There was a banging on the door that threatened to interrupt the strange ceremony which had just taken place. But Michael seemed unfazed and signaled to David to get the door, but keep whoever it was waiting in the entrance hall.
He can't hear you, he said to me smiling at my efforts.
It was true.
I was begging him but Evan stood in front of me entirely inattentive, as if he were absorbed by something else far away going on deep inside himself. I could not tell.
All I could tell was that physically present as he was, he was not there. He could not hear me. He could not see me either even though he was looking straight at me.
Don't let them do that to you I saud, but to no avail. I wanted to shake him, but I was unable to reach over and touch him when I tried.
There really is no point. You'll only wear yourself out. I suggest you resign yourself to the facts of life. He is not suffering. Look at him. You're feeling much more pain right now than he is.
There was truly something diabolical about this man, this Michael (the militant archangel, now malignant, fallen, an inhabitant of the burning lake) who had come to have so much influence upon my friend. Not just his spirit but he actually resembled, physically, the iconographic cliché which has become the standard caricature of the devil.
He was wearing a red smoking jacket over a black turtle neck, black leather jeans and boots. His spiked hair had more red in it than brown. His face was long. And his chin was hidden by a pointed goatee. His eyes were green and flashing. His wrists were long and thin; his hands, graceful; and his fingers, long and tapered. He could have been a pianist or a violinist. His voice was indeed mellifluous and he varied his speech with the intonations of somebody who has perfect pitch. He blew the thick smoke from his Turkish cigarette out through his nose.
It was best not to argue, I thought. My task now was to get myself out of there safely and mentally intact.
I don't want to wait. The shouting came from the entrance way and it was followed by a young man in a wool cap, a red and black squares lumber jacket, a pair of dirty jeans and motorcycle boots barging into our room.
Would you like to make love to him once more, Michael said to me in a half voice as this fierce visitor plunged into the room, for old time's sake?
The way he is now?
He looks pretty good to me.
But he's not here.
No?
How long you gonna keep me waiting. I come. I pick up the package. I go. I don't wait.
You will now, Michael said. And the stranger became silent and still.
Not himself, no; he is not here, not his whole being, I said, defiantly, seething at something, at his arrogant assertion of power. It was all the more hateful because it was successful.
Who ever is? he retorted slyly.
And besides he added, who knows really what that is, the whole being? My, my. Don't be a prude. I'm offering you something you know you want.
He was right about that.
But not under these circumstances.
Suit yourself, he said amiably and turned to the young man in the lumber jacket who was quietly waiting.
But I was not sure what suited me anymore.
Now if you will wait here a moment, he said to him, I will bring you the package and you will be on your way.
Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, the motorcycle messenger said.
Meanwhile, I was mesmerized watching Evan who just stood there like a statue in stone, buried in some character-transforming trance. He did not, actually, look like he was standing there but as if he had been stood there. It looked like there was nothing he could do on his own. He had become the essence of an object.
I woke up Saturday morning and my heart felt like there was a cold chain wrapped around it, locked tight.
The morning was gray against the windowpane and the air was full of incipient sorrow which would fall from everything in the form of snow.
I had lived with Evan for three years and I was shocked when he came in one evening not long ago grinning all over and blistering with happiness.
I'm going to be a monk, he said.
What? I said, continuing to stir the pot of soup I was making.
A monk.
A monk?
Oh not like in a church ^Ö a sex monk. I'm going to become a sex monk.
What's a sex monk? I screamed.
I am going to devote my life to the service of sex.
I thought you had done that years ago already, I said teasingly, still not knowing what he was talking about and what the joke was, if it was a joke -- and if he was serious, well, then what?
I'm serious, he said, not defiantly but with great calm.
I'm not sure I know what you are talking about, I said slowly, suddenly feeling both numb and scared.
You were unreachable, I said when he got back Sunday evening as we lay in each other's arms, our naked bodies pressed against each other, our eyes dancing with each other to the invisible sounds made by the wave lengths of our minds.
I wanted to touch you but I couldn't. My arms would not move. Where were you? I said.
His eyes took on a dreamy wistful glimmer. They had the sparkle of somebody who knows he is exactly where he should be.
I was nowhere. It was wonderful.
His smile was its own presence and it lighted him up with its electricity. It sent tremors of energy jolting through me like a current when it suddenly trembles along the tracks of the nerves after you've accidentally touched something charged.
Am I going to lose you? I said.
That depends on you, he said, taking hold of my scrotum in the cup of his hand and bringing his mouth to mine and kissing me with a gentle intensity that put his soul in his lips and in mine.
I stopped thinking and felt myself expand. I needed him inside me and stretched to him, and he moved his fingers inside me. I began to kiss him actively bringing my throat from the back of my mouth up to the front so that every kiss could voice my devotion. And he hardened and so did I. As our passions wrestled with each other, he took the liquid from our kisses and slicked himself and faced me with his eyes and put himself all the way inside me and then teasing me went in and out of me, and as he did, with the fingers of the hand that was not caressing my neck, he played my cock as if it were a flute.
And afterwards we lay still in each other's arms gazing into one another's eyes.
Until the phone interrupted us. It was Evan's cell on the side table.
Yes sir, he said smiling.
Yes, sir?
Yes, sir. I will sir.
And then he hung up.
My heart had begun to sink even before he said, I'm not going to sleep here tonight.
And that^Åis not^Ågoing to dephase you, he said, tapping my chest with the point of his right index finger.
Months went by. Evan moved out. I saw much less of him than I ever had, but he still visited me. Those times, it was like he was on loan. But that did not matter. When I was with him, all the agony of not being with him disappeared.
His hair had been cropped very short and lay on his head now like a full cap of delicate black feathers. He shaved only every fourth or fifth day. He wore tight-fitting sleeveless undershirts and began to smoke cigarettes. He was leaner than he had ever been. He blew the smoke at me. He knows I loathe tobacco smoke and smoking in general.
It did not faze me. I kissed him when his mouth was full of tobacco smoke, and I lit his cigarettes for him, getting the sting of tobacco on my lips and the dull smoke on my tongue, and then gave him the lighted cigarette.
I staggered from the blow that Evan delivered, straight to my solar plexus.
What did you do that for? I said when I got my breath back.
Do what? he said grinning.
Do what? I cried in imitation. Punch me in the gut.
I didn't like the way you lit my cigarette.
You didn't like the way I lit your cigarette and you punched me in the gut?
I want to toughen you up, fruit cake, he said stroking my cheek and looking at me with what seemed like true affection.
What's got into you?
Not what. Remember? Who?
I tried another tack. Toughen me up!
That's right. You're too soft. I want you harder, tougher.
He took hold of me by the jaw and fastened his eyes on mine as he spoke.
What for?
I want to see you increase your tolerance for pain.
Pain? I said.
Pain, he repeated.
Why do you want to do that?
Because I think there's something incredibly sexy about a guy who can bear pain. It gives him a strength that is just very hot. And it is even sexier when he can no longer bear it and begins to beg to be released and will bargain away anything, even himself.
You don't sound like yourself anymore, Evan. This is Michael, not you.
It's me, alright. You just don't know who I am anymore. Maybe you never did. And for sure you don't know who you are either.
And before I knew it my face stung from his slap and I doubled over from another body blow to my middle.
I was doubled over in front of him.
But I'm going to help you find out, he said, smiling.
How? I said, as if we were in the middle of a conversation.
Like this, he said, repeating the blow just as I was beginning to stand straight.
Stop it, Evan, I cried when my breath came back.
Say please, he said.
Please.
Say it louder. His words were accompanied by a blow. I was staggered.
Please, I said.
And in response he punched and punched again, once with each fist against my hard gut and chest. What ever he'd said about my being soft was not true. I have a hard body.
That's what I was thinking, I have a hard body, as he was hitting me.
Evan stop it. You loved me once.
He spat.
Maybe if you beg, he said.
More blows.
Please, Evan, stop. I'm begging.
Not good enough.
What do you want?
What good is it if I tell you and if you don't give it to me?
I will. I will, Evan, whatever you want. Only stop hitting me. Please.
Once, I went back to the loft with Evan. Michael greeted me with a menacing smile but offered us herb tea.
It is so nice that the two of you could remain friends.
Evan smiled and took hold of my hand and squeezed it.
Not everyone would be capable of making such a transition so smoothly. I must congratulate you, Michael said, and kissed me on both cheeks and then pressed me to him with a force that made me weak and dizzy and wanting his arms around me desperately, even though I didn't.
When I woke up, there were candles burning all around me. I was in a chair looking at the bed Evan was lying in his full strong length. The ceiling was painted a midnight blue. It was punctuated by white points of paint signifying stars. I knew Evan was in a trance, but I was not sure what that meant. I was naked.
I felt as if I were a spirit in his body. Helium had become his element and he hovered weightlessly, a consciousness without an identity, unformed, yielding, and receptive. His mind had become clay. It could be shaped and reshaped, an infinitely malleable thing. The thought of it made me swoon. The pain of my loss covered my heart with grief.
When his nipples were pierced I felt him become like the coldness and elegance of marble.
When the lash was made to caress his flesh, I felt his flesh become strong like smooth iron.
When the barbed wire circlet was tattooed around the biceps of his left arm I felt the hot blood of his muscles pump through him and make his entire body stiffen.
Now he was a void, his mind dispersed like the elongating forms of a cloud on their way to disappearance. He was bent on his knees -- my knees? -- adoring the feet of the man who had transformed his life.
I wanted to run from what I saw. It was like vinegar in my heart. But I watched drinking it in until it squeezed me with grief.
Michael snapped his fingers and Evan looked up and stood up. He stood immobile, silent and staring, lost in waiting.
Even in a crowded subway train, I can always make private contact with a guy. I had not done it for a while, since I had lived with Evan, but now that he was out of my life for the most part, I started again. And I was successful my first time out.
Sam was an architect. He had a place in Brooklyn Heights.
He was standing by the window, looking out over the East River at Manhattan.
He was quiet but determined, and did not brook contradiction.
You're a funny combination, he said.
What do you mean? I asked.
I sat across from him in a deco leather chair holding a champagne flute in one hand and a joint in the other.
I mean you aren't withdrawn. You're quite forward, actually. But unless I miss my guess, you're also very passive, even masochistic.
I wouldn't go that far, I said.
But nevertheless, you can not resist the wish to be obedient.
I was quiet.
It's ok, he said, motioning to me with a flutter of his index finger to join him at the window.
I stood up and took a few steps towards him and handed him the joint. In return he put his arm round my shoulder and drew me to him.
He inhaled and said through his teeth as he held the breath, I'll take good care of you.
What are you saying? I asked.
Exactly what I'm saying. You need to belong to somebody. I can tell. And I? I want to have complete control over another man, complete power over him. I know you know what I mean. I am offering to take complete control of you and complete responsibility for you. You must agree to it, desire it, and surrender yourself to me entirely .
I must admit the thought of it excites me, but it also scares me, I said, without being sure I wanted to.
Of course. I like that you are. I want it to be that way. You will be frightened of me, and you will always be anxious that you may not have pleased me. But you will serve me despite that fear. Even because of it. I will be slow and gentle with you and teach you how to serve me and help you grow to love your slavery and to love me as well as fear and desire me. You will belong to me and you will trust me entirely.
How can I know if you will not betray my trust or hurt me beyond measure?
You can't. Your trust can only be a matter of faith.
A matter of faith.
Of faith.
In?
In me.
Then, you will become^Å
Your master.
My master.
Sam grinned when I repeated what he said.
Sounds right when you say it. Say it again.
My master, I said, almost laughing.
Again, he said, this time without laughing.
He gave me the joint and I took a toke, and after I blew it out I said, My master.
And then I looked at him and I understood.
Who am I? he asked.
My master, I said, as if I finally realized it.
You are willing? he said.
Yes, master, I said.
Evan, believe it or not, was jealous when I told him I was giving up my apartment to be Sam's full-time, total slave.
Michael's not going to like that, he said.
Why should he care one way or the other? I said, puzzled. And besides, I said, there's nothing he can do about it. You're under his spell, not me.
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