Seeing and Saying

Seeing myself through their eyes. I learn about my lips, my nose, the curve of my hips not only by their words, but by the expression on their eyes. I learn about the sound of my voice as I notice how they ask me to keep talking to them, about random things. And as I look and the camera, even when I am not seeing any of them I intuitively look straight at it, as if I was looking straight into their eyes, just as if I was talking to anyone in front of me, flesh and bones.

I loosen up, and let myself go. I relax. I feel my limbs heavy and slow and my sex moist, tingling, as if several tongues and fingers were touching me. Blame it on stilnox, blame it on my vivid imagination.

And then I open my ears to them. My boys.

One of them got me worried and taught me how difficult it is for me to lie.

He asked me to see him in private and I accepted. I asked him to open his own camera in return with my catchphrase: quid pro quo, Clarice!. I saw a man in his late thirties, slim, nothing remarkably handsome or ugly, a plain face, sitting naked in the toilet, with a notebook and earphones, stroking his cock and looking intensely into the cam, he did not demand anything of me really, only that I called him by his name and told him that I loved him.

In Portuguese you don´t say I love you that lightly. You say that you like, adore, enjoy… but love? No, love is for the real thing. I said “Eu te amo” to very few men in my life, cause you love more than one time in time, of course, but I never lied to anyone claiming feelings I did not have. I felt it was disrespectful to myself.

Prostitutes do that for money, I know. They spew out words as easily as they spread their legs. At that very moment saying those words were a hundred times harder than showing him my private parts! I reasoned that if I said them in English they would not bear the same weight.

I tried to say that I liked being virtually there with him, and then he begged me to tell him I loved him.

He looked pathetic. Was it a perversion? I don´t know. I saw his lips trembled, his eyes were glassy, partly because of masturbation, but mostly for anxiety.  He was loosing his erection, and his face was breaking in suffering. He could have clicked out, but he was more than disappointed. Was I reading too much? No, the lines in his forehead, the pressed lips, the eyes… who says there isn´t a little of suffering in some perversions?

I did what he asked of me. In my head, I recited Shelley´s poem as a prayers, asking myself forgiveness for profaning something so sacred, and stared into the camera and said, as convincingly as I could: I love you. Oh, how it sounded hollow to me! “Do you you? Pleeeease, say it again! Your voice is so sweet!”. And I repeated, I love you.

Release came to him with a smile rather than with grunts and grimaces. He felt relieved when he thanked me. I felt a whore cause I violated myself. I lied, badly, it is true, but I did. I spoke the words. I just hope I never do it in my own language, cause I would choke on them before they ever leave my lips.


To —-
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not,—
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?




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