Desire on Ice

Since the brown elephant, touching belts have been a more carnally charged experience. the brown elephant is a thrift store in one of chicago's gayborhoods complete with changing stalls whose doors extend from the bottom of your butt cheek to your shoulders. I bought a sweater and a black woven leather belt. Before I bought the black one, I considered one that wasn't my style at all; camel-colored, very worn and supple, simple. I would have passed it directly forward if not for that texture. Perhaps the belt had been misappropriated in the past somewhere in this very neighborhood and was communicating that experience to me. Whatever the cause, its textures, its knowledgeable give, flashed an image onto the screen of my mind as quickly and surely as the turning on of a projector.

A lover (I won't say which) is in front on me on his knees, facing away. Hands bound (or is it cuffed?) behind his back. The small, cool buckle tight and hidden in my palm.

I don't have that belt now. It's holding up an elderly gentleman's slacks. It's visible behind the belt-loops of a traveler kid's black jeans. It matches perfectly with a seventeen year old girl's cream colored miniskirt.

Yeah, right.

Not this belt. The fashionably minded won't notice it. The practically minded will find fault with it's worn patina and return it to the rack. This belt shops for you, not the other way around. It's looking for an owner, a strong hand, the right mind. It's looking for a master, an extension of its own mind.

I wasn't that man.

I didn't have the courage. I don't know how to say what I want. I don't know how to imagine what I want into being, into your body. Dreams that are real, fantasies into reality. Now when I touch any belt, I remember right down to the base of my spine, right into the humming tip of my clit/dick, what I could do to you if words weren't just rocks in my throat. If the sharp young prick of my desire was released and made whole with your matching will, with your submission, then made supple and subtle and vicious by my own growing strength, age becoming wisdom like oil rubbed into faded leather.

Every Scorpio wants to split his lover open and see stars.