when I pictured fucking him   Nadyalec


When I pictured fucking him, I saw us in his dojo. Unable to imagine us in my country or in his country or in any country in between, still I could see blue mats on the floor. I could see him throwing me, I could see us looking at each other. I could hear him laughing at me for not being able to fight, for not being able to speak Arabic.

I could see him taking me to the dojo on the night that we were bashed. I'm not clear how we were bashed. I pictured it on Dupont Circle at some horrible dyke bar, I pictured him on stage speaking Arabic, telling them to fuck off that time that they had some belly-dancing white girl doing her harem thing.

I pictured him grabbing the mike.
I pictured me not knowing his gender, seeing the dyke and the boy, and him not knowing about me either.
I pictured him not knowing I was Arab until I told him.
I pictured me not knowing he was a man until he told me.

And then us out late at night in the city, broke and after the Metro shut down, me not having a way to get home.

I picture it back when I was living with my parents in the suburbs, when I was so sad that I cried on the bus on the way to job interviews. I saw a woman coming to us for help after she had been mugged, and I saw him chasing after the mugger. Us walking her home, and then my confession that I had nowhere to go.

Out on the streets in the summer, when everything goes wild.
And him having a key to the dojo.
I imagine blue mats on the floor, his eyes on me and his laughter,
I imagine his rubber dick and his flesh cunt.
I imagine choking myself on him, and his eyes getting big.
I imagine the taste of rubber and under that the taste, the smell of him.
I imagine him throwing me around on the mats, raising bruises, laughing at how easily I bruise.
At how pale I am, how white, and how the bruises come up easily and last for weeks sometimes.

I picture it rough and both our eyes wide, me getting quiet and him teasing me as he hurt me, as he gave me what I wanted.
I imagine choking myself on his dick, and how he would stop laughing then. I look up at him and see his own eyes wide, and for a moment he looks as scared as I feel, and then he smiles. I imagine his teeth on my throat, raising red to my pale, and my own swift ignominious melting.

I imagine him asking me why I'm not packing, where my dick is. How I'm going to fuck him with no dick. All the questions that we asked each other over the phone, on those hours-long international calls, I picture us asking in one night.

I imagine us adversarial, I imagine us angry, I imagine us wanting to get inside each other's skins. I imagine him asking me what kind of a man I am, and me telling him, A faggot, and since you're fucking me, I guess that makes you one too.

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