SKILL SEEKERS and FANTASY FINDERS (…from Flicks…) (For the first part of this succession, click here.) (For the second part, on uniformed uniformity, click here.) …and, atop your lap, we test out how I’m the best of the Midwest as, also reared on cereal and under Christ, you split me asunder in cornholing me twice read more..
…and, atop your lap, we test out how I’m the best of the Midwest as, also reared on cereal and under Christ, you split me asunder in cornholing me twice over… and you’d slurped on my schlort as it spilled beyond my shorts… and we’ll take it out in trade as I’m to pay you your price for the two-manned, one-world meaning we’ll have made. We yearningly yield to ourselves as we playfully, prayerfully integrate the fear of the Lord with this appetite for a flaming sword to get back to these sampled apples of our eyes as they retract from our thighs… away, far away from this void of a wasteland of diversion and divisiveness formed by a blaming homeland that secures us in stimulated obliviousness… as you and I sink our teeth into synchronicity, knowing that in our want of something, we must meet one another where each man’s needs are.
Bored-o with porno, we eject ourselves from those sorted, sordid serials on the laptop screen as we reject these milked minutes of crocks of balderdash emitted by tools for quick cash whose cocks, balls, and asses are presented in fool-fueled scenes of yet more buffed, drugged-up beefcakes with forested forearms, and uber-skilled youthful heartthrobs with waxed arses and hard throbbers, or a tired array of tripods trying out their broke moneymakers for amateur vids. On my bed, we surrender to being seen for who we are and synthesize the wily-like with this willy-silliness of instigated synergy. From an underhanded “Fuck yeah!” to a shared “Take that dick!” to a shrieked “Oh, my virgin hole!” as you reclaim the upper hand in vocalizing the vulgarity of such vagaries to approach the conceptuality of our salvaged sensuality.
Oh! Those assortments of uniforms for unrivaled role-plays… public shagging and pubic shaving in private… you, the voyeur in the privacy of your dead end of a living room as you hanker for exhibitionism head-on while wanking off to sadomasochistic mischief! The latest fister-of-a-mystery man dons latex and rubber to dominate leather-covered or feather-tickled pickles and is but glanced at before you chance upon flicks of adult babies, “chicks with dicks,” or a bland black gangbang… Dipping in clips made for the tastes of water sports, foot worship, and teddy bear rendezvous with Mr. Palmer you detect an almost accurate “I’m straight!” to a ridiculous ”But I’m a married man!” to a vaguely relived “I don’t know, sir – I’ve never done anything like this!”
The Internet has handed us over to a free-for-all of studs and soap suds in the locker room showers after football practice, frisks and fucks by trigger-happy officers friendly and otherwise with a ticket-issuing knack for crack on the side of the road and elsewhere, and four-handed deep tissue appointments thwarted mid-way for thorny threeways. Doing the deed in every conceivable way and spreading their seed in a probable, profitable place, performers propose to absolve us of social erotophobia and internal homophobia as – on display online, and for all time – they permit us to feel at home with what was heretofore mostly unknown in a culture so frequently callous to our passion. These featured enactments are a form of safely displayed empathy in a man-defined domain normally unsympathetic to itself for being inhabited by sexual creatures – and expressly to men impassioned by men in peculiar fashions.
From my advantaged point of view, the flip side of this all is that in receiving these visuals and situations to relieve our physical tension we come to be upended in a psychic suspension of making up for what we perceive ourselves as lacking. And instead of seeking the subtlety of one or two or three men on a bedstead in a nuanced instance, we are led to overtly cover bases we’ve unsuspectingly subscribed to, as we covertly fantasize about conquering terrain as it lends itself to being common property as a booty gets pirated more often than a man will spear it, in real life, in the spirit of friendship. Yes, past the intimidation of our own interests, we are prone to intimate intimacy in the intricacies of each plot and portrayal in themed intercourse, substituting a framing of authentic “Aha!” moments for faked “Ah… Ah… AH!”s. Conforming to a fabrication rather than reaching toward another man to extend our responsiveness to the fullness of who we are in a flesh-and-sweat queer sphere of personal prospect.
Exciting the example of porn in our nocturnal turning outs, we dispose ourselves to tuning in to hand-dealt ideals in lieu of confronting our own inclinations, fostering what gets hit, on-repeat, below a toolbelt replete with unexploited skills. In succumbing to the idealization of an anaconda over an array of sizes and nearing exclusively sculpted badonkadonks as opposed to a diversity of contours, we’re trading our lusts up to these clichéd clips of tight skin and whitened grins, as we begin to identify ourselves again and again within an extinguishing of distinctiveness as we come to encompass a crippling insecurity that trickles down and ripples out in man-to-man connections made increasingly more meaningless when left to our own devices, apart from our computers.
Nothing spells FOMO (fear of missing out) quite like this paradigm of choppers in a paradox of choice that separates a man from himself as he creams up his keyboard afore coming on his tummy after hours misspent feeling he must find just the right fix. This homo prefers to pull from his memory bank and be done with it right quickly to select experiences of sucking off a spectrum of patrons prior to their pummeling his rectum escorted by the not-knowing of prurient pursuits world-over. While my width of interest is knowingly narrower than the variety of porno-serviced voracity, it’s my nature to re-imagine every color and curve of beaten beast and nurture reminiscences of myriad shapes and shades of beasted bums in preference to the paralysis of porn’s limitless promising of an extra perfect pair of plums one… more… click. Away! Personally disillusioned in a manufactured vision of endless possibility, I advance listlessly in my procrastination of popping for fear I’ve settled for some inferior option.
I appreciate how recorded man-on-man action is, for the most part, gay and sex-positive and, by virtue of its comprehensiveness, acknowledges that there are all sorts of strokes for different folks, letting guys gaze upon what and who they aspire to do and be in various scenarios. However, I detest how porn perusal tends to inform what client after client requests at the expense of self-respect and general contentment, including this growing notion that the especially fresh and particularly bigger are dependably better. Not only are the majority of men not young or Coke can hung, but the seasoned or smaller-sized guy can be just as desirable as he is desirous. And I, for one, welcome the healthy belly of a burly, “WOOF!”-worthy man in the small of my back. (Shh! Yes, I’m sure there’s a site for that, but it cannot possibly reward me as I press my elbows and knees on the mattress pad and posture rearward into an inward rewording of a boring storyline, doggedly transmogrifying it doggy-stylized as I get on any dong size to get off on the way your sack dangles and slaps me as my arched neck reddens and this throat of mine parches as my pulse pounds as pheromonal liberation is whiffed to the sound of mumbles as we fumble above the covers, stumbling to regain composure as opposed to bumbling past a slapdash potboiler to feverishly pause at some archetypal camera angle… as you – god, YOU – spangle both cheeks with what you’ve withheld for going on a week!)
Yea, in this day of distraction and misdirected longing, porn lends us forced portraits of long-held passions, tending to rupture lovemaking, taking love’s rapture away from its natural habitat. It frees us up on the one callused hand, but in its typecasting for typical synopses, it sticks representations and interpretations into our synapses – unfairly hardwiring us hungry fairies for technological tail-chasing after tall tales – instead of quenching our thirst in rightly ripping into a commonplace quest for purpose, imparting an importance placed on self-awareness, kind-heartedness, and mindfulness. And as the scene cuts following still another cum shot, desperation is propagated; indeed, it is enforced. And we heave and ho in our heated lonesomeness until we fall flaccid to a picture that fails to filter into our lives, which well could advise us as a wise lover would. Our fantasy selves are reflected in lickety-split snippets of dropping trou in a nonstop attempt to wow us, rendering us mere consumers who may be driven to deflect to a legion of men from each region of the map who more and more idolize the fetishized forbidden in an isolation of fantasized otherness – and elsewhereness. The means morph into a manipulative neverendingness of never coming to know oneself.
So you come to me frustrated by your very frustratedness, in the hopes of being verily fulfilled, but I sate you temporarily and, purposefully, frustrate you further. In pornographic turn, you’ve unknowingly learned that satiating the craving produces pleasure. I reply, “Maybe you should re-form your frustration instead of seeking to phase it out.” Because it’s this exact dissatisfaction that reflects what our lives lack, which can mature our models for belonging and LOVE. So you contemplate this, tentatively wishing again to date Mr. Michigan to my photoshopped splendor when I’d appeared from the screen to appeal to you as myself within a culturally-held standard of beauty. And now you choose to see “Simply Adam” as hopelessly human (haplessly abdominally flabby in that shake – abominably flattered in this hypothetical, parenthetical station) so as not to degrade yourself in any dependence on me in a struggle to behold your own becoming. And I follow your physiognomy as I lift you onto me as I ask, “Can you relay what is realistic, and re-frame your expectations to get to what you require – not just what you re-play?” Only in this way can you cave into a reality of single-handedly perpetuating your own potentiality.
And you respond to any hindrance to happenstance by prostrating before me so I’ll commit to pleasing your prostate – and I do the old in and out in a whole new way while whispering sweet everythings. And you take me out and toss me on my back, raiding my rump with unparalleled, smoldering power as I maneuver up to look over your shoulder to take in the Freedom Tower you’re observing in my full-length mirrors – your phallus in my ass as we focus on glimmering glass – as you collapse on me after the umpteenth humping. Lower Manhattan stands steady in the foreground like an affirmation of this affinity for the sort of epiphany on the periphery that uncovers the infinitude beneath ourselves as we rebel against this hellish sky-high constructionism and skyline defining of a desire we dust off to shoot for stars this system will never catch up to while earth-bound!
You relent to imperfection, and we love-handle one another, tracing stretch marks and acne scars, no longer masquerading machos, and I gaily remark, “The thing about us is that we’re so absurd, and those of us who observe the absurdity are even absurder!” And we giggle as we wiggle into a new position as you feed my mouth to free my mind to add, “Sex should be fun and full of mistakes!” as you self-mockingly miss the mark and nudge my nose with your jock-strapped bulge. And sensation is osmotically imitated until we come to co-create consciously in intuitively articulated into-it-ness. “Comfort is a prerequisite to satisfying sex,” I maintain as you fluff me gently solely to rough me up generously, your hammered hole posing around my enamored post as you prepare to push us into spasmodic orgasms of contorted façades that contradict any glamour in those many contrived spectacles.
In an atomic stage of imploded automatons, we explode our quirky quarks in engaging our oneness through the idiosyncratic. No longer remaining remote to ourselves in retaining rote roles, we employ a curiosity so furiously curative it is ultimately intimate – independent! indivisible! – in our falling in with one another without failing to arrive at ourselves!
And in conscientiously regarding a coition conditional to two hunks of humanhood – whilst unattainable as steadies by design – we readily revert to the corniest lines conceivable in our horned fornicating, as we do it “Like that?” to your spoon-fed “Damn, it’s tight!” until I utter the failsafe forewarning of “I’m gonna cum!” as you tilt your head left to avoid my righteously spilt milk’s catching you in the eye. And we snicker in fits in recounting how in the last snippet we’d made out a man directing a model to “Move your head a bit to the right, guy.” So we’d responded by reversing the rehearsed to carve a space for two love-starved men to discover one another’s anatomies while devouring the shadowy ins and outs of being as we become wholly holy in the middle of who we wish to be, re-setting regrets as we are both the ones who get away with abandoning ourselves as we are in an afterglow of knowing laughter in a fixed instant without fixating on the insistences of what we witness as missing without or within – or might be missing out on.
We agree that what is trendy is hardly true in our status quo questioning as we embody an epicly epicurean understanding that nothing satisfies the man who is not satisfied with a little as, apart from our centered selves, we tend to remove ourselves from recognizing our own experience, impatiently backtracking and fast forwarding to the impossibility of culmination without having cultivated a method of coming at it. We roll our eyes at the toll taken on countless guys who sort through what they long to possess in a series of reels rather than accessing the aesthetic capability to come upon a bygone capacity for arrested delight in developing ourselves in beholding everyman in every manner… Expanding our desires in this grand opportunity to transcend the temporal…
Don’t watch porn until at least next Friday! ☺
Instead, head on over to my friend and fellow erotic mentor Don Shewey’s website for a recommended reading and listening list I’m confident you’ll connect with.
As well, this past fall I attended the Body Electric School’s transformative Celebrating the Body Electric workshop for men. Another will be coming to Manhattan in mid-November, and I cannot endorse it enough. See if it’s something you might consider here.
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