James/Joyce
James/Joyce by davistrell@aol.com
Sodom and Gomorrah. All we faeries talk like that.
Only in an Englishmun's dreams do we do.
So, I have a problem with my sexuality.
Sometimes I'm James, othertimes Joyce. Depends on my mood, I guess.
You should've seen me as ayoung man, maybe you would've wanted to paint my portrait.
Maybe it's my Irish roots showing through,
but when you take Dubliners out of Ireland, transplant them to the U.S.,
let the seedling grow, something weird happens.
Now I'm a slave to the one-eyed trouser-snake, Ulysses' version of
the Cyclops. I came into bloom, around my eighteenth birthday, and
haven't looked back. My hero was a guy called Stephen, who was an up and
coming writer, used the pen-name Daedalus. He showed me the ways of men,
I was Icarus and flew too close to his Sun.
His room was full of books, pamphlets, dictionaries, theasauri,
all manner of literary tracts, unfinished poems and rejection slips.
Naturally seedy, worn carpets, a simple gas fire, that needed a shilling
popped in the meter,to provide gas,
to provide heat, much needed warmth. A non-descript bed, the only place to sit,
as Stephen took the only chair, next to the simple table,
where rested his trusty Underwood.
He was so literate, would quote all the contemporary poets, Dylan
Thomas, Yeates,Borges, Eliot and of course himself.
He picked me up in a public-house, the 'Horn-a Plenty' just by the
O'Connell Street, by the cobblestoned bridge. He was drinking Guiness
and bought me a Black Velvet, which is half Guiness and half dark-thorn cider,
a woman's drink, so I guess he'd got my number.
Three of those, and I was anybody's; tonight his.
He had a strange way of talking, asked me if I were a quare
fellow, would I be a nicens little boy, his baby tuckoo.
Would I be amoocow and let him milk me.
At first I thought it was the Guinesstalking,
but it was the voice of a poet wanting to get his end away.
Those days you had to be discreet, there was always a BullMulligan
who'd dash out the brains of any one 'quare'.
So it was a goodjob Bull didn't see us out in the back alley,
kissing like scholgirls with Stephen's hand
down the front of my corduroy trousers, feeling me up and showing
I was willing to go further, all the way back to his dingy bed-sitter,
his study by day, and tonight his boudoir.
He offered me whisky in a cracked china cup, he offered his untidy
bed and asked me to lie back. Did I want some air?
His hands went to mytrouser fly and undidded,
one by one the black buttons until out fell my hardon, soon to get harder
as Stephen applied a coy massage. He madedevotions, cradling my cock in his fingers,
taking purchase, gripping firm, exciting to me, to feel another's hand, different to mine own,
gently rubbing, pleasure coursing through me, along with the whisky.
Hands windswept, opening my shirt, feeling over pale chest, radiating heat,
nipples tremulous, lips embracing, full of incertitude, but breathing of passion,
liplocked, tongues twining, eyes searching, body aching.
He quoted Milton:
"Perfume of embraces all him assailed. Withhungered flesh obscurely,
he mutely craved to adore."
"Bejasus..ohh..Beezlebub..!"
He stood up, high o'er me and removed his tweeded jacket, leathered elbowed,
and thin cotton-whited shirt, he unbespectacled himself, sat down, by me,
whispered 'View Halloo', unbuckled his suspenders and offed his trews,
and showed his man stuff, Priapus erect.
Bigger than mine, more seasoned, most pretty, and this prick Ikissed and guzzled,
mouthfondling, tonguelicking, glans and frenum, acum-stick lollipop.
He stroked my head, marching to a different drummer, but a 6/9 rhythm, a jazz-jizm tempo,
running up and down his bulging urethal canal. Corpus cavenorum nostrum penis.
Yummy.
Staring close at Stephen's perineum the heart-shaped mound betweenarse and bollocks,
I could see faint traces of sweat, glistening-shiny,a wild hollow hoarlight winding, winking.
Mouthpump brought forth white lava, shoot, shoot. Drink divine.
We laughed and giggled, not loud enough to wake his landlady and
buried ourselves under the one grey blanket against the candy striped
mattress, cock to cock and man to man. Rain crackled against the window-pane and a
distant thunderclap sounded dark. We clinched together like two schoolboys having been
told a ghosty story, and my hands clasped tight his bum-buttocks pressing him
closer for comfort. Lying on a snail trail of man-spurt.
Stephen, victor,victoriamus, sat up, air cold around his shoulders
and we partook of a shared cigarette, making arabic calligraphic swirls
floating up to the ceiling, browning. Frabjous day, calloo calay, I made my move.
Licking balls, head at groin-moved his hips, slip down
with tongue protuding, enterdarkness, warm and wet and felt a man squirm overhead.
Open wide, doctor style- with spatulate tongue to test the waters.
I raised my hand, made into a pointy shape and slipped it in him, rotating gently.
They call this buggery and I a sodomite, but thus with my cock I entered him
and pushed and pulled, crammed and jammed, packed my whang, thrust it up,
went inside, felt dark syrup, wetness and wailing. His legs he raised, wrapped around my thighs and
pulled me in, I pulled me out, and pushed me back in, riding, badgering his bunghole, cock
needling, in and out like a tune played on a penny whistle, flexing gluteal muscles
driving deep into his arse, sphincter tight, grasping my greasy marrow pole,
unable to hold, to stop the friction as I burrowed in his meaty insides.
His mouth oped wide, eyes tight shut, his arms clinging to my shoulders,
fingers splayed, hanging onto my back, taking all of me in.
Dingly dell. A groan escaped his lips, a signal for me to spend, orgasm I did,
with ejaculation hot and greedy, and I seeded him with seminal shoot,
bowels wet with my spunk, and shuddered he, as I came again, more than twice, thrice.
His belly frothed, as he gave his own comeuppance, spilling on belly,
marshmallow whiteness, sticky, sticky between us.
Another shared cigarette, glowing like my penis head, sore with delight.
Lickety, licking me, till all was dry.
Stephen, my hero, butt-bandit, ass-outlaw, raunchily romantic, myopic, my sweetheart,
I, now his bum-brother, smitten by his hormones, cock-beater; solo no more.
Later he had me, took me from behind, I bent to his will and
succumbed to his lust. Poked, penetrated, bum-rodded, in Stygian depths.
Palmy hands holding belly, butt bounced, dick stuck in, wibbly-wobblying, pink-cucumbered,
arseslapped by minature coarse coconuts, containing cock-milk, swooshing, gurgling, till my arse
drank, till prostate bruised, till fucked-tired, I swooned to his meaty beating, upended, downturned,
everted, bent doubled, swooped and swallowed as dick pumped, plunged, till his dam broke,
penis-puking, spunk spillage overflowing brown-pink orifice. Carnal cardinal sin. Genuflecting
obeisance, we drifted to sleep. Slept like angels, till came the dawn, and both came again.
I can be James, but sometimes I like to be Joyce.