Date: Mon, 12 Mar 2007 22:39:27 +0000 (GMT)
From: Nexis Pas <nexispas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: A Story for Matthew

A Story for Matthew
Nexis Pas
(c) 2007 by the author

Matthew sent me a picture, an ambiguous picture, at least to
me. It is a black-and-white photo and was scanned from a
newspaper or perhaps a newsmagazine. The grainy, half-tone
dots reveals that it predates the digital era. The size of
the dots shows that the printing job was cheap.

The scene appears to be a play. In the foreground are two
men, one sitting astride the other's shoulders. The top man
has blond, carefully styled hair. He is thin and is naked
from the waist up. He looks toward stage right and gestures
with his left hand. He wears jeans, and he sits with his
groin pressed against the back of the other man's neck and
his legs draped over the second man's shoulders. The legs
are bent at the knees and then tilted backwards to anchor
his body to the other man's torso. The bottom man has dark
hair, less carefully cut but equally a statement about
himself. In his case, he proclaims his indifference to his
appearance just as much as the top man reveals the attention
he lavishes on his. He looks toward stage left. His arms are
bent at the elbows and held up even with the other man's
knees. His hands are spread toward the audience, palms
outward, with his fingers splayed far apart. His mouth is
open and he appears to be talking, perhaps explaining why
this man is sitting on his shoulders. He is dressed in dark
clothing. It is hard to tell because of the poor quality of
the image, but he appears to be pudgy. The two men are oddly
disengaged. Despite their physical joining, they appear to
be addressing different audiences.

Matthew's email accompanying the image singled out the third
figure in the picture, however. Matthew invited, commanded,
suggested, that I consider the young man standing in the
background. In the image, he is positioned several feet to
the rear and left of the two men. Like the top man, he is
naked from the waist up, and he, too, is thin. He wears
white shorts (quite short, in fact) and white knee socks
with two coloured bands near the top. His weight rests on
his right leg, his left leg is bent at the knee. His right
hand rests on something--the arm of a sofa? His body is bent
back from the waist, so that his hips are thrust forward.
His attention is focused on the two men in front of him. A
small, square pillow rests on his right foot, one of the
annoying, useless pillows people put on sofas, which is
perhaps why I see a sofa in the scene.

The young man makes the scene mysterious. What is his
relationship to the other two? Why does he display himself
so provocatively, so frankly sexually? The scene and his
pose remind me of a circus performance I once saw. The lion
tamer was in the cage with the lions. Outside the cage stood
several showgirls dressed in sequined-covered costumes and
wearing tall plumes on their heads. Every time the lion
tamer performed a trick, they would strut a few steps, stop,
place one hand on a hip, swivel halfway toward the cage, and
then raise the other arm so that a hand pointed languidly at
the scene within. The gesture was intended to draw the
audience's attention to what the lion tamer was doing, but
one ended up looking at women instead. The lions' roars, the
sharp claws raking fissures in the air, the teeth-filled
jaws poised to crush the lion tamer's skull--one ignored the
horrors and the dangers contained within the cage and
focused on the bright, glittering smiles. The young man is
like that. The two men in the foreground may have all the
lines, they may be enacting horrors, but it is the young man
one ends up looking at. The two men turn away from the third
person, but they, like us, are acutely aware of his
presence.

The three are in a room. Two spotlights, one on either side
of the top man's shoulders appear to be part of the stage
lighting rather than part of the stage decoration. The angle
at which the photograph was taken makes the lights visible
in a way that they perhaps were not to the audience. At the
left rear, there appears to be a dark sofa. Walls made of
vertical strips of wood panelling are visible in the
background. Various objects hang on the wall, but what they
are, with one exception, is unclear. The one exception is a
poster (a movie poster?) that hangs on the wall behind the
sofa. It has writing and pictures on it. The phrase "The
THING from" is readable; the rest is too blurred even to
guess at.

Curiously there is one other piece of writing in the
picture. The bottom man is wearing a sweatshirt with
lettering across the front. The bottom-most word is clearly
"WRITE"; the other words cannot be read.

The other objects in the picture are, as I said, unclear. It
would be fruitless to speculate about them. The numbers of
"appears" and "perhapses" in my description of the
photograph indicate my uncertainty about the scene.

Matthew sends me enigmas. He astonishes, even frightens, me
with his comments--sometimes I think he must know me. At
other times, I think he is talking about himself, and that
it is sheer coincidence that his remarks describe me so
well. He has read my stories, and he treats them as
statements about myself. In that he is correct. I am
studying my attraction to domination and control through my
writings. Others have written to tell me that my stories
arouse them. That is, of course, one purpose of the stories
and the reason they are posted on the various gay fiction
sites. They are pornographic, and they are intended to serve
the purposes for which many readers appear to use them. It
is why I sometimes read stories written by others.

Matthew's way of reading (and mine and others' for that
matter) is, I suspect, a matter of how we were trained to
read. We construct meaning where perhaps none was intended
and are most fascinated by stories that allow us to
construct meaning. As readers, we participate in the writing
of the story. I cannot speak for Matthew, but I am a minor
character in every fiction that I read (the major roles have
already been pre-empted); the silent man in the corner who
watches and evaluates the other characters, contributing
nothing to the action and subject to the whimsies of the
plot, dragged hither and yon by the author but less subject
to the author's control than the other characters. I can
turn away and wander off. They cannot.

And who is Matthew? I do not know. He wrote me about one of
my stories. I sensed in his comments an invitation to ask a
question. When he first wrote, he could not have guessed how
curious I am about others, how much I live my life through
others, fictional and nonfictional, although he surely knows
that now. I could not stop myself from asking the question,
and he responded with details. I suspect he knew that his
revelations about himself would pique my interest. I mean no
criticism of him when I say he is manipulative. It is a
quality every writer, every actor, every person, exploits, I
no less than anyone else. Thus began our exchange of emails.
It is a mild, desultory form of flirtation. We will never
meet, and the distance between us will never be closed. He
is perceptive without being condescending. He has the self-
confidence not to need to put people down. We can be open or
secretive--it does not matter. There is no risk except self-
knowledge. And if I get too close to exposure for comfort,
there is always the safety valve of fiction, the words I use
to distance myself from the objects of my desires.

If you have read my stories, you will know that they are
almost always written in the first person or from the point
of view of one character. I find it easiest to write when I
can project myself into one character and ventriloquise for
him (always a him). When I conceive of a character strongly
enough, the words--the character's words--flow out of me.
That character is in my mind, it arises from me, from my
history and experience. I have more trouble writing about
those who are foreign to me. Then I fall back on stereotypes
from television or the movies or on humour to cover my lack
of understanding. My stories deal with themes of domination
and submission, mind control, hypnotism. There is an erotic
aspect to these interests of mine. The stories deal with gay
characters because I am gay. But the sex, the pornography,
is not as important as the control, the domination, either
by me or of me. Matthew has sensed my ambivalence. He lets
me control him, yet he controls me--a pas de deux, a folie a
deux, the label matters less than the creation that results.

And now he sends me this photograph, with its odd
(fortuitous or intentional?) messages: "The THING from" and
"WRITE." The only clue is the name of the file: 1980. Is
that the date of the image? The hairstyles would support
such a date. But perhaps Matthew simply put this number on
the image--it is the accession number in his catalogue of
images. Or perhaps it is one of his tests. He invites me to
read meaning into the number. The scene is from a stage
play. Equus, perhaps?--I seem to remember a photo of a scene
in which one character is riding another shoulders. But in
that play the actors wore structures resembling horses' head
and woven from wicker on their heads. Wikpedia supplies the
information that the play was written in 1974, and 1980
could be a possible date for a performance. One of the
characters is a psychiatrist. A coincidence? Absolutely
irrelevant? A clue? I do not know.

Then there is the mystery of what the three characters are
doing.  The image is rather like those found in that series
of pictures that psychologists use. I've forgotten the name
of that test. But they are illustrations featuring people.
The patient is given one of the cards and asked to construct
a narrative that explains what the characters in the picture
are doing. Is that the warm, nurturing mommy pulling a tray
of freshly baked cookies from the oven to feed her loving
family, or the evil witch converting poor Hansel into
Zuckerkeks to plaster the walls of her cottage in the woods?

As a perceptive reader, Matthew, you have no doubt noticed
that the men in your picture are already becoming characters
in my mind. The urge to write a narrative that explains the
scene is becoming stronger. Two adult males, one younger
male, partially undressed (given the apparent date of the
photograph, that was perhaps the most nudity allowed on a
stage at the time), are the raw materials for the story. The
characters in the photograph are aware of the audience and
are speaking to them. That must cease. They will turn inward
to the story and become oblivious of the reader. Roland, no,
let's name him Rolo, is the bottom man. The top man is
Adrian. And the boy, the not-so-obscure object of desire, it
would be too clever to name him Matthew, no, not Matthew,
and not Simon, I use that too much. A solid, old-fashioned
name. Mark, doesn't that come after Matthew? He shall be
Mark.

                           ******
The bed-sit was all that Mark could afford on his student
stipend. But at least he was alone for the first time in his
nineteen years of life. The room barely accommodated the
sofa on which he both sat and slept. His few possessions
were arrayed on a set of metal shelves that his parents had
allowed him to take from the basement at home. A small desk
barely big enough to hold his laptop and a chair were the
only other pieces of furniture in the room. But he didn't
intend to do much more than sleep there. He would study in
the library. Meals would have to be eaten out or brought in.
The room was at the back, up a steep flight of stairs from
the shop on the ground floor, and it faced the back of a
large building across a narrow alley, too narrow even to
allow the passage of a car. As he was arranging his few
possessions in the room, he noticed a man walking about in
the offices across from his room. There were light net
curtains across his window, and the man appeared in a blur
of movement. He was holding a book or newspaper folded up
and gesturing broadly as he strode in and out of view,
apparently talking to someone who was out of view. The
movement caught Mark's eyes for a second before he turned
back to the more pressing concern of finding a space to stow
his clothes.

When he had first moved in, it was still warm enough that he
had to keep the window open. The place would be stifling in
summer, but he wouldn't have to worry about that. And it was
small enough, he joked to himself, that his body heat would
be able to warm it during colder weather. The first night he
had stumbled home late from the party Kevin had given to
celebrate the start of term, stripped off his clothes
without turning on the light, and flopped down on the sofa.
Through the open window he could hear the faint sound of a
conversation. In the few seconds before he fell asleep, he
identified it as coming from a television with the sound
muted. The soft murmur of the voices lulled him to sleep.
Soon he was dreaming of lying on a warm, sand beach, the hot
sun relaxing his body, the sound of the waves so peaceful.
He drifted down into a warm cocoon of serenity, a wave of
pleasure and satisfaction flowing up and down his body. When
he awoke the next morning, he felt incredibly refreshed.

Mark soon fell into a routine. He awoke each morning at six,
went out for his daily workout, came back, showered and
cleaned up, and then went to the library or his classes. He
returned to his room at ten each night and went to sleep
almost immediately. Mark was surprised at how well things
were going for him. This term his ability to concentrate
seemed to have improved. Perhaps, he thought, it was because
he was sleeping so well. The room had been an inspired find.
It was so quiet, and he was sleeping so deeply. He felt so
good when he got up each morning, ready to tackle the day
with renewed vigour. Even his dreams seemed to be
contributing to his newfound energy. For the first time in
his life, he was aware that he was having the same dream
repeatedly. It seemed that every night, he went to sleep on
that warm beach, the sound of the waves in the background.

                           ******
At 9:45 Rolo turned the lights out and opened the curtains
at the back. Mark would return soon. He had been programmed
to return at 10:00. Rolo checked the micro-speaker in Mark's
room to make sure it was working and placed the new tape in
the player. He had visited Mark's room earlier in the day
and placed lights in the corners so that the scene would be
properly lit. He had patiently been training Mark for six
weeks now. He doubted that Mark realised that the man he had
occasionally seen in the office opposite his bed-sit was the
landlord he had met only briefly when he had rented the
place.

At 10:00 the ceiling light in the room opposite came on.
Mark entered and then locked the door behind him. His
actions followed what had become a set sequence. The clothes
came off, and Mark walked about briefly as he prepared for
bed. It was like watching a television screen set in the
wall of the building. If Mark had ever given a thought to
the window, he would have noticed that it was always
scrupulously polished. He hadn't closed the curtains for
weeks. Why bother, when the window faced the blank brick
wall of that abandoned factory?

The light in Mark's room went out at 10:20. The microphones
Rolo had installed picked up the sounds of the sofa-bed
creaking as Mark settled in. Rolo gave Mark a few minutes
and then pressed the button on the player. Barely at the
threshold of hearing the sounds of waves began. Mark watched
as the foam rushed up the beach, bubbling and frothing over
the warm golden sand. He waded through the warm shallows and
walked up the beach to where he had spread his towel. He
loved swimming in the ocean. It was so warm and there was
this wonderful feeling of being immersed in something strong
and wilful. It felt so good just to relax and float along.
He lay down on the blanket. As the warm tropical breeze
dried his skin, the grains of sand that had clung to his
flesh stirred and fell off his body. The fuzz of hair on his
forearms and calves fluttered gently in the wind. He soon
surrendered to the warmth of the sun and let his entire body
and mind relax, sinking down into the warm sand, almost
melting into it. All of his resistance gone. So open to
suggestion.

His body was becoming so golden from all this sun. A pity
the flesh beneath his bathing suit was so white. Mark sat up
and looked up and down the beach. As usual it was deserted.
He had been coming to this spot for weeks and had never seen
anyone. He could risk a few minutes of nudity. He stood up
and stripped off his bathing trunks. He felt so much better
when he lay down again. The warm sand moulded itself around
his buttocks. It was so relaxing. He loved lying in the sun.
It was if he was absorbing the sun's energy directly into
his body. He felt so strong, so vigorous, so virile.
Suddenly he leapt up and raced down the beach toward the
water, his muscles pumping smoothly, his beautiful body
diving like a spear into the ocean. He felt so alive,
pulsing with energy, the water and the wind caressing his
body, arousing it.

He swam out into the warm ocean, becoming more and more
aroused as his body rose up and down in the waves. He turned
and swam back toward the beach, the waves lifting him higher
and higher as he surged toward the beach and strode up the
sand. His hand found his cock and he stroked himself beneath
the bright sun surrounding him. The cameras recorded him as
his muscular body arched and his face contorted in ecstasy
when he ejaculated.

Rolo waited until Mark had returned to bed and closed his
eyes before shutting off the cameras and then the lights.
Adrian would want to see everything. The recording returned
Mark to sleep and to his pleasant dreams. He would wake up
refreshed and energized in the morning, ready to tackle the
world with new vigour, concentrating on his studies,
refusing to allow himself to be distracted by idle
socialising. Sleep, dream, work out, study, attend classes,
study, return to his room, sleep, dream. It was such a full
life. He had no time for anything else.

                           ******
`He has a beautiful body. A very lucky find for us.' Adrian
had waited until the tapes had finished before speaking. `Is
he ready for the studio yet?'

`Yes, all the tests are positive. He remembers nothing of
what he does while in trance. He sees what he has been
programmed to see and does what he is told to do.'

`Very good work, Rolo. I am quite pleased with you.' Adrian
gestured toward the video machines. `Play the tapes again.'
Adrian turned around to face the four monitors. As the
scenes of Mark jacking off and then writhing with increasing
pleasure began, he unzipped himself and motioned Rolo to
kneel between his legs. As Adrian watched the screens, Rolo
bent forward and began to suck. As he had been trained to
do, he matched his motions to the stroking of Adrian's
fingers on his ear and throat, slow at first and then faster
and faster as Adrian allowed himself to become as aroused as
Mark was in the video. Adrian's ejaculation come only a few
seconds after Mark's.

                           ******
`Friday night, then, Rolo. Get the studio ready to film the
kid. We'll do a solo session the first time. If there are no
problems, we try him with another one of our trained seals.
I'll come by about 9:30. Let's capture that arrogant look of
his. That "worshipme" stare.'

                           ******
He was a god emerging from the sea, striding up the sand.
The masculine face framed by the wet black curls. His skin
golden, nude--a god had no need for clothes. His body an
object of desire. They wanted him. Everyone wanted him. At
the top of the sand dune a staircase stretched downward. The
muscles in his legs bunched and then stretched as he bounded
down the steps and through the doorway at the bottom.
Another door led to the platform. The sun was so bright on
the platform, the stage where his audience could see him.
His audience, his worshippers, had to see him clearly as
they photographed and taped him. Let them see his body, let
them record it, let them adore him, let them want him.

There were two of his subjects now. One of them already
writhing on the ground as he photographed him from below,
the other kneeling behind him and pointing out the best
angles and shots. They would want him even more soon. Mark
concentrated on pulling the two men toward him. There could
be no one else in their minds, only him. They wanted him.
Come closer, come my pets, you know you want me. Crawl to
me. Crawl on your bellies. Rub your groins against the
ground and excite yourselves with the thought of my body.
Feel your cocks get hard, you know you want to press them
against my hard flesh. You want to touch me, you want to
lick me, you want me to grind your faces into the sand
beneath the soles of my feet. Come, worship, adore, desire
me.

`Jesus, Rolo, this kid is good. Get some shots looking up
toward his cock from below. Get between his legs. Good.
That's good. Quick before he loses it. We need some shots
from above too. Where's the stepladder?'

`Downstairs. In the closet in the hallway.'

`No time. Give me the camera and hoist me up on your
shoulders. That's it. Look up at me, you handsome stud.
Seduce the camera. Make people want you, make them want to
buy what you're selling. That's it. Perfect. Pull them to
you. Draw them in. Make us want to worship you. Make us want
you and that beautiful body.'

They were circling him now. But too close. They were not
permitted to touch, only to want. He frowned at them. A
command. Get down. Down on your knees.

`That's enough, Rolo. Let me get down. Let's get more shots
from below.'

Cameras in hand, Rolo and Adrian focused upward, crawling as
close to Mark as they could and still keep his body in
focus. Mark's cock grew larger and larger. He knew what they
wanted. Let them come closer, not to touch, never to touch,
just closer and closer to what they wanted. He laced his
fingers behind his neck and arched his hips forward,
thrusting his cock into the air. His hard, swollen cock
began to drip fluid. A golden, sticky drop traced a curve in
the air as it flew from the tip to the floor, reluctant to
sever the link to Mark's cock, still tied for a few seconds
to his body. That's what they wanted. The promise of
abundance from the fecund god, the creator, the destroyer.
He danced above them, his cock swinging from side to side
and getting harder and harder.

`That's it, baby. That's perfect. Cum for the camera. Cum.'

Mark roared in triumph. Jets of cum spasmed from his body
and spurted out his cock. Over and over again, he covered
Rolo and Adrian, as they writhed on the floor before him.
His subjects, his worshippers, his slaves, blessed by the
god. He gave himself one final shake and then reached down
to his cock and squeezed out the last drops, letting them
fall on Adrian. The god shot them a look of contempt before
walking away, out the door, and across the passage, and up
the stairs to the beach. They would return to worship him
again. Every night they would come for him, demanding to
worship him.

                           ******
So, Matthew, I think I shall leave them there, linked
forever in a moment of mild sadism and masochism. The mild
sadism of the desired object who knows he is wanted and the
mild masochism of those who desire him. Joined forever by
their mutual need for one another. I tire of them, and you
are far more interesting.

And what of you, Matthew? How do I deal with the temptations
you offer me? How do I bring under control my desire for
you? The desire for the being who understands me and makes
me the centre of the universe. What? You protest that you
are not that being. But, you will be, Matthew, you will be.
That is the whole point of being an author.

They look so small, don't they, Matthew? Barely an inch and
a half long. The bright red rubber grips on the two handles.
But, of course, the handles are not the part that attracts
you, are they? No, you're interested in the other end. The
shiny clamps. The little metal teeth that catch your eyes as
I hold them up and open and close them. Open and close them
so slowly, Matthew. Just watch them. The teeth are so sharp,
aren't they? The kind the sex shops sell have those rubber
tips over the teeth. Useless, those. Besides being
overpriced. I got these in an electrical goods shop. I once
saw a wonderful variety of sizes in the United States, in
one of those stores they call hardwares. Such a wonderful
name. Will you find these hard to wear, Matthew?

We shall see. The whole point is the pain, of course, and
making you accept the pain. And these will cause you pain,
Matthew. You might think that the larger ones would cause
more pain, but that is not true. These small ones are much
more painful. I've tried various sizes on myself. These will
clamp perhaps a eighth of an inch, a cube of flesh one-
eighth of an inch on all sides. Just the tip of your nipple.
Think of it. These sharp little teeth biting into your
flesh, crushing it, penetrating it.

You look apprehensive. The way your eyes dart sideways at me
and then look away, as if by not looking at me, you are
hiding from me. If you do not see me, perhaps I will not see
you. Hmmm. Look at me. I am here, Matthew, right beside you,
my arm around your shoulders, my hand cupping your chin and
turning your head to face me. I love the way the tip of your
tongue licks your lips so nervously. Don't worry, Matthew.
I'm right here beside you. I'll help you get through this.
See, you enjoy that, don't you? You like it when we kiss. So
tender. So intimate. What lover could unbutton your shirt
with such tenderness and reach through the gap and stroke
your chest so lovingly?

So sensitive. Your nipples are so sensitive. Just look into
my eyes, Matthew. Just relax. So relaxed and comfortable.
Warm, safe. Just the two of us. You feel differently about
the clamp now, don't you? You're already anticipating the
pleasures it will bring you. Just watch it open and close.
So pretty, so shiny. Take off your shirt. Hmmm. So nice,
your nipples. So inviting.

See, the clamp is all the way open, just spread around your
nipple. I'll close it very slowly. Just the hint of pressure
on the skin. Relax, Matthew. Nothing to worry about. You're
with me. There, the teeth are beginning to bite into you. It
hurts, doesn't it? Now a little more. Oh, that was a nice
moan. I like to hear you moan. This is just the start of the
journey, Matthew. But even so, don't you find it wonderful
the way the pain focuses your mind? It just takes over,
doesn't it? Your whole consciousness reduced to this tiny
bit of flesh and the pain that is radiating from it. Just
relax, Matthew. You're fighting the pain, and that just
makes it worse. Relax, and enjoy it. You know you want this.
You know you need this, crave it. It is addictive.

What's that? Well, you're welcome, Matthew. It's my
pleasure. Just relax and enjoy it. The pain is already
growing less, isn't it? The body so quickly becomes numb.
But you will find that I have only to open the clamp for the
pain to return. Isn't that wonderful? The way the pain just
comes rushing back? You would think that releasing the clamp
would put an end to the pain, but instead it just doubles
itself. And now when I close the clamp around the nipple
again, the pain is even more intense. Oh that was a very
nice moan. I hope you mean that and are not just moaning
because you know it pleases me. I suppose I should content
myself with the bromide that it's the thought that counts,
but really, Matthew, I do so want the reality.

So small this clamp, but so large the pain. Just opening and
closing around the very tip of your nipple. Just the tiniest
bit of flesh. Some people might twist and turn the clamp
like this, but I think that's a bit crude. In any case, as
you can see, one doesn't have to even touch the clamp. Just
massaging the flesh around the nipple causes you pain,
doesn't it?

But you're stiffening up again. Just relax, Matthew. The
pain will feel so much better if you just relax. And I can
tell that you are enjoying this, Matthew. Just let me
unbutton your trousers and ease them off. The precum is
already staining your underpants, Matthew. Let's get rid of
them as well. Your cock is so large, Matthew. And there is
no need to touch it. No need at all. Just focus on the clamp
on your nipple, Matthew. Focus on the way the pain throbs
through your body. Concentrate on the wonderful pain. This
marvellous burning of the flesh. Now transfer all that
feeling to your cock. Now! See how it jerks up. Isn't that
wonderful? Soon, Matthew, we will have you cumming just from
the pain, the lovely, wonderful pain. It won't take much
training at all.

You are so lovely, Matthew. And soon you will be all mine.
You want to be mine, don't you, Matthew?  Hmmm. Yes. Say it,
say yes. Lovely man. Hmmm. This is just the first step in
your enslavement, dear Matthew.

And this time you won't be able to run away. Not like the
other times, when the man mysteriously left for Florida
without taking you with him. Or the time Luke trained you
for months and then decided you weren't his type. Or the
home repairman who was really straight and didn't want a
boyfriend. Those were nice stories, Matthew, but in the end
you escaped. You ran away and disguised it from yourself as
the other person deserting you. Now, we can't have that. No,
this time, it's for good. Eternity. No way out, Matthew.
Just me, the author of your fate. The dark at the end of the
tunnel. The words that won't go away. The story that can be
read over and over. You can shred the paper on which the
words are printed and incinerate the scraps. You can delete
the file from the computer. But the words won't go away,
Matthew. They'll exist as long as cyberspace does. Always
out there. Always your story. That's one of the beauties of
fiction. The character takes on its own life, independent of
the author. Matthew will always be out there, waiting for a
reader, who will take him and control him. Forever subject
to the mind control of your readers, Matthew. Your fans.
Your devoted masters. Lovers of your flesh and what they can
do to it in the imagination. So wonderfully malleable. Drop
an `l'--so wonderfully maleable, mailable. Think of it,
Matthew, your story emailed around the world. Your tortures
the inspiration for thousands of hard-ons.

Well, I flatter myself and overrate my writing abilities.
Maybe a few hard-ons, hardly thousands. And what of me? Have
I tamed my desire for you? Brought it under control through
narrative? Possessed on the screen what I will never possess
in reality? And . . . well, there is no end to that story. I
hide in my fictions, the cage that contains the claws that
would tear my flesh, the teeth that would consume me, if I
did not focus on the sequined words that draw the mind away.

Je n'existe pas. But I do, I do exist, don't I? Between the
desires of my stories and my fears of them, I do exist.
Somewhere, there beyond metaphor, beyond the end of
narrative, beyond the end of the stories I tell about
myself, I do exist, don't I, Matthew? Don't I exist? If I
can do this to you, don't I exist?