nitrous oxide
Sep 1997

I was bound to the bed with yellow rope. I had a vibrating silicon dildo in my pussy, a silver bullet shaped plug in my rear, and a clear anesthesiologist's mask, its elastic tight on the back of my neck, pumping nitrous oxide into my face. As I watched my boy manipulate the dials on the nitrous tank and dildo, I began to wonder if researching orgasmic potential hadn't hollowed the act. But then a blast of cold nitrous hit my face and all the room's audio garbage - the hum of the refrigerator and computer, street noise, the parts of words and songs - echoed around me. I was absorbed in the bright colors and didn't notice my boy remove the bullet and begin tonguing my ass. But then I did notice, remembered, and came. All the colors and echoes tightened and then I was blind, pelvis reaching for the ceiling, my back in a dramatic arch only performable with bound feet. I whimpered a single unconscious puff and then came again. Objects in my immediate view repeated and then receded into a lost vanishing point. The intensity of the colors overwhelmed the shapes that contained them. Pleasure rolled through my body and colors overwhelmed geometry. My face was cold. My breath's deep and hurried. The nitrous was blasting. I laid there in a mock hyperventilation with my pelvis shaking and my mind mushing. I was not sure where my partner was but the white psshhhh of the tank suddenly cut off. I laid there and what had just occurred began to slip out of my memory like a dream. An hour later, after I got on the subway and sat on its filthy seat, I could not remember the little details of the night or the grandness that made it seem so necessary.