Last night

What makes a person come back from a hard day's work, tired, glad to be home, only to frantically pack up their night bag at around 23.45, because some stranger has asked them over to his house (which he has all to himself) to 'watch a DVD' and have an experience.

I have no idea.

But I did it. It happened last night. And, dear reader, as I write this to you, It still hasn't penetrated my skin, the thought of what I have done...

In the middle of the night, I caught a tube to Brixton and spent the night with a total stranger whose views on sex and sexuality frustated me. His asserted that sexuality is a complete result of conditioning, that he was 'curious', (that silly word that gay boys use these days to disguise that male yearning deep within), and that he wanted close male companionship. As the rigours of our debate rose higher and became heated, I suddenly felt myself become aroused. It was the idea of the spontaneity, not the man himself that opened up something inside me that I know has been locked up for years. He was an attractive man, though far from what I would describe as a stud. But, and most importantly, what this man lacked in physicality he made up for in power and sexual prowess. As he took me upstairs to 'sleep' his words managed to arouse the living daylights out of me. And no matter how I tried to fight it off, how I tried to supress the errection, there it was, long and turgid, ready and waiting. For what though?

Initially as he lay on the bed I hovered around refusing to lay beside him, unsure of where I was or what I was doing or why. We talked about sex the way only two strangers can, with an unashamed fluidity. He insisted he wasn't gay and that every man (and readers, what do you think of this?) is 'curious'.

Curious about what though? I asked over and over. About the pinnacle of male sexuality, the COCK?. Perhaps he wanted to feel a cock other than his own. Perhaps he wondered what it might be like to be physically close to a man, to test himself against the lust, to see whether he really was curious or whether this curiousity had suddenly become certainty. Maybe he wanted to learn how to control desire (what a sad thing that would be if it were true).

What this man did was test me, over and over. He made me lie down beside him, he tugged at my tshirt, he undid my belt, pulled off my socks, flattened by bent knees which tried so hard to supress an errection. He wondered whether my inhibitions were an indication of my own curiousity, or complete hetrosexuality. He fucked my brain, the way it's supposed to be fucked. Deep and hard.

He insisted we spent the night on the same bed, though neither of us were ever completely naked. He pulled me closer to him than anybody ever has, so that our flesh became one and as the night progressed we became enveloped in a kind of misty lustful haze that was hard to break out from. Neither of us slept a wink, and the time seemed to evaporate so quickly, so quietly as our hands delved into the crevices of our innate desires. And for those hours I seemed to forget that I existed, that I was once a virgin craving something similar to what I was recieving. And we never kissed and I never came (although he did).

I came to London as the second step towards discovering the eternal freedom that exists in one's mind. And yesterday night, or this morning, as I made my way home on the underground, something inside me clicked.

As I opened the door to my room, I ran straight for the mirror. I expected to see something change. But, as we all know, dear reader, nothing ever changes, not really. We just learn to open our eyes a little more.