In the darkness of the room, at various times in the midst of lovemaking, my hand moving through layers of darkness to rest on his chest, on the broad curves of his back, bringing his face close to mine and peering at each other, some words murmured occasionally of how good he felt or how he enjoyed just looking at me, at my being handsome, the spark within his eyes, the sensation of desire in my chest and belly, the relief of being touched and talked to so clear…

He said, You know, I don’t think you’ve been appreciated; you’ve been loved and bedded and desired, but I don’t think anyone’s ever appreciated you. There’s a sense of sadness about you, a streak of it, something I’m responding to…

I was kneeling in the darkness, hands on the ledge of the bed, knees straddling his shoulders feeling this explosive orgasm, the dim light from the courtyard windows easing across the surface of the wall, the sense of his body beneath me, his voice broke through. Put your mouth on mine. I inched back and swung my legs to the side, placed my mouth, my hands on his chest. He put his palm on my chest and raised me away from his face. Now on my cock. And I swung down over him, placed his hard cock in my mouth and immediately he began coming and I heard soft sounds come from his mouth and the darkness in the room moving, stirring with the low breeze over the sill.

-from In the Shadow of the American Dream, the diaries of David Wojnarowicz