REPETITION

I saw the names. Packed the boxes, ensured delivery confirmations and correct addresses. Mostly P.O. Boxes in Midwestern states, some in the same county. Toys, safe-play—something only a kid would know what to do with if he was adventurous, troubled, wanting to be hurt. You could cause trauma, real pain, with these things. Cocks crooked and raw from being worked at with a machine attached to a battery set-up, using the excess uncircumcised skin to attack and shock. Ties for wrists, necks. Masks. I packed the boxes. I know who got them.

It’s all fun. It’s all just playtime, experimentation. I liked the cuffs, the ones with teeth. When I put them on her arms she’d wretch and it’d cut her up a little bit. Nothing a bracelet or a watch couldn’t cover. Deep in the North End, where everything was pleasant and decorated in extravagant washes of wealth and purity, we’d fuck in the $2.2 million house she cleaned on weekends. I’d take my sweaty cock out of her and let it drag on the surfaces of marble countertops and elegant tapestries hanging over fine leather couches. Then it was back to the warehouse, stuffing the boxes—assisting others in their quiet delights, none of which held much interest to me.

Burly fag boss made us rotate cleaning the Court in East Atlanta. Little place, wood everywhere stained black and spray-painted hastily with cartoon pigs’ heads all around. Wear a mask or the stench would never let you through the door. Seventy-five dollars to mop cum and sawdust where some heaving queen dropped his amyl diarrhea all over the floor. Buckets of lubricating grease, thick and white like mayonnaise held the paw prints of at least a dozen pairs of hands. Force the boy down, it’s his first time. Give him drugs to confuse him, make him not feel a thing. No one’s watching. No one knows.

There was a convention in Savannah at an Econolodge with banquet space. They like my tattoos, they like the scruff I’ve tried growing because she likes the way it tickles her bare cunt. I tell them I’m not gay and their leering, predator’s eyes go over to my associates, two loving little queens. The nauseating sound of unlubricated penetration in the men’s toilet—thank god they even made it that far. I take a piss next to the stall and feel a hand creep to my ankle—the little bitch likes to hear me piss. I dribble a little on his hand, and he grabs me tighter until I step on his fingers. He retracts and I see through the slim crack between wall and hell his fingers in his mouth now. I stutter when I’m nervous. At our busy table I can’t even speak.

The owner asked me if I’d ever been fucked to where I felt I’d die. I told him I preferred the other side—fucking until I felt the frame break, something hurt. Put it too deep and watch the scared eyes widen. I like them petite, tight—articulate and stunning. Nothing but tight flesh, white and glowing. She pops her back before she gets into bed, and when I choke her I feel my elbow crushing into her collarbone. She doesn’t give, not a single whimper. She takes it, loves it; and I keep doing it. I can’t cum until I see she’s past having enough. I want to put your steps in a pattern unfit for your posture. I want you to need me to stop, it’s too much. Do you feel like you’ll die if I don’t even do you like this again?

When someone tells you they like to hear you talk, want to read what you write, do you do it more? Do you work to make it better, make yourself sound smarter? Or do you consider everything you do a stroke of favor, flaring the focus? She asked me if it was all right. If it was all right to like it hard, to want to be tied up. This conditioning, against impulses. Tells you you’re wrong. Tells you that men should never do this to you, that you should never like it, ask for it, need it just to make yourself cum. The validation of a climax. You can only get it by manner of a few fingers in your mouth pinching down the tongue. It’s all right, it’s all right—let me be the one to do this to you.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Something’s holding me back. I love you. I’m not a monster, I have to preserve you. Only pieces at a time I’ll pull away, something inconsequential to the sum, the whole. You stay beautiful. No cuts or slashes. No scratches to the face. I won’t fuck you again until the bruises are gone, until the eyes dry up. Don’t break down on me, not because of anyone or anything else. Passions. Little minute details of your speech, your walk—the careful presentation of your best attributes: cunt, breasts, neck, thighs, face, hair, spine, elbows, knees, toes, wrists. What about what’s inside? Can it be drawn out physically? Can I watch you punish yourself? Can I let my hands be clean this time? Can I just watch you cut?

No, don’t. Please. I can’t. Sleep at my place this evening. Let your eyes browse over the books and the records and the plaid pattern of the sheets. Assess the origin of all the dull things I collect: expired film, lenses, flashes. Do you want me to take your picture? You cower from the camera; you don’t believe you’re beautiful. I take my time, get down on the floor and look up your dress as you look down. You wear no panties, I’ve got your eyes and slit perpendicular—both inviting and there’s no caution.

Even the most carefully crafted mask has stitching that breathes, separates—breaks.

Let me just hold you and I promise I won’t say anything.

You need this.

I’m scared to say I do too.

Repetition. The same words, apologies, regrets.

I’ll be better.