I climb up on the platform and watch the video for a moment. A black-cassocked priest is talking to a peasant boy while a knight stands listening outside the door. Their mouths move with unfamiliar cadences, and garrulous voices speaking heavily accented English have been dubbed onto the soundtrack.

  A man walks into the room from the darkened hallway under the television, looks up at me, starts to walk past me, then stops, interested. I have seen him before, in the dark cubicles, in the theater, alone each time, interested eyes peering out from a Germanic face. He is short like the diaper boy, like Robert, and handsome, blond, in his forties, with a tight chest, flat stomach, strong legs. When I first spotted him, I thought his T-shirt said AMERICAN across the front, but upon closer inspection, I realize that it says BANANA REPUBLIC. He holds a Diet Coke can in his right hand, heavy gold link bracelet accentuating thick, muscular wrists and well-formed hands.

  He looks up at me, then flicks his eyes in the direction of the cubicles.

  I raise a speculative eyebrow.

  He grins.

  I remain stoic for some reason, nervously immobile.

  He walks over to one of the cubicles, leaves the door standing conspicuously open.

  I feel a response in my pants, my stomach, the back of my throat.

  I follow him.

  He smiles when he sees me, evoking a nervous grin from me.

  I turn to lock the door; he turns to set down his drink.

  He wraps his arms around me, running his fingers up inside my shirt, kissing the side of my neck, my earlobes. He pulls back a fraction and I expect him to kiss me, but instead he whispers, “Can I suck your dick?”

  I nod and he drops to a crouch, his fingers nimbly reaching for my zipper.

  He has my soft dick out in his hands, massaging it, licking the tip and nuzzling my balls.

  I look to my right and realize that the cubicle wall is incomplete and a figure in the next cubicle stands watching us in the darkness. A small television monitor above my head splashes enough light into the cubicle to spotlight me and prevent me from seeing clearly into the darkness beyond.

  The blond man between my legs has finally hit upon a rhythm, speed, and texture that sends goose pimples marching out across my thighs. I groan and lean back against the wall. He turns me so that he can sit on the low bench across from the television, his hands digging into my hips.

  “Oh, yeah,” I whisper, looking down into his pretty blue eyes, his lips pursed around my shaft. I smile and see the softening around his eyes that, were his mouth not full, would have relaxed across his face in the form of a smile.

  He pulls back and I stroke myself, his saliva slick and warm against my skin.

  “Are you gonna give me some of that hot come?” he asks, grinning.

  “Pretty soon,” I inform him, touching the side of his head ever so gently with my left hand.

  Well-trained, he responds to the slightest touch of my hand and returns to the rhythm that threatens to engulf me.

  “Yeah, oh, yeah,” I breathe.

  He speeds his efforts, fingers playing along the base of my dick.

  “Oh, wait, wait, I’m gonna come,” I say, touching his head with both hands, but he does not relent. Instead he redoubles his efforts and a wave of sensation hits me. I feel the first floodgate opening, a precursor, a clicking that resonates up from my balls. Then the flood reaches the tip of my dick and spurts into his mouth. He moans with what seems in my weakened state to be contentment, then holds my hands so that I cannot withdraw my dick and drains me dry, his tongue lapping and his cheeks sucking, drinking deeply.

  I groan and sigh, then laugh as the sensations turn from the heat of explosion to the warmth of aftershocks that flow like waves and almost always seem to carry my laughter.

  “Did you like that?” He comes up for air, finally.

  “Yes,” I sigh, still leaning back against the back wall of the cubicle.

  He stands and begins to arrange himself.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” he says.

  “I haven’t been here in a long time,” I reply.

  “I’m Jack, by the way,” he says, putting out a hand in what seems a disconcertingly formal gesture considering.

  “Jamie,” I reply, taking his hand, noting the manicured fingernails.

  “Well, I hope I see you again, Jamie,” he says, brushing past me to leave the cubicle.

  “Yes, definitely,” I say, smiling again.

  He grins and disappears into the anteroom and I walk back into the theater, watching a knight deep-throat a peasant boy. I lean back against the carpeted step behind me and draw my knees up in front of me. I wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on my knees, gazing past the boys on the television and remembering my Follies.

  SMOKE AND SEMEN

  Jeff Mann

  Fireplace weather. That’s what my partner Nathan calls this time of year, late October, when maple leaves turn the orange-red of a cigar’s ember and pumpkins of the same color gleam from porches throughout our little neighborhood of German Village. The evening air grows chilly; gray rains fall; leaves pile up along the cobblestones; Nathan longs for a fire. Sometimes he uses quick-light logs from the grocery store, but more often he buys a load from pickup-truck men who sell wood on the outskirts of town. Most autumn and winter nights we spend in the living room, watching TV or reading, while logs pop and hiss on the hearth. Nathan likes to light candles around the room too, those cozy evenings. I’ve never told him why little points of fire haunt me, why the restless glow in the grate makes me sad. I don’t want to spoil his pleasure. There’s no need to speak of Aidan. There’s no need to speak of something that happened so long ago.

  Smoke and porn introduced us, Aidan O’Neill and me. Odd combo, I know. I was twenty-five, a grad student in theater at Virginia Tech, living out on Mount Tabor Road in a shitty but affordable trailer surrounded by woodland. One spring night around two A.M. I woke to the smell of smoke. I checked the coffeepot, the stove. No problem there. The odor was acrid, like burning plastic. I was scared, but I stayed calm, called 911, then sat out on the stoop till firemen drove up.

  Aidan was the first one of four to stride into my smoke-hazy place. He and his compatriots located the electrical fire behind a wall and snuffed it, then advised me to call the landlord and demand complete rewiring and a smoke detector. By the time they’d driven off in their emergency vehicle, I was so disturbed by Aidan’s dark good looks that I couldn’t get back to sleep. Jacking off to thoughts of topping him, I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

  Then and now, I’m small and lean, five foot seven, fit and smooth-chested, but, then and now, I’m into exactly the opposite kind of man—older guys with beards, body hair, and brawn. Daddy Bears, that’s the phrase, and a Daddy Bear Aidan surely was. Even with his physique blurred by that bulky uniform, I could tell, admiring him that smoky night we met, he was everything a Bear chaser like me relishes: six feet tall, about forty-five, deep blue eyes, full black beard turning silver at the chin, bulky arms and torso, black chest hair thrusting assertive tufts over his uniform collar.

  When, a few weeks later, I finally saw my Black Irish Bear naked, got to run my hands through that curly fur coating his chest, belly, and back, I was hooked. He loved Jim Beam, Bud Light, Sonic hot dogs, sausage biscuits, fruit pies, and doughnuts, so his hairy beer-gut vied with his thick pecs for most prominent physical feature. I loved his beefy chest, the curves of his belly, his incongruous little scholar’s glasses, his redneck accent, even his oddly contradictory enthusiasms for Puccini, boxing, and ancient Greek and Roman literature. I loved the way the hair between his asscheeks would tickle my nose when I rimmed him, the way he’d gulp and choke when I fed him my piss in the shower, the way, during our sex games, once I had him bound, he’d pretend he was a kidnap victim and would shout for help into his gag as I shoved him across the bed, climbed on top of him, and ass-fucked him stupid. “Shut up,” I’d snarl, slamming into him, clamping a hand over his mouth. “No one can hear you, bud. No one’s gonna help you. Shut up and take it!” Beneath my grip, he’d toss his head from side to side, bucking like a rebellious mount, and shout louder. His struggles and my ruthlessness made us both very happy.

  I loved all of Aidan, I guess. But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is how I skirt the sadness, by concentrating on the best parts.

  We might never have crossed paths again if it hadn’t been for those muscle-Bear DVDs. Startled by the smoke, I hadn’t thought to hide them before the firemen came, and Aidan had noticed them on my coffee table. It took him a while to get up the nerve to come back. He told me later that most guys like me—young and slender—never gave him the time of day, but he figured, seeing those DVDs, that not only was I gay but I might be into men like him. So there he was, sitting in his Jeep in my driveway when I got home from class one drizzly April dusk two weeks after I called 911. He grinned at me through the rain-spotted windshield—big white smile set off by the bushy dark of his beard—rolled down his window, waved a Bud Light bottle at me, and asked if we could talk. Thick black hair fell over his blue eyes. Captivated, I invited him inside. Two hours later, dead soldiers littered my coffee table and we were naked, sixty-nining on my bed.

  It took us a few months of vanilla sex to come around to what we really wanted. Who would ever imagine a thin young twink like me would be dominant, a big Daddy Bear like Aidan would be submissive? The butcher a man is, the bigger the bottom, that’s what I’d heard here and there, and Aidan proved it true. Ever since I was a precocious pubescent, I had been fantasizing about making a warrior my slave—blame it on cartoons and comic books. I found that slave in Aidan.

  Nathan’s gone tonight, attending a conference in D.C. Rain’s falling, hard and steady, over the quaint brick houses, slate roofs, and limestone stoops of German Village. Home from a hearty meal at Juergen’s Restaurant, I shake off my umbrella, shrug off my jacket, and put Tosca on the stereo. Aidan loved Puccini’s music because it was passionate, rapturous, and tragic. I light one of the quick-start logs, pour out some port, and, sipping, watch the flames. Aidan preferred to be pretty buzzed on bourbon and pot when I topped him; I guess chemicals helped him deal with the shame his craving for vulnerability and submission inspired; it helped blunt the sharp and hurtful edges of his double life. What I loved about him was his manliness, but that manliness, I came to know, was fractured with conflicts. How could a big strong fireman admit to being gay, much less a sexual submissive, the part-time slave of a boy half his size and twenty years younger? That’s why he stayed closeted, I guess, why we never lived together, why our lives never truly meshed, despite his professed yearning to be owned completely.

  Pyromancy, fire-gazing: that was one of the ways diviners used to peer into the future, seeing events to come in the quiver of flame or the shimmer of embers. It’s not the future but the splintered past I want tonight. I gaze into the fire and try to see Aidan as he used to be.

  The Cellar’s just another smoky, noisy, college-town basement bar. Been working here since I started grad school, busing tables and bartending to make spending money. I’m pretty sick of it, but now Aidan shows up for happy hour when his firehouse schedule allows, and that adds a tasty edge. It’s my break, so we sit side by side at the bar, late-afternoon sun slanting in through the wide plate-glass windows. I sip tonic water, he sucks on a double bourbon, we speak in undertones. If folks in this bar knew what we were talking about, they’d fall out of their chairs.

  I study Aidan, relishing his rough looks: dirty jeans, muddy work boots, a camo cap with VIRGINIA TECH emblazoned on it, the black 300 T-shirt I bought him, extra large but still tight over his chest and belly. STAND, FIGHT, AND DIE, say the letters across his wide back. Not only is he a sucker for Greek and Roman lit, he’s crazy about action movies where heroes swing sharp blades, and he’s very proud of his sword and knife collection, his Lord of the Rings and 300 collectibles. So many things about him—his quirky enthusiasms, hot temper, insecurity, and need for praise—remind me of a little boy. Sometimes, despite the age difference, it feels like I’m the father, he’s the son.

  “You obeyed me?” I ask softly.

  Aidan nods. He sips his Beam.

  “Slave collar?”

  “Yes, Sir.” He thumbs aside the top of his T-shirt, and it glints darkly, the chain I ordered online. Beneath his shirt, it’s secured around his neck with a padlock no one can see, a lock nestling in his chest hair, over his breastbone. The chain was silver when I gave it to him, when he fell to his knees before me and I first locked it around his neck, but since then his sweat has tarnished it. The links are black in places, as if stained with smoke. Silver and black, like his beard and body hair. A fine match.

  I smile, satisfied. I enjoy giving him orders. He’s happy to obey. “Balls?”

  “Tied up, like you said. That thin, rough cord you told me to use. Kinda overtight.” He pushes at the crotch of his jeans with the back of a hand and grimaces. “Hurting a little.”

  “Plug?”

  Aidan grins. Why he’s shifting on his bar stool is, I know, so he can feel the thick rubber up his ass. “Yeah, you bet! Been in there since my lunch break. Feels great. Been fun hanging around the firehouse knowing that…well, the guys would shit if they knew.”

  I clink my glass against his. “Here’s to ridge-runner warriors and their scandalous secrets.” I know Aidan loves it when I call him a warrior. Well, he is. Firemen are at risk every day. That’s a fact I still have problems living with.

  “Sir?” Aidan suddenly sounds shy. He pats his left shoulder. “Tattoo’s almost done. Sean’ll finish it tomorrow afternoon. I sure hope you like it.”

  “Good boy. I can’t wait to see it. Tomorrow night, right? My place? I’ll be home by seven. You still have tomorrow off?”

  Aidan nods. “I’ll be there by five. I have kind of a surprise in mind. I think you’ll like it….”

  The sun’s set, the bar’s grown dim. In that twilight, I nudge his knee with mine, finish my tonic, then head back to the kitchen to start my second shift.

  Country dark, crazy November wind, tail end of a faraway hurricane, rubbing itself hornily against the hills, rippling the dead meadow-grass, shuddering the trees, robbing them of their last leaves. I’m a good hour late, taking the curves of Mount Tabor Road fast. Aidan’s probably pretty pissed by now. Promptness means a lot to him. I tear my rusty old Civic up the driveway, park, bound up into porch-light glow, and hurriedly unlock the door.

  Warm, dim and silent inside the trailer. In the kitchen, the stove-hood light’s been left on low. Smell of beef stew, Aidan’s Crock-Pot specialty, to celebrate our six months together. Bottle of red wine opened and left to breathe on the counter beside two glasses. One soup bowl on the kitchen table, another on the linoleum floor. Hanging my jacket on a hook, I shout, “Hey, I’m here! Sorry I’m late! We were slammed at work!” No Aidan curled up on the couch where I expected him to be, reading Virgil or watching a boxing match. “Hey, Aidan?” I call. “Where are you?” There’s a flickering glow at the far end of the hallway, so I head in that direction, toward the bedroom.

  “Well, well…damn. Damn, buddy, damn.”

  That’s all I can mumble, leaning against the door frame, then standing by the side of the bed. For several minutes I just stand stunned, smiling at him, my cock stiffening in my pants. Here’s the surprise he spoke of. What I’m feeling right now, I’m guessing, is bliss.

  Aidan lies on his right side, long-lashed eyes blinking at me behind his round glasses. He’s wearing nothing but his slave collar, the jockstrap I bought him, and a loose bandage on his left shoulder, taped over his fresh tattoo. He’s roped his feet together and cuffed his hands behind his back. Beneath the bit-gag, his mouth is stuffed with the smelly, stained rag I’ve been jacking off into for the past month. He’s never looked more beautiful, more manly, more powerful.

  Around the room, votive candles gleam, flames safely trammeled within glass. I sit on the edge of the bed, stroking his belly, its thick fur, its curved density. I stretch out beside him and we gaze into each other’s eyes for a long, long time, listening to wild wind battering the walls. When his eyebrows arch quizzically, as if to say, Well?, I whisper, “Yes, Daddy Bear, this is quite the sweet surprise. You know how hot you are bound up like this.”

  Aidan chuckles against the bit. My stomach growls. “Your stew smells great. Hungry?”

  Aidan shrugs his great shoulders. I squeeze his jock’s swelling pouch. His body’s clearly focused on other than food.

  “I bought some really good pot. Let’s get into the wine and the weed for a while, then I’ll feed us. You want to eat at my feet again?”

  Aidan nods. He knew I’d know what the bowl on the kitchen floor meant.

  “Fine by me. Right now, though, I want to see your tattoo,” I say, patting his bandaged shoulder. “All right?”

  “Uh-huh,” grunts Aidan.

  Gently I pull the ink-smudged bandage off.

  “It’s beautiful,” I sigh. “Fuck, Sean does such good work.”

  The dark blaze swirls over Aidan’s muscular shoulder, sizzles down his upper arm, spills over his partially shaved left pec. Now a phoenix of frozen fire is needled into him. I press my lips to the black flame inside his skin. I suck his nipples till they’re swollen and hurting, till he’s pleading with me to stop. I burrow a finger up his sweaty hole, peel down his jock and suck his cock till he’s groaning and trembling, just this side of spurting. Then I rise to fetch us wine and roll a joint, leaving him on the bed, humping the air, bound by his own hand, scarred by his own desire.

 

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