Date: Mon, 30 Jul 2007 14:14:36 +0200
From: Julian Obedient <julian.obedient@gmail.com>
Subject: The Feel of the Thought

Standing underneath the great vaulted Gothic windows in the immense
library of the Sorbonne we were staring through the lid of a glass
case at Rimbaud's lost notebooks, copious journals full of
never-before-seen poems as well as itineraries, inventories and notes
regarding shifting weather conditions and how they affected the
transportation of guns or slaves, upon which his livelihood depended.

No one knew he wrote them, my companion said, whose acquaintance I was
just beginning to make because of this comment.

He took off his rimless glasses and rubbed them on the bottom of his
black t-shirt. It was not tucked into his also black jeans which fit
him nicely and showed that he was nicely fit.

I realized he was beautiful, blue green eyes, curly browb hair almost
neat and almost messy, and a very warm smile. If he had not actually
looked as good as he did such a description would be an amateur's
cliché, but it was dead on.

His English was perfect and his accent was so slight that I could not
be sure if he were French or German.

You like him? I asked. I actually had scant acquaintance with his work.

Very much, he said.

How would you like to get a coffee? he grinned. It's warm enough to
sit outside and I can recite Le Bateau Ivre to you.


It was a gorgeous day, constituted by a delicately intermingled
sunshine and cloudiness. The air was so clear you could see right
through it.

The coffee was strong, and I like it sweet, and I was speeding.

You can't know that, I argued.

But he argued it was possible to control thought on a mass level.

We had gotten into such dangerously pretentious conversation because
he had teased me for being an American and indolent in my
responsibility, along with my countrymen, of bringing down the current
government, stopping its militarism, brutality, destructiveness, and
its advance to fascism.

It was not easy to hear the United States spoken of that way, and with
such disappointment and conviction, but I was troubled because I knew
it was right, that America, right before our eyes, had been turned
into a different country from the one I had been taught it was, and I
was impotent.

His hand found its way to my lap and he wrapped his palm around my wrist.

Don't be distressed, he said. I live over there, he said, pointing in
the direction of rue Monge. Come home with me.


He did not seem out of breath at all when we reached the sixth floor.
I was trying to breathe as smoothly as I could, but aware that despite
my efforts to keep my breath from jumping, it was.

Who I was never made it to this side, I said, a laugh in my voice, as
I took off my scarf and linen jacket.

What does that mean? he said, kneeling by the fireplace and playing
with the kindling.

What does what mean? I said.

Who ever you were you never made it to this side.

That I'm not the person I really am. I'm really somebody else. I'm
just a confused construction.

Are you confused about wanting to kiss me?

No, I said.

Then go ahead.

I got up and walked over to him and dropped to my knees beside him and
touched my lips to his tentatively and then I pressed my lips more
deeply against his and our mouths opened slightly. I felt his breath
coming into me and I yielded to it opening my mouth to our mutually
exchanged deep breaths.

Wait a minute, he said, taking himself away from me. I want to finish
making the fire.

But from behind I kissed him on the neck as he continued with his
kindling and got him so excited/frazzled that several times he could
not strike the match on the side of the box so that it lit.


I stared at the screen sometimes, I said, as I was leaning against
him, staring into the blaze he had made in the fireplace  despite my
interference, forgetting whatever I was doing, just staring at the
task bar, waiting for the number one to appear inside a parentheses.

That was stupid.

It was insane.

He smiled, and I did not mind that he just about called me stupid. I
was stupid. I wanted to stop being stupid.

He kissed me like he owned me. I responded like he did and I felt him
unbuttoning my shirt. I blushed when he smiled approvingly at my
smooth, shaved, well defined chest.

It's ok to be proud of that, he said. You worked for it.

I did, I said.

He slapped me gently.

Don't talk unless I tell you to.

I smiled a little funny, like I didn't quite understand. But I did.
Very huskily I whispered Yes, sir.

He unbuckled my belt and took hold of me through the black microfiber
briefs I wear.

I own you now. Do you know that?

I felt he did.

Yes, sir, I said.


I'm always acting, he said.

That does not mean I am faking or that I don't mean what I say. It
means I am realizing myself in a role.

I like your role I said breathily into his ear.

Who told you you could speak? he said.

Necessity, I answered.

He turned and smiled.

Necessity is highly overrated, he said, raising himself on straight
arms pressing the bed on either side of me, as if he were preparing to
do push-ups, locking me with his eyes.

There's something more powerful than necessity. Do you know what it
is? he grinned happily.

You, sir? I said.

It is, he said, acknowledging me by ignoring me, will. In this
particular relationship involving you and me, it is my will. My will
trumps necessity. Do you understand? He said smiling and pressing his
forehead against mine.

Yes, sir.


I did not understand just how serious he was and how dedicated he was
to emptying me out and filling me with him. The anal cleansing rituals
before, and, afterwards, how he would take me plunging and leave his
half-life to disappear in me were only symbolic of a less tangible
process of stripping me down and recreating me.

It is a strange process to undergo, to participate in alienating what
I had come to know as myself and to become what I was being trained to
be by learning to be governed by obedience and submission. The words
became slogans for me that filled my mind with brightness, filling the
spaces where thoughts I no longer even remembered had once bred.

I want these out, he said, pulling on the clamps I had clipped to my
nipples that evening, as I was preparing myself to be attractive to
him.

Do you know why?

I shook my head and remained silent.

Because I determine what you feel, when you feel, how you feel,
whether it's pleasure or pain.

Yes, sir, I said, about to pull the clips off my nipples.

Uh uh, he said slapping my hands with a small silver-handled whip he
picked up from a side table.

You're proud of yourself, he said, twisting one of the clamps rather
than removing it.

That's something new, isn't it? he said smiling.

The pain was searing, and I said nothing.

I asked you something, he said pulling the clamp off with a sudden
surprising movement.

Yes, sir, I said on an in breath.

You think you can take pain? We'll see how much you can tolerate when
I determine when and how much, not you, when it's my teeth biting your
nipples.

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