Writers Who Love Too Much by Kevin Killian

Author:Kevin Killian
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nightboat Books
Published: 2020-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

3 Dreams

In the first I’m running up a heath, above me roll the ominous thunderclouds. I’ve got to reach… it. “It” turns out to be Northanger Abbey, on account of a conversation I’ve had with Dodie about the vampire novel she’s writing. As I reach the door, I wheel around to face my pursuer, a famous ex-San Franciscan who’s into s/m. This person happens to be a lesbian and she’s in her full leathers. I know she intends to go for my neck, but it’s too late. The languor seizes me as she pins me against the huge medieval oak door of the Abbey and I give up. I can’t fight this anymore. I’ve reached the end of my resources. She starts to rub up against me and I can feel her cruel metal-studded bracelets bruising my delicate flesh. Too late the realization dawns on me—this is what I’m made for, this is what I’m born for. I groan, ineffectually resisting the pleasure I’ve started to feel. I allow her to take her will.

Also: I’m at home at my family’s house in Portland, Oregon. It’s late in the afternoon, since it gets dark early here in the North country. So I turn on the lights in the bedroom I’ve had since I was a child. My mother comes in quietly and just stands there. For your punishment (but what was the fault?—I can’t remember) I’m going to have to ground you—and a little tremor scurries down my spine. Brass gleams in the late afternoon twilight. I think, I must remember to get off my article for the Poetics Journal. Is there a deadline? I can’t recall if there is.

In another I’m visiting my friend Martin at his pied-a-terre in the Silver Lake area, L.A. He’s teaching a class in art criticism there and has rented this cottage temporarily. The warm evening floods us. Outside, banana trees are spotlit, L.A. style, wonderful yellow green against night. Where the traffic is down below, the streetlights make a frivolous diamond necklace. We’re waiting for Martin’s friend Tom to come by and take us to the bars. Why isn’t he here yet? I demand. We’re horsing around, then take off all our clothes so we won’t be encumbered. It’s obvious where all this is leading to, I think—I’m going to get to suck Martin’s cock, why has it taken so long? But Martin suddenly changes the whole scenario. He spreads my legs and tells me quite calmly he’s going to fuck me. The proposal enrages me. What about AIDS! I tell him indignantly. Martin is very self-possessed. He remarks casually that I must be a very repressed person if I let a few vague fears stand in the way of a good fuck. I fall to the floor immediately and start a temper tantrum—Martin isn’t taking me seriously as a person, I’m just a sex object for him. “I’m not your little boy, and you can’t tell me what to do!”—I protest disingenuously, hot salt tears in my eyes.

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