How deep and breadth he looks, dressed head to toe in starlight, masked up, molotov in hand, his beautiful, fiery, lustful eyes watering with blood as he chases a dozen whores down a side street. I am some distance behind him. Alexis longingly gazes back at me through long tendrils of matted hair, running through the cobbled streets without his pants on.
We find each other down an alleyway: there are no cops in sight. I kiss Alexis below his cock, and whisper, 'Is this the best we can do?' Alexis nods: "It's finally happening. Get ready for revolution darling." I notice him shiver softly, his nipples rising like an oppressed population chundering over an autocratic ruler.
I feel sensuous, like I want to get more free than I have ever been before....
I grip him by the neck and we enjoy a sharp, unforgettable embrace in the disease ridden street. Breath and breath and fingernails hold shoulderblades. He pulls the rest of my clothes off so I stand as naked as he, allowing our bodies to breathe the city's air unimpeded.
As he grasps my buttocks and pulls me into a tighter and tighter union of breath and skin and sweat and our lips draw our tongues and mouths into deeper and deeper searching hunger, I give up my fear and awareness of this dark street and its predators. As the taste and sensation of our sliding tongues lifts my consciousness above the urban cityscape, the landscapes of my memory fill my inner vision. The wind-voice of trees from a continental farmhouse, the intensely deep red soils of an occupied Catalan valley, the maddening fog of smoke from burning tires and the irrepressible rage in the chanted cry of “murderers” from an army of beautiful hooded warriors. Every sense quivers in the co-penetration of memory and physical stimulation...
Suddenly, we hear the sound of smashing bottles and incoherent male voices. Canellos barks a warning! The battle has spilled onto our street, disturbing our precious moment. Riot police charge at prostitutes scarpering in our direction.
We run, leaving our clothes scattered, irrelevant to us but remaining behind to whisper of a brief dream stolen from the jaws of a concretised coma.
Hand in hand we turn this way and that, tumbling through the flavours of the metropolis. Each time skipping free of the dragon's teeth, every barrio a co-conspirator in this crazy dance.
For a moment I notice something strikingly alien, the distant sound of.. typing? Computer keyboards? Something doesn't seem quite...
"Alex! This isn't real! I s..."
Distracted by the shadows I saw sliding, somehow I notice too late that the cops are firing nonsenseguns from their porncopter overhead, fuck fuck FUCK I'm..
[..like a boner drank 100 beers and then we had sex moist like apple sauce fucked a bitch got mad moment of sweet honey crunk n shit for its I got a cougar coz we dont luuuv them gryffindor scarf hoes nipples rising like a coat hook..]
"Auuggh! Christ!"
Alexis pulls me free of it and we duck into a nearby tenement building.
"Are you OK?"
"Hnnn. I think so. Hate the way that sexist cliched bullshit oatmeals to the inside of the brain."
"It wears off. We just need to find something to distract you for the next hour or so."
Around us the musty corridors hint of secluded encounterspots: tunnels, cupboards, abandoned laundry rooms - unexplored, coated in dust, waiting for the magic touch of living bodies to re-animate them.
"I have a few ideas", I murmur, tapping my hand along the soft curve of his lower back quick and near aggressive. His eyes look sideways.
As I sweep my lover into the gathering darkness, treading barefoot happily on a trail of tender kisses, I ask myself whether it really matters if this adventure is reality or a fragment of dream, of someone's imagination, a passing breeze.
For now I know I am content to enjoy the spell, but I determine that when my head is clear of these traces of cop-poison, I will resume this heretical questioning.
And if all is as I feared? If space is somewhat fiction? If my breath is one breath and dust is more than passing; if heaves don't disappear with fever; if dark is not made from rosewater in the cool shade of a cottonwood along the river; if hums are hums without her; if and yes and yes and you?
Then together we'll smash our way out of the toybox through until we've fallen, using weapons that are sincere and that we love to: our passion for earth, our desire for air and for each other. We'll manifest this beautiful fleeting in the outside world or die trying. If this is really pure fiction, then I owe you, my dear dear reader, a deep deep gratitude for lending these moments of your own life to bring me into existence and I hope that you too, will help bring this madness into endless vastness fractal-cum (manifestation).
These thoughts roll back into the ocean of my consciousness, never to be seen again, yet somehow remembered as the shore may remember a special wave and none of these thoughts matter, I realise, as beautiful Alexis pulls me down, slowly, on top of him...
To fuck him hundred times.
