Date: Sat, 22 Dec 2007 14:02:24 -0500 From: A. Cheshire Cat Subject: Death by Cyclops Death by Cyclops The love of a son for his father By A.Cheshire Catt Christmas Season 2007 kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com My mother was in real estate. She would negotiate large interstate deals for conglomerations. She was gone on business a lot. She put Wal-Marts in Bird Sanctuaries. She paved parking lots. My mother made lots of money, but it was dirty money. The way my mother would disguise the success of a deal with flattering jargon that didn't actually say anything about the raspberry bushes being ripped out so people may always have America in their backyard. By the time I had pimples my mother was barely around. She tried to make an impression on us. She'd take us out for dinner when she was in town. She'd call us late at night if a flight-connection was delayed. She'd sound upset that she'd missed my brother's graduation, she'd get into arguments with my father defending the extent of her money's influence on all of us. My mother was a beautiful woman though. I remember her at her beaudoir, combing her hair, dabbing perfume on her neck, my father fastening the clasp of the pearl necklace he'd bought her as they got ready to go out. Sometimes I find something of hers around the house. Sometimes I swear I can smell her as if she'd been in the kitchen, snooping in our fridge to make sure we were eating properly, gone in the next second as I entered the room, always too late, never able to see my mother again. My mother went away on a business trip and never came back. My father was a music critic. He worked for a radio station, a classical music station that was of the public-broadcast variety. My father had been in the business of radio since before my brother was born. His study of music, of the Romantic pianists, had been commended by authorities in a time before he'd even met his bride. My father played piano, he read music, he listened to music constantly, there were often peope by for lessons, or sometimes, in the summer we'd have concerts in the garden with lots of people attending. My father's job was different than my mother's in that, it may not have taken him away from the home, or out of town, but it required of him a diligent solitude, a lonely meditation on the subtle depressions of piano keys, it required a devotion like a prison sentence, a passion like a madness. He was a handsome man, and in that dream-memory when he adorns my mother with the pearls he stands over her wearing a suit, his handsome face leans down and kisses my mother's strapless shoulders, his lips are full, his cologne is fresh, his love is real if only just slightly misguided. When my mother left a great silence fell upon the house. My brother was done highschool around that time. He graduated with honors. He looked like my mother. He had blonde hair that, if left to grow long at his shoulders, would curl inward. His eyes had the distinction of being haunted by her family. His chin. Some say the tenacity. Some say the arrogance. Some say the balls. I was only a few years younger than my brother when my mother left that day. I was only then in the middle of highschool. I was doing fairly well. I was slender, and gaunt, I didn't really heed fashion, I didn't really watch a lot of tv. I had my father's coarse hair, like his it was kept buzzed short to the head. I was a bookworm from an early age and by the time I was in highschool I was an abominable loner and was mocked in the halls of my school. I didn't really let that show to my father though. I didn't really show my father much. The day before my mother left they'd argued on the phone while she was out getting groceries for us, she yelled into her cellphone horribly immasculating insults that my father was helpless to defend himself against. That day, that argument, my father sat at the kitchen table and held his head in his hand. He wore a cardigan. I sat in the living room, I was cozy in a large, over-stuffed chair. I was wrapped in a blanket. I was reading a historical reference book about the French Revolution. I distinctly recall reading the horror of King Louis XVI's execution, that as he was led to the scaffold he was offered the chance to state some final words, a powerful moment that put the entire history of France into the nervous mouth, to be shaped by terrorized lips, the words of defeat and of ensuing chaos. I'm not really sure what my mother was saying to my father but my father was silent. I could hear the high-pitched tyrade of my mother coming from the phone in my father's hands. He would mutter "honey" he would stammer sweety, he would brave "but I", but resist "Stop," or "bitch," or "you're hurting me." And I read that as the king spoke the tribunal that determined his fate insisted the drums roll louder, so loudly the people could not hear what in the might have actually stopped them. I believe that in that final conversation, when my father didn't realize I could hear his cowardice, or when I heard this discourse and believed my father was submitting too easily to the ridiculous assault, I believed the king was being drowned out by his own drums, and that whatever he might have said may or may not have been enough to change the sway of events. But she never came home. My father left the room and went into his study. He remained silent. He had not known I heard the whole thing. That night my brother came home from an evening with his girlfriend and my father gathered us in the kitchen and he told us that Mom had gone on a trip. I knew differently. My brother suspected something. My brother seemed to have graduated from more than a certain array of classes and grades, systems and rank ... he seemed to have graduated from the dreamscape that my juvenile mind still perceived as safe and real. He seemed to know things that I didn't. His sarcasm hurt. It hurt father. Immediately my brother said, "You know she's not coming back. She can't stand you. You're lonesome and boring and done ... she's got all the energy, she shouldn't have even thought twice about staying here any longer ... I don't know what I'm doing here either really." Slowly my father got rid of her things. He did this in movements. Sometimes they were a furious presto of emotions, an allegro of decisive purging: her drawers were emptied into garbage bags. My father debated donating the clothes or burning them in a heap in the yard. While he debated these things he'd talk to me like I was a child, like I couldn't understand a word he said, he would be cute while he defamed Mom to me, he would say things like, "Burn her essence in a heap in the yard," as if he were writing some citation on a movement in the Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique. Sometimes these movements were heart-wrenching marche funebre: he'd hold a framed picture of my mother, such as the one that had been over the fireplace in the den, he would hold it and utter phonetic grunts, he would mumble the most pathetic woes, he would woo the celluloid demon with melancholy hanging like a briny dew from his eye lash, falling like acid upon his cheek, sweetly ... hurting. Once I came home from classes to find my father putting all the furniture from my mother's office on the front lawn. It was a triumph, it was liberty. The sun would shine on this kind of action, he would be cleansing his future of the ruined past. He declared the house a place only most classically haunted by the way his life had been, not haunted by the ghost of that woman. And almost as if there were always something greater happening here than a mere seperation of mother from father, suddenly the silence that had fallen over the tomb of that adolescence was to be broken. It was as if the piano in my father's study had been closed, locked even, for a time immeasurable, then suddenly, with the softest "thrumm", the lid was opened and the strings in the grand beast hummed. My father was a hunter poised, with the scent of destiny in his blood: symphonies were waiting to be played, concertos were eager at fingertips, sonatas were begging to be redefined. -- -- -- My brother would sometimes send me letters. He'd ended up being accepted at UCLA and was studying film production. It meant that as soon as he was able he was fulfilling the stereotype of a car filled with the baggage of his youth, heaping with too much useless memorabilia of a life that was gone before he left its place. My brother had never really spoken of my father's reluctance to contact my mother, but it was obvious he kept the pain of the abandonment in his soul because he was suddenly not in a relationship anymore, he was suddenly drinking and smoking, he was suddenly gone. I heard his car slipping away on a morning in early summer when I was moving on from the roughest of my academic years into a year frought with questions without answers. As early cicadas could be heard triumphant from the elms along our avenue the purr of my brother's car sent shivers down my spine and I lay in bed listening to that piece of myself removing itself. My brother and I had been such great friends. I had read that brothers would turn against each other when things like this happened to families, when things like this happened to nations. I would have dreams of facing my brother on a battlefield like the ones choked with sibling corpses in the American Civil War. I would see my shadow in the smoke rising from cannon-fire, I would see the remains of friends, their precious smithereens, and I would wail in bitter defeat, and then my brother would reveal himself, charging at me, bayonet raised to meet my heart. He would not slow down, he would race at me and promise my end for no reason I could control. As his crime came toward me, the gift of his imminent fratricide cofused me. There was nothing I could do to stop him. I was like my father, not because I was but because he'd been most like mother. I felt such despair to think that I was not like anyone else in my family. I would feel the excruciation of the inevitable. I would close my eyes and await my brother's blade in my chest. But every time I would awaken in the middle of the night, I would surrender to the silence of the house my father's lovelessness haunted. I would rise from my bed and wonder what my father was becoming each day in his resistance to reality. I would walk by my brother's room and smell him. I would smell the scent of him from younger days, innocent games played in times that lasted forever. I would walk by the door to my father's room and hear him snoring in a slumber that seemed to mock my insomnia. I would shrivel and weaken as a person as I let my mind stalk shadows down the stairs, hoping to catch a glimpse of that life beyond my reach. And then one day a letter from my brother arrived. I believe the letter was an attempt of my brother to encourage reckless rebellion in me: "Come see," "You'd love," "So much more," "For me," "For you," "Self." But I was burned by his departure. I was hurt by the distance. The temptation was an insult. I rejected the letter kindly at first, I did this boldly in front of my father. The letter had arrived with the daily mail and my father had asked that I read it for our entertainment after we'd eaten the steak and salad he'd have prepared. When the letter reached its pompous conclusion I derided it and hoped my father believed that I was not willing to accept my brother had so easily gone off to find a better life. I refused to believe the ease of glory. My father seemed to disagree with me, but he would never correct me. I seemed always to come up with a response that was less than what my father had wanted to hear. A second letter arrived. In it he'd told me that his school was harder than he'd thought. He told me about having to move into a small place with a couple of people he didn't really like merely to make ends meet. He told me they'd stolen from him. He seemed to weep with the realization that he was defenceless and far from safety. A third letter arrived. This one talked of love. It talked of exams and grocery bills and smoking pot: it talked about electronic music and after-hours clubs. In a poste-script he mentioned a girl. In the fourth letter, received at about Christmas nearly a year after my mother had left, and this letter was an announcement of his intent to marry a girl he'd met at school. This letter seemed to be directed solely at me. As I read it there were mentions of things my father might not know of. I read them nervously, but knowing my father was hanging on every after-dinner statement: an anecdote about a prank pulled on my mother as some sort of cautionary tale of living on the edge, a well written account of the events that had infuriated our father with us for our blatant disrespect for the way our mother works for the embetterment of the family; there was posthumous eulogy for a pet that had died while my mother had been opening the notorious big-box shopping center in "that place" where once lovers of an older time had parked their cars and spawned this generation, the details were a solid reflection of my father's loyalty to his sons and the frustration we felt by our mother's anti-success; and lastly, the story of the time my brother had shown me how to masturbate, his depiction of that night conjured a terrible loneliness in me, I could barely read the words while my father listened. But he listened with that divine ear he lent to the greatest peices of music history had to offer. He listened so closely to the intonation, the inclinations and depressions of vowels and consonants, he listened to the way my body reached to the bravest depths to raise up that ghost from my past, served with the imagination of my brother. That letter ended, "Always remember I love you, Brother." Then there were no letters. It was a season when it seemed maybe the closest my father and I would be getting to normality was at hand, maybe we would survive. My father even arranged a Garden Party and invited concert pianists, and a trio of stringed instruments were brought in, and opera singers and ballet dancers, patrons, vagabonds of the art world, avante-garde poets, investors and artists celebrating recent awards. He hired caterers. He had someone in to arrange the gardens and to have the house readied for the scrutiny of my father's peers. He'd declared it a fundraiser and the date was set. And just as the summer season was beginning and I was finishing that next year of my high school, and I was preparing to enter my final year, and a year since my brother left, two since Mom had left, a great gaggle of drama-mongers paraded onto the manicured lawns of the house my father haunted. It was that day, a Saturday, that I'd found that last letter from my brother. It had been opened and read almost a week before. This time it had been read without me and I hated my father for taking this situation into his own hands. These were my letters, they were addressed to me, my own brother had poured his heart out over these shabby lined pages, scrawling with a simply Bic Pen the thread that might lead out of the labrynth. I took the letter to my room and read it while I heard something like a Chopin etude climbing up the back lattice like the resurging ivy. But I started and suffered the same result of my father, surely. The words were cold. They were the most remote of topics, my brother had the audacity to talk about the weather, he talked about a job that he had, the comfortable life he was living with his wife. He mentioned a dinner party he'd attended where it was mentioned that our mother was the mistress of a producer. My brother had followed the lead and pursued the resolve of that maternal abandonment, and he had been accepted by their mother in the kind of house that Hollywood builds monsters. Their mother was a glamorous woman now, she had abandoned the practise of paving paradises and wanted for nothing, she promised her eldest son a sense of comfort that he might never have known otherwise. At the conclusion of the letter my brother moaned that he missed this house where I remained, this house stained with their smell, but that he was moving on now ... Suddenly the ship that had been moving stealthily down the stream veered, dared to turn, the ship that chartered the father and young son into oblivion was torn from that easy flow and was borne against the current, back, ever on toward something they'd missed. -- -- -- Several weeks later we were suffering in the thrall of a brutal heatwave. There had been black-outs across the country, too many people left their air-conditioners on all the time and eventually the country burned itself out. Everyone everywhere was hotter than hell. I remained at home most of the summer. I did not visit relatives as some in my class might have during the summer, there were no trips abroad, there was no investment in summer classes. My father had not ruled out that I might be smarter than I realized and insisted, was persistent, that I stay home during the summer months, take care of the house while he worked and he would get me all the books I wanted. The occassional summer evening would be decorated with the luxury of a concert that my father was to review, or sometimes he would take me with him to neighborning cities for their summer chamber music festivals outside. Unbeknownst to him my innundation in this music subject was making me more an apprentice to his skill in detecting sound-quality. Father and son were soon a popular pair arriving gallantly at these festivals like some travelling aristocrat, or so I liked to feel at the time. He had seats reserved for him and I and we would sit sometimes to close to the musician that his anxiety could be heard in the hesitations and anticipations of notes, melodies, recurring themes. But it was at home that something else happened. It was insufferably hot. We weren't even hungry we were so uncomfortably stifled. The central air system had went off with the rest of the electricity and there was nothing for us to do. By the middle of the evening, as the slow sun's descent braced a city for absolute darkness as it is rendered in a city without streetlights, stores without neon signs, bars without music. The afternoon had been as normal till that moment the lights went out. My father and I had made of my mother's former-office (which had been substantially larger, though more sparsely furnished, than my father's old study -- with it's wedged-in grand piano) a room that was fantastic in its lay out. There'd been some renovations done and now the ground-level room faced south-west toward a river that carried a cool breeze, the two side walls had been knocked out with pedestals installed to act as supports and a set of French Doors had been set in the back wall for a grand entrance to the back yard. We had become accustomed to Centrail Air but to be honest, with the windows open and the shades slightly drawn, the garrish ground-level room was delicately ventilated, smelled of the sun-crisp lawn, the last of the irises wiliting and perfuming the air with their tender wafts. My father had suggested that we rent a movie that night. Seemed like a nice idea. Then the power had gone out. We resolved to eat the leftovers in the fridge. We thought we'd maybe play a silly boardgame that had collected dust in a closet for decades, though the game was always there for them to play the game had always seemed to have actually been about the not-playing it. As we teased each other, threatening the other that we'd go get it if we didn't think of anything else to do, we started to laugh and suddenly I was darting off through the house and my father was chasing me and telling me to not touch the boardgame's dusty box, "There are peices missing, there's no dice, we can't play." I mounted the steps to the second floor but my father had reached me and, grabbing my feet, tripped me and I landed on my belly on the step. And he tickled me and I squirmed and he lay on top of me and I made a funny sound as he compressed me under his weight. "Get off, get off ... Daddy, okay. Really. I won't. I swear." "Okay, okay." The humidity in the house was at such an intense level that our shirts were soaked instantly by work involved with the chase. He lifted himself off me and I made sounds like the feel of his sweat was quite gross. He towered over me at the stairs and I rolled over and my shirt had ridden up and he was starting to stare at my belly. I pulled my shirt down. He didn't say anything. He went back to the Main Room. "Play the piano Daddy." "I don't know sweety, it's so hot, I'm tired." "Play something exciting. Play ..." "I know." And he raced to the piano and started pounding out something frantic, of a Profokiev-nature. It hurt my ears and I laughed and laughed and told him to stop, begged him. I went right up to the piano and played that it was the most terrible thing for him to be playing this. He watched me out of the corner of his eye. He waited for it ... waited for it, then he pounced at me and me wrestled me to the floor. My father had never done anything like this before. He was testing me and I struggled to get myself out of his hold but he was stronger than I was, I wanted to be as strong as him and I pushed at his arms to release me but he only laughed and told me that I was weak, scrawny, that I was like a girl. "Hey, no sense in being mean." He sat up and crossed his legs and I lay where he'd released me. I put my head on one hand and rested on my elbow. I was laying on the floor and my father was right next to me. My brother had been like this too once. It was as if he was calculating. It was something in his eyes that made me calm and receptive to his persuasion. He reached out and touched my hip. I watched his hand smoothly run along the cloth of my shorts and then fumble at the hem. Then his fingers touched the fuzzy hair there and it excited me all the way to my toes. "Dad." I managed to say. Sort of reminding him that he was touching his son, but it was like he didn't hear me and he dared to touch me even more. His whole hand flattened against my leg. He was completely silent. He lifted his hand then and stood and retreated from the room. I lay there for a second. I was hard. I hadn't really realized it till now. Maybe he was too. I got up and went out of the room to find him. "Dad it's alright." I called out to a house that sagged under the oppressive heat. I went up the stairs then and found him in his room. He was sitting on the side of the bed and I walked up to him and stood in front of him. I didn't really know what it was that he was afraid of but his stillness was a portrayal of a man conflicted with desire. Desire! Such a word. It wasn't desire, it was desperation. He took my hand and pulled me closer and I stood between his legs. A father is an impressive beast. His lips are might when they pout, full and pink and warm-seeming. His legs are massive, they hold up this monument of the future, the past. I was paralyzed and he led me to believe he was doing the right thing by doing nothing more but bringing my hand to his thigh, it was so hot to my touch. I melted him. I could see the way his eyes rolled around his head. He rubbed the palm of my hand on his leg. He squeezed his legs around me and I felt so safe there. "I want to kiss you son." "Kiss me Daddy." He leaned over slightly and I felt his hot breath on my cheek. He kissed my cheek and cracked the seal of this rapture. I felt a great tingling all over my body and a loneliness seeped from me, disipated in the large airy room. His hand wrapped around my body and brought me in, his lips met mine and I was helpless to this. His lips moved around my face. I let his lips move around my face. His tongue entered my mouth and I was swooning with the feel of what this must be like for people older than myself. He pulled me up, I was weightless for him. He gripped me in a hug and panted along the side of my face, this hug was something he had lost and now found. This was his desire. Suddenly we were laying on the bed and his weight was on me. I squirmed, he was heavy. He loved the feel of my body resisting, he fed on my neck, his mouth encompassed the warm flesh of my shoulder. I was vibrating nervously with this terrain that he took me onto, the terra nova was tangling around my feet and the air of this new place pumped into my chest and my nipples pushed outward by the vitality. Suddenly I felt his heart pounding against my body. I felt the buttons of his shirt on my skin. My hands reached and fumbled and his grip on me was relentless. "No. Don't." He sensed my willingness to undress him. He did not want me to do this. He pulled back and lay there and looked at me. And then unable to resist for even a single breath and scooped my navel in his mouth and licked it and poked his tongue and it tickled and I giggled and this reminded him how young I was. Then his mouth went down and deeper and the elastic waist of my shorts was lowered and my spring-loaded cock bounced and probed the air as if it had been waiting to be received by his mouth and he took it in and held it, all five inches of it, smooth and boy-like, in his mouth and he tasted the innocent juices that seeped from the tip of it. I wanted to be held by his warmth. I begged him, "Please Daddy." "You don't even know what you ask." "I want your happiness Daddy. I want you do with me what you want." He suddenly erupted. He stood tall like the monstrous plume of a volcano, full of some rage that was not violent against me, but violent from the core of the earth itself. He tore his shirt from his flesh, he pulled his belt from his pants, and then loosening the pants he was then falling down upon me and I was weak and scrawny and effeminate in my fickle attempts to be out from him. He pulled me in and under and I was intoxicated by the warmth and then the heat of his breath against my body. He was devouring me into him. I was tickled and I was scared. I was gasping and writhing. I was being mummified by his noxious toxicity. His hands were big and dark along the sides of my body. His pants were loosened and I could see the white of his underwear. I could see it when he stood then, upon his knees and he lowered his pants and then his underwear, it was the eye of the Titan, it was the cyclops before me. I was mesmerized. The Greeks lived peacefully in the Valley of Titan, they were waiting patiently their whole lives to be devoured by the Cyclops. His underwear was under the descended balls. I saw them sway and swell. The dark hairs around them were exciting. He was presenting himself to me, he was spreading his shoulders apart primatively, his chest was enormous, his upper arms were strong from playing the piano. He growled. I giggled like Faye Wray when Kong had succeeded in seducing her. I was unsure of what to do. He pulled the shorts down my pale legs. He was different now, it was something about his face, it was redder, fuller, this difference was changing everything about him. He was revealing the satyr in his blood, he was tearing at my with his eyes, I was a nymph without the ability to suddenly flee to the shape of a tree. I was awaited his command. He grabbed my hand and pulled me sharply till I sat, knealt before him. He cupped my head in his hands and he brought me up to his face by my head, it hurt and my legs were not bending right that I could support my own weight. I was helpless. I put my hands on his arms, he kissed me hard, he could have killled me. Then he pressed my face along his neck and my mouth gaped and saliva ran out and all over his body and finally, lower, lower, lower and I was presented before the beast and he told "Suck it boy" and it was so big that I gulped and he put it in my mouth and I held its head in my mouth and he forced it in more. I choked but he was relentless. He fought to have it in deeper. I bit down by accident. He threw me back. Suddenly I wanted it in my mouth. The shape of his enormous eight inch cock had started to fill a need in the design of my body. I opened my mouth and he straddled my upper body and he lowered his cock to my mouth, I fumbled with my lips to take in the balls and I tasted his manliness then, his musk. He pointed the cock at my throat and grabbed my head to allow the cock to enter. I took it in and my eyes bulged. I couldn't breathe. My nostrils flared. He wasn't looking, his eyes were at the ceiling. I gagged. He drove the cock in more. He pummeled my face bouncing on the bed relentlessly. I kicked with my legs. I grabbed at his butt with my hands. I turned my face and gasped for air. His cock was coated with my saliva. "Oh that felt so good son, you're feeling great." It wasn't a question. He commanded greatness from me. I started to feel like I was being used for something that was going a bit beyond my control. He put a pillow under my head and this time arranged my head that I could suckle more gently the ferocious demon cock before me. He patted the side of my head as I sucked on his cock. His hips gyrated and he allowed himself this domination over my control. His legs held my arms in tight to body. My belly was sweating from the heat generated by his ass. I looked up at him and he stroked the side of my face and he breathed heavily. I smiled with the oozing cock pressed hot against my lips. He was relentless though. When I smiled he pushed his cock in again. I enjoyed it all so much. He looked like my brother. He touched me like my mother. He was a lover. He was a god. He was the force of the summer heat. Out bodies were welded together. The house watched us. The whole history of our family sparked and ignited and burned ferociously in the forcing of his cock down my throat. He pulled out and suddenly lay next to me. "I want to put my cum in your ass." He panted. I was moved by the liberation of my body from his grip. "It will hurt at first child but then you'll want it. I will give it to you." "I want it Daddy. I want your love all over me and inside me." He turned my body like one turns the pages of a thrilling epic, furiously, determined to find the end of the hero. He pressed his hairy belly into the smooth curve of my little back and he said that it would hurt again. I didn't hear him though, I refused to let his threats to push me away. I wanted him and he sensed it. My mouth was open still wanting his cock. I felt the seering pain already, the stinging heat of his member pressing at my hole. It was as if I had never felt this before, never known it was there to feel this way. He pushed and it stung like the opening of a soul. I cried out and wriggled, I was reluctant to the dismay of my own senses. "Do it Dad, don't stop." He pushed again and grunted and I fought as little as I could. He held my arm still. He sat up then, and he told me to get on my fours. I obeyed and my ass rose in the air and the gape of my buttocks was an offering to this god of my being. I was swaying with emotions. He spit on my ass and then he massaged that spit into the hole there. I squealed when he pushed his finger in. He told me to breathe. To relax. Then he pushed his cock in. Then he held my body still and I moaned and cried and lowered my head. He pushed onward. He roared. I wished I could see him. I turned my head and out of the corner of my eye I saw him easing his way into my body. His eyes were measuring. He was mad with this. I was stretching. I was tearing, I swear, I felt that he might tear me in two. I had tears streaming off my face onto the pillow but I did not let him sense that I was in agony. I allowed him this ownership of me. It seemed that I would not be able to do this. I cried out. "Stop!" "No, it's alright, we're in." I sprung up, wearing him, him wearing me. We were as one then, locked. He told me to breathe. To relax. I was pouring sweat. The house was watching again. I felt as though the world outside had caught fire and was burning with apocalpytic fury just beyond the clean glass of the windows, just beyond the easy breath of the curtains. I was chugged and heaved by his fucking then. It felt so good. I put my hands upon his at my side and felt the force, up down up down, and I felt him pulling in and out of me. I felt tingling all throughout my lower body, he was arranging a place for himself inside me, he was playing me like the men play cellos, their whole body grabbing at the instrument, caressing the instrument, pulling it in, their legs kicking, his breath was beside my face, he was licking at my lobes, our bodies were red with the fever of this. I could hear it then, the great music of our love for each other and I knew that this was supposed to be happening. "I love you," I said. "Ssshh, ssshh." He told me. As if that were something that I was not supposed to say. As if I were crying with pain and he consoled me. As if he misunderstood. Or I misunderstood. I was sweating. I was hot. He fucked me slowly on his lap. I was loosened now. I was comfortable. He pressed my face down and raised my ass up to his crotch and he drove himself in deeply, I cried out. It hurt. "I love it, it feels so good," he said. "Ow, Daddy, ow," I said. "Oh please let me, it feels so good, I've been wanting this all along." All along? Like ALL all along? He pulled out. I farted. I apologized. He hushed me again. An apology was something like the confession. I was beginning to understand. I was entering a forest. I was brought before a labrynth and he was there and he was the walls and the confusion and I was merely a traveller in the corridors. I was uncertain of my destiny then but I was fulfilled with the promise of a journey. He lay me upon my back and then he entered me again. This time I could see his face. He looked like my brother. He was aging. He was un-aging. I was scared of what I must seem to him. My cheeks were ruddy-red, my hair was wet and standing up. I was reached up and touched the side of his rough-hewn face. I had been crying, tears stained my cheeks. As he pushed himself inside me he kissed my stained cheeks and said sweet things at me. Just sounds. Not words. He pushed and pushed and faster and faster and I squeezed my bum around the length of his shaft and then suddenly he blurted out that he was going to cum and he jolted and shook and poured himself into me and then collapsed, trembling atop me, upon me, and he was hot to touch and he was a fire engulfing me. I was an ember in the hearth of our lust. I was filled with his seed. He pulled out and I gasped. He put his hand at my bum-hole and he told me to hold his cum inside me. I loved that I was doing this for him. With his free hand he jerked my wee penis and quickly and jerked and jolted and as if thunder rang in my ears I came, shot after shot, and it spread all over my body and I was amazed as I had never cum before. He kissed the syrup off my belly and with his lips wet with it he kissed my lips and then we lay there undisturbed. And then we fell asleep and awakened to dream: a dream life. -- -- -- Never again were we victims of the letters from my brother. We lay in bed together undisturbed by any concerns. We had parties and people would say that we were too close for father and son but we wanted this and we shucked these accusations with signs of relief for having finally combatted the demons my mother had cursed us with. When the time came for me to graduate we had arrived at our highest point. I was eager to please him constantly and we left town together to begin a life in a new city that was as thrilling as that of young lovers on a honeymoon. Officially we were father and son, nothing could break this bind we had. Nothing could shatter the purity of our relationship, of our blood. When he fucked me it was hard and lovingly, I was giving to him the beautiful love that he wanted always. We never spoke of my mother again. My brother stopped writing and we lived as if that part of our history were lost to the ages, as if that library had burned to the ground and the volumes of agony and defeat were lost. And we were devoured by the Cyclops, our love was the oblivion of the bohemith jaws.