Thurs 7.2.92

My Lord Richard,

It’s late at night here, half-way across the hemisphere from you. I’ve dimmed the lights and pulled the blinds shut. The phone is unplugged to give us this time uninterrupted, alone together.

As before, your beautiful picture is before me on the table, a white candle on each side. In this semi-darkness, picture a single white light from above in the center of this small, cool room. We have an hour here, only you, me, and the light.

You stand before me gleaming in the single, narrow ray of white light, yet your magnificence outshines it. Dear God, Sir, you blind me with the beauty and electricity emanating from you. I’ve shielded my eyes and looked away — now you command, “Look — look up.” From here below you, kneeling at your widely planted feet, I know I must obey.

I am trembling, Sir. The desires and dreams built up over a lifetime well up in me as I kneel here in your overpowering presence. You tower over me, me in a small heap at your feet, and you, a living, breathing masterpiece sculpted of rock-hard muscle and masculinity.

God, Richard, you are magnificent. I look upon you and dare not blink my eyes for fear of losing one instant of the sight of you. Can it be possible that such a god like man would actually give audience to an ordinary man like me… me, a mere mortal in the presence of this bronzed and massive muscle-God? Thank you… thank you Lord Richard… please direct me. Give me your commands and expect complete subservience without question. I am here for you. Use me as you will – as long as you want – as hard as you want – know that I belong to you, and ask only to please you… He lowers his dark eyes to meet my gaze from below him. His face is square-jawed, chiseled, stern… dark and yet Roman in appearance. His hard mouth set firmly, unyieldingly, and his heavy chin is raised slightly, the look of a man who knows himself to be superior to all others and takes pleasure in the thought.

Without a word said… silently but clearly, he demands that I lower my eyes to the incredibly body that he possesses… and my blurred eyes bring it into focus, drink it in, savoring every inch of him.

Richard, every singular part of you is sacred and holy to me, and the beauty of you viewed in whole is awe inspiring and breath taking. I must confess that my eyes are first drawn to the deep, sensuous cleft lying between your thick, massive pectorals... that the thought of your firm hand on the back of my head bringing my face, open mouthed, against the center of your chest overpowers me now. Can you see it? You raise one hugely muscled and corded arm up and flex up that hard 20” bicep, raising the thick snake-like veins on the inside and coursing into the dark muskiness of your warm damp armpit. You hold there for a few seconds and then your clenched fist moves slowly to the back of your thick powerful neck, and you watch, eyes half-lidded, as your other hand directs my head, my face into you, against you. God, can you feel my warm tongue moving against you… up across the sweep of your thick hard pectorals? My tongue savors the salty masculine taste of your sweat, Sir, tracing behind the beads that trickle downward… ever downward. ‘Til now you’ve commanded that my hands be kept behind my back, to appreciate your muscle with only my mouth. But now you free me to glide my hands slowly, sensuously up your wide massive back. To firmly grip (or attempt to) your huge, sweeping lats – those thick flaring wedges of iron so hard against my exploring fingers.

As my warm mouth locks firmly into one sweaty, inviting pit, my searching hands allow themselves to grip firmly and begin to knead the rock-hard, thick muscles of my sweating God’s ass… so hard, so unyielding. God, Sir, your hand releases its hold on the back of my neck and moves to join my hands. Your thumb slides itself under the black stretched fabric of your tight, plunging posing briefs and slowly, slowly guides the thin waistband down off the slope of your hip, exposing bare, glistening skin – thick, mounded glutes, hard muscle rippling beneath bronze skin.

The now-stretched second-skin briefs still visibly try to hide in front – the thick, growing bulge now throbbing against my own body as my lips and hands lock to you. I press myself tighter to you there to feel the hardness grow against me… I am hungry for you, Lord.

God, Richard… you are the ultimate man – you are masculine muscle-sex personified. You see how I hunger for you. You feel my tongue and hands imploring you – and now let me look up to meet your eyes… Can you not read the urgency there? Can you feel how quickly my hot breadth comes, begging silently – yes, begging you to use me. Take me, please, My Lord! Look into my pleading eyes and make me yours… if only for this hour. Your eyes, those stern, cold eyes look to mine, and you speak tersely, “Your mouth… your mouth, my ass.” And the firm, cruel hand returns to the back of my bowed head, holding it in place as you slowly half-turn and slide down to the floor the black briefs which have now become bothersome to you, and step from them.

Your hand moves the direction of my head away that I cannot watch the way your exquisite cock has swung free of its confinement and now, fully thickened, stabs out from the front of you.

And now, My Lord, you’ve directed my open mouth to meet your firm beautifully sculpted ass. Press me into you—yes— deeply, cruelly! My face is smothered in your warmth, your hardness and yet the hand continues its pressure on my head even now. The scent of you… your sweat, your masculine odors, overpowers me and triggers in me a hunger, an undeniable urge to taste—taste deeply and lovingly of you. God yes—hold me here Sir forever! Let me stay here always, mouth buried in you deeply, taking my breath away.

But, ah, now you guide one of my hands from your back, around a thick heavily-muscled thigh… across and—yes! —upward, upward to your man-zone… to the thick, hot base of… God, Sir!... your cock! Your steel-hard and dangerous, cruel weapon. Sir…. Sir it is throbbing, and so thick that my long fingers won’t close around it. With your hand enclosing over mine, I can feel… yes, actually feel… your quick pulse in the throbbing hard muscle-cock. And slowly your hand guides mine to move up… down… firm grip… tight grip… jacking, squeezing, pulling. I struggle to free my head from your other hand still gripping me behind you. Still holding me helpless in your hard ass. My eyes are watering, my nose running—and I pull myself back, take a gasp of air and start o speak…, “Please, please Richard… please may I suck…”

No answer from you aloud, but the firm hand forces me back inside you with a determination that lets me know that you are in charge, and you want me as you want me… face firmly buried in your muscular ass, hand firmly beating your rock hard, dripping cock.

And now… now I feel it coming. The way you tense yourself, the way you’ve speeded up the tempo of my moving, gripping hands, the quiet growl that escapes your throat. You feel it as you stand there, that electric humming working its way up your powerful loins—traveling also downward, inward from your thick - muscled lower abdominals—that irresistible, ultra-white-hot pulsing force drawing its strength from your tensing muscles, from the struggle behind you.

Throw your handsome head back, my lord! Grit your teeth and grind my face into you!... and yes—SHOOT! —yes, God, yes—blow that sacred hot load! Flex every solid muscle and thrust your strong hips forward—hard forward! As your worshipful servant moans in the depths of you, let yourself feel the intensity as nine rock-hard inches of steel cock blasts the thick white load of come—the nectar of the Gods—blast it My Lord! Our hands are covered, dripping… and you feel the thick, ropey strands arc out in front of you—God, how many feet from us? So many… so many feet… shot upon shot trailing now across the gleaming floor. You spasm now, catching your breath. Please, Sir, allow me mine… I’ve got to take in air—to breath with you. Finally, your hand behind me loosens its strong grip and I’m able to draw a breadth, but all air in the room smells, tastes of You, My King. I am drunk, intoxicated by it… by the smell of manliness that fills this room.

I hold here, still molded against you as you stand, you have not directed me to move, although, my mouth still open, has slowly traveled to the thickness at the back of one leg, and as I catch my breath the muscular inside of that thick firm thigh so appeals to my tongue that I cannot resist tracing the dark vein downward as far as I can reach without moving my other hand from yours at the base of that beautiful savage cock. We hold it still in our grip. And although spent now and half-erect, it is still very alive…. And still dangerous.

I hear you exhale strongly now, and your breath comes more evenly. Your one hand still covers mine and now squeezes slowly to punctuate the words you speak as you look over your broad glistening shoulder to where I look up at you from below, behind. Your words to me, “Next time… next time, David…your throat becomes mine.” And I tremble as I collapse against you. Tonight, as you sleep, know this. At the foot of your bed, curled there clutching to me the still-damp black briefs (they still carry the scent of you, Sir) I am awake and guarding you. Sleep well, for no one can approach you in the night as I keep watch. And I remain there ‘til dawn when you awake and want me again.

Dear Richard,

Sorry, this got away from me and became an epic—way too long, but perhaps you enjoyed it. Although there is much left for later writing, and I guess that’s the point—there are many places to go from here… direct me as you wish, you are in charge.

Humbly before you,


Distance is Not Material

Joshua Rains and Dan Foley

Inspired by materials in Leather Archives & Museum's David Grieger Collection, Distance is Not Material is an exploration of queer fantasy, desire, and loss from artists Joshua Rains and Dan Foley. Withdrawing into seclusion after testing positive for HIV in the early 90's, Houston area artist, erotic illustrator, and drag performer David Grieger exchanged hundreds of hand-written and typed letters, erotic drawings, and photographs with men responding to classified ads placed in convenience store muscle-magazines. Based on an extended correspondence between Grieger and a bodybuilder dubbed "Lord Richard," this installation transforms their exchange into an alter of sexual worship and queer mourning. Featuring graphite drawings by Rains, projection work by Foley, and letters from the collection, these works are a tribute to missed connections and unrealized longings.