The Dear John Letter
“Oh to be naked! Seeking joy and repose, Our fronts turned to our allotted backs, each Free to whisper glorious sobs” A. Rimbaud “ Nos Fesses Ne Sont Pas Les Leurs …” This is a recounting of a time I fucked a famous person who once used to fuck an even more famous person. The names have been heavily disguised as to protect the guilty in my re-telling of the experience. James Metro was an art curator. A mussed tuft of hair jutted out from above his chin like a couple of bean sprouts lazing out from the lips of rye bread, his straight framed glasses cozening a haughty gilt of ‘Non too plus’ upon the crook of his nose, his eyes caged like dozy lions having recently reminded themselves, as purring keepers of the plains, of their rank and title either side of the gate of his temples. His dowdy augite and hoary garments flaccidly hitched upon his spindly frame like rambling lost property from a laundry mat. He wasn’t so much a friend; more of an associate because he once assisted me with some desperately needed cash by taking photographs as I crouched and spread my butt-cheeks for his camera, while his stammering breath would condensate his forehead with a sultry larvae which plashed against flaying wisps of long, stray, waddling hairs. My rectum crooning for the lens in the only way a rectum knows how to croon. These nude art photos were supposedly all going into an art book of some kind. I was a bum in both senses of the word, but voilà, I had cigarettes for a fortnight and occasionally a night out at the pub financed from the odd blow-job I gave him after our photographic sessions, curiously he never blew, he’d grumble “That’s more then enough. I’ll finish myself off later”. He invited me to attend a session of performance poetry by Jesus Giro. You may never have heard of him – he starred in Mandy Frayborough’s movie, Awake, and invented ‘ The Poem-A-Gram’. He shacked up at Cottage Industries for a while and was lifelong friends with Trent “boy” Trilby author of such books as Strait and The Dressed Salad. At that time, I had a ‘)?(’ on my buttocks, which posed the question of my sexual curiosity. The focal point of my libido yearned very much for quests of promiscuous sexual encounters within the heterosexual community, which unfortunately spent, as it does today spend, more time watching sex in the city than actually doing it. My peers were hopelessly flirtatious yet impossibly prudish. Wiser dames treaded the mattress springs of my early bed-ruminations but sensibly closed in the skirting when I fluffed acting my age, and I was often pardoned in long winded ways for being a tad green. On the way to the reading for promotion of Jesus’s current poem-print ‘ You got to sink to swim’, I had made a bet with a friend of mine, between fruitels of freshly uncapped Passion Pop, that I would have sex with this well-known New York preacher of versatile values. I was dressed ridiculously, now that I think about it – a green trilby on my head, a purple ‘Brisbane Actor’s Centre’ t-shirt, with an unflattering fading aqua-blue, violet and pale-green stripy shirt undone over that, balding black jeans and knee-high canvass army boots. I was very much a sight to cause sore eyes rather than appease them. How I ever got laid at all, I’ll never know. I was not only a fashion victim, I was the walking dead on the catwalk of the urban pavements. After the performance, James Metro allowed us free entry to the after-party, where I picked up a free t-shirt elucidating Giro’s belief that ‘Everyone eventually becomes a pain in the arse’. I applied this doctrine to my own life for a number of years, before realising that it was reminiscent of that saying, “If you’re bored, then you’re boring”. How closely I was yet to take that figurative expression literally in the actual sense of being drilled. Jesus gave me the impression from his work that he was a self-confessed anonymous-sex addict and I thought I would use this to my advantage, since no-one could be more familiar with anonymity than I. When I began talking with him, I ‘let slip’ that I wanted to visit him (that is slight usage of subtle poetics for vis-à-vis sit on him). He agreed that the next night, after his show, I should go to his hotel room, of which he suggested, so he didn’t need much convincing. The next night was muggy. I walked up to the large hotel with its flash entrance and enormous foyer. The receptionist greeted me in silence as I strolled past, my rubber soles squeaking along the marble floor and a wary security guard monitoring my presence with grim suspicion. Once the elevator had taken me to the right floor my craning heart began to [beat] – somewhat in the manner of an iridescent seaside toilet. The hotel corridors were long, silent and stared far into the distance with doors and lights which guarded the gaudiness against darkness and shadow. I found the door and knocked on it lightly. It opened and there stood a hull of a man with a mug that reminded me of the Cheshire Cat had it of found its way out of the rabbit-hole and was employed as a transsexual madam out of drag in the boudoir of a Vegas whore house. He beamed a full smile and, in his trademark pleading tone, welcomed me into his room. The room was bare except for a large T.V. and a bed. I felt immediately gift wrapped in other people’s absentia, intensified by the floral bed covers and drawn curtains which were obviously present and not illustrated onto the windows as might be misinterpreted by my alliteration. We spoke idly about this and that before he offered me some tea. We sat there on the side of his bed taking tokes and pretending to be interested in conversation. I’m not sure how it started but, by degrees, I was gradually undressed and the cindering joint, like an hourglass containing salts of inhibition, measured in descent, as my clothing was eventually all lost upon the floor, crackled against its final brittle like an inflamed cockroach. I eased back onto the bed as if trying to escape my fumbling feet embarrassingly playing footsies with themselves in order to remove my socks. My cock trailing over the bed sheet ripples, as I pulled myself further into a reclined position, as Jesus nimbly cleared himself of his attire, and readied himself on his haunches, coaxing his cock like a Black-Jack dealer dealing cards. I watched in darkened contentment, it was thick but not long, and it pumped in furtive hardening as his other hand reached towards me. Jesus didn’t waste time. His heavy paw marinated my whole body in clammy preparation, teasing my anus and honking my testicles and cock in an attempt to alert them of impending fornication. He didn’t want a deliberating exercise in love-making; he just wanted to dig in to some virginal rump of Rupert tucker before continuing his performance poetry tour of Oz. In the twinkling of a cock’s eye, his appetite had loosened to an all engulfing hunger. I was quite a slender lad and he easily maneuvered me into a position he fancied and had me ciphering air through my nostrils, with his cock clogging up my mouth, as his stumpy fingers moisturised my anus with daubs of lubricant. My technique was all-devouring; an obliterative gobbet. There was not an inch of flesh ’round his genital area that I did not tease, lick, pull or suck. Meanwhile, my head was clearly coming to grips with the development of the unsophisticated subservience to which I had succumbed. In the task of deep-throating I was proving myself not to be an under-achiever, although I was under an achiever as far as the promiscuous total of Jesus’s exploits went. Once his penis had stiffened its resolve to take things further, he pushed me and pinned me up against the bed-head, my head slung over my chest, legs held high in the air, spread wide, and his cock blitzing my virgin hole, propelled by the force of his heavy hips. I had never had anal sex before and by way of an introduction this was certainly ‘no holes barred’. I recall the wooden bed head tapping on the lower back of my skull being some kind of rhythmic comfort to the pelvic bombardment throttling in sight of my near cross-eyed view. After my first ‘fifteen minutes of pain’, I relaxed into it, and I began to get aroused once the feeling of needing to shit subsided. He took advantage of this. He let one of my legs go, although it had no where else to go but remain elevated and suspended mid-air, and grappled onto my cock with his clammy hand, jerking it furiously. I have never felt so submissive, so beyond control and at the mercy of someone’s desire. The formula proved to be this:
A g-spot, my g-spot, I assume, was alphabetically promoted to a-spot (primary arousal point) by the dominating member of this generous beet’mister (attraction and addiction), thus cheating my (until recently, insensitive) rectal anterior of its belief that it would never have its depths plumbed by such a thorough analyst. As far as being treated like a piece of meat goes, I had been adequately cured. It was all too much. My last thought before I came was, “Andy Warhol painted shoes,” and I popped all over myself. Jesus needed a change of scenery. He spun me over, socked his cock into my patulous brown eye and penetrated the window of my asshole for what seemed like a comet passing through time to eternity, until he came inside me, offering one long-winded, and whining, stately empirical sigh as he painted my randy warm hole with one third of the colour of the American flag. Afterwards we talked casually, and I, under an attempt to have one of my own poetry pieces recognised, attempted to persuade Jesus to read it out whilst I recorded him doing so. I had of course taken pretence to telling him that I wanted it for personal evaluation of reading methods but concealed a greedier, money grubbing motive behind the post-sex prattle. My experience had empowered my sex drive, gave me license to operate both machinery and had emasculated me; I had ripened and was ready to drop my seed. I thence considered myself not bi-curious or bi-sexual, but biquadratic, well onto my way to the fourth sex. Previous to Jesus, I had found myself always in waiting to drama queens but never was I knighted and had been cuddled for cash by a guy when I was living on the streets; the twenty bucks he’d handed me did nothing for my memory of him; the first being that he had skin the hue of a pomegranate and the second, a retired Teddy bear with a tightly thrummed hide. My lasting vestige of interest rested on the idea that he may have been a Plushy who had drunkenly mistaken me for my yellow-scarf namesake and was overwhelmed by the opportunity to see Rupert bare. After our night, Jesus called me from Sydney and then, from New York where he was busy making the spare room nice for His Holiness Penis Ricochet and His eight monks who were having an enchanting stay in Jesus’s loft, he sent me a photograph of himself naked on the toilet with the camera’s flash beaming out from between his thighs. A year later, I sent him some poems and he sent a letter back telling me to keep sending him stuff and that he particularly liked poems containing “sexually explicit lyrics” I wound up in the bedrooms of a few men after that but never re-experienced the same invigorative scene. One man I remember just holding my cock and leaving expletives all over its size, another chap had me awake with him arousing my well hung-over member with a blow-job that materialised in my dim vision like a Swiss Cuckoo attempting to peck at a wooden worm, and one guy made the mistake of introducing me to Rush on a first date – we fooled a little but the young good looking Aboriginal chap spent the better half of the morning comforting me going slightly batty on a cocktail of rather conflicting under-doses.
The taped recording of my final conversation before leaving Jesus’s room was sabotaged by James Metro, spliced beyond repair, whether out of jealousy or under the instruction of Jesus who upon after-thought regarded the taped correspondence as potentially intrusive to his public career, I do not know. Too bad my wayward life’s journey leads me to becoming a writer.
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