Can I Feel Your Heart with My Fist?


And then there was the throat. The way he held onto my wrist and pulled my fingers into his mouth, four of them, and I pushed past his tonsils and touched the moist and lumpy texture of his epiglottis, like he wanted me to keep going, to the larynx, the esophagus. And I brought my head closer to his, my mouth close to his ear and I spoke to him, softly: I’m going to kill you, I said. I’m going to dig my hand into you and take out your heart. Then I’m going to eat your heart.

Act I: Before

He smiled when he passed, and climbed the stairs in front of me. He moved slowly, giving me enough time to pat his bum which was wrapped in a white towel, bright white against dark brown, and then he let the towel drop to below his butt-cheeks. The way a femme fatale might let the sleeve of her dress slip to expose a shoulder. His arse was round and fleshy; his body sticky and form. He had the soft protruding nipples that I like. Our fate was sealed. Within second we were in a cubicle and he was on his knees sucking my cock. His mouth was warm and soft and he seemed hungry for it; he let me hold the back of his head and fuck my cock against the back of his throat.

Then he reached for a condom, put it on my cock, lubed his arse and my dick and positioned himself on the banquette in the cubicle, his arse there for the taking. I took it and I fucked away. It was exciting. It was exciting mainly because I’d hardly been at the sauna for five minutes and already I’d struck gold.

I knew it was the right idea to go to the sauna. There are days when I just know that I have to be there, that things are going to be good, that the men will be into me, that I’m going to have a good time, that something special is going to happen. The other option had been the gym, but I’ve been good lately about turning up at the gym, and I figured Sunday would be a good day for the gym, too. I also knew that if I went to the gym, I’d not want to schlep all the way to the sauna in the evening and sex would have to wait another day. And I was horny. Already that morning I’d been fucking the mattress thinking about one of the trainers at the gym whom I’d chatted to the day before.

Nothing beats fucking. There’s an elation that comes with it, an adrenalin rush that just doesn’t happen, not to me, when I’m getting fucked. It’s like, what happens in he brain is a totally different thing. There’s a huge sense of liberation and connection and relief when I’m getting fucked, but there just isn’t the kind of elation that comes with having my cock inside an arse, a welcoming and warm arse that is open and soft and eager, and you can make these growling noises and feel like an animal.

The guy turns around and looks at me and takes my cock out of his arse and says: “Did you come?’

I laughed. “I just got here,” I said.

And then he picked up his towel and walked out. And I’m standing there, thinking: what the fuck just happened there? One minute you’ve got someone inside you, and the next minute you’re striding out of the cubicle. How does a guy do that? Part of me was trying to rationalise his behaviour (Africa, internalised homophobia, that sort of thing), and another part was going: Well, fuck you, too.

Act II: During

After a quick shower I went to sit in the sauna for a bit. I sweated a lot, felt the heat penetrating my body, cleansing me. I played around a bit with some chubby redhead who was sitting in the corner in the steam-room, but he was too much like a robot, devoid of passion and kink. So I went back upstairs to the cubicles.

The backroom can feel like the trough of the bath-house. Or a dance of vultures, or a gathering of cave-dwellers trying to find their way without much light. It’s not always the sexiest of places; it can feel like the place where men go who are two afraid, ashamed, or ugly to hunt or offer themselves up in the light. But there I was and there he was, this tall skinny guy, arms folded across his chest, watching me. I was thinking: Spanish, or Italian, that dark Mediterranean look.

In one of the for-standing-only cubicles in the backroom, we kissed. His tongue was long and hungry and he let me suck on it before he went down on his knees to suck my cock. He put my hand on the back of his head, he let me put my hand across his throat, and when I put my fingers in his mouth his forced them down deeper, deeper than I had ever felt inside someone’s mouth, and he moaned for more.

We kissed standing up, our bodies pressed together, our tongues in each other’s mouths and my fingers in his and a finger inside his nostril and it was just this eating of tongues and hands and lips and faces and if we could have we would have swallowed each other. It was that kind of intense. And when I slapped his face while kissing him, he wanted more. And with all that we were so extremely tender with each other, our fingertips touching arms and chests and the sides of our bodies, and cocks, his this long thing, as thick as mine, but probably 5cm longer. It was kind of beautiful. Priapic in contrast to his lean body.

“Let’s get a cubicle,” he said.

And when they were all occupied, either the doors were closed or there was some overweight guy sitting on the banquette waiting to be rescued, I peeped in to one of them and asked the guy if we could have the cubicle. He got up in a huff, grabbed his towel, and muttered something about a couple who’d been in that room all fucking day. And then when I turned round to face the lean man who had left the backroom with me I realised that we’d met before, here in the sauna, twice.

“It’s been a long time,” I said, his name on the tip of my tongue.

He smiled, stroked my chest, kissed me.

I said, “It’s good to see you again.”

He felt embarrassed not to remember, and his embarrassment amused me; after all, it had probably been about four years since we last fucked. I had a beard then, and my chest was probably not trimmed, and I was about 10 kilos heavier. And then I told him all the things I knew about him: that he was a graphic designer, that he lived in South London, that he had something to do with the music business.

“And if we keep doing this for a bit more,” I said. “I’ll remember your name.”

“You’re freaking me out,” he said, bowing his head, laughing, but also genuinely spooked.

“It begins with a F,” I said.

It took a while for his cock to get hard again, but it got hard and we played nicely, him sucking on my cock, flicking its tip with his tonsils (or at least that’s what it felt like, or was he winding his tongue around it while it pressed against the back of his throat, but maybe none of that is physically possible) and telling me that he liked it when I was rough with him.

“Do you like it when I choke you?” I said. “When I tell you I’m going to kill you? I’m going to fucking kill you, man.”

And his throat opened up more and more, so much so that I felt he would let me reach inside him and feel his heart with my fist.

I’d never said those things to someone, never gone as far as I did today, but I’ve had a lot of practice with that script on the phone. I used to have phone sex with this guy from up north somewhere who loved to talk about putting a plastic back around my head and watching me suffocate, watch me turn blue, and kick, and my eye bulge until I couldn’t breathe anymore and I’d mike these choking noises and he’d tell me to tell him that he was a sick fuck, that he was a sick fucking pervert. And I’d say, you want to kill me, don’t you? You want to fucking kill me, and he’d say die, die, die, you bastard.

And in amongst that all was love and devotion and a complete surrendering of something or other. It was like that with F. Like we were there in the cubicle without judgement, without an agenda, without a map.

ACT III: After

F. came while I fucked him and held my hand against his throat. Then we cleaned up and parted. It wasn’t as abrupt as that sounds, but we didn’t cuddle or exchange numbers or sit in the downstairs bar to watch stuff on the large TV screen. It made me think of therapy, or going to a house of prayer; you do what you do within the confine of that hour, then you go back to your life. You go back to your life with perhaps a new insight, with a sense of connection to yourself, and maybe to the world, too.

Before going back to my life, I went back to the steam room. After all, I hadn’t come yet.

Takashi was from Hong Kong. He had a Japanese name in addition to his Chinese name.

“Is that quite common?” I said.

“I’m unique,” he said.

He was visiting for a few days. A friend of his had died suddenly from a stroke and the funeral’s on Monday. Our sex was nice. He liked to suck cock. He liked to kiss, but wasn’t that good at it. He sucked on my nipples, but he wasn’t that great at that either. But it was nice to be together, and I came with him lying next to me, one of my nipples in his mouth, and his fingers playing with the other.

And then we talked and he told me that his mother had died ten days ago, a couple of days before he and his boyfriend went off to Fort Lauderdale for their summer vacation. He was there when she died in hospital. Now her body was awaiting burial, which will happen in about ten days time.

“The queues are so long,” he says.

They managed to get the last plot in the cemetery for her, a plot that will be hers for twenty years, then they will either have to renew the lease on the grave, or have her body exhumed, cremated, and placed in an urn in a hole in the wall.


“How deep can I go?’ I said.

“As deep as you want,” he said.

“I want to be all the way inside you. Don’t you know that?”

“Do it, then,” he said. “It’s fine. I like it when it’s deep inside.”

“I will,” I said. “You’re a good boy to let me do that.”

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