Vicarious Homosexuality

One night in Germany I was at a party with my lover Maria. I don’t remember the city — it may have been Erfurt, in the old East. We were at a party associated with an acting school. Maria and I got into a conversation with a woman named Helga. She was a little older and had that aura of matronly authority. I had told some stories of loving it when my lover fucks another man. I said I love to watch. She looked at me and said, that is vicarious homosexuality.

I was a little offended by this. My position was, it’s simply hot, and I love compersion. I love getting off on my lover’s pleasure. It would not be about me getting off on her pleasure as a way of feeling male sex, through her. Because I was afraid of being queer, so I would do it vicariously — that was the suggestion she was making.

Fast forward. I am with a witness. I have photographed her many times. Now I am prostrate before her, naked licking dried semen off of a mirror on my floor. She supervises in a tiny black dress. She tells me to turn around a face her. I do. She says, let’s talk about what you said you wanted to talk about, when you get here.

She knew where I was: in that space where creating semen became inevitable, but I had not chosen to go there yet. Or I had not succumbed to my cravings.

“Okay,” I said.

“Say what you wanted to say.”

I looked at her and spoke. “I want to drink my semen.”

“Keep going.”

“I’m a masturbator and you’re a lover. You make love to men and women. I make love to me.”

“Very good. There was one other thing.”

“I masturbate to drink my semen. All the buildup and play is so I can make semen ‘cus I want to drink it. I make it because I want to drink it. I’m going to drink my semen soon.”

I was drunk and thirsty on the edge. I could not keep my balance. I focused my eyes and looked at her, in her bodice, her nipples guiding the silk around them into a delicate outline. I saw her tip her knees up, pouting open her vulva lips, as her lover pressed his cock against them and penetrated her. I wanted him to. I wanted his thrusts into her and to acknowledge they were there, eye gazing with her as it happened, for a moment. I envisioned his release, melting and childish, moaning in little moans as he creamed into her. I imagine opening my full mouth and showing him my mouthfull as he lets go.

That scenario evaporates and I am in my body again. She drops into her pleasure and I drop into mine. My universe throbs from the core of me. My entire purpose is to create semen, and I do, watching my expression in the mirror where it’s gathering in spurted cords and a collecting pool. She is sitting on a stool while I kneel, and now she’s smiling a little.

I lay my tongue in my pool of release. I smear the fresh new semen all over the mirror with my tongue, and then gradually begin to lick it back into my body — it and the crust that it’s melted, as only it can do. I lick up this mixture delicately at first, then with more honest thirst. What I imagine is making out with her full vulva. Then I open my eyes and search for their reflection through the streaked glass, and focus on myself, letting out a moan when I do.

I am now alone. It’s the first time I’ve made love one-on-one with myself since that episode. I am my witness today. I look in the glass and I say, I want to suck penis. I want to suck my penis but I can’t so I’m gonna suck another man’s.

I throb and vocalize my throbbing as my pelvis contracts so lovingly and out spurts my liquid life, and in an offering of harmony to myself, give myself all of this.

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