It's just another story.
One more damned story, thrown wholeheartedly into a mix of chance and fate, fueling an invisible force that carries the night of two guys : [one exhausted, spine-broken mad man & a young Satyr of a charming man-to-be].
He's 18. He's 26. In the end, only parted experiences can bridge the gap between them. But what counts is their union. There's a weakness and an eagerness inside each, a shared urge for velvet caresses against hairy legs and chest, reversed brainwaves; and drum beat-shaped hearts roaring through the disheveled skull-powder of eternity in frozen space, and typed, dashed, super-8 collages of a memory carved for good on their loins.
There's no means more powerful than the extensive use of the plural to express how singular their first night was, and how much it meant to both high souls. And what's unique is that hill – now sacred ! – on top of which they were sublimed by numerous kisses, given and given-back; hands caressing asses and growing virility : a spontaneous naked expression of Love (with a fucking capital, licking L!) on their lips and itching beards, pushed & pulled under the *sp-L* of a chill lullaby escaping their lungs, and soft crossed knuckles, out of breath, hand in hand.
The young one pretends he hates romance while the other says :
“Well, hate it as much as you want but those stars, whether young, old, pretty or not ['Ugly's such a terrible word,' he thinks.], they saw us anyway and there's nothing you can do about it, man.”
“Pass the jay.”
“Come and get it.”
Then he takes a long drag of his long, fuming stick and draws the young astro-skeptic's face closer—clinging to his jaw—and blows him an electrifying, steamy kiss of green.
And the night goes on:
A good fuck…
Then stupid fights...,
Sweet texting & miscommunication...
And finally, a lack of guts and communion.
In the end, the old one's heart remains unwanted— but that's okay. When one knows what he's worth, one knows what he wants. And he wants more: full of liquor and smoke,
“Love is my cancer,” he keeps repeating and writing.
He closes his eyes in the sun and paints a pale blue flower, blooming up inside his butt. It is the very image ingrained on his retina whenever he meets “the wrong ‘pseudo-one’”, even though, everytime, he is the ABSOLUTE RIGHT ONE : a rotten cluster of dead cells and greyish illusions, as the flower grows and drains life slowly from his body, soul, and crowned heart.
And love, indeed, kills him from the inside out, making him brutal as a wild animal—& smile like a young, fallen innocent. It feels like a sucker punch to the face: tasting a gush of blood, nose broken, body bruised. But such pain is worth shivering and convulsing; and he masochistically craves for even more nights like this one.
Until next time, his biological clock won't tick but it'll flirt with an extreme violence of the circulatory system, flowing cold and off-beat, fucking and boiling with the censorship of the senses, and words aiming at the core of ecstasy !
The fall is alright. The rise will glow. The old bitch's heart already shines brighter, lighter than ever.
Jean-Marie Trichot holds a bachelors degree in French Literature and a masters degree in English Linguistics, Literature and Civilization. He is French, but can't help writing in English. Jean-Marie has always been fond of "the study of language" and believes that what he writes the most about is the way that we communicate with ourselves and the world with words aiming at the heart of Life. Follow Jean-Marie's blog here and read more of his work. Also, keep up with his life on Instagram.