The Man In The Overcoat 2

The fundamental text of our lives is how we want to die. All life is pointed straight at our death.  Good life, good death, don’t make me laugh, the second just before death our faces show our lives, the corruption and moral repugnance and at that moment clear to all grieving at bedside and at that moment our loved ones turn away unable to cope with the truths they have always known.

At my father’s death I saw all the fear he had for me in my past, present and future life and then he smiled and in that instant I was transported back into his strong arms, arms that served only to protect and never to harm. Arms that held me above his head as we spun in the sunshine, arms that lifted me from the water’s edge and warm tempting baths before bed, arms that had once held my mother.

Do you abuse yourself because nobody else will? Do you sniff, snort, inject, cut, burn and swallow to mask that deep longing, that longing to be abused totally.  I do. All is loss.

All life is loss.

To experience life is to experience loss. Total, that’s it. Loss.

I feel the lure of the line beckoning.

Men.

           Loss.

                         Money

                                                              Sex

                                                                                                                                                                         Come

                                                                                                                                                                  Gone

Hold me.

Hold me.

Hold me like you used too.

Loss.

Bury my loss with a smile and the lowering of my pants as lips close around my hard cock.

And as I spread my legs there’s the usual disappointment that there is no knife being inserted into my ass, just another hungry horny cock. Loss, all is Loss.