Give Satisfaction

I certainly wouldn’t say I’m proud of it. But I’m not ashamed, either. At the end of the day, I really don’t see how I can be judged too harshly for it. Anyone in my position would do the same thing, trust me.

Oh, you disagree? Tell me, then—what would you do if you were me? What would you do if, despite years and years of trying to change something that’s as fundamental to who you are as your height or your eye color, you still couldn’t go a single day without an illicit thought crossing your mind? What if you were told that your urges, which never hurt anyone, which only brought pleasure to yourself and a few others on occasion, were immoral and sinful? What if you were exactly who you already are, but also an invert in an age where that sort of conduct is strictly prohibited by law?

I think I know. I think you would find yourself returning to St. James’s Park. To Lincoln’s Inn. To Smithfield. You’d find yourself strolling along Hampstead Heath, chatting with the strangers there. You’d find yourself in your usual spot on Clapham Common, introducing yourself with your usual fake name.

You’d find yourself with a towel wrapped tightly around your waist, too petrified to even glance at the fellow on the far end of the bench; instead you’d lock eyes with his reflection in the pool, barely visible through the shimmering steam that pervades the bathhouse and constitutes its hazy atmosphere.

You’d find yourself pausing as you reach the end of the long bookshelf filled with unspeakable titles, looking over your shoulder to see if anyone is watching you, and pushing aside the dingy curtain to enter the small unmarked booth.

Inside the booth, you’d find a partition, flimsily-built but over six feet tall, with crude graffiti drawn and carved into it, a few faded photos of naked men and women tacked onto it. Your stomach would lurch as you noticed the circular holes cut at about hip height. You would feel at once repulsed and, despite your better judgment and taste, enticed. You’d feel suffused with fear and you’d wonder whether it’s the kind of fear you’d be smart to heed, the kind you’d be foolish to ignore, or the kind you’d be brave to overcome.

You’d see a few dark figures lurking among the shadows. You’d hear soft sounds emanating from the other side of the partition: shifting, shuffling, whispers, moans, lapping, slurping. Tentatively, you’d approach, keeping your gaze downcast, tilting the brim of your hat to hide your eyes.

You’d risk a sideways glance at the figures next to you, standing oddly close to the wall, eyes trained downward at the spot where their bodies touch the partition. Closer than touch it—disappear inside it. Gulping down your apprehension, you’d undo your trouser fastenings with trembling hands. You’d feel disconnected from reality, like you’re in a surreal dream, as you begin coaxing your already nascent arousal to a serviceable state.

Soon, you’d pause, uncertain, staring at the hole and feeling the abyss gaze back into you. “Er…hallo?” you’d murmur. A quiet chuckle from the shadowy figure standing a few feet to your left. You’d flush with embarrassment, doused suddenly in shame, and decide to scrap this whole ridiculous scheme, to button up and turn and run out of here as fast as—

“Hi.” A low voice rumbling out of the hole, so quiet you’re not sure you didn’t hallucinate it.

You’d let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Would you…do you want…?”

“Yes.”

A voice so faint that barely any qualities are discernible, but against all reason, something about it would make you trust the speaker nonetheless. Probably just self-delusion, but you’d take whatever encouragement you can get.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” it would mutter again.

You’d say a quick prayer to a deity you don’t believe in and wouldn’t expect sympathy from even if you did, and ease your way into the hole.

Disorienting. Bizarre. Your rigid length, all by itself, alone on the other side of the wall, would feel detached from your body, and at the same time, also like the most keenly sensate part of your body. Like it had disappeared and yet like it had never been more present.

The disembodied voice would soon materialize a hand, then eventually, a mouth. The hesitant touch would make you suspect this might be the rumbling voice’s first time trying this, too. Well, not all of this—just the anonymity part. The gripping, stroking, kissing, licking, sucking part, that wouldn’t feel like the experimental fumblings of a first-timer. In fact, you would wonder if this was indeed the most skillful treatment of this sort that you’d ever experienced, or if it only felt that way because the pleasure was artificially heightened by the unusual circumstances.

Whatever the reason, you’d be panting before long, choking back groans and growls, as the blissful sensation steeped through your skin and into your blood, your very bones. Your eyes would squeeze shut, blocking out the uninspiring sight of the wall two inches in front of you. The unseen tongue would lave you with enthusiastic ardor, up and down, drawing you in and out, until you could feel the excess wetness dripping off you, down to the floor. If your hips snapped involuntarily, you’d feel the scrape of teeth; if you slowed and controlled your thrusts, you’d feel only the taut lips, the slick tongue, and the soft palate. Ecstasy would fill you as you filled the throat, which would constrict you tighter and allow you in deeper, further and further down as you proved your trustworthiness.

All the while, you’d wonder about whose trust you’re earning. His name, his age, his appearance, what his personality was like, what kind of life he led. You’d know what you hoped those answers were, but what were the odds he was anything close? The fact that you didn’t even know, that you’d never know, was simultaneously horrifying and hugely relieving. You were dehumanizing this man, treating him like an inanimate object for your own use; but then again, how could you be doing that when he was doing the very same to you? Somehow it would seem to make sense that if the objectification was mutual, then it couldn’t be happening at all. It would seem more like mutual respect.

You would sense your peak coming in the near distance and feel satisfied in your utter faith that the source of your pleasure wouldn’t let you down, wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t even slow. You’d pass the point of no return and give a wordless cry of warning just before the first surge of elation rocked you. Hoping to memorize the moment, you’d note every detail of your body tensing, your muscles contracting almost painfully, pumping down into that tight, wet, anonymous void. For a flash, you’d wish you had a name to call or hair to tangle your fingers in, or the assurance that you could feel this, exactly this, again someday. Then you’d remember the reasoning behind the contract you had implicitly signed and instead thrust impassioned, bitter fists against the wall.

That hot, sweet suction would vanish every last trace of the evidence; you’d pull back out of the mouth, out of the hole, and find not a drop to speak to what had occurred. With a shudder-sigh, you’d lean your forehead against the partition, never minding who else had done the same before, maybe even earlier that same night. You’d open your eyes for the first time in quite a while and tuck away your spent member. You’d hear a soft grunt as the man on the other side of the wall rose from down on his knees up to his feet.

The voice would float over the barrier, coming from about the same height as yours. “Call me Stephen.”

You’d take a mental inventory of all the Stephens you know, analyzing the few details you have of this one, but coming up with no matches. “Hugh,” you’d lie with practiced ease, just like you say every time on Clapham.

“Pleased to meet you, Hugh,” he’d say, and you would laugh as his hand would extend through the hole and wait there politely, expectantly.

You’d take it and shake it. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

The hand would withdraw and just like that, he’d be gone. You’d take a quick peek behind the partition, but a man with a voice completely unlike Stephen’s would curse at you until you left, tossing a hasty apology over your shoulder as you retreated. Dazed, you’d wander out into the cool night and meander your way home, deep in thought.

So, that’s it. That’s what you’d do if you were me in this situation. But you’re not, so don’t try to judge me. Don’t think you’d do it differently. Don’t think you understand. And when I tell you that I arrived home and requested a restorative drink from my valet, and when he delivered it to me, my eyes alighted upon his hand, suddenly identifying its unique familiarity, suddenly seeing it and him in an entirely new, unbelievable light…don’t try to tell me you’d cry out in recognition, admit the truth, and confront him straight away. You don’t know how impossible it is for me to bring myself to do so, as much as I deeply desire it!