I Like to Watch by Christopher Pierce

Author:Christopher Pierce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2010-12-16T00:00:00+00:00

GOD’S OWN EXHIBITIONIST

Simon Sheppard

This all started several years back; four years ago to be precise, which means 1997.

I travel a lot. A whole lot. This time I was in India. Out on the outskirts of Delhi, there’s a building called Humayun’s Tomb. Kind of a precursor to the Taj Mahal, it’s a big Muslim mausoleum with a colossal domed interior, imposing, maybe even a bit creepy. It’s not a big tourist destination, sort of in the middle of nowhere, and one spring afternoon I found myself all alone in this huge old place. I looked up, surrounded by the past, the presence of death, of history and…well, I just got horny, intensely horny. I peered out of a doorway, across the garden—nobody coming.

I unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock, which was already half-hard. I was showing myself to nobody. Therefore, I was showing myself to everybody, even to the whole universe, and if that doesn’t make much sense, it nevertheless made me happy. And harder.

Now, I’m sure if some mullah somewhere found out about what I did, he’d get righteously pissed off, so let me say right here that no sacrilege was intended. And even if it had been, hey, I’m an equal-opportunity offender; when I was a grad student at Berkeley, I got fucked in a church pew…though it was a Unitarian Church, so maybe that doesn’t count.

Anyway, I stood there in the immensity of the place and beat off, no sound but the cawing of ravens in the warm distance. It didn’t take me long. Beneath a dome nearly vast as the heavens it was standing in for, staring up into the architectural void, I jacked off—my muscles tightened, hips thrust forward—and I had one of the most intense orgasms of my life, big spurts of jizz spewing across the geometries of the inlaid floor, shattering the order of a perfectly arranged cosmos. I licked my hand clean, stuffed my dick back in my pants and took a few snapshots.

It was like I’d just fucked infinity.

The next time I did something like that, it was somewhere very far from Delhi in the spring. I was in Saint Louis in the middle of a pelting rainstorm, driving a friend’s old Ford Festiva cross-country—don’t ask—when the car broke down in the caffeinated middle of the night, on a deserted street right near the Gateway Arch. It was pissing down rain, blurring the sharp steel profile of the floodlit parabola. I’d never been to Saint Louis before, in fact, had never been to Missouri, and I had no idea of what I was going to do, not at 3:00 A.M. I was flummoxed. And I was, decisively, horny. At first I sat there in the misbehaving car, the still-alive radio blaring out some banal ’80s oldie, my hand working my dick through my jeans. Then I figured What the hell? and pulled out my cock. Staring up at Saarinen’s great, meaningless curve, I wondered if I was somehow queer for arches and domes, a parabola fetishist.

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