Captured Souls (2 page)

•Create a home where obsessions are appreciated and sexual lifestyles and appetites are compatible.

•Create a family, a relationship. Is one person (for example, one man, one woman) enough for anyone after a year or two?

How can I capture that moment of bliss, of comfort, of exact unity, and keep it forever?

Journal

The ideas of perfection haunt me. The perfect man. The perfect love. The perfect relationship. The perfect lifestyle.

Is it possible to delve completely into our art forms and obsessions yet still enjoy perfect sexual bliss with another?

That moment of orgasm, of flesh against flesh, contained and examined and drawn out in real life, real time, had to be freeze-framed and captured.

Is it folly to think that because something was good once, it could be again, even though it’s beyond the time when it sank to banality?

Why do wonderful experiences happen once or twice between two people, only never to be re-created?

Even when both parties are willing, fresh chemistry has vanished, never to be replicated as the cells begin to remember and form new habits.

Can I re-create the initial chemistry and keep the baseline constant so that every time is like the first “good” time?

Journal

In looking around my lab, my basement, really, of this mammoth, old gothic three-story house with attic I bought a couple of years ago, I study the degrees, awards and clippings I have framed around the room. It takes time to dust them. I don’t allow the cleaning service down into my lab; they can dust the upstairs trophies and plaques. The acclaims down here are more specific. The awards for isolating genes and cells. The recognition for my work with serial killers and criminal psychopaths. Awards and articles pairing sexual desire and deviancy towards specific behavioral traits and personalities.

As the psychiatric labels are written and rewritten in endless textbooks, I continue my various researches, more interested in experiments than in labels.

My successes are many and varied, but only the most prestigious are displayed. Some of these victories resulted in accompanying financial bonuses, always an irony in my field of study since large paychecks from various universities and grants gave me more money than I’d ever truly spend. Most of my life consists of earnestly conducting my experiments and making notes such as these; where will I spend hundreds of thousands of dollars? My experiments are expensive but still don’t reach the grant amounts. I keep much of the excess cash hidden in various panels throughout the house. Locations will be specified in my will, which will likely be with this diary at my death.

On the main floor, I have a home gym with all the state-of-the-art equipment, though I like to leave the house to go work out at a local gym as well, if only to be inspired by the tight, young bodies around me. But when the harsh weather hits, I just flip on the big-screen TV and run on the elliptical while I jot down notes as ideas come to me.

As I age, I have to work harder to keep my body in shape. I’ve always been tall and thin and over the past decade, muscular, and intend to keep myself that way. Straining under the weights or jumping up and down in aerobics class reminds me that I’m alive. In fact, I’m very strong when I have to be.

My lust is the only thing that tears me away from my experiments. I can go for long periods of time, deep in the throes of my research, without an erotic thought, but then out of nowhere I’ll get the urge to hunt. To prowl through the darkest of clubs and experience whatever sensory delights I can gorge on.

Sight, sound, smell, taste, feel—all of them need to be satiated and I know various places where I can feast on such decadence.

Despite my many accolades and my lust-hunting adventures, I still have stretches of immense loneliness.

The few men and women I did try to connect with, the few experiments I did conduct did not yield the results that I had hoped. It seemed pointless and time consuming to go through night after night of chitchatting with various men and women in hopes of finding a common ground to base some kind of existence on. I had mental equality with my peers at the university; however, as I mentioned, those liaisons were never worth the while.

Sex clubs and fetish clubs with their anonymous bodies, don’t-ask, don’t-tell and high-level locked-lipped secrecy did their duty in keeping my appetites fulfilled, and my work consumed most of the rest of my days.

Loneliness aches through me.

I wonder why, after so many nights in sex clubs trying many wild and exotic things with the most beautiful men and women in the city—no, the province—that I still think about Specimen 1 and our stolen moments at the party.

Specimen 2

It was one of those times to act out my decadence. The days of concocting formulas and revising my experiments had taken their toll and the loneliness crept in. Over the past few years, there have been a plethora of alternative lifestyle clubs popping up all over the country. I’m lucky enough to live not far from one of the hottest in our city. After years of yearning, anxiety and trepidation, I finally started to attend and found that a single woman of any age seems to be quite welcome. I don’t go very often, but when I do go, I tend to have a good time and get my business done.

I hit the sex club the other day. By the middle of the night, I found myself in an orgy. A familiar place. A comfortable place. It was a decadent delight of multiple bodies entwining with each other. All around me, the rooms and beds and alcoves were filled with the writhing bodies and guttural moans of people in deep, perverse pleasure.

On my way back from the bathroom, I followed some guy up the stairs back to my threesome bed and marveled at the tattoos on his slender yet muscular calves. In the dim light I couldn’t quite make out what they were, but I gazed pleasingly up his tight, toned body and saw more ink on his arms and back.
 

He turned out to be the guy in the bed next to me and while I continued on with the dudes I had left, I couldn’t help but stare at the brown-haired, tattooed guy and his lady lover.

As one of the young, buff men I was playing with fucked me, I thought about how there seemed to be an abundance of hunky tattooed boys in the club that night. My libido hit overdrive.

I stared at one tattooed guy. He caught me watching him and grinned back at me, not missing a stroke with his lovely lady.

“Hi,” I said to him while pinned under my lover.

He reached out to touch me. As he slid out from his lady, he pressed his lips against mine. We kissed and his lady kissed the stranger I was already fucking. The four of us entwined into and around each other, hands roaming and touching, continuously copulating.

Eventually, to my lusty surprise, I ended up fucking tattooed guy and my, oh my, he took me to the moon and back without missing a beat. I found out later that he was a triathlete, so that explained the stamina.

“You’re so big,” I moaned into his neck as he entered me. “Oh my God.”

“Mmmm, you’re delicious,” he replied as he pushed into me. He filled my void magnificently for an hour, two hours. We rocked together on the mattresses, thoughts of other lovers leaving our minds. His tightly toned arms were a pleasure to stroke; his firm ass was a joy to squeeze. I let him take me in the missionary position for a long time and then I climbed on top of him, difficult to perch with his magnificent length. I was able to maneuver an angle that created delicious friction for both of us. I rubbed against him, finding delight in his taste and smell.

When the lights snapped on in the club, a great disappointment filled me.

I didn’t want the night to end. I didn’t want him to leave my body. He seemed like the yin to my yang, the way his body complemented mine, the way he seemed to know exactly when to pull my hair and hold me down. He also didn’t complain when I flipped around and pinned him down, holding his hands behind his head while grinding on top of him.

I gave him my number. When he called the next day, I dropped all that I was doing, and we hit the club again. It was the first time I’d gone into the club with an actual date and we wandered around all night, watching and fucking, and fucking and watching.

There’s something in his deep-brown eyes that I want to know, that I need to know.

His stamina is something that I don’t think I’ve seen before, or at least, haven’t experienced for a very long time.

Journal

The two tattooed guys, the blond and the brunet, weigh heavily on my mind.

Specimen 1, the blond author, lives so far away that I can only enjoy him by staring at his pictures or playing with him on the webcam. I ache to feel him inside of me again, to hear his accent in my ear, to feel the brush of his lips against my neck.

Specimen 2, the brunet, is always busy. Likely avoiding me but that just makes the challenge more interesting. We all have our finish lines to cross.

My lust for my two young men only inspires me to work harder at my experiments. I need to calculate the exact formula this time. No more room for errors.

If I could only freeze-frame those exquisite moments in time, those wondrous seconds where my boys brought me to mind-blowing ecstasy and, I would hope, they brought themselves as well. If only a human could live in that moment forever, suspended in pleasure indefinitely, there would be no more pain and loneliness. There would be no more sorrow. No more agonizing anticipation or clumsy games. There would only be exhilaration and ecstasy. For all of us.

Specimen 2

We finally hooked up again and it wasn’t the same.

But how could it be?

Daylight and sobriety were not a winning combination.

He showed me the bikes he had mounted on his apartment walls, that he used to race in triathlons.

“I’ve decided to stop going to the club,” he told me, stroking the wheel of his bike.

“Who needs the club?” I asked him, stepping close to him. This time I wore black heels and I easily towered four inches over the tiny little athlete.

“I’m training for my next race. So I have to eat on a certain schedule and sleep a lot. I get up when you bar party people are just going to bed.”

“Well, that doesn’t work so well, does it?” I asked, trying to touch him but he skittered out of reach like a frightened rabbit.

I returned to the couch, watching him with amusement as he turned to face me.

“These races, they take a lot of time,” he said.

“That’s okay. I’m here now, you’re here now…” I patted the couch.

He sat down and was shy as he touched my leg.

“Who are we kidding?” I asked him as I led him to his room.

He was bigger and more magnificent than I had remembered through a drunken haze at the bar. However, my sober self had a bit of trouble receiving him. We fumbled around a bit, and though all I had to do was straddle him a certain way, he was too young, and dare I say, cocky, to let me be in charge.

He grew impatient and soon there was blood on the sheets. Of course, blood doesn’t bother me, but he grew pale and excused himself to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and soon I joined him.

He was pensive and hesitant in the shower. His youth didn’t give him enough experience with bleeding women. Periods. Virginity. Menopause. Big dicks in tiny holes. Women bleed. It’s life. He’ll learn. And, quite frankly, I’m sure I’m not the first woman to bleed over that big dick, but likely the first to follow him on his sucky fit into the shower.

The mood was lost, no matter how I coaxed him. I grew frustrated with his immaturity and finally called it a day.

By the time I left, I felt like he couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Poor boy. He just couldn’t replicate the easygoing fun that the club offered. But that’s okay. I remember the flashing lights and booming music while a tattooed triathlete with a big dick fucked the shit out of me. I’ll find that moment again.

The calculations went better this evening. Progress is being made.

Journal

The formulas appear to work. The results of the latest trial run have been computed and all appears to be in order. But I’m not quite ready to conduct my real experiments just yet.

There are many other types of preparations that need attention.

In the meantime, I dream. I dream of the three muses of beauty, intelligence and stamina who keep me inspired. I dream of the day when I can gaze upon my lovers daily and draw strength from their vibrancy and motivation. I dream of embracing youth and ambition while it is still fresh, before life sours it.

I found intelligence.

I found stamina.

I know it won’t be long before I find beauty. Beauty is all around me, which is what makes this last choice so difficult. I need a beauty who leaves me breathless. A unique vision who won’t bore me.