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482                                     Jack Fritscher, Ph.D.
            importantly, realistically, into me, with no foreplay but an intense smile,
            and no drug other than grass and desire, because we both had clicked into
            the “whatever” of the perfect moment, and I was glad I had hosed out a
            couple of hours before, receiving his big fist on his powerful arm driven by
            his tectonic torso and his intense face. He wanted me to cum. Maybe his
            game was harvesting cumshots from as many guys as possible. Sometimes
            a hardon is hard to come by during a butt trip, but his drive summoned
            up all my cooperation, and I came to please him, and myself with him,
            the two of us connected fist to ass.
               Tennessee Williams’ Blanche says, “Sometimes there’s God so
            quickly.”
               And as fast as I came, he leaned over and kissed me, turned and
            walked off into the crowd. Two other men, witnesses to the collision,
            unhooked my ankles, and I had to make the only crucial decision one had
            to make at the Mineshaft: whether to go upstairs to the bar to reload for
            a second round, or to head to the street hoping that, among the butchers
            in white shouldering bloody carcasses of meat, I could shout, “Taxi.”


                        It was always beautifully symbolic to me
                          that gorgeous sides of fresh red meat
                           were hanging from bright hooks
                      outside the warehouses around the Mineshaft.
                              And, oh, what a gift it was
                          in those years to be able to be meat
                               every once and awhile
                           in a lifetime surrounded by people
                           so moral and ignorant they think
                           it is a bad thing: this enfleshment,
                               this incarnation of self,
                             this becoming flesh that is,
                     well, the actual very heart of Christian theology.
                          I always hear of neo-religious people
                            talking about how physical sex
                               led them to spirituality.
                           I’m talking about how physical sex
                                 leads to animality.
                              After all, I am equal parts
                                  meat and spirit
                       and I have never minded celebrating either.
                           In the sanctuary of the Mineshaft,
                              the word was made flesh.
                         And for a writer, what could be better.

          ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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