transfigurement

I have no fairytale-like abilities.  I don’t wave a wand and, bang, you’re transfigured.  You see, I am a creature that feeds on suppressed queer desire; that eats away at the closeted layers to reveal the inner twink.  That’s what satiates me and nourishes me.  The deeper the repression the sweeter the meal.  I have the ability to lay bare your buried, inner effeminate persona.   

Over years of “tasting” I’ve discovered that a tantalizing, smooth, ingenue lurks in almost all men no matter how they present themselves.  I easily sensed there was a beautiful, queer youth inside this middle-aged military man.   My traveling companion probably started his military career in the age of ‘don’t ask don’t tell’.  Old habits, especially those honed over decades, just don’t end — they ferment for years.  

I could sniff out the effeminate, beauty just edging to release themself buried under the butch outward appearance.  He had no idea what I really was.   Like I said, I morphed into his familiar:  military men and macho.   He certainly wouldn’t have voluntarily revealed any queer longing to a stranger especially not to the fellow military man I pretended to be. Oh boy, what he must be like alone in his own mind when he lets his twink shine.  I could taste it. 

I leaned in.  I slightly paused my hand on his back.  Don’t frighten the prey.  I’ve honed my skills over years.  Moved my face closer to his.  I felt the heat rising off him — he’s aroused, uncertain, confused.  

Don’t worry.  I won’t harm him, but I need to feed.  I need to swallow his manly pride, his age, his male sex characteristics.  

Now stopped on the side road, he’s more confused and turns his head to ask me what’s happening.  I strike. My lips on his.  I inhale him.  I devour the layers that have suppressed his beauty to reveal his his true inner self.

Sated and nourished, I morph back to a familiar form — blond, youthful, but slightly changed from my latest meal.  Each feeding envelopes small traits of my prey.

They, however, are not in a familiar form.  Still with a slight dark complexion, they’re lovely. And they know it.  I’m still amazed how often my repasts don’t miss a beat. This one is no exception.  They question nothing of this new reality.  Of course, why would they?  It’s been rehearsed in their mind for decades:  the moment their physical beauty matches their mind; the instance the hidden ingenue saunters out into the open.  In the car mirror, they pout bringing color to the lips which they will soon share willingly and often with men that once were their contemporaries.  A smile rises to the face of this beauty.  Without a word, they turn the car toward the last town we passed.  They say nothing, but a small bulge in their uniform khakis tells me they’re satiated too.

Days later, a photo appears in my text feed. I barely recognize the person. The tattoos and buzz cut belie their new form.  I think to myself: I did this. I’ve carved this coquettish beauty from their former, tired reality.  

For over forty years you’ve searched for every and any form of self-gratification, but now, your transformation wish granted, it’s not about getting off or sticking your dick in a hole.  You’re led, instead, by an intense, a-sexual, erotic desire to be admired, wanted by another person, several persons.  It’s fed by your new, youthful narcissism.  It’s the act of luring and acquiring someone that is erotic to you.  

I love the irony:  let them jerk off, but you don’t cum.  It’s not your will to be fucked or sucked or have something done to you for an ejaculation.  The erotica of being a siren, mesmerizing and alluring manifests as your gently chubbed, small penis leaking a precum-like fluid something like incontrollable drooling.  It’s your auto-reflex to other’s admiration and to being the object of a man’s lust.  The new you doesn’t touch your genitals, and you forbid others to.  The erotic stimulation is more cerebral than physical.