A Story for Matthew Nexis Pas (c) 2007 by the author
Matthew sent me a picture, an ambiguous picture, at least to me. It is a black-and-white photo and was scanned from a newspaper or perhaps a newsmagazine. The grainy, half-tone dots reveals that it predates the digital era. The size of the dots shows that the printing job was cheap.
The scene appears to be a play. In the foreground are two men, one sitting astride the other's shoulders. The top man has blond, carefully styled hair. He is thin and is naked from the waist up. He looks toward stage right and gestures with his left hand. He wears jeans, and he sits with his groin pressed against the back of the other man's neck and his legs draped over the second man's shoulders. The legs are bent at the knees and then tilted backwards to anchor his body to the other man's torso. The bottom man has dark hair, less carefully cut but equally a statement about himself. In his case, he proclaims his indifference to his appearance just as much as the top man reveals the attention he lavishes on his. He looks toward stage left. His arms are bent at the elbows and held up even with the other man's knees. His hands are spread toward the audience, palms outward, with his fingers splayed far apart. His mouth is open and he appears to be talking, perhaps explaining why this man is sitting on his shoulders. He is dressed in dark clothing. It is hard to tell because of the poor quality of the image, but he appears to be pudgy. The two men are oddly disengaged. Despite their physical joining, they appear to be addressing different audiences.
Matthew's email accompanying the image singled out the third figure in the picture, however. Matthew invited, commanded, suggested, that I consider the young man standing in the background. In the image, he is positioned several feet to the rear and left of the two men. Like the top man, he is naked from the waist up, and he, too, is thin. He wears white shorts (quite short, in fact) and white knee socks with two coloured bands near the top. His weight rests on his right leg, his left leg is bent at the knee. His right hand rests on something--the arm of a sofa? His body is bent back from the waist, so that his hips are thrust forward. His attention is focused on the two men in front of him. A small, square pillow rests on his right foot, one of the annoying, useless pillows people put on sofas, which is perhaps why I see a sofa in the scene.
The young man makes the scene mysterious. What is his relationship to the other two? Why does he display himself so provocatively, so frankly sexually? The scene and his pose remind me of a circus performance I once saw. The lion tamer was in the cage with the lions. Outside the cage stood several showgirls dressed in sequined-covered costumes and wearing tall plumes on their heads. Every time the lion tamer performed a trick, they would strut a few steps, stop, place one hand on a hip, swivel halfway toward the cage, and then raise the other arm so that a hand pointed languidly at the scene within. The gesture was intended to draw the audience's attention to what the lion tamer was doing, but one ended up looking at women instead. The lions' roars, the sharp claws raking fissures in the air, the teeth-filled jaws poised to crush the lion tamer's skull--one ignored the horrors and the dangers contained within the cage and focused on the bright, glittering smiles. The young man is like that. The two men in the foreground may have all the lines, they may be enacting horrors, but it is the young man one ends up looking at. The two men turn away from the third person, but they, like us, are acutely aware of his presence.
The three are in a room. Two spotlights, one on either side of the top man's shoulders appear to be part of the stage lighting rather than part of the stage decoration. The angle at which the photograph was taken makes the lights visible in a way that they perhaps were not to the audience. At the left rear, there appears to be a dark sofa. Walls made of vertical strips of wood panelling are visible in the background. Various objects hang on the wall, but what they are, with one exception, is unclear. The one exception is a poster (a movie poster?) that hangs on the wall behind the sofa. It has writing and pictures on it. The phrase "The THING from" is readable; the rest is too blurred even to guess at.
Curiously there is one other piece of writing in the picture. The bottom man is wearing a sweatshirt with lettering across the front. The bottom-most word is clearly "WRITE"; the other words cannot be read.
The other objects in the picture are, as I said, unclear. It would be fruitless to speculate about them. The numbers of "appears" and "perhapses" in my description of the photograph indicate my uncertainty about the scene.
Matthew sends me enigmas. He astonishes, even frightens, me with his comments--sometimes I think he must know me. At other times, I think he is talking about himself, and that it is sheer coincidence that his remarks describe me so well. He has read my stories, and he treats them as statements about myself. In that he is correct. I am studying my attraction to domination and control through my writings. Others have written to tell me that my stories arouse them. That is, of course, one purpose of the stories and the reason they are posted on the various gay fiction sites. They are pornographic, and they are intended to serve the purposes for which many readers appear to use them. It is why I sometimes read stories written by others.
Matthew's way of reading (and mine and others' for that matter) is, I suspect, a matter of how we were trained to read. We construct meaning where perhaps none was intended and are most fascinated by stories that allow us to construct meaning. As readers, we participate in the writing of the story. I cannot speak for Matthew, but I am a minor character in every fiction that I read (the major roles have already been pre-empted); the silent man in the corner who watches and evaluates the other characters, contributing nothing to the action and subject to the whimsies of the plot, dragged hither and yon by the author but less subject to the author's control than the other characters. I can turn away and wander off. They cannot.
And who is Matthew? I do not know. He wrote me about one of my stories. I sensed in his comments an invitation to ask a question. When he first wrote, he could not have guessed how curious I am about others, how much I live my life through others, fictional and nonfictional, although he surely knows that now. I could not stop myself from asking the question, and he responded with details. I suspect he knew that his revelations about himself would pique my interest. I mean no criticism of him when I say he is manipulative. It is a quality every writer, every actor, every person, exploits, I no less than anyone else. Thus began our exchange of emails. It is a mild, desultory form of flirtation. We will never meet, and the distance between us will never be closed. He is perceptive without being condescending. He has the self- confidence not to need to put people down. We can be open or secretive--it does not matter. There is no risk except self- knowledge. And if I get too close to exposure for comfort, there is always the safety valve of fiction, the words I use to distance myself from the objects of my desires.
If you have read my stories, you will know that they are almost always written in the first person or from the point of view of one character. I find it easiest to write when I can project myself into one character and ventriloquise for him (always a him). When I conceive of a character strongly enough, the words--the character's words--flow out of me. That character is in my mind, it arises from me, from my history and experience. I have more trouble writing about those who are foreign to me. Then I fall back on stereotypes from television or the movies or on humour to cover my lack of understanding. My stories deal with themes of domination and submission, mind control, hypnotism. There is an erotic aspect to these interests of mine. The stories deal with gay characters because I am gay. But the sex, the pornography, is not as important as the control, the domination, either by me or of me. Matthew has sensed my ambivalence. He lets me control him, yet he controls me--a pas de deux, a folie a deux, the label matters less than the creation that results.
And now he sends me this photograph, with its odd (fortuitous or intentional?) messages: "The THING from" and "WRITE." The only clue is the name of the file: 1980. Is that the date of the image? The hairstyles would support such a date. But perhaps Matthew simply put this number on the image--it is the accession number in his catalogue of images. Or perhaps it is one of his tests. He invites me to read meaning into the number. The scene is from a stage play. Equus, perhaps?--I seem to remember a photo of a scene in which one character is riding another shoulders. But in that play the actors wore structures resembling horses' head and woven from wicker on their heads. Wikpedia supplies the information that the play was written in 1974, and 1980 could be a possible date for a performance. One of the characters is a psychiatrist. A coincidence? Absolutely irrelevant? A clue? I do not know.
Then there is the mystery of what the three characters are doing. The image is rather like those found in that series of pictures that psychologists use. I've forgotten the name of that test. But they are illustrations featuring people. The patient is given one of the cards and asked to construct a narrative that explains what the characters in the picture are doing. Is that the warm, nurturing mommy pulling a tray of freshly baked cookies from the oven to feed her loving family, or the evil witch converting poor Hansel into Zuckerkeks to plaster the walls of her cottage in the woods?
As a perceptive reader, Matthew, you have no doubt noticed that the men in your picture are already becoming characters in my mind. The urge to write a narrative that explains the scene is becoming stronger. Two adult males, one younger male, partially undressed (given the apparent date of the photograph, that was perhaps the most nudity allowed on a stage at the time), are the raw materials for the story. The characters in the photograph are aware of the audience and are speaking to them. That must cease. They will turn inward to the story and become oblivious of the reader. Roland, no, let's name him Rolo, is the bottom man. The top man is Adrian. And the boy, the not-so-obscure object of desire, it would be too clever to name him Matthew, no, not Matthew, and not Simon, I use that too much. A solid, old-fashioned name. Mark, doesn't that come after Matthew? He shall be Mark.
****** The bed-sit was all that Mark could afford on his student stipend. But at least he was alone for the first time in his nineteen years of life. The room barely accommodated the sofa on which he both sat and slept. His few possessions were arrayed on a set of metal shelves that his parents had allowed him to take from the basement at home. A small desk barely big enough to hold his laptop and a chair were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. But he didn't intend to do much more than sleep there. He would study in the library. Meals would have to be eaten out or brought in. The room was at the back, up a steep flight of stairs from the shop on the ground floor, and it faced the back of a large building across a narrow alley, too narrow even to allow the passage of a car. As he was arranging his few possessions in the room, he noticed a man walking about in the offices across from his room. There were light net curtains across his window, and the man appeared in a blur of movement. He was holding a book or newspaper folded up and gesturing broadly as he strode in and out of view, apparently talking to someone who was out of view. The movement caught Mark's eyes for a second before he turned back to the more pressing concern of finding a space to stow his clothes.
When he had first moved in, it was still warm enough that he had to keep the window open. The place would be stifling in summer, but he wouldn't have to worry about that. And it was small enough, he joked to himself, that his body heat would be able to warm it during colder weather. The first night he had stumbled home late from the party Kevin had given to celebrate the start of term, stripped off his clothes without turning on the light, and flopped down on the sofa. Through the open window he could hear the faint sound of a conversation. In the few seconds before he fell asleep, he identified it as coming from a television with the sound muted. The soft murmur of the voices lulled him to sleep. Soon he was dreaming of lying on a warm, sand beach, the hot sun relaxing his body, the sound of the waves so peaceful. He drifted down into a warm cocoon of serenity, a wave of pleasure and satisfaction flowing up and down his body. When he awoke the next morning, he felt incredibly refreshed.
Mark soon fell into a routine. He awoke each morning at six, went out for his daily workout, came back, showered and cleaned up, and then went to the library or his classes. He returned to his room at ten each night and went to sleep almost immediately. Mark was surprised at how well things were going for him. This term his ability to concentrate seemed to have improved. Perhaps, he thought, it was because he was sleeping so well. The room had been an inspired find. It was so quiet, and he was sleeping so deeply. He felt so good when he got up each morning, ready to tackle the day with renewed vigour. Even his dreams seemed to be contributing to his newfound energy. For the first time in his life, he was aware that he was having the same dream repeatedly. It seemed that every night, he went to sleep on that warm beach, the sound of the waves in the background.
****** At 9:45 Rolo turned the lights out and opened the curtains at the back. Mark would return soon. He had been programmed to return at 10:00. Rolo checked the micro-speaker in Mark's room to make sure it was working and placed the new tape in the player. He had visited Mark's room earlier in the day and placed lights in the corners so that the scene would be properly lit. He had patiently been training Mark for six weeks now. He doubted that Mark realised that the man he had occasionally seen in the office opposite his bed-sit was the landlord he had met only briefly when he had rented the place.
At 10:00 the ceiling light in the room opposite came on. Mark entered and then locked the door behind him. His actions followed what had become a set sequence. The clothes came off, and Mark walked about briefly as he prepared for bed. It was like watching a television screen set in the wall of the building. If Mark had ever given a thought to the window, he would have noticed that it was always scrupulously polished. He hadn't closed the curtains for weeks. Why bother, when the window faced the blank brick wall of that abandoned factory?
The light in Mark's room went out at 10:20. The microphones Rolo had installed picked up the sounds of the sofa-bed creaking as Mark settled in. Rolo gave Mark a few minutes and then pressed the button on the player. Barely at the threshold of hearing the sounds of waves began. Mark watched as the foam rushed up the beach, bubbling and frothing over the warm golden sand. He waded through the warm shallows and walked up the beach to where he had spread his towel. He loved swimming in the ocean. It was so warm and there was this wonderful feeling of being immersed in something strong and wilful. It felt so good just to relax and float along. He lay down on the blanket. As the warm tropical breeze dried his skin, the grains of sand that had clung to his flesh stirred and fell off his body. The fuzz of hair on his forearms and calves fluttered gently in the wind. He soon surrendered to the warmth of the sun and let his entire body and mind relax, sinking down into the warm sand, almost melting into it. All of his resistance gone. So open to suggestion.
His body was becoming so golden from all this sun. A pity the flesh beneath his bathing suit was so white. Mark sat up and looked up and down the beach. As usual it was deserted. He had been coming to this spot for weeks and had never seen anyone. He could risk a few minutes of nudity. He stood up and stripped off his bathing trunks. He felt so much better when he lay down again. The warm sand moulded itself around his buttocks. It was so relaxing. He loved lying in the sun. It was if he was absorbing the sun's energy directly into his body. He felt so strong, so vigorous, so virile. Suddenly he leapt up and raced down the beach toward the water, his muscles pumping smoothly, his beautiful body diving like a spear into the ocean. He felt so alive, pulsing with energy, the water and the wind caressing his body, arousing it.
He swam out into the warm ocean, becoming more and more aroused as his body rose up and down in the waves. He turned and swam back toward the beach, the waves lifting him higher and higher as he surged toward the beach and strode up the sand. His hand found his cock and he stroked himself beneath the bright sun surrounding him. The cameras recorded him as his muscular body arched and his face contorted in ecstasy when he ejaculated.
Rolo waited until Mark had returned to bed and closed his eyes before shutting off the cameras and then the lights. Adrian would want to see everything. The recording returned Mark to sleep and to his pleasant dreams. He would wake up refreshed and energized in the morning, ready to tackle the world with new vigour, concentrating on his studies, refusing to allow himself to be distracted by idle socialising. Sleep, dream, work out, study, attend classes, study, return to his room, sleep, dream. It was such a full life. He had no time for anything else.
****** He has a beautiful body. A very lucky find for us.' Adrian had waited until the tapes had finished before speaking. Is he ready for the studio yet?'
`Yes, all the tests are positive. He remembers nothing of what he does while in trance. He sees what he has been programmed to see and does what he is told to do.'
Very good work, Rolo. I am quite pleased with you.' Adrian gestured toward the video machines. Play the tapes again.' Adrian turned around to face the four monitors. As the scenes of Mark jacking off and then writhing with increasing pleasure began, he unzipped himself and motioned Rolo to kneel between his legs. As Adrian watched the screens, Rolo bent forward and began to suck. As he had been trained to do, he matched his motions to the stroking of Adrian's fingers on his ear and throat, slow at first and then faster and faster as Adrian allowed himself to become as aroused as Mark was in the video. Adrian's ejaculation come only a few seconds after Mark's.
****** `Friday night, then, Rolo. Get the studio ready to film the kid. We'll do a solo session the first time. If there are no problems, we try him with another one of our trained seals. I'll come by about 9:30. Let's capture that arrogant look of his. That "worshipme" stare.'
****** He was a god emerging from the sea, striding up the sand. The masculine face framed by the wet black curls. His skin golden, nude--a god had no need for clothes. His body an object of desire. They wanted him. Everyone wanted him. At the top of the sand dune a staircase stretched downward. The muscles in his legs bunched and then stretched as he bounded down the steps and through the doorway at the bottom. Another door led to the platform. The sun was so bright on the platform, the stage where his audience could see him. His audience, his worshippers, had to see him clearly as they photographed and taped him. Let them see his body, let them record it, let them adore him, let them want him.
There were two of his subjects now. One of them already writhing on the ground as he photographed him from below, the other kneeling behind him and pointing out the best angles and shots. They would want him even more soon. Mark concentrated on pulling the two men toward him. There could be no one else in their minds, only him. They wanted him. Come closer, come my pets, you know you want me. Crawl to me. Crawl on your bellies. Rub your groins against the ground and excite yourselves with the thought of my body. Feel your cocks get hard, you know you want to press them against my hard flesh. You want to touch me, you want to lick me, you want me to grind your faces into the sand beneath the soles of my feet. Come, worship, adore, desire me.
`Jesus, Rolo, this kid is good. Get some shots looking up toward his cock from below. Get between his legs. Good. That's good. Quick before he loses it. We need some shots from above too. Where's the stepladder?'
`Downstairs. In the closet in the hallway.'
`No time. Give me the camera and hoist me up on your shoulders. That's it. Look up at me, you handsome stud. Seduce the camera. Make people want you, make them want to buy what you're selling. That's it. Perfect. Pull them to you. Draw them in. Make us want to worship you. Make us want you and that beautiful body.'
They were circling him now. But too close. They were not permitted to touch, only to want. He frowned at them. A command. Get down. Down on your knees.
`That's enough, Rolo. Let me get down. Let's get more shots from below.'
Cameras in hand, Rolo and Adrian focused upward, crawling as close to Mark as they could and still keep his body in focus. Mark's cock grew larger and larger. He knew what they wanted. Let them come closer, not to touch, never to touch, just closer and closer to what they wanted. He laced his fingers behind his neck and arched his hips forward, thrusting his cock into the air. His hard, swollen cock began to drip fluid. A golden, sticky drop traced a curve in the air as it flew from the tip to the floor, reluctant to sever the link to Mark's cock, still tied for a few seconds to his body. That's what they wanted. The promise of abundance from the fecund god, the creator, the destroyer. He danced above them, his cock swinging from side to side and getting harder and harder.
`That's it, baby. That's perfect. Cum for the camera. Cum.'
Mark roared in triumph. Jets of cum spasmed from his body and spurted out his cock. Over and over again, he covered Rolo and Adrian, as they writhed on the floor before him. His subjects, his worshippers, his slaves, blessed by the god. He gave himself one final shake and then reached down to his cock and squeezed out the last drops, letting them fall on Adrian. The god shot them a look of contempt before walking away, out the door, and across the passage, and up the stairs to the beach. They would return to worship him again. Every night they would come for him, demanding to worship him.
****** So, Matthew, I think I shall leave them there, linked forever in a moment of mild sadism and masochism. The mild sadism of the desired object who knows he is wanted and the mild masochism of those who desire him. Joined forever by their mutual need for one another. I tire of them, and you are far more interesting.
And what of you, Matthew? How do I deal with the temptations you offer me? How do I bring under control my desire for you? The desire for the being who understands me and makes me the centre of the universe. What? You protest that you are not that being. But, you will be, Matthew, you will be. That is the whole point of being an author.
They look so small, don't they, Matthew? Barely an inch and a half long. The bright red rubber grips on the two handles. But, of course, the handles are not the part that attracts you, are they? No, you're interested in the other end. The shiny clamps. The little metal teeth that catch your eyes as I hold them up and open and close them. Open and close them so slowly, Matthew. Just watch them. The teeth are so sharp, aren't they? The kind the sex shops sell have those rubber tips over the teeth. Useless, those. Besides being overpriced. I got these in an electrical goods shop. I once saw a wonderful variety of sizes in the United States, in one of those stores they call hardwares. Such a wonderful name. Will you find these hard to wear, Matthew?
We shall see. The whole point is the pain, of course, and making you accept the pain. And these will cause you pain, Matthew. You might think that the larger ones would cause more pain, but that is not true. These small ones are much more painful. I've tried various sizes on myself. These will clamp perhaps a eighth of an inch, a cube of flesh one- eighth of an inch on all sides. Just the tip of your nipple. Think of it. These sharp little teeth biting into your flesh, crushing it, penetrating it.
You look apprehensive. The way your eyes dart sideways at me and then look away, as if by not looking at me, you are hiding from me. If you do not see me, perhaps I will not see you. Hmmm. Look at me. I am here, Matthew, right beside you, my arm around your shoulders, my hand cupping your chin and turning your head to face me. I love the way the tip of your tongue licks your lips so nervously. Don't worry, Matthew. I'm right here beside you. I'll help you get through this. See, you enjoy that, don't you? You like it when we kiss. So tender. So intimate. What lover could unbutton your shirt with such tenderness and reach through the gap and stroke your chest so lovingly?
So sensitive. Your nipples are so sensitive. Just look into my eyes, Matthew. Just relax. So relaxed and comfortable. Warm, safe. Just the two of us. You feel differently about the clamp now, don't you? You're already anticipating the pleasures it will bring you. Just watch it open and close. So pretty, so shiny. Take off your shirt. Hmmm. So nice, your nipples. So inviting.
See, the clamp is all the way open, just spread around your nipple. I'll close it very slowly. Just the hint of pressure on the skin. Relax, Matthew. Nothing to worry about. You're with me. There, the teeth are beginning to bite into you. It hurts, doesn't it? Now a little more. Oh, that was a nice moan. I like to hear you moan. This is just the start of the journey, Matthew. But even so, don't you find it wonderful the way the pain focuses your mind? It just takes over, doesn't it? Your whole consciousness reduced to this tiny bit of flesh and the pain that is radiating from it. Just relax, Matthew. You're fighting the pain, and that just makes it worse. Relax, and enjoy it. You know you want this. You know you need this, crave it. It is addictive.
What's that? Well, you're welcome, Matthew. It's my pleasure. Just relax and enjoy it. The pain is already growing less, isn't it? The body so quickly becomes numb. But you will find that I have only to open the clamp for the pain to return. Isn't that wonderful? The way the pain just comes rushing back? You would think that releasing the clamp would put an end to the pain, but instead it just doubles itself. And now when I close the clamp around the nipple again, the pain is even more intense. Oh that was a very nice moan. I hope you mean that and are not just moaning because you know it pleases me. I suppose I should content myself with the bromide that it's the thought that counts, but really, Matthew, I do so want the reality.
So small this clamp, but so large the pain. Just opening and closing around the very tip of your nipple. Just the tiniest bit of flesh. Some people might twist and turn the clamp like this, but I think that's a bit crude. In any case, as you can see, one doesn't have to even touch the clamp. Just massaging the flesh around the nipple causes you pain, doesn't it?
But you're stiffening up again. Just relax, Matthew. The pain will feel so much better if you just relax. And I can tell that you are enjoying this, Matthew. Just let me unbutton your trousers and ease them off. The precum is already staining your underpants, Matthew. Let's get rid of them as well. Your cock is so large, Matthew. And there is no need to touch it. No need at all. Just focus on the clamp on your nipple, Matthew. Focus on the way the pain throbs through your body. Concentrate on the wonderful pain. This marvellous burning of the flesh. Now transfer all that feeling to your cock. Now! See how it jerks up. Isn't that wonderful? Soon, Matthew, we will have you cumming just from the pain, the lovely, wonderful pain. It won't take much training at all.
You are so lovely, Matthew. And soon you will be all mine. You want to be mine, don't you, Matthew? Hmmm. Yes. Say it, say yes. Lovely man. Hmmm. This is just the first step in your enslavement, dear Matthew.
And this time you won't be able to run away. Not like the other times, when the man mysteriously left for Florida without taking you with him. Or the time Luke trained you for months and then decided you weren't his type. Or the home repairman who was really straight and didn't want a boyfriend. Those were nice stories, Matthew, but in the end you escaped. You ran away and disguised it from yourself as the other person deserting you. Now, we can't have that. No, this time, it's for good. Eternity. No way out, Matthew. Just me, the author of your fate. The dark at the end of the tunnel. The words that won't go away. The story that can be read over and over. You can shred the paper on which the words are printed and incinerate the scraps. You can delete the file from the computer. But the words won't go away, Matthew. They'll exist as long as cyberspace does. Always out there. Always your story. That's one of the beauties of fiction. The character takes on its own life, independent of the author. Matthew will always be out there, waiting for a reader, who will take him and control him. Forever subject to the mind control of your readers, Matthew. Your fans. Your devoted masters. Lovers of your flesh and what they can do to it in the imagination. So wonderfully malleable. Drop an `l'--so wonderfully maleable, mailable. Think of it, Matthew, your story emailed around the world. Your tortures the inspiration for thousands of hard-ons.
Well, I flatter myself and overrate my writing abilities. Maybe a few hard-ons, hardly thousands. And what of me? Have I tamed my desire for you? Brought it under control through narrative? Possessed on the screen what I will never possess in reality? And . . . well, there is no end to that story. I hide in my fictions, the cage that contains the claws that would tear my flesh, the teeth that would consume me, if I did not focus on the sequined words that draw the mind away.
Je n'existe pas. But I do, I do exist, don't I? Between the desires of my stories and my fears of them, I do exist. Somewhere, there beyond metaphor, beyond the end of narrative, beyond the end of the stories I tell about myself, I do exist, don't I, Matthew? Don't I exist? If I can do this to you, don't I exist?