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A Night in Reality

By DesDownUnder

Copyright © 2009 by DesDownUnder. All rights reserved.

I just read another story. Boy meets boy, they seduce each other and then live happily ever after.

That wasnít as bad as the previous story I read where boy meets boy and they entered into a relationship that was plagued with every plot device from every daytime soap opera on TV.


So I showered, shaved, shat and shampooed, not necessarily in that order, and went for a cruise in the car.

A full two hours later, I returned home with my conquest for the night. He left like two minutes after he came.

So I once again did the aforementioned ablutions, hopped in the car and again returned home, this time in 75 minutes with another conquest.

He spasmed in record time, and left shortly thereafter.

My shower was wearing out, but I just had to find someone for the night.

This time, I returned home in 45 minutes. What can I say? It was late, we were desperate and wham, bang, thank you, man, and it was over.

I lay there wondering what was wrong. It takes longer to read the stories than it does to enact them.

Suddenly, it hit me what was wrong with the stories; especially those that didnít finish.

Itís all about the hunt, the conquest. Itís not even about meeting someone for a never-ending romance.

The careful preparation, the thinking about the excitement that lay ahead, the chase, the hopefully exotic hunt for the Red Octoberís torpedo, the desire to conquer, to submit and be conquered, to be taken to the lair of the beast and be enthralled in the cave of our unearthly imaginings, to soar above the clouds only to fall to Earth, dripping in Heavenís moisture, locked in an embrace of masculine muscularity.

And then as the dawn breaks through yonder window, I stretch and realise the son of youth has fled the night like an unfinished star, a story that can never have a satisfactory completion.

Alone, I sit on the edge of the bed, looking at the computer on the table on the other side of the room. I know it contains a window to a net full of stories like I just experienced; a dizzying roundabout of hopeful beginnings that end in wishful thinking or not at all.

How many times do I start reading a story, only to pace the author and lose interest at the very moment that the author has written about the conquest of one or both of the heroes? Most times, the author has lost the plot at the same moment as I canít be bothered reading any longer.

So the stories were basically following the same plot as a promiscuous pick-up, probably inspired by the horniness of the author as he began writing, only to come to an abrupt ending when the keyboard became clogged with his excitement. End of story, or never to be finished. Just like my night in reality.

It was just sex.

Today, I will seek love.