Daniil Markovich

My First Fist


A translation of МОЙ ПЕРВЫЙ КУЛАК by Slava Mogutin.

then there was this guy with the fist
i can’t remember his name i was so smashed after desmond and i had a sleepless night on ecstasy and cocaine everything was swimming in front of my eyes inside too an utter confusion of feelings when this guy called from somewhere in new jersey and made an appointment
i was so smashed I forgot to warn bruce that this guy was coming and tumbled into bed
then shot up like I got scalded when he rang the doorbell i hustled bruce out the door right in front of this guy from NJ he was fucking gorgeous and I right away understood that a fascist silently took off his coat a fine-ass body TOTALLY MY TYPE fuck me i mean i really should be paying him that skin that ass that dick those plump kid’s lips that severe rugged face that short-cropped hair right up my alley the smell of a man: the sharp aroma of sweat tobacco and sex from his suit and briefcase but from his appearance he could be a model real easy but then he'd no longer be a man because models aren't men but some kind of fucked-up third sex WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO DO – EVERYTHING i sucked him off he sucked me off and then he fucked me first from behind roughly on all fours then leaning over me threw me onto my back quiet the whole time business-like without so much as a squeak or a grunt
SPIT IN MY MOUTH i hoarsely pleaded i opened my mouth wide maintaining eye contact he mercifully fulfilled my request quenching an inhuman thirst that had right then awoke in me i gratefully swallowed his thick spittle that wasn’t enough for me more please more i wanted to fuck him but i couldn’t get it up i can never get it up when i’m on coke so i resignedly collapsed having fallen into a state of total obliteration and docile submissiveness but he started poking around in me having slowly stuffed all five inside like a ship in a bottle i thought that was the end of it but he knew what he was doing after a bit of exertion his whole fist was inside me the first fist in my whole life it even seemed to me that on account of this some tooth-rattling universal chord was struck everything in my eyes went dark my whole body squirmed like I was the worst little whore though I’m far from the worst i saw i felt how he liked it in there he carefully moved his fist back and forth and finished on my stomach the tattoo around my belly button as always was the target that he shot at i’d long ago collapsed from the high i’d only been waiting for the moment and finished right after him my sperm mixed with his inside this ancient egyptian symbol of life
it only hurt when he pulled out but the delivery was successful i raised myself up on my elbows to see the newborn fist he had a wide strong palm with long beautiful fingers with prominent bones that stood out in relief a first-rate soldier (the soldier in some unseen war) i should’ve been proud he was a real man’s hand not like mine like some dainty violinist’s
while he was in the shower i lay all worn out and sweaty emanating the same old filthy odor of sex the drying sperm encased the skin on my stomach and chest and even my ribs like a knight’s armor in some kind of half-delirium i dreamed of how i could retain this fascist clerk for my exclusive use bind him in chains somewhere in the basement or the attic bring him food like a dog toss him some artificial bones from petco and once in a while use him like right now or even yeah maybe even cut off his dick his hands so those fascist fists wouldn't bring anyone else to orgasm just me me only only me
he quickly returned from the shower and silently dressed not even glancing at me counted out 200 bucks in crisp twenties WHEN WHERE THEY PRINTED? LAST NIGHT? i awkwardly tried to joke he didn’t answer spitefully flinging the money on the busted bed
NEXT TIME IS ON ME i obsequiously purred showing him to the door he silently smirked and without saying goodbye slammed the door and headed back home to jersey carrying away like it was nothing my hard-won first fist in the pocket of his imbecilic rat-gray pants leaving me with that feeling of a sharp loathsome ruined come-down leaving me to carelessly shower off before the customary squabble with depressed jealous bruce who was pretentious like some kind of celebrity
i longed to catch him stop him bring him back delay him frantically falling on him and breaking his anklebones shattering his kneecaps and ripping those useless tendons to fly down the staircase under these terribly dark instincts grab him by the shoulders fix my eyes to his crank up the hysterics smack myself across the face choking on rage and disappointment going numb with a powerless wrath to scream HOW COULD YOU GIVE IT BACK YOU HEAR ITS MINE GIVE IT BACK YOU BASTARD BITCH ASSHOLE WHORE FUCKING FASCIST then throw myself at the neighbors who’ve been drawn out by the commotion and demand that they call the police claiming that this scoundrely pervert burst into my apartment 5F on the fifth floor mugged me and raped me high on drugs and forced me into filthy subhuman sex and nearly tore my asshole and he would’ve with just a little more just a little more

i never saw him again
no big loss – i try to convince myself weepily masturbating

november 20, 1998, on a train from berlin to prague

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