The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It wasn’t alright, and it wouldn’t be alright, and there was nothing I could really do about it.

But we’ve been seeing each other for more than a year. And half that time…

Don’t start in again.

And now you’re telling me…

That’s right, and you just have to accept it.

But I can’t. You were the person who was kind and gentle to me. You cared about me and about how I felt when…. You shared your spirit with me. You touched me. And now…

You want to go over that again? I don’t. You want to be stuck? You want to sulk? To feel sorry for yourself? It’s not me. It’s not interesting. I’m not doing it. You want to do that, you can do it by yourself or find someone who wants to do it with you. I’m not going to stop you. But I’m not going to…

I can’t believe you’re talking to me this way. That you can be so distant. Don’t you remember…

I really don’t know what you’re doing or why or what pleasure you get out of it, but…

And Paul didn’t finish his sentence. He just gestured with his hands, palms out, shaking his fingers like he was warding off the heebie-jeebies.

I blanked out. My heart sank. I just wanted to get away from him. But I didn’t want to get away from him. I was angry at him. And I didn’t want to be angry at him. I wanted him. I loved him. I hated him. And if I hated him, how could I justify wanting him?

I felt like my life had been taken away from me and that life had become one big disaster I had no idea how to deal with.

Children cry. It’s an act of innocent faith. They’re still near enough to the eternity from which they’ve recently come to feel that complaining that their joy is being violated will be redressed. But me, I knew better. Emptiness didn’t give a damn how it was filled. It still stayed empty and indifferent.

Every now and then I still met someone who cruised me, and I went home with him, but the spring was broken. Too often, I bored him and he bored me, and our minds repelled each other like the two same poles of a magnet and there was no reason our bodies should even touch. And if they tried to, nothing came of it. Conversation drifted like desert sand and dried up completely.

All too often the guys I went home with lived in dumps. So did I. And there was nothing thrilling about being there. I wanted glamour. Art deco furniture and candles, incense and jade plants, a mirrored bathroom and grass, a great view of Manhattan, cool jazz and sexy underwear, a buff body and green eyes. But there was nothing glamorous about me that would draw glamour to me. I was a loser. Glamour looks for glamour. It’s not altruistic. It only gives where it can get.

Usually I made one more insincere try at breaking through the sound barrier, and he offered some lame excuse about having to get up early or make a phone call to California, and we managed an apparently friendly good-bye barely hiding hostility and full of fake maybe laters, and I walked home alone, my head buzzing, painfully tired, and—who knows what?

At least I’d gotten through another day and another night. But then there was tomorrow. And once I’d gotten through tomorrow, there’d just be another one after that. And then another one. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

During the day I went to my job. For a while I shelved books in the library. I struggled to stay awake in warm rooms smelling of paste and decaying paper. A college guy named Alex worked there, too. He had a happy goofy smile he flashed for everyone, and every time he stretched to put a book on a high shelf and his shirt pulled out of his jeans and his well wrought and sexy midriff showed, I knew heaven was somewhere else and I was not there.

For nearly a year I proofread galleys for a publisher of chemistry textbooks in a dirty ink-smelling loft in lower Manhattan. I negotiated formulas and compound words and long Russian names as a skinny compositor with a Brooklyn accent read copy to me or I read to him. All those words exchanged but no talking.

Between jobs I panicked. During jobs I watched the clock.

Then I served drinks at The Dom on St. Mark’s Place. That job gave me plenty of daytime to waste in solitude until the crowded nights in a place filled with other people’s parties.

Cool jerk! Come on, people.

I walked through the Village to the west side subways, at two or three in the morning, looking, waiting, every now and then tensing up at a possibility, and then after nothing had happened, regretting that somehow there might have been an opportunity I missed. I looked away just at the wrong time and we passed each other by. Or would he have stopped in any event?

Sometimes Derek, who worked in the kitchen behind the service bar, walked to the west side with me. He was slight, dirty blond, my height, well-built, adorable, with a cockney accent, but mostly he would talk about how fags kept coming on to him and how he just tried to ignore it. Somebody else might have been able to bring his homosexuality out into the open. But to me he seemed as locked as he was sexy.

One day, a very cold January second, I took a walk through Central Park. There was snow on the ground. I was wearing a pea coat, a tight pair of very faded jeans, a pair of boots, and the kind of peaked cap that John Lennon used to wear. I knew I looked better than usual, and a good-looking guy who was walking with his friend stopped me and asked me where I was going.

I told him I was just out for a walk.

Come home with me, he said, and I said yes, and he told his friend to go on without him.

It was clear from the start that I was yielding to him and that he controlled everything. I don’t know what was behind it, but I know if he had wanted me to, I would have belonged to him. As it was, when we got to his place, he ordered me to strip for him slowly and to caress myself.

When I stood naked before him, he ordered me to let my hands fall to my sides. He penetrated me with his green eyes and slowly worked my nipples with his finger tips. Volts of electricity knocked through me. I shudder and stiffened and my head shot backwards. At his command I knelt before him. He slapped me gently on the cheek and unbuttoned his fly and his penis stood before me. He did not allow me to touch it with my hands as I moved to caress it.

Keep them behind your back, he ordered.

I obeyed and brought my lips to his crown and slowly took him deep. I gagged, and then I did not gag as I continued to worship him.

He stopped me by raising me up and he pushed me onto the bed and kissed me into submission and fucked me, like a girl, he said. I held on to his hips as he rode me.

He came inside me and gripped my cock in his hand and kept it from exploding. Instead the volcano erupted inside me as my prostate burst and my body rushed, and my mind shattered like a pane of glass.

After I caught my breath he let me rest and stroked me lovingly until he stopped.

Get dressed, he said, and then sent me away after he shared a cigarette with me.

I was so subdued to his will that when he didn’t ask for my number, I didn’t dare ask for his, but I greatly longed for him again without ever seeing him again. He had gotten into my mind. For days I was hard when I thought of him. Yet I did not touch myself or try to induce relief. I went around as if in a trance, burning with desire. Long I walked through the park looking for him, and through the streets and down the side streets, my mind glowing with the thought of him.

It took me a long time, years, to be empty of longing for him. I fell from a great height to a great depth. And when the specific wish for him was gone, the longing for what he embodied still remained, repeatedly to be frustrated.

Nights, then, when I was alone, I smoked some dope and looked in the mirror and writhed as I imagined him fucking me, I stared into my own eyes and tried to hypnotize myself into feeling the sexual intensity I had felt when he had possessed me. I struggled to turn my mind into someone else who could companion me until I came by myself, and in the cold morning I was still alone. The hallways were dingy and my mailbox was empty and I saw the vast to come stretched out before me like an endless flatness of wasted days.

This is the point in my narrative at which either Empedocles throws himself into the volcano or Matthew Arnold renounces poetry and the love of Arthur Hugh Clough for prose and to assume the duties of a school master. Resigning himself to the fact that he will not live in an age of great creativity, nor transform the wishes of his imagination by art into reality, he wills at least to endeavor to preserve what such eras of human expansion which he admires have bequeathed us and to pass them along to a better time.

So accustomed, indeed, had he become to his earthbound resolve that when his heart was stirred by the future possibility in the form of the sight of his infant grandson toddling some paces ahead of him, and he leaped over a very low fence in Hyde Park to lift him up into his arms, his heart, when he was momentarily propelled through the air and not touching the earth, came to a full stop.

If I could write my way out of the vacancy and objectless longing which haunt me, which pursue me and which I pursue, I might be able to write myself into another life. But if character is destiny, then the character which can only find its possibility by the intervention of external destiny, by the appearance of another, is damned to repeated dissatisfaction. That character will only draw itself back to itself. It will not attract another destiny which might save it, but only, endlessly, its own destiny—even if its own destiny is hidden within, in the guise of, another person. Despite itself, because of itself, character does, unfortunately, inevitably, only recapitulate itself, transforming any other person, no matter originally how different from itself, into its own singular nemesis.

I filled up notebooks with this sort of convoluted stuff, but it never amounted to anything. And I met a guy on Hudson Street walking late one night, but he was balding under his cap and had really bad teeth. He listened to me speak like this for a while because he was no longer young and handsome and did not have the choices once he had had, and thought may be there was a blow job at the end of the line. But I had no taste for it, and he was not bitter. Time had done its work on him. He understood the way down and pitied me for being on it, too. We parted without hard feelings. I was afraid pretty soon Time was going to start to do its work on me, too, and all I’d have to look back on was loss and waste, wandering through the desert with only an unachieved idea of an unlocatable promised land.

How long was this going to go on? Indefinitely? Forever? Living life without hope is like pouring nectar into a sieve. Coleridge.

And then I met someone who knew how to pith me with the power of need, and I succumbed, and it was the wrong person, but she—yes, yes, she; how much self-loathing could I have?—she stuck her needing needle into me when I said I didn’t want to go to bed with her, and twisted it deftly, crying like her heart would break, told me I was selfish and I was passing up an opportunity, and did I think it was better to be stuck by myself wanting the impossible? How, she wailed, had I succumbed to the phantom of glamorous images and lost hold of my own feelings and the reality of another? She went on and on establishing a rhythm by the sobs which were punctuating the beat of her words. It was like a hypnotic induction. My head ached. My will froze. I felt sorry. I was confused. I moved in with her. I knew I was giving up. I was lost, and I accepted my loss. Each time we kissed, it broke my heart.

Days I passed in a shipping room, standing at a long counter behind filthy windows that obscured a view of the sky, stuffing posters into tubes and plagued by the blare of a radio I could not shut, my mind flattened by the banging of its noise, my heart sodden with the gall of my life. Loss like a ghost of someone I had never known haunted me and accompanied me everywhere like a grief in my heart and something indigestible in my belly.

Night after night I tried to flee, but dizzy with guilt and fear, and shaken by alien rage, and spinning with anger I had not the power to control or justify, I only fled to where I did not want to go. Until one night, when I was alone in the apartment, from an open window, where I stood in the over bright light of my reading lamp, I caught the gaze of a guy standing on the corner by the Chinese laundry. I could tell, I knew, I quivered: He was looking up at me, waiting for me to come down into the street to resume the life I had abandoned.