I Love You

Raskolnikov was tormented by dreams and thoughts of a sometimes diabolical, oftentimes abnormal, nature. “The disordered soul is its own hell.” He once learned of this quote from someone who probably considered Raskolnikov to be “disordered” and “odd,” yet he couldn’t remember from whom the quote originated.

In a dream he remembered from early childhood, he was in a sandbox with other children, and it almost felt like they were waiting for something. It wasn’t long until he felt the impending occlusion of a narrow suffocating tunnel. Later on, as his awareness and consciousness developed, Raskolnikov considered this dream to be a symbolic memory fragment of his birth.

In the distance, the outline of the mountains gradually became indistinguishable from the darkening sky. Faint infinitesimal stars, just now emerging, could not hope to compete with the lurid yellows, whites, and corals of the city lights. The land, seemingly dwarfed by mountains and skyscrapers, was imposing in its majestic vastness. Even the wind, usually uniform in purpose and direction, gave in to counterphobic excess, with gusts that relinquished almost all adherence to established patterns.

“Children’s, women’s, men’s, teenager’s bodies torn apart like horrific cubist paintings…. Drones, cluster bombs, death machines, pain machines, torture, dismemberment, bodies torn and shredded apart into unrecognizable pieces…. Yemen, Pakistan, Somalia…. And what about Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya...? How many civilian casualties and failed states were the all-too-easily-overlooked byproducts of those pious wars and righteous acts of purification?” All these thoughts flashed through Raskolnikov’s mind as he walked towards the gay bar for the first time. He had heard numerous sordid rumours about this place. The owner of the bar had anally raped a teenage boy. Since the owner had a good lawyer he was able to get away with it. Sometimes there were orgies in the bar, supposedly on the second floor.

Raskolnikov felt as if the wind were pushing him towards the bar, and as he got closer he could hear the uncanny creaking of a mechanical billboard, in which ads he perceived as depicting a ridiculous eroticism were crudely transmuted into one another.

The closer he got to the bar, the greater his sense of unease and anxiety increased, and he had to stop for a few moments. “Am I really ready for this?” he thought to himself.

Two guys who had been smoking marijuana in the alley entered the bar, and Raskolnikov followed them inside. All of a sudden his ears were assaulted by a high-pitched screeching. It was some creepy queen singing karaoke. “What a travesty,” he thought to himself. He actually liked this song, but the karaoke version that was being performed was god-awful.

Raskolnikov walked to the bartender and ordered a caffeine-free root beer. Then he sat down at a table by himself to drink his root beer as the music was gradually eclipsed by a conversation between two men nearby.

“I’ve given up on women--I’m going completely to men now.”

“Joe, no one wants to hear the story of how the first person you had sex with was a woman, and how she cheated on you with some abusive asshole and ended up dumping you to be with him, to marry him, and have children and everything. You know, the American dream.”

“Yeah, I guess the gay anal porn I showed her once ruined everything. Don’t worry, she wasn’t the only woman I ever had sex with. But now that I’m a 'big boy' I realize that sex with men is a lot more exciting. But I don’t want to live a lifestyle. I just want a life.”

“So how are your accounting courses going?”

“What can I say? I’m a mathemagician, man. . . . Machiavelli said, ‘There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.’ America and the West are fighting to preserve our liberal values, our way of life. We have poppers and marijuana, we can fuck who we want to. Women aren’t expected to cover themselves. Men can take it up the ass and not feel any shame in it. We have a true democracy, and perhaps one day we’ll even have democratic socialism. Is killing some Muslims in the Middle East, Lebanon, Iran, Palestine, Pakistan, and Afghanistan so wrong if it’s the only way to keep our way of life from being eradicated?”

“You know, I wasn’t expecting that digression, but I wholeheartedly agree. I recently heard about some superficially-educated bozo, a real self-absorbed dick, who’s preaching that gay anal is the source of all evil. He went on and on--‘I’m a masculine gay man--my anus is intact.’ Heh heh, who gives a fuck? Doesn’t he know how much pleasure men can experience by being fucked. There are so many exquisite nerve endings, and the pressure against the prostate can drive any man insane. I always masturbate with my dildo.”

All these specious assertions and hubristic convictions. Can they really be so sure of themselves when all sensible people secretly or openly doubt them? Or at least fear this ‘anal fixation’ at any rate.

Raskolnikov was scandalized by these pseudo-women and wretched polluted subhumans. In his eyes, the eroticization and invasion of the anus transformed these brothers into queers, retards, and idiots. Borderline misandrists, they were not even human beings.

In fact, Raskolnikov himself had same-sex experiences, and they were always with men he loved as brothers, with a passionate, heroic, phallic love. He would never consider anally penetrating anyone, let alone his male friend. The Eros he experienced with men, in addition to the Eros he experienced with women, was always genital-genital. He wasn’t painfully writhing around in a diseased, stagnant, and filthy pool like these infidels. He was all man. At least that’s how he saw himself.

Joe gleefully continued his solemn sermon: “Just yesterday I told this Russian immigrant in my accounting program that she’s got to get rid of her accent. She had the audacity to tell me that she doesn’t have an accent. I told her, ‘Yeah, you do.’ Then she said, ‘But it’s charming.’ I said, ‘No, it’s not.’”

Raskolnikov despised these pitiful creatures. That’s how he saw them. The West feigned tolerance or false, political, and condescending charity and forbearance towards these catamites/sodomites, effeminates, and travesties. They claimed to honor diversity, but that’s not what he felt here.

The bar’s owner, the one who had been accused of rape, was bullying some young guy who was sitting on a sofa. The owner demanded to see ID in a rather unceremonious, rude, and brusque manner. “We don’t allow this!” the owner berated the hapless young man, referring to the stainless-steel bottle he happened to have in his possession.

The young man--feeling insulted, offended, and humiliated--justified himself, explaining, “It’s just water,” as he reached for his wallet in order to show his ID. Apparently it was also his turn to sing a song for karaoke, and he angrily stood up, walked to the bartender, and forcefully and shakily set the opened bottle and the ID down on the counter as he repeated, “It’s just water.”

He then proceeded to sing a song--alternative chick music of some sort, and in a minor key no less. Almost immediately, the bartender could be heard complaining about the dramatic behavior of this “hypersensitive asshole.”

The rigid subservience to propriety and societal conventions and norms of behavior can justify all forms of cruelty, mean-spiritedness, hypocrisy, sadism, and prejudice while also conveniently serving to condemn and oppress powerless, insulted, and victimized minorities, especially if any of these minorities happen to possess some pride, talent, and intelligence--in other words a mind of their own. Raskolnikov’s suppressed and oppressive feelings of indignation often took the form of this line of thinking.

Suddenly, a handsome young man sat down at Raskolnikov’s table. “Hi, I’m Sonny. You’re Russian, right?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“A lucky guess. You look Russian. Are you an immigrant?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You still have an accent.”

From the corner of his eye, Raskolnikov could see the bar’s owner heading towards the washroom. The owner, Frank, was mired and immured in his usual web-of-Maya bullshit.

Even without placing his hand underneath it, the automatic dispenser eagerly spurted out white liquid soap like semen. It quickly slid down the sink towards the drain. Wasn’t gay male life as savagely--splendidly, fabulously--organized and comfortingly predictable as these motion-activated liquid soap dispensers? Erect phalluses in warm, cavernous mouths and butts. And all, in Frank’s opinion, erogenously straighter than Valhalla, imbued with an unadulterated gravitas and savagery that made him both hard as a rock and cold as ice. He recalled the teenage boy who bled anally because of him, the one who suffered a torn rectum.

But Frank had no regrets. He’d do it again if he had half the chance. But of course, he didn’t want to risk ending up in jail. No one but him could protect his anus from assault, and he would never allow himself to be vulnerable the way his victims were. Surely, in his childhood, someone taught him through heinous and abusive acts to be like this, even if the memories of those experiences were completely repressed, the only vestige being his own heinous, unconscionable, and brutal actions.

...

“Today is my birthday.” The words barely escaped from Raskolnikov’s lips when an earth-shattering explosion shook the building. Panic spread like wildfire. The bartender was the first to run out of the bar, and many followed suit. Raskolnikov was visibly shaken; and feeling unsteady, he grabbed Sonny’s arm for support. Together they walked outside the bar.

As if roused from a blissful and perpetual slumber, the neighborhood slowly emptied itself out onto the streets like anguished zombies slouching towards the gay bar. From the distance, incandescent sirens could be heard lighting up the nocturnal air with dissonant and demonic wails.

Still in shock, Raskolnikov and Sonny somehow seemed unaware of the fact that they were holding hands, and from an outside perspective would have even appeared to be intimate bonded lovers instead of strangers. Yet among the growing crowd gathered around the bar, not one soul reflected on such a remarkable spectacle. The partially gutted bar and incipient inferno eclipsed any other distractions. Everyone instinctively walked away from the gay bar as firetrucks and police cars arrived on the scene.

After the police briefly questioned everyone who was in or near the bar at the time of the explosion and might have noticed something suspicious, Sonny approached Raskolnikov and offered him a rectangular piece of paper. “If you ever need to call me, here’s my number.” Raskolnikov was silent and both of them departed on their separate paths home.

...

Although Raskolnikov never believed he would feel the need or desire to, a few days later he found himself picking up the phone and anxiously dialing Sonny’s number. About a minute into their casual conversation, Raskolnikov hesitantly imposed his vision of where their first informal date should take place. “I’d like us to meet at Dolphin’s Bay. Do you know where that is?”

Sonny could barely contain his enthusiasm. “Yes,” he answered. “When?”

“How about we meet in an hour, at the gazebo.”

“Sure.”

“See you there.” Raskolnikov also felt ecstatic, although he wasn’t really sure why. He reasoned that he only found Sonny alluring because he was cute and seemed compassionate. Yet Raskolnikov was skeptical that anything substantial could come out of this date. “Isn’t this Sonny like most of the other gay guys?” he thought to himself. “Why am I deluding myself into thinking he could be different?”

The sun shone with the intensity of a vernal and primeval blaze. Raskolnikov took the bus and arrived at the gazebo at Dolphin’s Bay before Sonny.

Raskolnikov wanted to sit down, but an apparently schizophrenic man was sitting in the gazebo while he seemed to be decrying the world and mankind in strident tones, warning of God’s punishment. The cherished equanimity Raskolnikov was rarely able to attain was only mildly disturbed by the discordant spectacle of this conspicuous madman. He was both relieved and a bit nervous when he finally saw Sonny approaching him.

“I hope I’m not late. Traffic was a bitch.” Sonny was endearingly apologetic.

“It’s okay. I think I was too early. Let’s walk over there,” Raskolnikov pointed to the bright sandy beach.

“Are you afraid of that guy?”

“No.”

“Don’t worry. He’s harmless. I’ve seen him before. I tried to talk to him once, but he didn’t say anything to me. Sometimes I wish I could help him.”

“I think you are too kind. Don’t put yourself at risk.”

“Don’t worry. I can defend myself if the need arises.”

“So what happened with the bar and everything? It burned to the ground, right?”

“Yes. But that’s nothing compared to what happened to Frank, the owner. They found pieces of his body scattered all over the area where the men’s washroom had been. I don’t know if I should be telling you this. . . . They even found Frank’s dismembered genitals.”

That man surely had a lot of sins. Serves him right. Raskolnikov looked down at the sand and slowly lifted his eyes to the horizon.

“Are you okay? I hope I didn’t freak you out or something?”

“It’s okay. I’m old enough to know that the world is a scary place. Shit happens.”

An awkward silence ensued, which was finally broken by Sonny throwing caution to the wind: “There’s something I need to tell you, and I hope you won’t think I’m crazy. I think I have a crush on you, even though I barely know you. You seem different. Maybe this is too much information, but I’m sick and tired of all the gay guys who only care about sex and fucking and pretty much nothing else. I don’t know if you’re what I’ve always been looking for, but I hope you are.”

Sonny’s words elicited in Raskolnikov the feeling of a beatific mosaic of profound admiration, pleasant surprise, and euphoria, and holding Sonny’s hand almost all the way, they wasted no time in getting to Sonny’s apartment.

....

Raskolnikov aligned his hard rod of love against Sonny’s erect phallus, and they both started to passionately rub, thrust, and grind their manhoods against one another. Neither of them ever felt this much joy and pleasure in their lives. Their rods fit perfectly together, and they seldom had to realign them.

Their lovemaking lasted at least two hours, and only once did they have to pause to apply some coconut oil to their penises to keep things slippery. During those two magical hours, they were intoxicated by the pleasure emanating from their coupled cocks, and at times they were practically still as they stared longingly into each other’s eyes. Oftentimes, they abandoned themselves to deep, sensuous kisses, and at times they also licked each other’s necks, chests, and nipples. And when they finally ejaculated, it was both a simultaneous and tremendous, albeit not impoverishing, release of masculine life-affirming nectar accompanied by loud manly moans that reverberated throughout the apartment and beyond, reaching the distant heavens in light of the perfect love they expressed. For the first time in his life, Raskolnikov uttered a heartfelt, impassioned, “I love you.”