40 hours in San Francisco ate away at my careful creases and frayed the edges of my chapped skin. As I stepped off into the sterile chill of the city, The Painter was framed by the angles of the chainlink fence. In a series of slow-moving frames, it seemed, her lips reached me before I even caught sight of her eyes in the dark, her worn bomber jacket and tensile, catlike strength.
“We’ve got to scum you up, Cam,” she licked, her fist moving up the knot of my tie.
She unknotted me with ease only to stare me down with an apprenticed gaze. “God, you’re going to be so dirty,” she slithered.
And we moved in frenzied phases for the first hour, or rather, I spoke as she moved around me and carried me in her swift tide, from procuring handcuffs at the sex shop to the inn, surrounded by an impromptu gay wedding reception. The coiffed, anonymous couples’ heads bowed awkwardly underneath the red lampshades, bathed in smoke and the stench of sweat. As they kissed, her hand gripped the roots of my recently shorn curls, my cheeks reddening the longer I looked at her. My gin and tonic took no more than three minutes to finish. I find that my ability to savor food and wine is dulled in the prospect of future physical sensation, that I am coming to terms with the recognition that accentuating it is preferential to dulling, and so, I do not care to drink more than what I have. Her lips were thick with the sweet, syrupy bitterness of Jameson and ginger ale.
Back in the city, we navigated around abandoned swimming pools and shuttered gunshot pierced paradises away from the pomp and glow of the city and collapsed on her chaise lounge like it was the only softness left in the world. We pulled no punches, so to speak. Before the light left the crack of the shutting bedroom door, her fist snaked out and grasped my chin, rough fingerpads mapping the creases in my lips and contours of my jawline. I was knocked back on the couch and roughed up in swift fashion. The first slap was hollow and harsh, the noise absorbed by the paintings and plants on the walls and the sound of the studs on her belt melodic to the folds of my cochlea. It was around my neck before I could even breathe and my tie was gathering dust on the floor.
I saw the hours slip from my clenched fists, white-knuckled and tangled in the sheets as she broke me down, to come calloused and leave scrubbed. She lashed and I crashed and we made feathers fly through the air. Due to an untimely reminder of my femininity, for this visit, I was unable to be fucked outside of the shower, but that didn’t stop us from teasing each other to the brink of sheer disgust. She punctuated each thrust of her fingers in every available hole, my mouth, the dip in my collarbone, my ass, with a growl in my ear, waxy with lipstick and sharp teeth. The vulnerability made me shudder. After the noise, pillowy kolaches and satin bathrobes exaggerated the sensory indulgence, the luxury befitting only the filthiest of hedonists. We spoke of art and teabags in hushed whispers and fell asleep around four as the blue dusky sky peeked through the slats of the bed.
Three hours later, I woke up knotted in linen and leather and watched the snow fly through the cracks in the window behind the curtain. Again, our knowledge of the ephemerality of the weekend ensured we wasted no time. Lashed to the bed, she drew on my taut chest and curve of my lower back, outlined my bruises and glowing raw imprints with marker and glittery mascara kisses. The tension was too much and we moved our coupling to the shower out of courtesy for the churchgoers next door, whom I’m sure, would have been unduly peeved by the sounds of our fervent gay adoration. The tile of the shower was rheumy with frost around the edges and my back screamed as I slammed against it. Each shift in my bones and tendons brings sensation both familiar and intense, a pleasure to force through my mouth and feel deep in my belly. The Painter fucked like a fist fight as the water descended like rain, blinding my eyes and tapping into my open, bloodless mouth. She left me winded with my muscles sore, searing edges bracketed by inkpen tattoos fading by night.
Out in the blinding light, we conspired. There were cheap candies to be purchased, brunch to be wolfed down, yellow yolks dripping down our smudged chins full of smut and cruel ideas our eyes meeting electrified between two mugs of coffee and DiSaronno. We decided to start a photo series to be pasted in dark corners underground, adventures between thighs and bent over bedposts. Anonymous porn making uncomfortable eye contact with the planet gets my mind racing and dilates my pupils with drunken egomania. I thought my self-absorption would take a brief repose during this vacation, but the idea of being immortalized in flagrente delicto and smeared across walls, plastered on poles, boring out of two dimensions made me wet and jumpy all over again.
So we retired from the heaviness of the world and went back to bed at noon. The wine we drank caught up to us and the sulfurs rose to the surfaces of our skin. Each kiss is strawberries and mineral bite, lips steeped in acidity and electricity. Riesling evokes quite the bewitching creature and I felt the tension brew under my skin once more, bulge through and arch in each tendon as I braced myself for intrusion somewhere, anywhere. Her hand slipped between my thighs, down to my ass, and I traced the curves of her hips and slope of her spine. She is much taller than me and I am unaccustomed to her proportions, so graceful and seemingly endless, a distant counterpoint to my curt, compact figure where my hand can wander to my cunt or the curve of my eyebrows with a single flick. For her, there is a reach, and I like the stretch of my mind and sweep my eyes must voyage to take her in. My thoughts were making me sluggish and she arched her neck and bit me straight on the collarbone, the pain spiderwebbing through my body and brain.With every bite, I felt the control leak out of me. I kicked and shuddered my way down to the bottom.
“Take it up the ass, fagboi, take your own cock for me.” She pressed in and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to take it, pressed against the bed. I felt the cold lube loosen me up, allow her to plunge into me a little. The pain was searing and sent a cold sweat through my spine, my mouth a soft slash muffled inside the pillow. My senses dulled in the dark, all my energy is directed back to what I’m feeling inside of me, every gold millimeter filling me up and pressing me into the bed. She alternates between pushing the length of the cock inside of me and swinging at my bare, sweating back. I can feel her knuckles thumping at my ribs, knocking on my heart and cushioned by the fat on my hips. I come when her fist meets my jaw because I know it’s going to bruise, can feel it in the swell of the muscle on the bone. My orgasm, for whatever reason, is ringed with annoyance at myself. I miss love, but I love to fuck. It’s strange to know what I want and to get it with such intensity. I shudder at the barrage of sensations from all slits and surfaces and relax, after what seems like forever.
Once I’d sobered up from the mental exhaustion of such a beating, we negotiated the next part. She’d never taken a cock before, and I decided mine was ideal for the occasion. I warmed up by lapping at her, taking her in my mouth and letting her swell inside of me and rub against my face, covering me and steeping me inside of her. I slipped a few fingers inside and sucked gently at her clit, just barely able to feel the vibrations from her moans on my tongue. I craned my mouth in as far as I was able to and licked the curves of her pussy, delighting in each cry and clench of her fingers on my shoulder. When she’d had enough of this, I slipped myself inside of her, bracing my thrust with my arms on the headboard, looking her in the eye and lowering myself in. It was delirious to have that shift in power and even more scintillating to have it snatched back from my shaking hands after the fact, after she pulsed and mascara leaked down her cheeks.
She took my swagger with each slap, a pleasant and a welcome dalliance from the delivered me from the abstract stresses of the world I slipped from, at least for a few days. I can’t tell if the mesh is only seamless for a short while or whether the grapple merely serves to prolong the strange turmoil I consider long after I leave. As intoxicating as the masochism on its own it, the idea of overthinking leaves me even more breathless and drunk, the raw sensation combined with my self-lust. In those small moments, I am steeped in ego, gutted by pain, and wrapped in a smirk.
The night before, on Bleeker Street, a young man stood with his aging professor, pleading his way into a nightcap. He lurched toward us and begged our comradery, so we told him to go get drunk. He slung his tanned, goosepimpled arms over our shoulders and slurred in Bronx, “My mama always said no matter what, you always say yes to a woman” and cackled, kissing us once on the cheek. This advice would ring through my ears later as, on bended knees I asked and demanded yes yes yes and caught time and again.