by T. Anderson
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Let me tell you why they call me La Chincha. It is because of the smoked salmon I crave and eat with greasy, greedy fingers, the iced vodka I slug down like water from a mountain spring, the cinnamon and cherry flavored wine staining my lips, my tongue, and the cocks I suck life into and out of. The salmon is my brother, dashing and silver, struggling, dying. Vodka: my daemon; it makes me forget the struggles the troubles, daily, weekly. The lips and the cocks of men are my nemesis; they give and take life from me so swiftly that the value is barely present, the cost, always a keen deficit. I begin to think that I should be charging, I spend so much of my time sucking, being prodded. But this, I can't help. There is no alternative for me. It could take twenty men a day to put out the fire between my legs, between my eyes. It could, but I do not know for certain.
The Buddha fascinates me with his luxurious gaze, eyes seductive slits rolled slightly up into his head. I look upon the bodhisattvas in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and I want them to come to life, to dance their gracious temple dance with me, to touch me in the tradition of the Kama Sutra, to speak tantric verses in my ear, to embrace me as a lover, as a mother.
But, when I am beneath a man, a live man, I often have the oddest thoughts: I am being fucked by a cement mixer, a dump truck, a squirrel, an unskilled, juvenile Pan, all goat legs, slim dick and hair. Lately, it's always either too much or too little: weight, cock, and dexterity never seem to combine to satisfy the urge for full bodily communion.
Men have fucked my mouth and come in my face, on my tits, my back, my stomach. I have invited this, suggested it. Yes, please do…if you don't mind, and why not? Shall I put your balls in my mouth? Put your finger in my ass. Suck my tits. Pull my hair. Harder, rub harder, press harder, move slower, move faster, shut up. Sit up. NOW. Do what I tell you goddamnit, don't ask questions. Please. Are you tired? Are you okay? Did that feel good? Did you like that?
What then? I had the idea that if I fucked enough men I might discover the combination, the subtle clicks that might release me, forever; heat, touch, wetness, coolness; eyes lashing, muscles relaxed and tensed, nerves singing. What I find is that compassion is lacking, the oblivion of raw lust unattainable; love a dream as in a long forgotten Eden.
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