Mori Mohr 2
2
The disaster happened one night in the middle of the week after another session of wild muscle, erection, and soul-squeezing sex as I was lying next to Ricky, who had fallen asleep. I was sweating heavily, like a pig, thanks to the room’s absence of air conditioning and the Florentine humidity that resembled the Everglades. I couldn’t breathe, yet I smoked a heavy and smelly Gitan cigarette. With the house windows wide open, the persistent clamor of street voices and the perpetual murmur from the pizzeria in the square below invaded our space throughout the day and, unfortunately, persisted into the night, including this night, reaching new heights of harassment. While inhaling from the Gitan butt, I hear two male voices talking intimately.
“Are you sure you don’t want to?”
“Yes. I am convinced. It appeals to me very much, but I will not remain whole within my heart if we cross the line.”
It’s fascinating. What are they talking about? Who are they? I could picture two remarkably tall guys, perhaps Goths, with black pants and white shirts, seated on a bench in the small square. Their hands rest casually on their shoulders, a pizza tray between them, the air filled with the enticing scent of pepperoni cheese and Dolce & Gabbana pour hommes. I find myself choking on the cigarette smoke. I feel the sweat trickling down my forehead, sliding down my body, absorbed by the sheets.
I imagine Mori, my fitness trainer from college, and Mohr Almoznino, who studied film and video with me at Camera Obscura Art School after the army service. Both towering figures have held my fascination for years; I desire them both; after all, I am half gay, but I always thought I’d delve into that once I’m done celebrating with the girls. Or so I thought? I choke again. I’m lost, suffocating, drained to the core. It’s hard for me to breathe.
“I desire it. It tortures me to think it might happen.”
“Me too.”
I envisioned Mohr and Mori, towering and proud, embracing in a magical light. My heart went out to them. I yearned to sit with both on the bench as a trio and share a kiss. Suddenly, I felt a piercing pain in my heart and my left hand. It seemed like my heart was struggling to complete a pump of blood, a stab in the chest, and a pinch in the arm where the “Tfilin” is traditionally placed. My soul seemed to leave my body. Despite the shock, I felt a profound calm, a total acceptance of everything, and a delightful warmth, melting away all tension. As my soul departed this world, memories of my mom and grandma, who loved me so much when I was a little boy, happy, free, running through the luminous haze of memories, glowed in my mind. I felt like I hadn’t yet made them proud of me. I can’t die now. I halted the breath that almost carried me away and opened my eyes. I was in the dark room with Ricky snoring beside me. I heard echoes of distant street shouts and saw, beneath the ceiling, a thick cloud of Gitan smoke glowing in the muggy summer night. A sense of calm washed over me. I took a deep breath, and my soul returned to my body. It was a close call. The intense pain in my chest and arm lingered, a shocking sensation of deep agony. Turning to the side, I faced Ricky, deep in slumber. I felt so alone. I almost cried.
