To Live The Dream of Titanic Pleasure

Published on: March 16th, 2020 | Genre: surrealist erotica
by Ethan Lesley CC | © All rights reserved.

“O’, what would I do and what do I dare give up
If only to live the dream of titanic pleasure?…
If I close both my eyes and dream of sin, then
Sin is wrapped purity. Scene Kid, are the farms
Of Aerilon now burning? Describe them
Burning to me.”
– Kahel, excerpt

What is it that one ever so desires that makes both heaven and hell burst? What is it– this opportunity to be so brutally naked– that it lives in the shadows of the shadows of things in the underground? I must admit, I was a bit of a cynical show-off, when I was being courted by my youth. And, by my youth, of course I meant all the things that introduced me to the despondence of manly beauty. And I, of course, did not understand why people found other people attractive. Attraction and arrogance were equals.

I would like to pretend that where I once ended peeking at was caused by no accident; which would be a blatant lie and a disservice to fate. It is only through chance that I did wander aimlessly home (as every other route presented itself equally aimless), and discovered this great chasm where all manly pegging pleasure seems to have accumulated. Nothing would ever make my lips more red.

It was after six days of hard work (or whatever my definition of hard work is, as it is vile in its own ecstacy) I have found the silence of the highway at dusk a dangerously unlively place where very separate factories were built for robots to come alive and people to fall asleep. And automobiles sped by and paid no mind to the gaining momentum of the moaning of giants. Perhaps I only viewed them as giants, for that is my relation to the participants of the most un-Catholic of actions. I fell easily into understanding what it meant to be a true voyeur. Nothing in both heaven and hell compares to it. Catholicism could never make my lips more red.

I sat on the side walk, with my upper body almost kissing the floor, my eyes courageously fixed, my pupils dilated in a fashion never dreamt of. All the participation asked from me is total motionless while considering a mile of underground– with its rough and natural edges that gave the illusion of a properly hidden ecosystem that, at the same time, existed decades I was born. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. Perhaps the light bent in a way that no other thing would steal focus. Or the proportions were that of truth and this truth could not be contained by normal, proportional molecules.

This community, exposed to the early stars and the sky fighting with all the colors of bleeding black swans, had about two compartments. Where they ended, I saw regular-sized people walking in and out of tunnels to attend either the circular stage housed in metal (like a circular building’s foundation exposed to all the elements), or the plastic cyan water-slides that could fit two houses side by side. I turn my attention first to the former, which was dimly lit on all edges except for the main exhibit.

In the middle– and I kid you not– was a giant naked hunk whose face shifted through every sort of pleasure invented. He laid on his back; legs writhing every three seconds; head tilted at the edge, as if a common bed. Shadows formed around him that became countless solid hands, floating, touching– no, worshiping– his steroid-thickened Fabio figure. His brown nipples glistened. His brown penis glistened. Every brown hole in his brown body glistened. His mouth was open as if sucking all the air and attention. No toes in the history of every continent were cleaner.

On the frames of the four storey print sat about twenty other voyeurs like me. Perhaps they lived there, always. I thought they looked too ordinary, too, and they reacted to nothing and their limbs moved not once. What a sight on an audience! Nobody was nobody’s master. Nobody was anybody’s substitute! (Was watching pleasure an acceptable public past time here? Am I getting an outsider’s exclusive?)

Conjured by bliss of the man whose continuing pleasures are being collectively admired was a hand holding a brilliant figure of a dildo thicker than the colossus’ forearms. Artful was the way it slid inside, making him breathe life into a universe that knew not close of a tenth of it. Oxygen changed into cum raining on strategic parts of him, announcing perfect alchemy. His long hair was wet. His face was wet. His chest and delts and legs and buttocks, all wet. His mouth fountained nonstop, and I officially envied him. We may all only know of life in its most derivative.

As this went on, ends of cigarettes collected at the base of this avenue; countless of them burning as if desiring to form constellations. This peculiar scene put the tame skies to shame, so looking below naturally eclipsed all thoughts of looking above. Now, even my breathing’s suctioned by this side of the underground. What are we working for, even, if we cannot reach this much life in life? I forwent all thoughts of melancholic arousal and shifted attention after being promised with nothing that could ever be equal.

Unabiding to dimness was the contrast of the second side. (Or was it just second because it is rare to me? Or farther, geographically?) There, it seemed like the ocean itself washed many players. They were more slender, longer, obviously agile and more fair. Their hair housed many the shades of autumn, and they played with assless undergarments. At least two imitated dogs and had themselves plowed by hairier men. They seemed inclusive at first glance but, on afterthought, not really. They had the vibe of endless summer, of endless youth, endless vacation. Their side was the side of smiling in openness and fucking in openness. Every regular-sized voyeur who put their feet into the water grew into their size and joined in to breed the two slave bottoms exchanging kisses while sharing a mighty cock. A submissive from the crowned then laid behind the top and presented himself for missionarying, and they were immediately greeted. I saw their faces decorated with translucent and biological white wildness, and in a clearness of vision my layer of the world did not allow me to. How generous, this level of pleasure achieved watching from a detached manner!

My feet continued to dangle. I had become aware again of my skin, and my jacket, and my mind’s desires, and my breathing. I should jump in. Should I not? I should delay the cusp of the weekdays and weekends more. Should I not? I only managed to will my ears to open more. And so I heard them sing like wet choirs with hard-ons all the more… In ten or two years, inherit, they will, the above earth. There is no need for anybody to sob if the sobbing’s in secret or the sobbing’s unattractive… Let it be known I would sob for pornography’s giants.

 
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