Selección de idioma

23 May, 2011 at 1:32/ por

Análisis personal

La primera vez que sangré fue la noche que perdí mi virginidad. Había embrujado a un portero de la decadente institución queer de Miami Beach conocida como Warsaw Ballroom, una preciosa sala de baile art decó, para que me dejase pasar a través de los cordones de terciopelo hacia el oscuro, grandioso submundo disco.

The first time that I bled was the night I lost my virginity. I had charmed a doorman at the decadent queer Miami Beach institution known then as the Warsaw Ballroom, a lovely art deco dance hall, into letting me pass through the velvet ropes into the dark, thumping, disco underworld. I was sixteen and sexually active. I had been sucking cock at the beach park and on the boardwalk and fucking other boys in an out-of-the-way men’s room in the back of my high school library, but was too afraid to try intercourse as a bottom. I was wearing a white tank top and soft white cotton boxer shorts printed with lipstick kiss marks. I danced to the primal beats and light show till drenched with sweat. Madonna speaking directly to me:

Look around everywhere you turn is heartache
It’s everywhere that you go (look around)
You try everything you can to escape
The pain of life that you know (life that you know)

When all else fails and you long to be
Something better than you are today
I know a place where you can get away
It’s a dance floor, and here’s what it’s for, so

All you need is your own imagination
So use it that’s what it’s for (that’s what it’s for)
Go inside, for your finest inspiration
Your dreams will open the door (open up the door) [10]

I collapsed into a sofa, ice cold Heineken in hand, in a dark back corner of the club, whole, filled with a sense of possibility and totally humming with energy from the connection felt to so many men like me on the dance floor. Moments later a dark skinned, dark eyed, black haired Cuban beauty approached and sat on my lap straddling me, wearing only a pair of hoop earrings and bikini briefs. He looked me in the eyes, grabbed the back of my head and shoved his tongue in my mouth. He tasted of gin and cocaine and freedom. I knew that I wanted him inside of me.

I had passed through one gate that night and found myself in a safe temple of gay pleasure and seclusion. I wanted to complete my initiation and forever give myself to this community; my new anthem was pounding through the club’s sound system, “what you find-ah, what you feel now, what you know-a, to be real.” [11] I was going to be real and I was going to have this man. We left the club and went out to the beach. He lubed up my ass with suntan lotion and entered me. I still think of him and this night when I smell the mothball and coconut aroma of suntan lotion. I was in a shakti state and felt only pleasure as he fucked me hard and deep pushing me into the sand and chaffing my stomach and face. I came on the beach in unison with him as I felt his penis swell inside of me and his moaning became a growl. We finished and he walked off towards the moon along the ripple line of the waves on the beach. I watched him go as quickly as he had appeared earlier in the club.

I was prepared for my feelings. I knew that I would fall in love with the first man that I gave my boy-pussy to. I saw him as a brother, lover, father, angel, god, devil, shaman, and trade. I was not prepared for the blood, though. I picked up my tank top to clean up with. I wiped off my own cum smeared across my belly and cleaned my bottom. The shirt was soaked in semen and blood and lotion. A small smattering of blood on the sand glimmered almost blue in the moon light. I walked into the ocean, sobbing, and bathed in the cold salty water, stared at the moon and wondered how I could ever understand this bleeding that made me feel like I had become a man.

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