--Edgar Allan Poe
First you stand very still and let the eyes make whatever adjustment they can to what little light is available. Then feel the twangy rumble in your groin. Finally, there is an atavistic lull delivered by an angel. On the other side, in that other room, there is partial presence. One espies things that are never whole. Objects that nudge forward and make a commanding, temporary appearance through the crude openings. Some of these portals are ovals, some egg-shaped with their edges smoothed lovingly, they each beckon--sweet staunch emblems of a smile. In the dim light, once there, my finger tip will trace the rims and tap, tap, tap. I'm conjuring the void to constellate a spectacle. There is also a buzzing sensation behind the top of my throat. With squinting eyes I shuffle towards my destination and my lips part involuntarily. One movement begets the other. The hole. And then I peer--space. Black hole. The inverse is here. From this thin circumferential zone magical forces will congeal and eventually draw the content forward. A giving forth, and receiving, the two points separated by an unseen torso. Compelled, it's an idyll due to bloom. My profile gently comes to rest and feels the rough texture of the wood, painted black. Slightly gritty and it smells of a fresh coat. The symbol below my chin, now, numinous. The anticipation and one pointed focus is intoxicating. In confession, as a young boy, the perversity I harbored there comes to rest here. And the purple curtains--one gains entry through, egress from--are dusty, tattered at the bottom I imagine. They shimmy, enfolding a stranger who is waiting. Watching. My finger will eventually trace the rim of the oval. The dogged allure of the whole experience is the fact that a partition cuts off and makes one feel safe before a mystery. And yet, paradoxically, there is the fear that a certain width, length and girth will not be forthcoming. It might be some small insignificant thing. But then that is usually welcomed regardless. What's important, clamored for, in the end, despite potential disappointment, is for the thing to simply arrive and loom. The first bit of prescience is the sweetest and causes my mouth to part wider. Saliva collects for the ceremonial fumbling with costume, uniform, or disguise. Wool, denim, polyester, cotton--each particle that is removed, dropped, shifted, stripped, parted or rearranged foretells a peeling back of civility. A tacit liturgy that we follow. And manic peering. What's whole is in the name. Glory hole. So simple really. Finally there is motion, someone skulking back and forth. Hesitant? Apprehensive? Actually it's just the coy dance, a tribal undulation. Closer. Closer. The fabric appears exactly as I'd anticipated. Nylon this time, elastic waistband. Below are two large thighs. Henri Barbusse once wrote a story that contained this description, "In the air, on top of a tram, a girl is sitting. Her dress, lifted a little, blows out. But a block in the traffic separates us..." I'm trying to recall the title of the book while I reassemble the facts: I was walking along a sidewalk on a street I can't recall. The grass was pale green in the saturation of sunlight. Occasionally, when a cloud moved the color calmed and returned to its darker, natural hue. I was peering without compunction into the open windows of homes and apartment buildings that managed both sides of the street. At one residence I wondered about the contents of a crumpled Sears bag that was propped atop an old boxy television counsel in a boring living room in a corner house that had a tremendous pine tree rooted dangerously close to the side of the house. Sitting, on the opposite side of the street, at a green bus stop bench, lolling, was a plush, tight, scruffy tall boy/man in running shorts that were too small for his big frame. His head wore a baseball cap concealing, I guessed, a very short hair cut. Slightly unremarkably common, viewed head-on, his face would soon turn to reveal a stunning profile. My gaze went to an abundance of exposed flesh--his ample thighs. His posture was lewd by circumstance: The incongruity of it all. The bright day with birds sounding in every direction, the captioned baseball cap, a telephone pole next to the bench, the large expanse of his lap--occupying space insouciantly, as far removed as the mass of his body was from his slumbering brain--the thickness of his unawareness. But first impressions can be wrong. My walking pace dwindled when the choppy breeze was beginning to impart life to his flimsy nylon shorts so that--when he turned to study a blond college student that was walking slightly behind and then away from him-- his legs angled apart and the wind rushed to flap the thin material upward and exposed the pinkish globes of his balls. But within a trice my perfect tableau jump-cut-crashed into an advertisement fixed onto the side of a bus. A promo for Volvo station wagons bearing a baby gnawing its clamped fist with the headline: To Drool For. The breach was painful. My longing, staring, wishing, conjuring snapped--and I can still feel the unfulfilled exposure take residency behind my eyes like the after-effect of starring at a glowing light bulb. It's there to this day. As the retinal shock drains I can envision exactly what should have happened next: I'm walking, following him following the blond home. He seduces him in the foyer to his shady building because the light fixture above us is old and broken. Now, exposed--after the boy wrenches his shirt above his waist, sheds his pants and offers himself--my man's ass, white and dense, feels like warm porcelain beneath my hands. The student is still wearing a jock strap that must be maneuvered slightly to allow an opening. I can see how it continues to hug his balls despite efforts for entry. The ass contracts and retreats from my grip to allow his club dick to bump then jam into the blond's asshole. I have positioned myself on my knees and begin excavating with my tongue. I'm in that hairy marsh pretty deep as he pounds forward. The other one is grunting and I am sniffing hard, the smell between his splayed mounds reminds me of a post-Halloween pumpkin. He's sopping and I reach up, between his legs, and let my fingers brush against the exposed portion of his shaft as it drills the blond. It's warm and unctuous when I circle the root, slide forward and ease a finger, in tandem with his thrusts, up the boys hole. The other one's jerking himself frantically and spasms to blat the wall in front of him with strands of white drool. My butthole clamps shut and whatever fluid had moved to stir my curious penis had returned to the confines of my gut. Bus having passed the guy is still there and waiting. He wouldn't be the sort of guy one should proposition. But again I was wrong. Joe was 22 then, and he smelled good, all of the time--and I noted this immediately on that afternoon when I approached him from behind and said, "Excuse me, I wanted to stop and comment about how handsome you are." We exchanged names. Eyed each other brazenly. But with no where to go. I was living with my father, I lied. Come this afternoon. 4 PM. The name and address of the place with the purple curtains. I would be there waiting. Joe came. Intrepid boy that he was. Lingering on that other side, curious. What would it feel like? "Is that you?" Whispered. "Yeah. Come here. And don't say anything." I moved my nose and mouth through the wooden portal and then pushed my tongue out slightly. Warm air was replaced with the odd, flat feel of the nylon. Answered that way I retreated back. He flattened himself into the wall so his bulge came forward and remained an inaccessible mound. Stupid. I poked it with my finger to urge him back a little. He stalled, thinking I was making a move for the prize. But not yet, I needed a proper unveiling, of his own volition. Space stretched again between us. Good. Now, peel back the material again, like the wind did this afternoon. Instead he went for the top of his shorts. "No." I was too loud so he startled. "What?" Whispered again. Nothing. Let him figure it out. Tap. Tap. Someone withdrew from the curtains and hovered just a few feet away--gawking; their presence only slightly registered. They rustled softly, and moved to an angle to catch a better glimpse--a futile act--too dark from over there to over here. Finally, yes, you've got it. And Joe's right hand came to rest on the right place while his index finger hooked, extended and tugged the fabric upwards. A weighty-hefty pair of testicles drooped free. With some difficulty and impatience, he worked the finger to the hidden root, moved his left hand to press his shorts in place, and then awkwardly slid his prick free. The head snagged on the inner lining of his shorts. And then, half gorged it zagged forward and swayed to bump its tip at the rim of the hole. I inched my head backwards to watch the blood flush the rest of it full. Rhythmic volume there. In cadence to the heartbeat. The spectacle was a perfectly framed dénouement. Censored were the complicated emblems of personhood. This was pure animal, no human peripheries. No psychological calculations. Just subject object. It made me dizzy with mental vertigo. The magnification and one-pointedness. My excitement was pure, goaded strictly by the meaning behind the symbol. Archetypes are functions I considered. The functions of the quintessential. My mind tried to calculate exactly how many inches were clogging my throat, an impossible cipher, too much of my attention was focused on the rare opportunities I had to breathe. Joe was extra eager. His prick seared (it seemed), bashing through, so I'd no choice but to forgo my ardor. Very bloated and the whole granite metaphor came to mind. Its essence matched the fullness of his thighs which gave the impression of abundant blood coursing richly throughout his body. His pace quickened and I sucked harder. Why? The sooner I could get him off the sooner there would be oxygen.
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"And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.." 