Pilgrim

The first time a sailor from the Old World jerked off in the New, what was his feeling? Was he comforted by the familiar touch in a strange land, distraught that nothing had changed, numb and soggy from the salt water after 71 days at sea, hungry for a new approach to masturbation to couple with the new land? Did he picture Queen Isabella or his idea of a native? Was it in a crude cabin, by the fire, or on board the Pinta, the Nina, or the Santa Maria? Did Columbus walk in on him? Was he killing himself because there was a lack of food and the act of jerking off was essentially suicide: a last, desperate attempt at pleasure within the pain? Did he have any idea that the romanticized freedom the New World idealized might be contained in his jerk? Was he thinking of the population in his cum? Would America have gone smoother if he'd saved that ejaculation for a fertile kitchen maid or Indian? Were his little pilgrims the only ones accustomed to being in an unfamiliar place, the open American air and not the acidic American vagina? Did the cum spill onto the ground, seeping into the deepest foundation of the country to become corn, then tobacco, then cotton, then peppers, then wheat, then oil, then clay, then concrete, then Wi-Fi, then cum on all the computer screens he sailed so long and jerked so hard to provide us?

As it just so happens, Madam, I love my Mary. It's understandable that by the way I look at you and her that you would think an advance would be appropriate, but, and I mean so little offense that it might be called no offense at all, you are mistaken. Mary has even pointed out that I eat with a look of intensity, whether I enjoy my meal or not, so my manner of regard shouldn't be a basis for any impression.  I may be brooding or even cross when I look at my love across the table. It does not matter. The softness with which I regard you is not a plea that you should do what I cannot or will not--it is a softness that is in my nature and so, my regard. While studying French in Nice, my professor, Mme. Corrine, advanced on me in a French, didactic way, saying, "Mauricio, j'adore votre regard." This sentence taught me about both the universality of my magnetism and the connection we share with the French via our derived but common language. The French have stereotypically been the mor-de-femme and I daresay that may have been passed on to me, however diluted by half of my hot and noxious blood that boiled in my ancestors' veins along the equator. Even now I see you staring into my eyes--are you even listening to me Madam Sah- d'accord, I apologize, I apologize. But I see you shiver when I breathe the French r. Do you even see me? Are my eyes all that you can bear to see? Madam, Madam, look anywhere but my eyes, Madam. Look at my voice! Feel my name! Look at me!

Tickle you, smile at you, breathe on you, spittle on you, hear you, muffle you, hold you, kill you.