The Edge Of Intimacy

FuelMix clearly recalls the intensity of just a handful of men that combined the carnal with the cosmic, the macho and the masculine, the bravado and the boy. They were the underground Angels, testosterone in the shadows, the answered prayer.

Those angels only spoke the Truth, but not in words. Their phrases were the lingering scent of Male, the sureness of their touch. Their cadence was the depth of their kisses and their muscled bodies claiming FuelMix as one of their own. In deep silence, we drank each other as communion, sealing us as blood brothers.

Those very few men and FuelMix each knew intuitively there was no such thing as No Strings Attached. FuelMix and the man had burned deeply into each other’s etheric, like spacecraft flaming on re-entry into Earth. We were each other’s psychic tattoos, marked for life.

In those very special few encounters, the glaring light of the shower was an intrusion. We had conquered the darkness of the rooms merely by the fire in our eyes. Now, we couldn’t look at each other…..the fluids, the manscent were swirling down the drain, a part of our joint lives was being washed away, like a baptism of respectability on a couple of heretics.

There was no swapping of fone numbers or e-mails. There was no need. Angels don't speak in words.

Originally published 2006
Amended and Republished 8 September 2011
Republished 14 December 2013