Pink Narcissus

The drip drip drip of echoic tiles. The sting of ammonia; the jargon of palimpsest doors, a hole in one, at crutch-height, in which to make your confession of a sin you can’t name. The architecture of desire awaits the future of now before revealing itself; its turrets and corners, its dark secrets.

He can’t be more than seventeen, the boy you once saw here, swaggering his boastful cock at you. The jeans are pushed to a crush at his hips, his hairless arse shining like a slaughterhouse knife. The daytime sounds of the park outside intrude only so far as your vigilance to danger will allow. As you drop to your knees and push your mouth onto the uncut masterpiece, you are alert to your surroundings like never before. Vigilance and desire; the vigilance of desire. These things are given to us as a knowledge that tastes of the fruits we seek and savour. Whilst his buttocks are smooth as marble, his crotch is fleeced to perfection, his balls two furred eggs ready to hatch in the cup of your palm.

You manage to coax him into the lock-up – the one with the hole in the door – where you can relish every unwashed inch. So deep your nose reaches the nested stench of him. In these seconds of life which are outside of life each sensation territorializes your memory, overcodings so deep the merest gesture will hasten their return, like gathering loved ones around you. The moment lives on, told or untold, a satellite of love, tuning into and tuned into each successive breath. Our bodies write stories: a calligraphy of nerve-endings and hot air; as the tip of your tongue does its magic, as you turn him around and burrow into the shame of him, licking him cleaner than innocence, inhaling his spittle-wet angel hair like some drug of which you know you will never have enough.

The search for pleasure is a map we make ourselves, cartographers of our own desiring, your body a world you must explore; his body a treasure to be squandered excessively, like there’s no tomorrow.

When you’ve swallowed every drop, he departs, and you sit and you wait, time having dissolved or evolved for you as a concept. In this world within a world, outside of the world, it doesn’t take long on a libidinously hot day like today before someone enters. You hear him pissing. You put your eye to the hole and spy a pair of jeans. He turns around hard and walks towards you and there it is in your mouth that solid warmth that give of skin, that soft veined texture you crave and its all you can do not to pray or perhaps this is you praying, at one with a universe you’re normally so at odds with.

Fall on your knees.

Worship the divine.

Take your place among the angels’ hierarchy.

Instruments and playthings are sense and spirit: behind them there is still the Self.

The Self seeketh with the eyes of the senses.


Because his PhD dissertation can basically be summed up as “all about anal sex,” Jonathan Kemp is affectionately known in certain watering holes of London as ‘Dr. Bumsex.’ He is the author of the award-winning novel London Triptych, and a collection of erotic prose poems similar to this piece, Twentysix. The aforementioned PhD dissertation, The Penetrated Male, was also published last year by the appropriately named Punctum Press. His next novel, Ghosting, is out in March, 2015.

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