“Porn should be played with the sound on,” he says, as classic Falcon images flicker across the TV screen, “especially this old porn with that 70s kinda banjo music stuff. The sound of it makes me hard.” He gently sways his crystal pipe, rocking it like a glass cradle over the butane torch and pausing only to draw in deep, greedy breaths of smoke. “But, whatever. Guys like dance music at a sex party, so I mute the sound and play Christina.” He passes the pipe and exhales thoughtfully.
He is the host and he is naked. Each new guest had elicited a promising reaction from his crotch, and then as more drugs were shared it too settled into complacency, as had we all.
Five or six of us litter the sofa, the floor, the mattress dragged in from the guest room. Towels and sheets have lost the battle to protect the furniture and sit adrift, moist and pungent. My mind races between euphoria, a sense of surrender, and a gathering anxiety.
God I love this song. Isn’t this a remake? Someone else sang this, who was it? A long time ago. Who? If I don’t remember I’ll call Steven, he’ll know. Is he awake yet? What time is it in Dallas? I swear to God this song is a remake.
Someone returns from the bedroom and reports that his boyfriend is resting comfortably. He’d swirled out and done the usual Tourette Syndrome squawking, then vomiting, and now sleeping. “That was his chicken dance!” he says, laughing. “Now he’ll be fine.” My glance towards him is unsure – the boyfriend is unconscious, for crying out loud – and he catches it. “I made sure he’s on his side in case he throws up any more. It’s safe, don’t worry. Anybody want a bump?” He sits and mindlessly begins stroking the man to his left.
A young blond, maybe late twenties, is busy on the laptop beside the sofa. He’s been sucked into the internet vortex of the gay chat rooms, and calls out promising stats and screen names to no one in particular. “Downtown Muscle Cruiser, anybody? Eight inches and a real bareback pig. Hot pics. I’ll send him directions.”
I want to smile but it’s an effort. Something in my face just twitches. The muscles are too wracked with instructions from the electrical storm crackling through me. After the first day or so, it happens.
How many more hours do I have? Before I really, really have to go. Wow, that guy shaves everything it looks like, damn that is so hot. Is that tina still in my jeans pocket? Maybe a few more hours. Some guys stay awake for days, that’s really pathetic. I swear, I feel so good right now.
The front door explodes with knocking and the host welcomes an impressively muscular hairy one. His eyes look as if the black has crowded out the color, and much of the white. He isn’t self- conscious about his arms, which surprises even me. Bruises, punctures and sores at various stages of healing landscape his forearms and biceps. They look like descriptions of children beaten over time. Or a bad first attempt at sponging a wall with too many earth tones.
His arrival injects life into the party in more ways than one. Alcohol wipes, orange-tipped syringes, and arm ties all appear like hidden set pieces making a sudden, thrilling entrance. The porn drones on without an audience and the dance CD repeats itself. The topic, the focus, the purpose, the goal, the destination, are all beyond words and close at hand and seductive and frightening and more so, more, more.
Guys get those butchered arms when they get obsessive over it and screw up. Or they don’t have a steady hand. Not like me.
God the warmth is great, doesn’t it make you want to do it all at once? Do everyone at once? Oh man it’s the surrender, that’s it, that’s the porthole, isn’t it? Do your nipples always feel like this? Do you wanna watch more porn? Is there a way to stop that bleeding or should I ignore it? Isn’t this the greatest thing in the whole, entire world?

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