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The Tempest

I am Kafka. I am an individual. I was born in 1536. I speak another language. Because people would not understand me if I spoke my language, I speak this language, which is not my own. I live in this cell. It is the cell of someone else.

I am not an American, but I am still an individual. I remember a great man of my time, which is not this time, once said that he was the best of them that spoke his speech, if only he were but where they were speaking it. I will take you where they speak my language, but I will not speak my language. I will speak this language, the one I am speaking now. This way, I will be an individual, even though I won't be an American. No one will understand me because of this, but I will not be bothered. I am not real. I live in the cell of someone else.

It is 1547. I sit at the bar of a pub. It is an Irish pub, but I am not Irish, nor am I an American. I am sitting at this bar. I am waiting for someone to notice me, and they do. I meet a man called Sartre, and he invites me back to his house for coffee.

I need to make money in order to remain an individual because I measure my self worth by how much money I make. I want people to look at me with dollar signs in their eyes so that my cock can rise slowly in response. It is the only way in which, living in the cell of another, I can feel real. It is this need that brings me here, to this place. I am waiting to make cash. If I can't make money, I will loose my identity and will no longer be an individual, which, even though I am not an American, I am. If I don't make any money, I will not be able to perform sexually because my cock will not get hard. I need to be someone. I need to make money. So I will I go home with Sartre.

At Sartre's, we make coffee and talk. It is not my language we are speaking together. We speak a language that I am not familiar with, therefore it is difficult for us to understand one another; but so what. It appears as though Sartre is going to give me money.

Sartre sets down a hundred-dollar-bill on the coffee table. He looks up into my face and I look away, blushing. I do not want him to see that I am aroused. Sartre stares into my face looking for an answer. I reach under the table and put my hand on his knee. He is happy.

Their nipples brushed together erotically, and the odor of men at work filled the room. Sartre reached between them to undo the top button of Kafka's Levi's. Once he got it open, the others popped open and Kafka's hard cock stabbed up and out.

"Let's do it," grunted Kafka, and they separated long enough to shuck their pants down. Sartre didn't wear underwear, so his throbbing manhood was instantly visible--with bizarre tattoos.

A snake writhed around the big shaft, and the cock-head was decorated with fierce eyes and a dragon's fanged mouth around the piss-hole.

Kafka wore jockey shorts, and he soon had them down, erection sticking out at an angle from his body, pulsing and hot. He stared at Sartre's groin, decorated with a satanic pentagram and a leering demon. He reached out for the serpent cock.

Sartre was so horny he could hardly talk. "The dragon commands you to suck it, you piece of shit!" was all he could say. Sartre moved for Kafka, grabbing Kafka's head and thrusting it forward onto Sartre's swollen self. Pushing his cock-head into the mouth of this babe, Sartre spit forth his only desire--erupting with venom.

The poison engulfed Kafka's senses. He was so soar from cock-love that he blacked out.

I go to the pub where I met Sartre three months ago. I look for him because the thought of making money has given me a hard on. (I am not an American.) There is Sartre. I hope he will notice me and want to talk. He is coming towards me. I am shy. I do not want him to see that I like him. He comes up behind me and puts his hand between my legs. He whispers something in my ear, but I do not understand because he doesn't speak my language. He takes me by the testicles and leads me out of the bar. I am going to be somebody.

We have coffee. Sartre sets a hundred-dollar-bill on the coffee table. I beg him. He will not listen to me because he doesn't understand, like I him, my language. I become even more confused. He hits me and my mouth begins to bleed. I am crying. I need the money, so I stay.

That night, we fuck like madmen. I am now sure that Sartre has become my oasis. I believe in him and will allow him to translate my words.

Sartre becomes The Stranger:

"First, I'm going to let my mouth fall around your cock and, after it stood at attention, I'm going to make you kiss me, as though you meant it (It is only in meaning that I find myself worthy of anyone). After you meant what you did and said, I'm going to make you suck my dick until it became rock hard, as hard as a rock. When I felt success, I will turn you over and insert creation into your ass, making you scream with pain because you didn't understand what is happening to you."

I become Doestevsky:

"I do not know who I am living in the cell of someone else. I feel myself (within the shadow of first person) within the shadow of third person. I think I am Doestevsky and I speak in another language, which again is not my own, but in which I am less fluent than the language that I speak now, which is also difficult for me to understand. My sense of identity slips further from my lips, pulling his cock away from my mouth. He shakes the sperm free from the tip, slapping his sex-god-sex against my face, mouth, lips, and cheeks. I think I am Doestevsky and I speak in words that are not my own: his cock. I eat the sperm. I am lost in the skin of another world."

(Enter Tolstoy)

Doestevsky: If, by your art, you have put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.

Tolstoy: Be collected. No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart there's no harm done. I have done nothing but in care of thee, who art ignorant of what thou art, and no greater the fool. The hour's now come; the very minute bids thee open thine ear. Obey and be attentive.

Doestevsky: Sir! Yes, Sir!

Tolstoy: Canst thou remember a time before you came unto this cell?

Doestevsky: You have often begun to tell me what I am; but stopped and left me to a bootless inquisition, concluding, "Stay; not yet."

Tolstoy: A time before you came unto this cell?

Doestevsky: Not a soul but felt a fever of the mad and played some tricks of desperation.

Tolstoy: Hast thou forgot from what torment I did free thee? Malignant thing! Hast thou forgot?

Doestevsky: Sir! No, Sir!

Tolstoy: So, Slave! I pitied thee. Therefore wast thou deservedly confined into this rock.

(Hell is empty and all the devils are here)

Third Person Narration:

They built a world of dream about each other, as animals in cages sometimes do, in order to flirt with life. They were creating a world of imagination. In reality they were
[I project myself into you.]
as if they were the same person and would no longer be apart. Here is what happened:

When all of the above is understanding, the signature of this text will become experience. The word itself is the only word written and all is conclusive to its being. I live in the cell of another. I need to make money. The author (Who is he and what has he done?) will not reiterate further.

(Exuent Omnes)

[Enter Kafka]:

If there is no known source for the plot, there are documents that are relevant. The things these plots have in common are folk-tale motifs, which have been the common property of story tellers and playwrights through the ages. It is as if I, Doestevsky, and The Stranger are the same person and will no longer be apart. But this is not true. The Stranger liked to collect death. He allows death to evolve with him and move through space and time in the form of his physical body. His body, as a shell on a beach, lay in the sands of my, Doestevsky's, past (It takes an eternity to create a mountain.). Therefore, there is nothing but the burning world itself, and we, Doestevsky and The Stranger, are incapable of this world and (I project myself into you). Tolstoy.

THEIR COCKS RETRACT

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