks off to look up at you and ask, ‘Does sir want me to drink it all?’

‘Yes.’

You marvel at his submission, his desire to be degraded. It fascinates and disgusts you. Short-term memory includes forgetting as a process.

You pull down your football shorts and pull aside your jockstrap, releasing your semi-hard cock, and then you watch him kneel at your feet and hold the bowl up to his mouth so he can drain it – with a delicacy that belies the moment – in tiny bird sips.

‘Good boy,’ you say when he has finished and placed the bowl back down.

You push your cock into his mouth, right down to the root, making him gag and choke, which makes you harder. You withdraw and slap your prick against his face, and he groans. You turn around, and present your rump to his face. He buries his foraging tongue, as if he could crawl inside and sleep on the moss there, die there.

The veneration I feel for that part of the body and the great tenderness that I have bestowed on the men who have allowed me to enter it, the grace and sweetness of their gift, oblige me to speak of all this with respect. It is not profaning the most beloved of the dead to speak, in the guise of a poem whose tone is still unknowable, of the happiness he offered me when my face was buried in a fleece that was damp with my sweat and saliva and that stuck together in little locks of hair which dried after love-making and remained stiff.

You turn around and hold out your cock, uttering the single word, ‘Toilet.’

He holds his mouth open for the steady jet of warm, clear liquid, which arcs from your body to his, from inside you to inside him, this circuit of pleasure and waste that constructs its own economy within this blasted region of the soul.

By the time he leaves, he has choked so much on your cock that bile stains are visible on his shirt and trousers, you can see the black curls of his chest hair through the damp fabric; he has drunk your piss and swallowed your cum, and thanked you for the privilege. He will measure the success of a night by the amount of piss and seed consumed.

Something has been released, some demon fed; the walls fall away and spaces yawn around you; unfathomable, unknowable spaces. And although it is still daylight, all you can see is darkness, the many shades of darkness, patterning your vision of yourself and this world, yourself in this world. And you see him, getting into his car, renegotiating his way back into his life, as you must renegotiate your way back into yours. One cannot write sufficiently in the name of an outside.

This is an extract from 26 by Jonathan Kemp (quote in italics by Jean Genet)

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2 responses to this post.

  1. […] The inimitable Mark Simpson  reminds us of the dirty connotations of  anal sex. Whilst  Jonathan Kemp  and  Slava Mogutin link homosexuality to sadomasochism and uncover the complex dirt […]

    Reply

  2. I love this. Can’t wait to read the rest of the book.

    I am not surprised Jean Genet has been quoted by my two favourite homosexualist writers.

    Reply

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