I got my youth out of the way as soon as I could so I could focus on more important things. I won’t say any more about my previous life. In my 30s once I had everything in order I downloaded Swann’s Way and put it through a computer program to stitch it together with Word so that whenever I typed the right letter in the right place it would stay on the page but if I ever made a mistake then everything I had written would disappear. Yes, even if I had types a hunded pages and just made a single type. Yes, even if I just mistake an “e” for an “é.” Now, I do this for sixteen hours a day with two breaks for soda crackers and water. And when I really can’t hold it any longer I walk outside to the squat toilet and relieve myself. Even if I had wanted to look over the fence into the neighbor’s windows, and the normal life that hides there, my eyes were burned out long ago. Which relieves me of the temptation at least.
I’m almost done with the first chapter. The way my wrists are burning, though, I doubt I’ll be able to finish it before I die. It’s been almost six years, and the book only gets more complicated from here on out. Looking back, I think I could have made things easier for myself if I had tried reading Swann’s Way before embarking on this trial, or if I had allowed myself to use a translation instead of the work instead of the original French—a language which I am learning as I go. Either of those would have made things much easier for me. But easy really isn’t the point, is it?
Description of a Porn Scene
The first man is bent over the plank he’s sawing in two. He is naked to the waist, bulging muscles, his skin either tan or Hispanic. He is slick with sweat. He saws.
The second man enters unseen to see the first man sawing. The second man is white. He has a beard. As soon as he’s in the doorway he sets his feet apart and begins grabbing at his bulge. It’s hot to see him do this. The first man knows nothing; he squats in front of the plank to see if his sawing was true, and we can see, above his waistband, the back of a jockstrap. We can see it, and the second man can, too. The second man has pulled out his cock and is rubbing it while the first man works.
There was a scene before this one. I’m sorry. Before the second man enters, but while the first man is still working. Two of the walls are just a frame of planks, with clear plastic partitions sectioning off the rooms. We see a shadow stalking past these walls of plastic, watching the first man work. This is the shadow of the second man, the one who hasn’t entered yet.
Once the second man has entered and the first man has stood up from his squat, there is a close-up shot of the second man’s cock. He jerks it off. Every so often, he pulls it down. When he lets go, it springs up. He does not have much hair around his cock. He is circumcised.
Finally, the first man notices the second man. He shouts, “Hey!” and asks, “What are you doing!” His accent confirms that he’s Hispanic.
We do not see the second man’s reaction to being caught. We do not know whether he tried to leave or apologize. We do not know whether they knew each other beforehand. The very next scene show the second man on his knees in front of the first. He is loudly sucking his dick.
Then they have sex.
When I’m with you, I fail to remember that your thigh contains millions of sweet and healthy cells, expertly arranged into muscle and tendons and fat. Nor can I recall all the miracles I learned about in AP Bio; how the veins have valves to prevent backflow, how every cell runs on an ingenious scheme of hydrogen-ion cascades. These things just don’t come to mind when I’m with you. They simply slip my mind.
I am just as ignorant, whenever we’re together, that your thigh lies on the sheets only because you have managed to avoid an ineffable number of potential tragedies, both medical and violent. Gunshot wounds ruin the careful constructions of the flesh. I know this. I’ve learned it again and again. So, too, does muscular dystrophy, or a broken bone, or a burn. Thinking back to us together I remember all of these things, and cringe to think of the million near-misses that have somehow spared you over the years. But when I’m by your thigh, I somehow forget to be thankful that everything in your body has stayed in order, and I forget to be dazzled by the mute sustenance and the cosmic improbability of such a beautiful body on such a beautiful boy; such a beautiful guy with such a beautiful left thigh.
Drew Kiser is a writer and master's candidate writing a thesis on Gay Witchcraft. He was raised in Virginia and lives in Los Angeles. He has never set eyes on a straight person, and never plans to.