In Their Arms, page 4
Anon: Because I’ve seen you in real life.
Dreamlifeofacutter: IRL LOL
Anon: You should work in the arts when you’re older. You’ve got such a good curatorial eye for arrangement and the way you present images is just stunning. You’re very talented. I’m worried that you might not realise it – but you’re amazing, ok? And never let this world tell you that you’re not.
Dreamlifeofacutter: PMSL
18
I spend the evening waiting for someone who isn’t going to come. I open my laptop and read the latest posts on a barebacking message board.
Users post details of the unprotected sex that they’ve had. They’re bragging.
There’s a thread for people to post their tallies, meaning how many times someone has cum inside them, so far this year. One user says: so far it’s only 29. Not as good as this time last year but I’ve still got time to make it up. I wish I could quit my job because it’s holding me back from being my true self, what I was created to be which is one hundred per cent, twenty-four hour a day cum dump. My only calling is to be a total bottom pig, with my mancunt designed to take as many raw loads from as many top guys as I can. I don’t care who it is. I’m addicted. Maybe I should start writing my resignation now.
Someone replies: Spoken like a true, proud bottom. We know what our job is. We know what we have to do. My tally so far is 64, most of them from Poz’d up guys like myself. Nothing better than falling asleep knowing that my hole is overflowing with toxic juices.
The next post: I’m a poz’d up piggy, too. If only my boss knew why I had to call in sick the other day – I said it was a stomach upset when really it was because of the comedown from a Slamming party where my worthless hole was the main attraction. Can’t wait to see the video! Even when I’d passed out, Poz’d up guys carried on breeding my hole. Such a proud moment. Looking forward to seeing it because I sure as hell can’t remember it.
19
I wake up at 1:30am and instantly look for you. You’re sitting at the desk where your computer is, snorting a line of bluish-white powder. Your face is lit by the pornography that you’re watching.
“So are we going out?”
“I guess …”
Twenty minutes later and I’m washing my hands and face in your bathroom with the light off.
Thirty minutes after that, we’re sat in a cruising bar. The only real light is from a set of small red bulbs in the middle of the room, where the drinks are served. Occasionally we see a face that we recognize or someone will recognize us but we keep it low key and just nod.
You stand up and finish your drink. You start walking towards the darkrooms, where the majority of the sex happens. I walk behind you and brush my hand against the back of your jeans as we walk in. It accidentally feels like a reminder.
I let me eyes adjust to the darkness.
Eventually I can flesh out shadows with features but it’s still vague. Someone starts to kiss me. A hand slips up my t-shirt. I reach to the side to check that you’re still there, which you are. The same person has a hand planted round your crotch – my fingers trace the arm down to your jeans, which are still fastened. You move suddenly, which makes me move too – my hands feeling out the wall behind me. It dawns on me how high I am and how much I’ve been relying on the light for balance. My brain and my eyes feel like trapeze artists.
We push though a set of hanging plastic strips that separate the first darkroom from a small area split into six cubicles, some with glory holes and some without. It’s still dark but there’s a dim glow and it’s not as black as the room that we’ve just stepped out of.
The way that the space is split with a slim corridor running between the cubicles reminds me of a level from a computer game and the fake industrial pipes on the wall add to it. A guy stands at the end of the walkway, with two cubicle doors either side of him, his hand resting on his belt buckle. You walk towards him and I follow. The man leans forward and kisses you. You put your hand back and hold mine, which surprises me. I touch your back. I realize how thin you’ve got. I run my fingers over your shoulder blades. The guy kisses you harder, and pulls you forward, holding the sides of your head. He starts sidestepping into one of the cubicles, guiding you as you kiss. You let go of my hand and follow the guy in. You close the door.
I hear a belt being undone and your breath speeding up as you kiss him.
A hand touches my ass. It reaches round and starts feeling the front of my legs and then my dick, which isn’t hard. Someone starts kissing the back of my neck. I close my eyes and turn round.
I let the stranger steer me towards a cubicle. I hold out a hand for balance. When it brushes against plastic I realizes I’ve been led back into one of the darkrooms; I open my eyes but it’s pointless: there’s nothing.
I trip but stay on my feet. The floor feels sticky. The guy who brought me in is rough. I feel stubble scrape against my cheek as the guy starts kissing my neck again. I can feel the guy’s heart. It’s going fast. Hands run up and down my back like he can’t decide what to do with me, or what to do first. My head bumps against a wall. My belt is unfastened clumsily. A hand covers both my wrists and holds them up against the wall. A tongue fills my mouth, pushes the back of my front teeth uncomfortably. Another hand goes up my t-shirt. Someone else is pulling my jeans down round my ankles. Something’s pushed in my face, bending my nose, a hand with a bottle or a tube or … I snort whatever it is and a fast daze lands quickly, blurring the nothingness further. My head nods onto my right shoulder but is quickly pulled back up again and kissed hard. I’m bent over. A finger muddles round my ass. That finger quickly becomes a cock. I make a sound somewhere between a cry, a choke and a cough as whoever’s dick enters me. There’s no condom. Someone else is pulling at my hair. My scalp feels tight. The guy fucking me does it hard. It hurts. Two cocks try and get into my mouth, vying for space. I can feel another couple rubbing against my stomach. I feel the stitching of my t-shirt rip under one arm. It sounds like I can hear crying – the guy fucking me? But the music seems so much louder now. Repetitive beats and someone singing something about needing someone forever till the end of time. It’s hard to make out anything else. The cock isn’t in me anymore. I’m on the floor. I remember falling as it actually happens. Time’s a mess. I’m too high. Someone’s shouting. The beats of the song begin to stretch. I think it was me who was crying. Things are a lot heavier. I’m pulling my jeans back up to my waist. It takes effort - more than you’d think. Stuff is dense – stuff like air. I’m nodding out and I’m being fucked again. I open my eyes and I’m back on the floor. There’s a synthetic taste in the back of my throat, like gone off medicine. I feel a vibration in his pocket. I reach in to get my phone. I realize how wet my hands are and wipe them on my leg and take the phone out. I press a button and the small rectangle that’s from a friend I haven’t spoken to for a few days and that says: hope yr ok. xxx is such a contrast to the darkness that it lights up the room for two seconds. Through a squint I see a heavyset guy in his fifties buttoning up a shirt, a guy in his twenties leaning against a wall with his eyes closed and playing with his dick and trying to make himself hard, there’s two older guys standing close to each other with their trousers down, some others too, but the light soon leaves.
I make my way back into the bar. The sudden amount of clear space throws me. I order a drink and can’t tell if the guy behind the bar is looking at me weirdly. I try to make better eye contact, but that makes it worse. I’m still squinting. When I scratch my nose my hand comes back with blood on it. I think I can hear you being fucked but it might just be the music. Things feel knotted.
20
Leonardo DiCaprio circa Romeo and Juliet, wearing a Hawaiian style shirt, loading a revolver.
A gif of the words DON’T BE FUCKING RUDE, written in purple bubble writing, floating on the page like they’re balanced on a wind.
An anime character with big sad eyes, with pink petals falling around her face.
A grainy photo of Kathleen Hanna, taken from an old fanzine, superimposed onto an animated background of floating kisses and love hearts.
A picture of a watermelon.
Re-Blog if you’re accepting anonymous asks from anyone about anything.
A bottle of prescription medication that has been Photoshopped so that the label says Ketamine.
Anonymous: I wish you lived closer because we could totally hang out.
Dreamlifeofacutter: We need an escape plan! I wish I could just vanish!
A photo of a stationary black butterfly.
A film still: two people in the shower, what looks like a mans hand wrapped round a woman’s back with subtitles that say “If you don’t love me, you can still fuck me.”
Cara Delevigne on a catwalk.
Someone holding a Chanel bag.
A close up photo of two pieces of sushi.
A bitmap ice-cream cone.
A photograph of a boy with a tattooed neck and a sweatshirt with a Nintendo logo on it laughing in front of a hazy city sunset.
The words EPIC FAIL written in bitmap.
A picture of the band Crystal Castles.
A gif of the old MTV logo from the 1990s, with changing colours.
Some tarot cards.
A picture of a Vans skate shoe.
Lindsay Lohan leaving a restaurant with friends.
A stylised photo of cup of Starbucks coffee next to a Krispy Kreme donut tray.
A sunset.
Capital letters that read: MESSAGES PLEASE?
A girl with lots of red lipstick, in an oversized grey sweatshirt with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it, leaning towards the camera and pulling an expression that looks like it’s meant to be half cute/half sexy and is/isn’t depending on whoever looks at it.
A photograph of a Japanese woman with orangey/blonde hair. Someone has edited a rectangle of crass purple/orange/blue/green Spectrum style graphics that keep changing, and put it across the picture so that it blocks out her eyes.
A close-up photograph of some pink Prozac tablets.
A $100 note with a black and white photo of Nicki Minaj pasted over where the president’s head usually is.
A picture of Tyler, The Creator holding a skateboard.
A photorealist painting of a wolf and a waterfall.
Tiny writing in italic red lettering that says: you give me goose bumps.
A photo of a teenage boy with a floppy fringe pretending to be scared of and cower away from a life-size model of one of the ghosts from Pacman.
Two teenage punks with heavily tattooed torsos, fucking, in black and white.
Three inverted crosses.
The words: DESTROY WHAT DESTROYS YOU superimposed onto some clouds.
An animated gif of Bill Cosby. Someone has edited it together so it looks like he’s mouthing the words: DIE, CUNT.
A shot from Beetlejuice, when Geena Davis’s character has transformed herself into a monster by stretching out her mouth and putting her eyes on her tongue.
A photo of a cherry blossom tree.
A renaissance painting.
A stylish looking Japanese girl wearing huge headphones.
An elaborately drawn Guro drawing of a girl whose face has been cut open down the middle so that her skull is exposed and blood is exploding out. Flies buzz about in the wound.
A fried egg with the yolk Photoshopped green.
Alice Glass from Crystal Castles wearing a Smiths t-shirt.
The boy with the rabbit ears from Harmony Korine’s film Gummo, sitting on a bridge smoking.
A photograph of Lindsay Lohan that looks like it was taken to promote the white jacket that she’s wearing. She’s standing side on and she’s holding the collar of the jacket and her mouth is open. She’s pouting a little and you can see her teeth.
A gif of a nude bitmap woman sitting on the side of a bitmap bed smoking a cigarette and looking away from a nude bitmap man who is lying and trembling.
A painting by the queer artist whose show I forgot to go to.
2014 SUXXX sprayed on a brick wall.
A photo from a cruising bar under which someone has left a comment comparing it to a level from one of the DOOM video games. Someone else says LOL.
Weeds growing round a punctured car tyre.
A gif of a house burning down.
21
I write a review of a show that I never went to. I write an interpretation of paintings that I haven’t seen. I talk about colours that I’m unsure of. There’s nothing about it on the internet yet, so it’s hard to know what to say. I look at the private view invitation and the minimal information on the gallery website and use that to form an impression of an opinion. Firm opinions never seem legitimate, anyway. Nobody knows anything for sure. I’m never convinced that people mean anything that they say to anyone else. Most of the things that I think to myself – as in really think to myself, when I’m not trying to reject what my brain is giving to me – I’d never want to say out loud; for the sake of others, for myself.
There are two photographs of two paintings on the gallery website, which I think is enough to go on in order to make an overall judgment of the artist and his whole line of thinking at this moment in time.
I write down my thoughts – which is different to thinking, I guess. I write that the paintings seem to present themselves as knowing that they are paintings. I say that that the colours and images remove themselves from anything else other than what is in each respective painting and in doing so detach themselves enough to – perversely – be able to take in influences from everything other than paintings. I say that I can see the internet, I can see bodies; the smudges of shapes vague enough to be abstract but clear enough to show the movements of sex, and of pop references. Everything is at once recognizable and new, but still manages to rest on the past in a self-conscious but confident way.
I write that the recognition of the acceleration of modern culture allows all sorts of slight of hand magic tricks – the artist is able to be joyous, sarcastic and sincere at the same time. I stop typing because I feel I so lost.
I walk to the window and open it up. I rest my arms on the window ledge and look at the buildings around where I live. I wish they were bigger, like in bigger cities, and wander how hurt I would be if I were to throw myself out. I look at the ground and feel sick. I think about the force of the stationary pavement, holding firm and almost pushing up as gravity throws my body into it. I think of the walls closing in on a character in an adventure film, gravity being one and the ground being another – would one be moving faster? You’d think it would be gravity but I think the ground, and the sky too for that matter, are constantly doing magic tricks that we never spot or if we do we only catch glimpses of, so in short: who knows?
I stop looking. I hate heights. It occurs to me that when people are scared of something it’s only because they don’t trust themselves.
You can always pick out shadows and the feeling that people are there when they’re not. I say this about the paintings. I focus on one of the photographs of the paintings which could be interpreted as a crowd scene – there are no definite people on there but it looks like there could be several heads – people eating a meal, but the smears of the acrylic make it look more sensual or specifically sexual: a group sex scene. I talk about the artist using paintings as a queer space in which meaning and facts and specifics are bent out of shape and displaced by a dream-logic where things make emotional sense as opposed to narrative sense. The painting feels real. It doesn’t feel binary, I write that. I think that I think it too, but I’m losing track of what I really think. It always happens when I try to explain my thoughts to other people or in this case to whoever is reading this.
22
There are days when I don’t think I need you and I’m happy. I am at my happiest when I am on my own. It’s hard to explain that to people because they take it as insult. When I tell someone that my favourite person to spend time with is myself, then I know it sounds miserable or crazy but only through the filters that we’ve been forced to grow up viewing things through.
Some of my greatest sexual encounters have been in dreams or in fantasies. I think my best sexual moment is the memory that I’ve got of a real sexual situation that I was in. It was great in real life but it’s really beautiful in the memory.
When I think, I can reconstruct things in intricate ways and pick out the moments that I missed when they were actually happening. When I focus on them I realize how much weight and power that minute details actually carried. Certain facial expressions, a look in your eyes – the pattern of your breathing: things get so lost when you’re doing them for real. How can I reconstruct those memories in real life again? I want to fit into a real life memory as it’s happening and stay there, like I’m trapped and ecstatic in a gif of the greatest moment that I’ve ever felt that I’ll be able to feel forever. I want to be swallowed by the sea.
23
:Having bad thoughts.
:I just turned 30. Am I too old to do porn?
:There are no where near enough hours in the day for me to meet all of my sexual needs. I hate the twenty-four hour clock! LOL
:I WISH THIS WAS ME. He posts a photo of a guy with his legs stuck in the air. He is surrounded by four other guys who are all dripping their cum onto and into his asshole.
:Should I buy an open mouth gag?
:Exhausted from last night at the Cum Worship event. Thanks to all the tops who fed their piggy.
:Any top who pulls out before he cums is not a real top.#whataletdown #cumpig
:I’m off work for a week. Who wants to fill me?
:Retweet if you want to dump some seed inside me.
:That feeling when it turns out a friend is actually just an acquaintance.
:Thinking of getting a tattoo. Maybe ENTER written above my hole?!? LOL. An Emoji face that’s crying with laughter.
:I woke up so horny today. #needbarebacksexnow
