Hot Gay Erotica, page 11
Occasionally, the only soothing sound I heard, late at night, was the rain falling somewhere outside. One of my only memories of Argentina is that it is always raining.
I thought I could not desire death more at that moment. I thought I was dead, once, and decided it really wasn’t so pleasant after all, if all it meant was that I felt the cold and misery and immobility of before. But then, at the moment of my despair, you introduced me to el jefe, your cock, your personal billy club, and I learned an agony worse than dying without faith in something: I met hope….
I was ready to confess to the crime, any crime, until that moment. After that encounter, hope grew at the possibility that perhaps you wanted me, you needed me. That gave me power, or so I hoped. But it didn’t last long enough. You managed to deprive me of hope as well, your last revenge.
I had an adolescent fantasy involving Romans and triremes. It was a flexible fantasy that allowed me at times to be the plumed and bronze-breastplated centurion whose desire falls on a galley slave, captured from one of the Celtic tribes. At other times, I was the naked slave, painted in blue, eager for Roman conquest. Either way, pax romana was achieved in the postcoital embrace of bodies in my imagination. I used to masturbate to these ancient images, but I’d forgotten about them until I met you. I did not want to be conquered, but I desired peace, and my lust for my forgotten and vanished youth encouraged these thoughts from my latent pubescent mind.
I didn’t know what you were going to do when first you cut me loose from the chair. I thought maybe you’d had enough of trying to get me to confess to espionage activities, and maybe you’d finally believed me when I said that I didn’t honestly know what all this talk of spies and sedition was about. I don’t know, anymore, what the truth was. Maybe I was a spy, a terrorist of images, working with my camera in collusion with the words of poetry scribbled by my friend. Would it satisfy anything if I were, indeed, an agent in the service of the CIA, the left, the right, or the middle? I’m no patriot. I pledge allegiance solely to the tribal markings that march across the landscape of my body. Did you ever really believe in the accusations leveled against me? I doubt it. Your obedience was to fear, desire, amorous loathing. Does it matter what you thought or what I might have been? I don’t know if I care any longer. I only want to forget.
You laughed a slightly drunken laugh, which echoed a little too loudly as you handled my weak-as-a-baby body, turning me onto my stomach in order to tie my hands to the back legs of the chair, where recently my ankles had been bound. It was a source of glee for you to force my lips to kiss the spot where I had stained the seat by defecating and pissing out of fright and anguish: I admit I was not brave enough to control my bowels or my bladder, especially after they’d met with the force of your booted foot.
You told the others to leave, saying you had a sure method to make me talk. And then you tore what little clothing I had left intact off my body and, kneeling behind me, opened your fly and shoved your cock into my ass, grunting your satisfaction. I tried to scream at the first thrust, but shock overtook me. I tried to ask you to spit on it, to make the going easier, but I only made you laugh harder. What was omitted out of spite was accomplished with blood, and the pain subsided. Your whispered words, used to incite a lover to orgasm, droned in my ears with each digging thrust from behind as you grabbed my shoulders, my waist, the legs of the chair to enter deeper and harder, attempting to produce the screams of pleasure or pain you heard from your wife, your lover, your whore, your daughter, your son, your mother….
I hated my responding erection. Despite myself, I was excited. But all the pleasure my traitorous flesh received was to be slammed repeatedly against the seat of the chair with each pelvic thrust from behind.
The iron closet echoed with the sound of your thrusts: sweaty skins slamming against each other, the legs of the chair scratching across the floor, your grunts from the effort of following a moving target. Then came the moan, and the shudder of a momentary dying as you poured yourself into me, collapsing, finally, on top of me. And then the silence of you pulsating, shrinking slowly out of me. I felt your caress…or maybe it was a tired slap that my desperate mind read as a gentle lover’s touch? And your gentle breathing, induced by postcoital bliss, intoxicating my mind, tickling my ear where your mouth rested.
It was the first time I had felt warm in days, and I did not want you to leave, despite the pain of your weight crushing my ribs against the edge of the chair so I could hardly breathe. I knew, finally, that I was indeed alive. I knew that everything that had preceded this moment, and everything that was to follow, operated out of your desire for me. Joy flooded my despair, and I knew you needed me. I no longer thought like a free man thinks, but like a slave, and the wild fantasy entered my mind that I could give you my ass and satiate your desire, and then the beatings would stop. The crescendo of my hopes came crashing down in a cacophony of confusion when you whispered, satisfied, “What a lousy fuck you are.”
You had given, only to take away. You left, taking away my warmth, my hope. For the first time I cried, endlessly tearless wailing in the quiet of the afterglow, feeling nothing but the overwhelming desire to take a shit.
I never saw you again. The night after, someone else, with no less gentle hands, came in. I had expected others to follow behind you and fuck me. I waited for it for hours, but it didn’t happen. You must have known that I was to be released, and so had desired to leave your mark tattooed indelibly in my flesh, so I wouldn’t forget you for as long as I lived.
I have tried to purge your memory from my flesh with a multitude of lovers. Men and women have been used passionately to assuage my desire and my agony, but they are inevitably frightened away, rejected, disposed of. Some have tried to smooth out the rough topography of mountain ranges etched in my skin. Awkward kisses have suckled at the volcanic islands, burn marks from your cigarettes. Tears and unguents have attempted to burnish away the pockmarked territory, the no-man’s-land of scars. But all expeditionary forces inevitably fail, incapable of deciphering the hieroglyphics of your conquest. My body is not a catalogue of heroic battle scars, but a crumpled cartography of humiliation that inevitably turns them away.
I had wanted to be the one to kill you: to strip you naked, admiring the powerful curves of the muscles that beat me, caressing the lance that invaded me; then, after assuring myself of your sobriety, to spread your legs and castrate you with a razor blade. I’d stuff your balls in your mouth, agape in terrified astonishment at my seductive revenge. Then, before you bled to death from that, stick a shotgun up your ass and feel the pleasure of it squeezing its load and shooting itself off inside your lovely body. If not me, I thought perhaps that privilege would be ordained for someone else, whose obsession was greater than mine, whose love for you matched the hatred enough to do it. Then, I thought, perhaps together we could rid you from our flesh; tear out the pregnant parts of our memories and lie together, sweat, cum, and blood mingled with tears; hold each other and forget, forever, and never rise from the bed of our protest.
But no. Revenge was not ordained, and I am angry, alone, cold, and wet. I cannot understand why you were allowed to die from a stroke while walking home one night in the rain, returning from the market in the company of your wife. You did not die alone, in agony. No, you stumbled, fell, and rested your body in a quietly expanding pool of spilled milk, until you closed your eyes, and left.
My body aches. I realize with a start that the current has carried me downriver. I am approaching the rapids, where I cannot navigate. Slowly, aching with every movement, I row the boat to shore, secure the bow, and climb up the muddy bank. I’ll have to walk home now, get my car, and come back out here to get the boat. I am too tired, too cold, too lonely to row my way back upriver. I doubt anyone will stop along the freeway to pick me up, muddy and bloodied and wet as I am. I reach the road and realize there are few cars, the road is slick with ice, and it is so much colder now.
I doubt there is a silence vast enough to stop the screams, nor a cold deep enough to numb my memories, but still I search for it. I look up, wondering where the sun is, what time it might be, how long I’d been drifting. The rain has turned to sleet, stinging my face. I smile at the thought that it may yet snow today, enveloping everything in a vast horizon of empty white, covering my tracks, burying my boat. Cleansing, obliterating. Warm, soft, quiet snow…
I turn, and look back toward the river. The ice is gathering thick on the trees, outlining them in smoked glass. The ice crystals crunch under my feet, a delicious sound in the silence. The city is blurred from view, turning into a gray hill in the distance as the sleet falls with more intensity. I surprise myself, thinking: This would make a beautiful photograph. Perhaps. If only it would snow. As I walk, the sleet ceases. Silence. Then, slowly, it begins to snow.
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR
Nick Alexander
The conversation drifts around France and the French. Jean and his identical clone partner, who amusingly turns out to be called John, take positions on either side of me, and chat. I can feel a move coming and I find the idea both amusing and enticing.
The two men are absurdly alike, and there’s something quite exciting, in a freak show kind of way, about the idea of sleeping with them both, with their matching clipped hair, their identical little goatee beards.
By my third pint I am feeling amazingly relaxed, and the clones are standing either side of me, touching me regularly as they talk, a prod here, a playful punch there.
John tells me that they have been together for eleven years. I nod, impressed. “I don’t know how you do it,” I say.
Jean winks at me. “We’ll show you if you want.”
I laugh. “No, I mean how you’ve managed to stay together so long.”
Jean smiles at me. “We’ll show you if you want,” he dead-pans. “The thing is to keep the sex life healthy. The rest follows.”
John leans in and says, “And our sex life is very healthy… with a little help from our friends.”
“Here it comes,” I think, and I wonder how I will reply.
“We have a great setup,” Jean tells me with a salacious smile, adding in French, “Notre cave est un veritable Disneyland”— Our cellar is a veritable Disneyland.
“Hey! Why don’t we go back and have a drink there now?” John says, feigning surprise at the idea that has supposedly just popped into his head.
I open my mouth to say, “Maybe another time.”
But Jean interrupts. “It’s nothing heavy you know…. It’s only sex.”
For some strange reason, that clinches it. It strikes me as the most honest statement of intent I have ever heard.
During the walk, the mirror-couple march either side of me.
I could feel as if I have a bodyguard, or perhaps as if I am surrounded, and in different circumstances that could be scary, or exciting. But the air of camp lingering behind every word is anything but virile, anything but scary.
Jean is telling me that the lounge still smells of paint, that they only just finished decorating it. John is interrupting him like an excited puppy to tell me that he chose all of the furnishings and made the curtains and cushion covers himself.
My fantasy world is evaporating fast.
The house is in the middle of an elegant two-story crescent. We climb the steps and as Jean opens the front door, John places a hand on my arse, pushing me across the threshold.
I bet that a few people have balked and run away at this point, not through fear but in sheer revulsion at the color of the room.
The curtains, heavy Dralon, are peach colored, as is the enormous sofa and the deep-pile, nylon, wall-to-wall carpet.
The cushions have been covered with thick canvas carrying an ethnic print. They would be tasteful were they not, also, peach.
“Sit there,” Jean instructs me, pointing to the sofa.
John winks at me and says, “We’ll be back in a jiffy.”
I force a grin and sit in the sea of peach wondering just how long it is since I last heard the phrase, “Back in a jiffy.”
The lounge has been knocked through to the dining room, which has the same color carpet and is filled by a glass and wrought iron dining table and chairs.
The bookcases contain sets of identical spines, which says more about misplaced ideas of interior design than culture, whilst the surfaces are occupied by a tidily arranged series of geometrically modern candleholders, vases, and paperweights: generic items from, I guess, Habitat or Ikea. Part of the sea of consumer junk that those stores throw at us every year, the same stuff people always seem to give me at Christmas and which I have to wait until springtime to bin.
When the twins return, their outfits, leather chaps, studded posing pouches, big motorcycle boots and harnesses, are so incongruous with the surroundings that it is as much as I can do not to snigger.
They sit either side of me and serve drinks from the bar, which for some reason has mock leaded windows.
“So what do you think?” asks Jean proudly.
“Yeah, great,” I say, perusing the two.
If one can just ignore the fact that we’re sitting in a sea of peach drinking sherry from a mock antique bar, the boys look pretty sexy, but truth be told, I’m having trouble ignoring.
“I’m glad you like it,” John says. “It’s always so nice when people appreciate all the hard work.”
He plumps a cushion as he says this, and I assume he has misunderstood, as we are talking not about the room but about the outfits they have put on for my benefit.
But the couple, at least, seem in tune. “Took ages to choose the sofa though,” Jean comments.
I think, I can’t do this. I will make my excuses and leave.
“Time to take the prisoner downstairs I think,” Jean says.
John stands. “Indeed,” he agrees, knocking back his sherry.
“Look, guys,” I say, as they each grab an elbow. “Maybe we can do the downstairs thing another time.”
Jean laughs at me. “Relax, there’s no pressure. Just come and look, you have to see our setup, we’re not going to jump you or anything.”
I’m intrigued by the mysterious “setup”—and they are entirely un-scary except in terms of their taste in furnishings—so I decide to go and see. Telling myself that I could probably take the two of them if I needed to, I follow John to the door under the stairs and then down into the barely lit cellar.
“Best room in the house,” he says as he descends before me.
Jean rests a hand on my shoulders as he climbs down behind me.
The cellar is fabulous and I am truly dumbstruck. Were these not Mr. and Mr. Peach, I would be afraid.
The flickering light of fake torches dimly lights the rough stone walls. In the middle of the room, suspended from the ceiling is a complex set of pulleys and chains, the kind of thing you see in a Kwik Fit garage.
Along the wall is a huge tool rack containing a selection of toys worthy of any sex shop: clamps, rings, leather gear, hand-cuffs and a full set of dildos, laid out from small to large. The large one is, I note, very large. It all reminds me of my father’s tool bench and spanner sets, and I briefly wonder if the one dildo the boys can never find is the one they need the most.
“Wow,” I say, touching a hanging chain, “Dare I ask what all this is for?”
Jean laughs and slides a hand to my arse.
“If you want to know that, then you are obliged to participate!” he laughs, his French accent suddenly quite strong.
I laugh nervously but pull gently away. “I’m not sure that right now is…”
“Lache toi!” he says. Let yourself go….
“It’s just a new experience….”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure it’s an experience I want to have,” I say. “Not right now, anyway.”
“Hey, why don’t you just try on the gear and we’ll show you how the pulley stuff works. You decide where you want to stop.”
I look at the complex harness he is holding and remember when I was in New York years ago, remember saying no to exactly this. And I remember wondering a million times since, just what it would have been like.
I nod. “Looks like fun,” I say. “Maybe I could just try the suspension thing? I mean just to see,” I add. I can hear the dishonest modesty in my own voice.
Jean winks at John who grins back.
A wave of heat ripples through my body, starting at my brow and sweeping down—a wave of panic.
John pulls my T-shirt over my head, and Jean moves behind me, takes my wrist and starts to buckle a heavy leather wristband around it.
“What’s this?” he asks, running a finger along my scar.
“Bad car accident,” I say, suddenly embarrassed.
“Don’t blush,” Jean says. “It’s sexy.”
“And no risks…,” I say. “I’m HIV negative, okay?”
