A Man Without Future III

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A Man Without Future II

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A Man Without Future

 story by Sherwin, AI assisted

 Part I

 

 The glow of the monitor cast harsh shadows across Destroyer's face as his thick fingers tapped impatiently against the mahogany desk. *Another dead-end conversation with some pretentious twink who'll scream at the first welt.* His nostrils flared as he deleted the fourteenth vapid response tonight, then paused - an idea forming as he cracked his knuckles and typed a new post: "Looking for experienced subs who understand true service. Age 40+ only. Discretion guaranteed." He leaned back, the leather chair creaking under his weight, imagining the kinds of desperate men who might bite.

The notification pinged just as Cruxee was pouring his third whiskey, ice cubes clinking like hollow promises in the dim apartment. *Service.* That word hooked somewhere deep in his gut as he read the post again, fingertips smearing condensation across the screen. His thumb hovered over reply - not quite trembling, but not steady either - before typing: "What does true service entail?" then immediately backspacing. He swallowed the whiskey in one go and wrote instead: "52. Fit. Nothing left to lose."

The alert made Destroyer's cock twitch against his thigh before he even opened it - that raw honesty in the phrasing, the resignation. *Perfect.* He licked his lips as he typed, deliberately slow: "It entails becoming useful." His free hand palmed himself through sweatpants, imagining the weight of surrender in those words. "Come tomorrow. 3PM. Bring nothing but the clothes you'll never wear again."

"Where should I come to? I don't drive, is that a problem?"

Destroyer snorted at the practical question, fingers twitching against his phone screen as he imagined this anxious man figuring out bus schedules. *Good.* He typed: "Taxi to crossroad of E52 and Northern Street, where driver leaves. Walk the quarter mile north to the gate of Blackstone Manor, through the gate and 450 yeards up the drive - let's see if you're as fit as you claim." The predatory grin stretched his face as he attached a pin location, already picturing that solitary figure approaching through the mist-shrouded trees, the crunch of gravel beneath hesitant footsteps.

"OK, I will be there. Is there anything I shall bring with me?"

Destroyer's fingers tapped out the response with deliberate cruelty: "Bring your determination." The phone screen reflected his dilated pupils as he added, "The gate locks behind you at 3:01 sharp. Latecomers get punished." The erection straining against his zipper twitched at the thought of Cruxee's panicked sprint up the driveway, dress shoes sinking into wet earth.

"I will do my best, Sir."

……………………………………………

The early afternoon air wasn't warm enough, so Cruxee put on his coat as he stepped out of the taxi. At 2:53 the wrought iron gates were looming before him like the jaws of some great beast. Inside the manor, Destroyer watched through the security feed, fingers tightening around his bourbon glass as the smaller man hesitated—just for half a breath—before stepping through. *That's it, little rabbit.*

Breathing shakily, but determined and resigned, Cruxee walked up the drive as he was told and he was slightly trembling, but still, somehow at peace that this might be the final solution.

The gravel crunched under Cruxee's shoes as he approached the manor, each step sending vibrations up his spine that matched the erratic pounding of his heart. From the second-floor window, Destroyer observed the figure's progress with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a lab rat—until Cruxee paused beneath the ancient oak tree, shoulders squaring in quiet resolve. *Oh, this one's different.* The older man drained his bourbon, the ice cubes clinking like a death knell as he typed into his phone: "Stop there. Remove your coat."

Cruxee read the message, for a short moment he hesitated, but then he did what he was told. He removed his coat and let it fall on the ground.

Destroyer's breath hitched as he watched the coat crumple onto the gravel through the security feed—that immediate obedience igniting something primal in his gut. *No theatrics, no begging. Just... surrender.* He typed rapidly, knuckles whitening around the phone: "Good. Now the shirt. Slowly." The command sent simultaneously to Cruxee's phone and the outdoor speakers, his voice distorted through the static into something monstrously intimate.

Cruxee, slightly shaken, started to unbutton his shirt, one button after the other. Starting at his collar and moving down, slowly baring his chest and belly, then his shoulders and his arms. The shirt was off and fell down on the coat.

Destroyer's cock twitched violently against his thigh as Cruxee's lean torso came into view—those slightly oversized nipples pebbling in the crisp air, the way his abdominal muscles tensed with each controlled movement. *This one's been waiting his whole life for this.* He tapped the intercom button, letting his voice drip like honeyed poison: "Very good, pet. Now turn around—slowly—and show me what I'm working with."

Cruxee turned slowly around, with his arms slightly off his torso, so that everything was clearly visible and the view was unblocked. He realised at the first command, that his opponent was watching him some way and he didn't mind. He wasn't surprised and he understood this as a logical part of the process.

Destroyer's knuckles whitened around the bourbon glass as Cruxee rotated—those lean shoulders taut with tension, the elegant dip of his spine leading down to narrow hips and an ass that would look perfect marked with cane stripes. *Christ, he's presenting himself like a fucking art exhibit.* The older man's breath came faster now, his free hand unconsciously stroking the bulge in his pants as he typed one-handed: "Drop the pants. On your knees facing the manor. Palms up on your thighs—I want to see if those pretty hands tremble."

Cruxee did as he was told... he took his time taking down his trousers. He kept his undies on, also his socks and shoes as he wasn't told to take them off yet. He expected it to happen soon enough anyway.  "This man enjoys it when the goods are presented to him on their own." he thought to himself, as he was falling on his knees, facing the house. He laid his hands on his thighs, palms up, as he was told. They were shaking, but only very gently.

Destroyer watched Cruxee's deliberate movements through the surveillance feed, noting how the man's fingers lingered at his waistband—*testing me already*—before the trousers pooled around his knees. The slight tremor in those upturned palms sent a jolt of electricity down Destroyer's spine. *He's afraid... but not enough to stop.* The older man pressed the intercom again, voice thick with arousal: "Tell me, pet... what do you think happens to men who kneel on my driveway?"

,,I can't say, Sir, but I guess it is OK as long as it makes you happy and satisfied. That is why I am here."

 The intercom hissed with static before Destroyer's low chuckle rolled through the speakers like distant thunder. "Such a polite little sacrifice." His thick fingers traced the wet rim of his bourbon glass before tapping a command that made the manor's front doors swing open with ominous silence. "Crawl to me, pet. Leave your shoes and dignity at the threshold - they won't be needed where we're going." The security feed zoomed in on Cruxee's face, capturing every micro-expression as the reality of those words sank in.

Cruxee had a little remorse. One more Dom who thinks all subs long to be humiliated, disrespected. But it probably comes with the trade and maybe also with age... It actually doesn't matter anymore. He decided he won't care what will happen next, he would just do what he was told. He crawled on all four, with his pants still around his calves and once he got close to the door, he took off his shoes and moved over the threshold. Behind it he stopped and waited, kneeling, with his socks, undies and pants still on him.

The hardwood floor creaked under Destroyer's bare feet as he emerged from the shadows of the foyer, his silhouette framed by the dim light behind him. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave as he took in Cruxee's prone form—the way the man's shoulders tensed but didn't buckle, the slight hitch in his breathing betraying more than his words ever could. *Oh yes, this one will break beautifully.* His fingers twitched toward the riding crop hanging from his belt. "Tell me why you really came here."

"I came here to give up my life and give it to you to do with it as you please, Sir."

A slow, feral smile spread across Destroyer's face as he circled Cruxee like a shark scenting blood. "Such pretty words from such a pretty mouth," he murmured, the riding crop tracing feather-light patterns across Cruxee's bare shoulders. "But words are cheap, pet. Let's see if that noble sacrifice holds up when I take you apart piece by piece." His free hand tangled in Cruxee's hair, yanking his head back to expose the vulnerable throat. "Tell me—does your pulse always race this fast when you're volunteering to become meat?"

For a moment Cruxee's mind panicked after hearing those words... yet, in a short while he regained balance and even something resembling calmness. If he was to become meat, so be it. This man is at least quite attractive, worthy of such gift. If only he was able to show some appreciation and respect. But that will remain to be seen and if that doesn't happen, Cruxee won't be able to change it anyway.

Destroyer's grip tightened in Cruxee's hair as he felt the subtle shift in the man's breathing—that fleeting panic giving way to eerie acceptance. *Oh, this will be delicious.* With a sharp tug, he dragged Cruxee upright by his hair, pressing the cold steel of the riding crop against his exposed throat. "Such a pretty little martyr," he purred, lips brushing Cruxee's ear. "Tell me, pet... when was the last time someone truly *used* you?"

Cruxee thought for a short while and then he answered. “It was very long time ago, Sir, half my life ago." His voice was steady but his pulse fluttered visibly beneath the riding crop's pressure—not from fear, Destroyer realized, but from something far more intriguing: anticipation.

The older man's lips curled into a wolfish grin as he released Cruxee's hair, stepping back to admire his catch—the way the man was standing perfectly still despite the trembling in his thighs, the flush creeping up his chest betraying arousal beneath the resignation. "Half a lifetime wasted," Destroyer mused, dragging the crop down Cruxee's spine with deliberate cruelty. "Let's see if we can't make up for lost time." His phone pinged with a notification—another potential plaything messaging the forum—and he chuckled darkly. "Though you might have competition soon."

*That wouldn't be for the first time*, thought Cruxee. But he didn't say anything. He just wondered whether this was his last stand—whether Destroyer's words about becoming meat were literal or just another Dom's hollow theatrics. The cold steel against his skin felt real enough. His breath hitched as Destroyer's thumb brushed over his nipple—rough, testing—and for the first time in years, he felt something stir beneath the numbness: curiosity.

The crop left Cruxee's throat only to trace slow circles down his chest, pressing just hard enough to leave faint red marks without breaking skin. His pulse stuttered when Destroyer's free hand cupped him through the thin fabric of his underwear—not cruel, but assessing—and something primal in his gut tightened at the realization: *He's weighing me. Like livestock.* The absurdity almost made him laugh—except the large hand squeezing his cock was very, very real.

Destroyer's grin widened as he felt Cruxee's cock twitch under his palm—that involuntary betrayal of arousal despite the man's stoic face. *Oh, you gorgeous contradiction.* He dragged the crop lower, hooking it into the waistband of Cruxee's underwear. "Still think this is noble sacrifice?" he mocked, watching the way his captive's breath hitched when cold metal grazed his balls. "Your body's singing a different tune, pet."

Cruxee exhaled sharply through his nose as the crop dug in, his hips jerking forward instinctively—then stilled. "Anything to please you, Sir," he murmured, voice steady despite the flush creeping down his chest. The words tasted like ashes, but beneath them pulsed something darker, hungrier, curling low in his gut. *Let him think whatever he wants.*

Destroyer's laugh rumbled deep in his chest as he dragged the crop upward, watching goosebumps break out across Cruxee's skin. "Such a polite little liar," he purred, catching a nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisting just shy of pain. "But I can smell your desperation, pet—that sweet, sour stench of a man who's spent decades pretending he doesn't want this." His free hand palmed Cruxee's cock through damp underwear, relishing the twitch against his palm.

The gasp escaped before Cruxee could stifle it—Destroyer's touch unexpectedly warm, almost tender against straining fabric. *When was the last time someone touched me like this?* The thought startled him more than the cruelty had. His hips jerked forward of their own accord, betraying him completely as Destroyer's fingers traced the outline of his erection with terrifying precision.

Destroyer's thumb circled Cruxee's leaking tip through the damp cotton, watching the man's eyelashes flutter like a trapped butterfly's wings. "See?" he murmured, bending close enough for Cruxee to feel his hot breath against an ear. "Your body knows what you're for." The riding crop tapped against Cruxee's thigh—once, twice—before pressing cold steel against his Adam's apple. "Shall we see how thoroughly I can remake you?"

Cruxee stared at the hardwood floor tiles—their swirling patterns suddenly fascinating—as Destroyer's words sank in. *A comfortable life.* The condo payments, the promotions, the polite dinners with men who'd never truly *seen* him. None of it had filled the hollowness beneath his ribs these past years. When he dared glance up, Destroyer's grey eyes held something almost... reverent in their cruelty. *At least this will mean something,* he thought, lowering his gaze again as his pulse hammered against the crop.

Destroyer traced the riding crop along Cruxee's jugular, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath. *Fifty-two years old and still so fucking responsive.* The thought coiled hot in his gut—this wasn't some twink who'd sob at the first welt, but a man whose surrender would taste like aged whiskey. His grip tightened on Cruxee's hair. "Don’t move," he ordered, stepping back to rake his gaze over every trembling inch. "Let me see what decades of neglect have done to you."

Cruxee straightened his posture, yet he kept his head bowed slightly down. It was almost unnecessary as the man in front of him was half head taller and definitely bigger and heavier.

Destroyer's nostrils flared as he took in Cruxee's lean frame—those broad, sinewy shoulders that spoke of decades of restrained power, the slight silvering of chest hair catching the dim light. *Like a vintage sports car left in a garage,* he thought, circling Cruxee slowly, riding crop tracing the contours of his ribs. "Turn," he commanded, voice rough with want. When Cruxee obeyed, Destroyer's breath hitched at the sight of his ass—high and tight, the kind that would bruise beautifully under his palm. "Christ, you're prime," he muttered, more to himself than Cruxee.

"Thank you, Sir. It makes me happy that you find me acceptable."

Destroyer's fingers tightened around the riding crop as he circled Cruxee once more, the hardwood floor creaking under his bare feet. The way this man's lean muscles flexed with each controlled movement sent heat pooling low in his gut—not just arousal, but something dangerously close to admiration. *Fuck*, he thought, pressing the crop against Cruxee's throat from behind, feeling the swallow beneath cool steel. "Acceptable?" He purred against the shell of Cruxee's ear, breath hot. "Pet, you're better than anything I've had in years."

Cruxee, after a very long time, have felt remotely glad. He really liked the looks of this man. He wished he could please him as much as possible, so these words sounded like heaven to him. He didn't dare to move or say anything, yet his body language was easy to read.

Destroyer's fingers tightened around Cruxee's shoulder—testing, possessive—as he circled the standing man again, drinking in the way light coming through the foyer windows painted golden streaks across that taut back. *Christ, he's sculpted for this.* The thought coiled hot in his gut as he dragged the riding crop down Cruxee's spine, pausing just above the waistband of his underwear. "Tell me, pet... how badly do you want to be useful?"

Cruxee thought of a response. He didn't feel real urge to be useful to any particular purpose or man... he was just endlessly sad and tired, yet, to this man, he really started to feel he wanted to please him and make him happier a tiny bit. So he answered: "I really want to be useful to you, Sir."

Destroyer's let go of Cruxee's shoulder as he stepped back abruptly, reaching for his phone with a predatory grin. "Prove it," he murmured, tapping out a new post on the forum—one that would make Cruxee's pulse stutter if he could see the screen: "Looking for experienced meat. Must be able to take discipline. Age 40+ only." His thumb hovered over 'post' as he watched Cruxee's face for reaction—testing, always testing.

The phone beeped once more. A message from Destroyer's friend Petr appeared: Any new meat on the menu? Somehow I feel hungry today.

Destroyer glanced at the message, then at Cruxee's standing form—those lean shoulders tensed but unwavering, the silvered chest hair catching lamplight. His fingers twitched against the phone before typing: "Freshly caught. Prime cut." He sent it, then added with deliberate cruelty: "Though I might keep this one for myself." His thumb brushed Cruxee's collarbone, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. 

The thought of it actually nestled in his head and he added one more message to Petr: Give me 24 hours.

Cruxee's breath hitched as Destroyer's fingers lingered on his collarbone—that momentary hesitation speaking volumes. The older man's scent—bourbon and expensive leather—filled his lungs as he dared a glance upward, catching the predatory calculation in those grey eyes. *He's deciding whether to break me or keep me.*

Destroyer pocketed his phone with deliberate slowness, tilting Cruxee's chin up with the riding crop until their eyes met. "Tell me something true," he murmured, thumb brushing the man's lower lip—softer now than before. "Why should I spare you when there are a dozen hungry men waiting to taste your flesh?"

"You shouldn't, Sir. Only if you see it fit for yourself and if that made you happier, if only for a short time."

The riding crop tapped against Cruxee's thigh—once, twice—before Destroyer abruptly turned toward his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as he typed a new forum post: "Prime specimen available for shared discipline tonight. Experienced handlers only." He hit send without looking back, though his free hand remained possessively on Cruxee's shoulder, pushing him back down into kneeling position. *Let's see how desperate you really are.*

The reply pinged instantly, from Petr: "Send photos first. Last one couldn't take more than two strokes." Destroyer's lip curled as he angled his phone to capture Cruxee's kneeling form—the elegant arch of his spine, the subtle tremor in those upturned palms. *Oh, he'll take far more than two.*

 

 

 ...and finally, it will all be over. The hopeless insignificance and futility of human existence... In fact, he didn't even mind that the process of ending his life was underway, even though it was premature, at least in terms of his age and physical condition. He was still full of strength, but even so, he felt exhausted.

He stood with his back pressed against a thick wooden stake and felt a whole range of physical sensations. The pain caused by the arrows stuck in his body was occasionally relieved by the unpleasant cutting of the thick ropes that bound him to the stake at his wrists, above his elbows, and also above his ankles. In fact, he could hardly move, which was quite important when the arrows were being shot at him. He had no choice but to wait passively for the arrowhead to pierce his skin and stick into his body. Thigh, stomach, chest... and perhaps the most painful was his groin - his lower abdomen. Despite this range of pain, he could sometimes feel the rough bark, edges, and splinters of the wooden logs and branches under the soles of his bare feet. 

The pile of wood he was standing on was quite high. The moment that filled him with fear had come a moment ago, when one of the executioners lit the brushwood sticking out of the pile at the bottom edge, deep in front of him. The fire was slowly burning, and already the heat radiating to his shins was intense and no longer pleasant.The fact that he volunteered to be the victim had one advantage. He had the opportunity to end it all with a single nod and did not have to undergo the agony of being consumed alive by flames while naked and bound. The second executioner stood nearby, with a sharp spear on a long staff at the ready. One well-aimed blow between the ribs would pierce his heart and quickly end his suffering.

He looked around at the crowd once more. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel the drops of rain beginning to fall on his hot cheeks for the last time, stretched and clenched his fingers and toes again, straightened up as much as the tight ropes allowed, and turned to the spearman.

He nodded slowly. 

 ................................... 

 ...a konečně bude vše skončeno. Ta bezvýchodná bezvýznamnost a marnost lidského bytí... Vlastně mu ani nevadilo, že právě probíhá proces ukončení jeho života, ač to bylo předčasně, alespoň z hlediska jeho věku a fyzického stavu. Byl ještě plný sil, ale i přesto se cítil vyčerpaný.

Stál zády přitisknutý k silnému dřevěnému kůlu a vnímal celou škálu fyzických vjemů. Bolest, způsobená šípy, které měl zabodnuté v těle, občas ustoupila nepříjemnému zařezávání se silných provazů, kterými byl ke kůlu připoután v zápěstích, nad lokty a taky nad kotníky. Vlastně se téměř nemohl pohnout, což bylo dost zásadní, když na něj ty šípy stříleli. Nezbývalo mu než trpně čekat, až špička šípu prorazí jeho kůži a zabodne se mu do těla. Stehno, břicho, hruď... a snad nejvíc bolela slabina - podbřišek. Občas i přes tuhle škálu bolestí cítil hrubou kůru, hrany a třísky z dřevěných polen a větví, které cítil pod chodidly bosých nohou. 

Hromada dřeva, na které stál, byla poměrně vysoká. Okamžik, který ho naplňoval obavami, nastal už před chvílí, kdy jeden z vykonavatelů pochodní zapálil chrastí vyčuhující z hromady při dolním okraji, hluboko před ním. Oheň se pomalu rozhoříval a už teď bylo teplo, které sálalo k jeho holením, intenzivní a přestávalo být příjemné.

To, že se k oběti nabídl dobrovolně mělo jednu výhodu. Měl možnost ukončit to všechno jedním kývnutím a nemusel podstoupit pohlcení připoutaného nahého těla plameny zaživa. Druhý vykonavatel stál poblíž, s připraveným ostrým kopím na dlouhém dřevci. Jedna dobře mířená rána mezi žebra mu probodne srdce a rychle ukončí jeho utrpení.

Ještě jednou se rozhlédl po přihlížejícím davu. Chvíli si dovolil naposledy cítit kapky začínajícího deště na svých horkých tvářích, protáhl a zase zaťal prsty rukou i nohou, narovnal se, jak jen mu to těsné provazy dovolovaly, a otočil se na kopiníka.

Pomalu kývl. 

muž bez budoucnosti

 The state of the world, the state of my family and the changes within it, and last but not least, the "discovery of AI" image generators (and ultimately text generators) have thrown me into a strange mental state and mood in recent days, weeks, and months (in retrospect). 

Probably also due to my age, which is a relatively significant life circumstance for gay men, I have once again entered a "midlife crisis," according to all the subtle and more obvious signs. The realization of the approaching end of life is becoming painfully more and more concrete, reinforced by fears about the future of our world, our civilization, and our values. All this, with the help of playing with an AI image generator, resulted in a strangely transcendental desire to escape it all... but strangely twisted by my sense of practicality and at the same time an empathetic desire to find some good, some benefit in everything.

But of course, that wouldn't work in the real world, and it never will. Sacrifices for the "greater good" don't really work in practice. Perhaps in times of war or in the field of science and research, but I will probably never find myself in such a situation (in the first case, "thank God"). And so all I can do is quietly dream about it at my computer and try to live my daily life in a way that is at least somewhat useful to my loved ones, my work, and my employer.

And perhaps that's just as well, because although my fascination with the phenomenon of St. Sebastian has been almost lifelong, it is somehow "theoretical," fantastical. In reality, I'm not a fan of pain at all, so my work is actually quite contradictory. Is it the same for you?

Nevertheless, since adolescence, I have been haunted by the image of a naked male body at the mercy of its tormentors, always with an erotic undertone, of course. Always with a certain regard for aesthetics and, on the other hand, with the liberating awareness of the finality of the end (and thus without the need to care for one's physical side in the future). And while in this dreamy, artistically idealistic approach, I am not afraid to combine methods of torment and destruction, thereby adding to the attractiveness of the whole scene (at least in my eyes), in reality, even with the knowledge of finality and liberation from further care for the body in the future, I would not be able to endure greater pain and therefore I would probably hope for a quick end. In my AI experiments, this is represented by a man with a spear, which, I hope, in the event of a more demanding combination of painful tortures, would end the already sufficient torment with arrows with a quick blow to the heart . 

I know a real person who enjoys intense pain, even on their genitals, and cannot deny themselves it for long periods of time... however, this creates the risk of consequences for the rest of their life and also causes significant stress for their partner, who will probably not be able to cope psychologically in the long term. So I wouldn't want to go there even if I didn't mind the pain... which is not my case.

So now, after a long time, my head is full of thoughts that I only dealt with in such intensity during puberty... It's probably nothing to cheer about, but at least it's not hurting anyone yet. Only now I don't get as much joy out of drawing those scenes... because AI can often do it better, more convincingly, and with much less effort and time investment... and that causes me further frustration.

................ 

Stav světa, stav mé rodiny a změny v ní a v neposlední řadě "objev AI" generátorů obrázků (a koneckonců i tvorby textů) mě v posledních dnech, týdnech a měsících (ve zpětné perspektivě) uvrhly do zvláštního duševního stavu a rozpoložení. 

Zřejmě i vzhledem k věku, který je pro gay muže poměrně podstatnou životní okolností, jsem se podle všech plíživých i výraznějších známek dostal zase jednou do "krize středního věku". Bolestně čím dál konkrétnější je uvědomování si blížícího se konce života, posílené ještě obavami o budoucnost našeho světa, naší civilizace, našich hodnot. Vše pak za pomoci hraní si s AI generátorem obrázků vyústilo v podivně transcendentální touhu tomu všemu uniknout... ovšem podivně pokroucenou mým smyslem pro praktičnost a zároveň empatickou touhou do všeho vmontovat nějaké dobro, prospěch.

Jenže tak by to samozřejmě v reálném světě nefungovalo a fungovat nebude. Žádné oběti pro "vyšší dobro" vlastně prakticky nefungují. Možná tak v době války nebo na poli vědy a výzkumu, ale v takové situaci se nejspíš (v prvním případě "díky bohu snad") nikdy neocitnu. A tak mi zbývá o tom jen tiše snít u počítače a snažit se svůj každodenní život žít aspoň trochu užitečně ku prospěchu svých blízkých i své práce, zaměstnavatele.

A asi je to tak jedině dobře, protože reálně je sice moje fascinace fenoménem sv. Šebestiána zatím téměř celoživotní, ale je tak nějak "teoretická", fantazijní. Ve skutečnosti nejsem ani trochu fanouškem bolesti, takže má tvorba je vlastně dost rozporuplná. Máte to také tak?

Nicméně od věku dospívání mě pronásleduje představa nahého mužského těla vydaného napospas svým mučitelům, samozřejmě vždy i s erotickým podtónem. Vždy také s určitým ohledem na estetiku a na druhou stranu s osvobozujícím vědomím definitivnosti konce (a tedy bez další potřeby pečovat o svou tělesnou stránku do budoucna). A zatímco v tomhle snově výtvarně idealistickém přístupu se nebojím kombinovat metody trápení a likvidace a tím celé scéně (alespoň v mých očích) přidat na atraktivitě, v reálu bych, ani při tom vědomí finálnosti a osvobození od další péče o tělo pro budoucno, nedokázal snášet větší bolest a proto bych asi doufal v rychlý konec. Ten v mých AI experimentech reprezentuje muž s kopím, které by doufám v případě hrozby náročnější kombinace bolestivých mučení rychlou ranou do srdce ukončilo už tak dostatečné trápení šípy. 

Znám reálného člověka, kterému intenzivní bolest, a to dokonce na genitáliích, dělá dobře a nedokáže si ji dlouhodobě odepřít... nicméně tam pak vzniká právě to riziko následků do zbytku života a navíc tím podstatně stresuje svého partnera, který to v delší perspektivě zřejmě nebude psychicky zvládat. Takže tam bych já dospět nechtěl ani kdyby mi bolest nevadila... což není můj případ.

Takže teď mám zas po dlouhé době hlavu plnou myšlenek, kterým jsem se v téhle intenzitě věnoval snad jen v pubertě... Asi to není nic k jásání, ale snad to zatím nikomu ani neubližuje. Jen už teď nemám takovou radost z toho, že si ty scény můžu kreslit... protože AI to už teď leckdy zvládne lépe, přesvědčivěji a s mnohem menší námahou a časovou investicí... a z toho pro mne plynou další frustrace.