Alan Kelly

The Pursuit of Love

I woke on a cold kitchen floor with a bloody tissue stuck to my face ‘cocksuckers did it again’ Two friends were fisting each other in my spare room and I just sat by the door and watched, my right side numb.

I woke up with another friend’s fingers inside me, I could hear a radio playing, some pop singer long buried under the sheets of obscurity and I asked my friend to put another finger in.

I teased the eye of his cock with my tongue until he shot his load on my stomach, another guy asked if he could fuck me bareback and I was too polite to refuse so I said yeah.

One time a guy told me he liked me and I replied ‘just because you feel it doesn’t mean its there’ and afterwards I licked his pierced perineum.

I would lie on sweaty leather; a live naked wire without insulation. Watching, Touching, Tasting myself. Stare dead-eyed into a mirrored ceiling surrounded by the hands of strangers.

I took a homeless guy home once and sucked him off after he shot up, his cock was filthy but I didn’t care. I watched his mouth slack, his body a diseased thing barely lit from the buttery light of a streetlamp outside.

I knew a boy called Lee who I met in a bar in Amsterdam , I abandoned him in The Cock Ring only to wake the following morning with a ruthless depression. I left my hotel and went from hostel to hostel asking if a boy called Lee was staying, I didn’t ask his last name.

On the fag-end of Parliament Street I met a boy from Santa Monica just before Christmas. I stayed in his hotel for a week, on his last day he told me “there are moments and feelings in life that need to be made permanent” and I laughed.

I sit on a bean-bag now, chemicals burn through me, eyes dry. I imagine running a razor over my skin and hope the blood-loss will help my head fall, narcoleptic-like to sleep…

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