by Gabi Moore
As I strolled down the street, I felt differently than I had only an hour before. It was amazing to me just how much could change over the course of very little time. All that had essentially happened was that I realized that I was rejected by the church for doing the very thing that they preached. In my heart, I knew it was a more complex issue than simple cultural rejection. I knew when I spoke up in the church that I was alienating myself. Unfortunately, all I was doing was telling the truth. Any alienation that had taken place had happened the night before, and had been completely within the realm of my own consent.
In spite of everything, I still wasn’t feeling one hundred percent. There was too much going on in my brain to focus on just one aspect of my existence. I no longer had control over where my mind moved, or what emotions waited for me when I got there. I knew that I had to continue to navigate reality regardless. There would be no rest for the weary -- not until death, and I felt like I had a ways to go before that kind of respite was offered.
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket, and let out a long sigh. My left hand closed in on a small rectangular object. The feeling of cool metal across my index finger was what originally tipped me off. Pulling the object out, I found a small billfold in my pocket. A hundred dollars, in twenties, and an ID with the name Michael Genier was presented.
“What the fuck…” I said, “Where did you come from?”
I took a closer look at the photo, and saw a charmingly defiant headshot of the man himself.
“Stoker…” I said, laughing to myself. “You didn’t strike me as a Michael.”
As fate would have it, the address on the card wasn’t far away. I didn’t exactly live in the best part of town. I figured he would have lived in some fancy studio flat downtown -- something garish with way too many amenities that nobody ever used. He just seemed like the kind of guy who would be fucking around in the lap of luxury, more than some run down place on the other side of Alphabet Town.
Maybe it’s a sign, I thought to myself, then I laughed again.
My own mystical predilections had gotten myself into this mess, and here they were once more. I figured my intuition would either lead me toward ruin or some kind of tolerable natural conclusion to this whole debacle. One thing was for certain -- I wasn’t going to get anything done without clearing this whole deal out of my head.
“Time to pay you a visit, Mr. Genier,” I said out loud.
When I should have turned left to head back toward my house, I made a right turn, and began the walk toward Alphabet Town. The fourteen-hundred block was about 12 blocks east from my current position, and about four blocks north. I was used to walking, and I figured that I needed the time to clear out a space in my head before initiating conversation. I didn’t even know how I was going to start the interaction -- but I had his billfold, and that was good enough for now.
Might even stop on the way for coffee, I thought, while thumbing the edge of his cash. Mabye.
Chapter 8: Stoker
Getting out of the club had been a stroke of pure luck -- no other way to explain it. I had actually been detained, and was on the floor with my hands around my back when someone toppled the cop who had me pinned to the ground. I know how to throw my weight around, but you don’t fuck with the establishment like that and expect to get away with your actions. Not that I had any deep respect for authority -- that sure as hell wasn’t true. When it comes right down to it, pragmatism is required when making evaluations of force. The fuckers have literally thousands of years of weaponized training and millions of dollars at their disposal. I’ve got a cock, a few muscles, and apparently enough social pull to get out of a quick bind once and awhile.
I got lucky -- that’s what happened.
Getting out of the club was really a matter of pushing myself to the limit. My clothes were gone in the crowd, and the cops had made a pincer at the exits. Unfortunately, for the guards at the doors, the people on the inside of the building wanted to be out more than they wanted to be imprisoned. The bulk of the anti-police sentiment was from a biker group that was spending a bit of time partying at ‘Lectricland that evening. Naturally, they lead the charge out the door, and all of the little beta fagots and druggie ravers got in line after them. I don’t personally identify myself as a beta male or a druggie raver -- but I known how to meld when it serves me best.
The urgency of the crowd was strong enough that the crowd basically stampeded the police on the way out. Shots were fired with rubber bullets, but that just pissed off the bikers even more. There was tear gas, and I was already in a bit of the haze because of the Foxy. Long story short, I ended up sprinting, stark naked away from ‘Lectricland, tears streaming down the sides of my face. A couple of blocks away, I lifted some cheap clothes from a laundromat. Then I made my way home.
The evening was far from a relaxing experience. My brain was going faster than I cared to acknowledge. I tried all of my usual tricks, to get to sleep, but the only way I could manage was to smoke myself into oblivion with some serious hash. I was saving the hash for a special occasion, but coming down off of Foxy, after a close encounter with the law seemed like the best use at the moment. Staring into the void, I made my way into unconsciousness.
***
Usually my dreams are pretty vivid, but last night, I was more lucid than usual. I kept switching in and out of awareness. At times, it would totally flash on me, “This is a dream Stoker -- you can do anything you like.” Then, the next minute some other character in my dream would pull a question or look at me in a certain way, and the whole pretense of my own awareness would disintegrate. The other strange thing about the dream last night is it felt like I stayed there for a long time.
I started off walking down a lonesome street. There were dimly lit lanterns, that would flicker on and off as I would pass. A man approached me -- he was dark and his hair was long and flowing. The way that he walked seemed to indicate to me that he was someone who held himself in high regard. He didn’t seem pretentious, but he didn’t seem common either. I got the impression that he understood the value of posture, and could handle himself well in a fight. He was also attractive, at least in his physique. I couldn’t get a glimpse at his face -- I couldn’t make out whether or not he was cute, but his build was attractive to me.
The lithe ones are always a lot of fun to fuck.
In the moment, I had no great awareness of anything other than my own dick, and the fuckability of the approaching stranger. Once you’ve fucked in public like that, the taboos that prevent you from wanting to fuck on the street must be displaced. I didn’t feel the slightest bit of hesitation about the entire situation. What was better than anything else is that I didn’t have to go out of my way to seduce the guy either. I could tell he was into it from the moment the nearest street light flashed on his face.
He was beautiful, and I felt something powerful between my legs. A visceral part of my being wanted to grab him by the throat, bend him over and shove my cock inside of him. Strangest thing is that is exactly what he ended up doing to me instead.
The movement was so quick, and I had no time to respond. The flash speed in which he got behind me and held me close to him was unreasonable. The first sign that something was off, and that I may have been in a dream was the fact that there wasn’t any transitional information between when he approached me, and when he was behind me. All I knew was that my pants were off, and he was buried inside of me from behind. I thought about moving away from him, but while caught up in the struggle, I began to feel a type of latent ecstasy. The feeling of warmth spread throughout my entire body, and instead of feeling pain and humiliation, I felt an intense form of love.
I looked behind me, and instead of the original stranger I had seen walking on the street, I saw the boy from the night before. He looked at me with such kindness in his eyes, even though his fist firmly gripped the back of my hair. I submitted to him, but only because the feeling inside of me compelled me to do as much.
Bent over, feeling the length of him pull in and out of me, I let out a silent moan. I remember seeing the details in the cracks of the concrete below. Reaching out my hand and touching them, I felt the grit of the sidewalk on my fingertips.
There’s no way this is a dream, I thought to myself. It’s too real.
As soon as doubt came into my mind, I felt my ass getting pounded. The love was soft and beautiful no more. He was grabbing a hold of my hips now, and forcing me down to the ground. With my ass raised up in the air, he positioned himself behind me and began pounding his hips into mine. A felt a fire start to burn inside of me, and tears came into my eyes. When I looked behind me, I didn’t see the same person any longer, I saw a darkened version of my own self.
It was I; there was no mistaking that aspect of reality. However, the eyes were different. Instead of my own eyes, a dark void was present. Two endless black holes glared down at me, while the entity continued to fuck me in the ass.
I felt something pull from my inside, starting at the top of my head, and then moving downward along my vertebrae. The pull was transferred from within my body, and funneled into the penis of the thing which was fucking me. I felt a strange heartache, mixed with the overwhelming pleasure of being claimed by the thing. As his cock continued to pump into my asshole, I looked down, and saw my cock was hard. Glistening, golden pre-cum was dripping from the head of my cock. Where the cum fell on the ground, tiny flowers started to grow -- little beautiful violet flowers, that slowly changed shade into blue, orange and crimson as each thrust produced yet another drop.
When I focused on the beauty of the flowers, the tone of the sexual experience shifted once more. The flowers looked like wet paint on the pavement, and a new wave of lucidity overtook me.
“Stop,” I said, firmly, but not under any form of duress.
The movement stopped, and I felt him pass out from inside of my body. I struggled to stand up, my cock still at full attention. My asshole felt like it was wide and I was losing energy from inside of my body. Panic overtook me, while I stared at this creature that looked so much like myself. I wasn’t certain, but I thought I might actually die, right here on the street -- in front of my own self-styled incubus.
The acceptance of death swept over me like a sigh of relief. The fear and heartache of anxiety simply didn’t appear to be worth it any longer. I looked down at my own cock, and I didn’t recognize my body. I looked beautiful, but not in any way that implied I felt a sort of pride about my own appearance. For the first time in years, I felt what I can only describe as humility. I saw the entity standing before me, and looked at his soul.
His body was transparent, and I saw a dark cloud in his brain. The cloud dripped ink down onto his heart, and the ink flowed down, further still until it exited from his flaccid penis. I didn’t stop to wonder how he had fucked me with a limp dick. The whole situation seemed to make perfect sense. As I watched the pool of oil grow beneath his body, it began to swallow up the flowers that had arisen from my own seed. Each of the flowers erupted into flames. I looked down in despair.
Tiny monuments of my own failed pride, I thought.
The words were poetic, and came without any prompting on my part. My sorrow was a reflection of my own absence of tenderness. Now when I needed compassion more than anything, there was none to be found -- only the charred remains of something beautiful. The oil grew more quickly than the flowers had grown, and my feet were soon overtaken by the muck. I tried lifting them up, but I was held fast to the pavement. I couldn’t move, and my body began to sink.
Did I really deserve this? Surely this must be some form of hell.
When I looked up, I saw that the entity was standing on the oil like a satanic revision of Jesus. I reached out my hand to the bastard while I was sinking down into the earth.
“You did this, you fucker!” I screamed, totally losing my cool. “You help me out of it!”
The entity squatted down on the surface of the oil, and looked at me with a sad form of acceptance in its eyes. I was confused, because I expected the creature to have more malice toward me. Then I realized that the entity wasn’t actually responsible for this situation at all; I was.
When I was up to my lips in oil, the figure reached out a hand to grab ahold of my chin. He lifted me up so that I could still breathe. When I looked at him, he no longer appeared to be a demonic version of myself. He was the kid from the club, and his face glowed with a radiant light. He smiled at me gently, and the oil around him began to transmute into rainbow hues. I felt the iridescence pass through my body, as the heaviness from the oil passed away. As I looked around me, I saw that the landscape too was fading into that queer nothingness. The light began to pierce through our bodies, and the two of us also began to fade. The last thing I saw was his eyes, locking in on mine while the rest of the dream disappeared.
Then there was nothing.
Chapter 9: Stoker
I woke up gasping for breath, and feeling my dirty sheets to make sure they were still there. My hands involuntarily went for my sides, then my dick, and then the rest of my body. I laughed at myself after I made sure that I hadn’t disappeared completely. Turns out I was still here, in all of my glory, and I had morning wood to top it all off.
“Fuck you,” I told my penis, feeling as though its betrayal had been the primary cause of the incident I had just experienced.
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and feeling no rest whatsoever, I decided to roll out of bed. Usually, if I’m feeling sluggish like that in the morning, the last thing I want to do is get out of bed. I don’t like to hit the day unless I’m feeling 100 percent, or I’m fucked and need to take care of some shit. In the moment, I felt a sense of hopelessness associated with my usual lethargic form of indulgence.
“Who knows,” I muttered to myself. “I might fall asleep again. Wouldn’t want that to happen. Maybe today is a good day to start an uppers binge…”
I wasn’t serious. I knew some people who went down that road. The journey looks nice at the beginning, but eventually, it wears you out. When the psychosis hits, you don’t have to be asleep to fall into shit like that dream.
“Nope. Just coffee for me, thanks,” I replied, trying to set myself straight.
I walked into the kitchen, feeling oddly composed.
Usually when I party hard the night before, I tend to feel a bit unsettled the next day. I guessed that either the dream had scared me straight, or my body was simply acclimated to the drugs I had been experimenting with over the years. Either way, I didn’t get much in the way of a post-trip experience aside from some light tracers in my vision as I was getting the beans out from the cupboard.
I lived in a shitty apartment in a part of town where heroin addicts and homeless people were frequent. I made money selling pot, and had a couple of clients that I could count on for regular income. Apart from that, I had a few little side hustles -- nothing major. I had a bit of extra cash, but I stayed here because it was low key. I liked to be in control of when I was high profile, and when I kept hype at a lower register. I found that my public persona was something that I could manage a bit more easily when lived the majority of my life in seclusion. A person doesn’t tend to attract that much attention when they are living in Alphabet Town -- primarily because everyone else in the neighborhood has got enough of their own problems to manage.
The coffee was at least something worthwhile, even if the rest of the apartment was shit. I actually made sure that that everything I put inside of my body was primo. No sense in living a life of luxury in appearance, and having the sensual experience of a man in poverty. I’d rather have the other way around.
The coffee bubbled brown in my percolator with a tan, frothy cream on the top. I poured the liquid into a ceramic mug I stole from a thrift store, and then grabbed my sandals and tobacco. My standard morning ritual was to go outside next door to the apartment building where I lived, and sit down in a vacant lot to enjoy coffee and a cigarette. There’s
a pepper tree out there, and a little piece of shit rocking chair I dragged out of the dumpster last year. The wood is worn from weather, but the chair has continued to hold together in spite of the elements. With a dream like I had last night, I desperately needed the time to reflect on how I wanted to move forward.
The air outside was clear, and when my sandals crunched the dry grass on the way out to the pepper tree, I felt like everything was in its right place. Some things didn’t change, and the sense of calm that I got from the vacant lot was a good thing. A smoke and a cup of coffee was an awesome way to start the morning. Things got a little less awesome when I made my way out to the tree.
“A fucking dead cat…?” I rubbed my face with my free hand.
Spilling a bit of coffee on my toe, I let my head hang toward the ground. Usually a sight like this wouldn’t really phase me. Everything dies, so I didn’t feel like there was much use in getting bummed out over it.
The major problem was that the cat had died on my fucking chair.
I didn’t feel like kicking a corpse off of my chair so early in the morning, so I let the poor bastard be. I lit my cigarette, and sat down a few feet away from the chair. I wasn’t able to direct my attention to much else, so I conceded to simply stare at the cat. The tobacco was sharp, but I enjoyed the way it woke me up and detached me from that present experience. I felt like I was able to think clearly about difficult shit, without bothering to wade through the emotional garbage that seemed to pile up around these issues.
