heat lightning

heat lightning heat lightning

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Summary

"Boys masturbated languidly in the trees."--William S. Burroughs

Summary

"Boys masturbated languidly in the trees."--William S. Burroughs

Content

Submitted: February 28, 2019

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Content

Submitted: February 28, 2019

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What can I say about the first time I visited my uncle in Key West? It seems like I should say something. It seems like it should be sexual.

My uncle was a self-hating gay man. Even though he lived with his partner in the small Bahama-style home, it was easy for a silly boy like me to be ignorant of his sexuality. There were no displays of affection between them. There were a few criticisms they pronounced about the conduct of young gay men on the street.

I lived in their upstairs reading Shakespeare, jobless and bored, occasionally tuning in Cuba on my small TV and watching Fidel Castro give one of his interminable speeches, which were unintelligible to me. On the upstairs veranda--can a veranda be upstairs?--hung a hammock next to two wicker chairs, and I would sometimes sit there in the hot night wondering what I was doing.

I said this was going to be sexual, but what did I know about sex? My girlfriend, whom I had said goodbye to in the great American Midwest, insisted our sex lives not evolve beyond bad hand jobs. It was three years before I finally lost my virginity to a sexy fat girl, a few months before I disastrously tried to give a blow job to a college acquaintance, in part a Key West-inspired attempt at sexual relief through queerness. No, I was in what seems now to be an utterly useless sexual stasis. But I was young, too, and full of a sexual energy that nevertheless leaves me envious of my former self.

My experience on the island cannot be summed up in a thought, or in a description of its termite-riddled architecture or even of the young men entering and leaving the adult book stores on Duvall street, who, unknown to myself at the time, had become attractive in their cutoffs and in my frustration. No, a month in Key West becomes a few minutes in that hammock outside my apartment over my possibly chaste uncle and his partner.

It must have been two in the morning, a typical nighttime there, still hot and utterly humid from the previous day. Distant, thunder less lightning, what I called "heat lightning", occasionally described thin, maritime clouds above the palms that rasped lightly in an infrequent breeze. The streets were finally empty of people who often partied late under the streetlights. What was a boy like me to do?

I stripped myself naked and lay in the hammock, not heedless of anyone watching from a neighboring house or shadow, but simply with a low level of caring what the consequences would be. I grabbed my penis and began to jack off in the humidity. There are probably only a few times a man can specifically remember Jacking off. I remember this. I I've written about this masturbation before in aimless ways that lacked subject or object, just as the thickening of my cock lacked them in that creaking hammock, just as the silent lightning could not resolve itself into storm, just as my uncle's passion could find no love to blossom in. I remember it. I remember the red, flickering glow of the far clouds, the insects orbiting the streetlights, contractions of my barely used balls, the cum lacing me from my navel to my chin.


© Copyright 2019 Colin Pleasant. All rights reserved.

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