Boys In Heat, page 15
“Eat it!” he said, between pursed lips.
But I couldn’t. My throat was heaving, the cum sliding under my tongue. I was going to be sick.
“No you don’t!” His eyes narrowed and he grasped hold of my head, rubbing the cum against my lips. I screwed up my face. I had no choice but to swallow it.
“You don’t like it, do you?” he said, stepping back, watching me gag with a wide grin on his face. No longer supported, I sank to my knees, heaving up strings of pearly cum. He looked down at me and zipped up his fly. Then, as I opened my mouth to cry out, to tell him to back off, he shaped his lips into a kiss and a large, round gob of saliva fell through the air toward my open mouth, landing with a splat on my tongue. I fell back against the boards, spitting and shaking my head. I could hear his footsteps on the other side of the room, and a low chuckle from deep inside his chest.
The door opened and he was gone.
V
I was sitting with one arm out the window, overlooking the front lawn, and I couldn’t stop crying because I had to leave. Someone asked me if I was okay and I said, yes, I’m fine. Eventually I carried my tuck-box out, the tiles squeaking under my cheap Clark’s shoes. The corridor smelt of polish and disinfectant; that smell that made me think of Games. I thought of playing catch in the country garden where the pear trees grow against the old stone wall and the grass is kept green and low and the Games Master’s thighs are big, so big, and his ass is stuffed inside his tight canvas shorts, and when he looks at me it is always softly, as if he senses I’ll crumble if he stares too hard.
They sent me to a state school in the end anyway. My grades weren’t good enough and my mum was poor. All things must come to an end, I thought, but why so suddenly? To be plucked from this paradise and thrown into the world before my wings were even fully grown was a fate too hard to endure! I remember the meaty taste of Mr. Jones’ penis, the sweat from the crack of Bliss’s spread ass; I remember the sliminess of Mr. Jennings’ cum smeared across my lips and I remember Mr. Bowers’ fingers.
I remember it all and I’ll never forget. What better sensation is there, after all, than that of a long slippery piece of meat forced past one’s lips, onto one’s tongue, where it ejaculates? I still dream of it now. But it is always years later and I am much older. I stand in the shadowy doorway at the front of the Manor, licking my lips, the remembrance of salt making my mouth water. I’m dressed in a gray suit, with a long mackintosh falling all around me, with a bowler hat on my head, and I’m staring at the glistening pond, at the goldfish swimming among the lily pads in the water. I reach down my hand and trace my fingers through the surface, drawing a mouth in the water that opens wide and closes again immediately. My mouth falls open sloppily, my tongue feels the cold and I turn my back to the house so no one can see what I’m doing. I open my fly and pull out my penis. Already, it is bloated. I dash it once, twice, three times, all along the length, so that it sprays its load across the water. I convulse. I fall down on my knees and breathe out a silver cloud. I watch it expand in the wintry air. Then I look down at my fingers and see that they’re covered in silver globs. I smear the globs across the grass and put my penis back inside my pants. I stand up, brushing the wet grass off my knees, and walk down the path toward the open road.
I don’t look back at the Manor, though I can feel it softly breathing. Swelling—
THREE SCENES
Christopher Schmidt
ABC
ABC,” Karl explains, “means Always Be Cruising.” Karl, my new beau, is telling me about a nutty, “slutty” friend who operates on the ABC principle, adapted from a real estate mantra, Always Be Closing. We’re in bed when Karl mentions this, and although he’s not advocating ABCing per se, the phrase has a suggestive afterlife. I worry it over as I would a line of poetry—unconsciously, walking down the street—or as a tongue might return, compulsively, to the irresistible jagged tooth.
As I ponder the phrase, unlikely associations occur: “Always Be Cruising” and Alice B. Toklas. Orthographical cousins, they occupy opposite ends of the queer spectrum, steadfast Alice frowning on her promiscuous relation.
ABC is elementary; it marks the beginning of learning. ABD (a word I hear a lot of lately) does not quite end a lengthy education. Like “All But Dissertation” status, the interminability of that “always” depresses a little. In Dante’s Inferno, the sodomites, “puckering their brows on us like an old tailor on the eye of a needle,” race around the seventh circle of hell to avoid being singed by the flames chasing them. They are forever cruising. Dante’s lesson: every choice is its own punishment.
Karl is in South Carolina, visiting his family. Left to my own devices, I am at the gym, ABCing. Cruising at the gym may signal a failure of the imagination—who hasn’t fantasized about sex in the locker room?—but why reinvent the wheel? I once picked up a trick on the subway and it didn’t end well.
By the dumbbells, a tall man with glasses and dark, curly hair works out with his trainer. He’s Brobdingnagian, almost as tall as Karl (six foot six), maybe broader. At first my interest in him is aesthetic: he styles his hair big—to make his small head look proportionate to his body? And was it always so, or did muscle building ruin his proportions? I’m amused such a big man should require a trainer, a staff to support him, as if he were a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. At this point, I’ve been looking his way for some time, and the man looks back, not incurious. I look again, hard, screwing my eyes into his, and relish the perversity of cruising him because he reminds me of Karl. ABC = Absent Boyfriend Counterfeit.
In the drawer of my bedside table lies a little tome called The ABC Book, by Maurice Vellekoop. In this “homoerotic primer,” each letter of the alphabet is illustrated by a sexy watercolor tableau (“A is for astronauts” who sixty-nine in zero gravity). On the book’s cover, a seated adolescent student snakes his foot up the pant leg of the teacher standing over him. The teacher, I think, is cute. Then I realize he wears the same outfit (checked white shirt with rolled up sleeves, brown tie) that I recently wore on my first day as a college English instructor. Modeling my pedagogy on porn! In a nightmare scenario, I see myself walking into class, the book trailing me like an errant piece of toilet paper. I banish The ABC Book, throw it deep under my bed.
The mechanics of cruising can be laborious. In the locker room, I arrange myself behind my new Brobdingnagian prospect, then pretend to ignore him. I notice, or think I notice, his attention flickering back to me. Then a ballet of loitering, as our cruise proceeds in fits and starts. In a tacky move, I haunt the sauna; indifferent, he passes on to the showers. Later, toweling off, I again notice him at the mirror, fishing something out of his eye: me!
But in our leapfrog of pause-and-wait, fantasy dissipates like weak perfume. He stalls near the exit of the gym. Irresolute, cowardly, I roll past without stopping. I look back too late and spot my trick walking the opposite direction—heading home, I imagine, to an expectant, loyal boyfriend.
Fuck Journal
Day 0 • Airport-arrived, I collapse, all thin skin and angles. I am flying to meet the BF’s family. In the bathroom behind BK (home of the Whopper), some fag has his poodle out—its ass poised above a tile diaper—coaxing canine excrement. “No shit,” says Leif when I relay the scene.
Onboard, I ponder fucks. Arid airplane air provides the perfect environment for viruses to take root. Note to self: procure Zicam to lube nose holes. Membranes need moisture.
Day 1 • Morning headache augurs fuck. Move fast and pain rails to cranium’s leeward side, intense and loud, like kids tumbling in the backseat. We are driving on Highway 1, near Bodega Bay (no kids). Hypochondro, I am always divining fucks, rarely succumbing to them. I nip buds, fucks. Heavy-lidded, I tell Leif, “Tippi Hedren is the mother diva because she gave birth to Melanie,” (then recommend the DVD: better than the birds are Tippi’s screen tests.) By the church Hitch filmed, a sedan pulls up. Out step two middle-aged men, unfashionably shod. The tall one, brandishing an arm sling over red flannel, scans me through the windshield, grins.
Races across Duncan’s Landing cove leave me fevered, phlegmy. From the peak above, our despoiling is writ in eight footprint lines crossing the virgin sand. Wind up, fuck, I layer on the wool.
By night, my fuck announces his occupation with a hoarse throat, aided by the wet fuck of this northern clime. Our lighthouse bedroom, “off the grid,” lacks heat.
Day 2 • A fuck’s calling card: flushing sneezes, Sahara eyes, a gummy ledge above the gullet, mucus that sticks and would stink, if I could smell.
Day 3 • Even one fuck in ten years is very bad, counsel macrobiotic gurus. Inflammatory information. Contagion fears. Leif’s mom Sylvia pushes barley grass and Chinese herbs, tells me to pocket vitamin C. Was she a good mother? What’s her angle? Is she my angel? “Your mother’s a little fucker than I expected,” I tell Leif. “But I like her.”
Outside, nine cats spend lives huddled atop a hot tub cover. Nature run amok: when Sylvia leaves the house, she turns on talk radio to scarecrow raccoons from the pantry.
Day 4 • After tennis, ill timed, I study monologuists on a white shag carpet, shades of The Sandpiper. “What have you been up to?” Leif asks me. Mike Albo, my alibi. In shivers, I ponder a tongue’s fossil poetry: we call it fuck because it makes you fuck, not because growing fuck gives you one, that wives’ tale. Quoth Charles Ludlam: throw another faggot on the fire. At dinner, I fuss with my fuck fish, feel nauseous.
Day 5 • I’m better. With each tissue blown, I declare this one the last. This one the last. This one the last. Fuck this fuck already!
The sun lemon warm, but I’m still fuck. I try on words for it: damp fuck, fuck around the edges, fresh fuck. A trip to Armstrong Woods steals us from the sun: bone-chilling fuck. “Is this where The Return of the Jedi was filmed?” I demand of this attenuated wood trap. Then nail my folly: “I bet it is.” We spy Icicle Redwood, aptly named. Eucalyptus trees drop fruit I smash underfoot.
Later, I ask Leif how I merit with Mom. “Your lack of tree-love was a mark against you.” He mimes a checklist, licks his air-pencil. “You gotta love nature here.”
I slip Leif, also with fuck, contraband Tylenol. (Don’t tell Sylvia!)
At Guerneville, men with rictus make eyes at my guy.
Day 6 • The parents? The undressed portrait windows? The crevice in our futon, suggesting cleavage? Our fucks? Or the moon-bare California fuck, keeping us from fucking?
Top/Butt
Born of sunlust, bus runs to sub-Boston porn moor, horny homo zoo. Looks stun. No frumps, no fops, just buff studs burnt brown. Luc, uncut, hunts cut cock. Jock, hung, lucks on smooth boy cunt, round rump up on dun outcrop. Coy youth sucks thumb, sub for schtup. Jock’s pud pulls north. Jock stubs youngun’s mouth, swoons. Put out, Luc ducks bud’s fuck. (Luc’s wont: most lust.) Soon Luc spots humongous chub on pup slut Todd. Luc’s succubus guns. Our two gods mushroom. Todd pulls Luc’s hood. Luc flops Todd, rubs Todd’s rump, drums Todd’s knot, churns Todd’s rut, tugs Todd’s butt. Thus room, sucks nuts. Todd grunts, tough to bottom. Luc lobs sputum up Todd’s duct: unctuous. Todd succumbs. Luc mounts, pounds Todd’s dog. Bum rush! (No condom?) Todd pouts, Todd coughs. To Luc: Too rough! To Todd: Shut up! Crowds form. Luc pumps, pulls out, punch-fucks: Wow! Luc undocks, spurts globs of ghoul grub (cum) on buns. Luc’s spunk, cock drop south. Dusk. Luc glows, Todd numb.
UNMASKED
Syd McGinley
Alan, you’re full of it!”
“I hate Halloween. I hate the masks. I don’t like not knowing who people are.”
I pinch him hard. We’ve only been seeing each for a few months, but I already know that’s bullshit. “You faked last week when I had my Zorro mask on?”
He leers at the memory, but says, “That was different. I knew it was you and it was hot imagining who might be there, but I don’t like really not knowing.”
I’m astride him, but I sit back on my heels. “You’re scared?” He nods. It’s funny to see him freaked. He’s six feet four inches of tanned muscle, with a Marine haircut. Jarhead, I whisper when I fuck him, and he can’t resist or retaliate.
“And clowns, but worse, those George Bush masks.” He shivers.
He’s so disconcerted. Hand on heart, I promise not to subject him to any masks.
“And I hate costumes.”
“Are you sure you’re gay? How can you not want to dress up? Or go to the haunted house? There’s an AIDS benefit there after the parade. I heard there’s Phelps in Hell! And the Santorum and Satan Show! Frist-Fuckers of America!”
“Hunter, get it through your fucking head: I hate Halloween.”
“Has Wicca Jane hexed you?”
Wicca Jane and her girlfriend live downstairs. The entryway they share with Alan is strewn with amulets and herb bundles. He usually pokes fun at them.
“I know it’s not real, but it’s freaky.”
“At least come to Ray’s masked ball? He’s dying to meet you. You haven’t met any of my friends yet.”
He’s adamant. He’ll keep the front lights off and hole up in his kitchen until the trick-or-treaters are gone. He knows he’s being silly, and he teases me by saying he knows he’ll be safe because Jane will charm their entry before she goes to her Samhain ceremonies. He’s cute when he flirts. So, although I know he’s distracting me on purpose, I give up. Just on the argument, not on us. Besides, I’m hard again. Arguing—even bickering—gets us hot. I’m still astride his waist. I clamp my heels on his hips and bend forward until I’m doing a push-up over his face.
If he won’t say what I want to hear, then he doesn’t need to be talking. It always surprises him that I’m smaller than he is, but I often get to top him. He’s not pleased, but hasn’t objected yet. I suspect revenge will come, but until then I’ll use his good nature as much as I can.
My dick’s already grazing his throat, and he’s swallowing while trying to protest.
I laugh. “I know you don’t deep-throat, Alan, but if you won’t come out to play, then I’ll need to get my fun here.”
He says something choked that I interpret as “not fair,” but I’m pushing harder and deeper. Alan’s hands are cupping my balls and probing my hole in an attempt to make me shoot sooner. Poor Alan, I came earlier, and I’m deliberately being a slow shot. He doesn’t like this, but he’s fucking awesome at eating meat. He could swallow a foot-long frank and not blink. He takes pride in his cocksucking even when the tears are in his eyes from a ramming. I repeatedly hit his gag reflex and pause to feel his soft palate quiver on my cockhead.
Fuck! He’s got his finger in my ass, and has hit the sweet spot. I spurt in his throat, and stay deep for the last spasm to pay him for triggering me sooner than I wanted.
He may hate deep-throating, but he’s a slut for sperm, and nurses at my shrinking dick to get it all.
“Fuck, Alan, don’t, man. You know that feels too—ah fuck.”
He’s flipped me, and is tormenting my cock and balls. They’re too sensitive, and I’m squirming and pleading in no time.
“Back off about Halloween, Hunter—I’m warning you.”
I nod. At that moment I’d agree to anything, but later I realize he took a Halloween deal instead of fucking me while I was helpless. He hasn’t had my ass yet. I don’t give that up easily. I’ll bottom for the right sort of guy, which is just as well as I invariably fall for other tops. I’m not sure yet if Alan’s one under that sweet-natured exterior. He may really be just a big old jarhead looking for a daddy.
Now Halloween is here, and I’m making one last try. I’m not breaking my promise, but it’s fair enough to try one more time to get him to just Ray’s party. After all, I’ve skipped the parades and the benefits, but surely a party with friends is different? Alan’s good-natured about it, but still says: no. He distracts me with the new canapés he learned to make in class this week—he’s gone back to school as a culinary student—then coaxes me into bed. I know he’s trying to please because he rolls right over without our usual wrangling about who’s the real top. I don’t care why he’s presenting his hole—I fuck him hard. Afterward, I still want to go out.
“Go, don’t stay in because I’m hung up.”
I give up, but still squeeze him before I get out of bed. “Okay babe, I’ll come by tomorrow. I’ll leave directions to Ray’s on the coffee table—in case you change your mind.”
Just minutes into the masked ball and I miss Alan. Ball is a grandiose term: it’s a seething mass of smeared makeup and parade-battered costumes crammed into Ray’s loft. Everyone’s talking about the haunted house. It sounds even better than I imagined. Ray’s a six-foot-tall skinny black drag queen, so he’s both scary and convincing as Condi Rice in her Matrix storm trooper outfit. It’s fun, but I’ve seen enough. I turn to Alan to say, “Let’s go” but of course he’s not with me. Shit, I must be falling for him if I’d rather be home with him than out on my favorite night.
I slide out of the party, and head to his place. I know he’ll ignore the doorbell even though all the ankle-biters are home with sugar highs by now. The porch light’s off to keep trick-or-treaters away and I search for the door handle. Something scratches my face. I yelp and freeze. It hits my scalp. I inch my hand to my cell—it has a penlight—and point it. Fuck. An herb bundle to protect the entry. I’ll kill Wicca Jane. I let go of speed dial, and use the penlight to go up Alan’s stairs. He’d shyly given me a key a few days ago. He’s awful sweet for such a big lug.
