I was sitting in the streetcar, absent-mindedly glancing over my fellow passengers, the majority of them happening to be male, when the realization hit me. I was surrounded by cock.
Cock swathed in two (or one, for the commando man) layers of cloth, cotton or linen or denim or corduroy or silk or leather ... but it was all material immaterial to me. Warm, soft, relaxed, silky cock tucked comfortably between each man's legs in the car, none of them quite thinking about it, so natural and ordinary was the possession of such beautiful, tantalizing objects.
This was a fascinating development.
I willed myself to look innocent, so sure that if I didn't, one of them would notice my face, point an accusing finger at me, and cry out, "She knows! GET HER!"
In Jarhead, when the group of sweaty, overheated Marines ripped off their clothes amid crazed screams of "field fuck!" and began humping and grinding in a simulated gay orgy on the barren desert plain, all to the sweet, humpin' strains of "Gonna Make You Sweat", it occurred to me at that moment, that at some point, my mind must have had quietly ceased watching the actual film and deftly spliced in a spool of my most cherished daydreams instead, just as a surprise.
Let us live and love,
not listening to old men's talk.
Suns will rise and set
long after our little light
has gone away to darkness.
Kiss me again and again.
Let me kiss you a hundred times,
a thousand more, again a thousand
without rest, losing count,
so no one can speak of us and say
they know the number of our kisses.
- Gaius Valerius Catullus, "Vivamus mea Claudia."
As I board the streetcar, I glance around, to see that the only other passenger is a TTC officer, dressed in full grey and maroon regalia. There is a protective white wrapper over his hat -- probably for the rain earlier in the day. He looks at me with clear, light eyes; they stand out against a tan incongruous with a cool April evening. Voices crackle from his radio.
Nerd confession no. 58:
I want to date an artist. I would wander into his studio to discover him seated at his potter's wheel, hunched over, engrossed in his own mythic union of earth and water. His hair adorably mussed, as if he had just rolled out of bed, but begging to be rolled right back in ... his hands silky with fine clay ... and his body clad in nothing but muddy streaks of art gone messily and so delightfully awry.
Tuesday evening. St. Patrick's subway station. As the doors close and the train begins to pick up speed, the unmistakable buzz of the public announcement system clicks on. I wait for the usual "Next station, Osgoode. Osgoode station."
Remember what I told you last year.
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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