Well, something did happen, actually.

  “You want it?” I asked after dinner.

  “Yes, please,” he said, like a little child. Fucking pathetic.

  “Well, you can look but you can’t touch,” I said. And I sat back at the dinner table and pulled my dick out, spit into my hand, and started jacking off. When he reached down to his own crotch, I said, “Don’t,” and he didn’t. So he watched like a starving old man while I shot my load, catching it up in my hand, then leaning over and waving it under his nose, letting him smell the saltiness before I licked my own hand clean.

  I graduated a few days later and left town.

  Back in Colorado, I got a Christmas card from him. He must have gotten my address from the alumni office. It was nothing very personal, just a noncommittal, generic card. But inside, above his signature, he’d written, “Call me. Please.” And his phone number. I never called. I guess it felt good, in a twisted sort of way, to think of some fat old guy having a hopeless crush on me. Fuck.

  And then, on Valentine’s Day, another card, this time in a red envelope. But this card was homemade—a photo pasted onto a folded piece of paper. A photo of a heart. A real one. A real human heart.

  And inside he’d written, “I don’t expect you’ll phone, but here’s my number again.” The dumb fuck.

  Then, the next Christmas, another card, though without anything but his signature inside. And another one the next Christmas. And then nothing. That was three years ago. That was all I ever heard from him. Maybe he just gave up. Maybe he’s dead. I guess I really don’t want to find out. Y’know? Whatever. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

  AIDS Is Over

  Karl von Uhl

  AIDS IS OVER, announced the graffiti, from billboards to bus stops. HIV IS A LIE, similarly, was stenciled throughout the city.

  Jarrod and Marcus stood in line with countless others, waiting to enter FabYooBliss by Chunklet, their favorite weekend club. They went to anything Chunklet and Hunklet produced: Club Wearisome, for which they dressed up; Science Fair by Night, for which they dressed down; (A Rave Called) Chicken Thigh, which sent them both to the racks. C and H had the best d.j.’s, the best music, the best crowd, the best VIP lounges, the best boys, and the best drugs.

  Marcus noticed the stenciled graffito on the sidewalk. HIV IS A LIE. He poked Jarrod and said, “Is that a new club or something?”

  “No. It’s, uh, something else,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  Jarrod rolled his eyes. “Um, Marcus…”

  “What?”

  “It’s, like, really hard to get in a party mood if we have to talk about stuff like that.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Just some stupid saying some people are writing everywhere.” Jarrod was wearing a zebra-striped, Lycra tank top and baggy denim pants. A small hit of E kept him warm in his windbreaker. “Are you stoned yet?” he asked.

  “Nah, I’m saving my drugs for later,” Marcus answered. He dressed in baggies as well, with a tasteful half-inch of leopard print boxers visible above the belt-line, and an oversized Big Dogs T-shirt, which he wore for camp. Both young men were clean-shaven, as was the predominant fashion of the young men around them.

  The line progressed smoothly and soon they were inside, surrounded by a million floating points of light from a mirrored ball. The music was loud enough to vibrate their kidneys. They checked their coats with Barnstormella, the World’s Fiercest Coatcheck Grrrl, and went to the dance floor.

  “If you believe,” sang Cher.

  I am so pissed, thought Jarrod. This song is way old and they’re playing it way too early.

  Marcus danced in curious, half-formed moves, alternately intensely lyrical and brusque, curved and peaked, spliced with epicene emotion and affectlessness. He surveyed the crowd, and caught himself feeling awestruck by their general beauty—so casual, serene, and energized.

  The crowd whirled around them, believing in life after love, no dancer necessarily partnered, but everyone on the floor appearing to dance with themselves, with each and none other, all partnered to all and none, lifting in one apparent communal beat that thumped neither/or, believing, believing, believing. Jarrod loved this feeling. He didn’t always feel it and thought it was a shame when it didn’t happen, and on those occasions he more often than not blamed the crowd, or to a lesser extent his drugs. He danced in his customary fashion, making the same move over and over, feeling the beat consume him.

  After about thirty pulsating minutes on the dance floor, they took a break in the subbasement VIP lounge to drink some orange juice. The forced air in the lounge was cool and wet, the distinctive San Francisco humidity intact.

  “You ever wonder what the words mean? I mean, in songs?” asked Marcus.

  “What do you mean?” Jarrod produced a small brown vial of crystal. He up-ended the vial, twisted the cap, put it in his nose, and snorted. He made a face as the white powder stung his sinuses.

  Marcus took the vial. “Like that one really old song, ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’? It was, like, all ‘don’t you leave me this way, I can’t survive,’ blah blah blah. And then all those people, like, die of AIDS.” He snorted the powder and tossed his head back. “It’s like creepy. How there’s this song about leaving. And then people die.”

  “You think too much, honey,” said Jarrod. “Much too much. Now let’s go to the restroom and suck some cock.”

  “Doesn’t anyone date anymore?”

  “Marcus,” said Jarrod, exasperated.

  “OK, OK, gimme another toot.”

  The restroom, as usual at Chunklet and Hunklet’s productions, was a festive orgy. If you really had to pee, the best place to do it was outside in the adjacent alley, because as soon as your dick was exposed here, someone started sucking it. And if you had to poop, your best effort was to find someone who could open the girl’s restroom, which was kept locked.

  Marcus had a big dick, fashionably uncircumcised and lovingly veined, as if sculpted, and a sturdily boned, fair-skinned body. The crystal spun through his senses as he and Jarrod entered the restroom, their simple shirts dangling from the waistbands of their jeans. The black light from the fixtures played seductively on the crowd, making teeth and eyes of formerly whole faces. With a fluorescent felt-tip pen, someone had written above the stalls, AIDS IS OVER. Maybe that’s Chunklet’s next party, thought Marcus.

  He saw Jarrod making out with a young tattooed Hispanic boy. Marcus liked watching his friend make out; it made him feel good.

  Marcus didn’t have to wait long with his dick out. A boy with buzz-cut brown hair and green eyes, shirtless and smooth, walked up to him, and started stroking it. “Great cock,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Marcus.

  “I’m gonna suck you,” said the boy. He was maybe 23, a little old, but still very nice looking, perhaps a mixed Polynesian and southern German heritage, or else a touch of Cherokee somewhere. It was hard to tell in this light.

  “Yeah? That’s good for a start,” said Marcus.

  The boy licked the cuff of Marcus’s foreskin and Marcus growled. “Your cock tastes good,” said the boy.

  “Yeah,” said Marcus, “so suck it.”

  The boy took Marcus’s hardening cock into his mouth, worked his tongue under the lip of the foreskin. He brought his hand up to roll the skin back, inspected Marcus’s cock, then took it in his mouth again. He licked in a circular motion.

  Marcus leaned back and growled again, feeling a little light-headed. There was an odd tangy and metallic smell in his nose. He inhaled sharply through his nose, and felt something slither down his throat. More crystal, he guessed. The boy’s tongue on his cock was making him hot.

  He looked over at Jarrod. A slim black guy had joined him and the Hispanic boy. The three were sharing a single kiss, united by tongues, licking each other’s mouth, their cocks out, in varying degrees of hardness.

  Marcus watched as the black guy knelt and starting sucking their cocks. First one, then the other, alternating his attention. Jarrod reached over and squeezed the Hispanic guy’s nipples, and the Hispanic guy tilted his head back. Marcus felt a tongue on his nuts and growled his approval. This boy knows what to do, he thought.

  The thundering backbeat reached even here, and resounded through Marcus’s head as the kid sucked him. Marcus grabbed his cock and started jacking it, running the foreskin back and forth over his cockhead as the handsome boy licked. The tune was changing, subtly, although Marcus could tell. “I’m blue,” sang the voice, shaded by electronic tints. He’d heard this song a few times before, but it made him feel sexy wherever he was. Here, with a handsome boy sucking his cock, tonguing his piss-slit, he felt as if he could live forever in this moment.

  “I wanna fuck you,” said Marcus.

  “Awriiight,” said the boy, drawling out the word. He turned around and dropped his pants.

  Cool, thought Marcus. The boy’s ass was perfect: two smooth round mounds of flesh blending seamlessly into his thighs, no trace of hair, and a hole hungry to be fucked. Marcus pushed his spit-slicked cock into the boy’s crack.

  The boy shifted his weight twice, and squirmed against Marcus’s cock. Marcus felt his cockhead dig right into the boy’s cleft, a heat growing more and more intense as his cock was swallowed up. “Yeah,” said Marcus. “That’s what I like.”

  The boy continued squirming, his hole enveloping Marcus’s cock. He clenched his hole in time to the music. Marcus felt the heat of the mucous-slick walls on his cock, sending a shower of sparks from his balls to his head. Instinctively he started humping, short, small, easy strokes into the boy’s ass.

  The boy, keeping his knees in a high, wide squat, bent up at the waist and, eyes closed, turned to kiss Marcus. Marcus licked the boy’s face, watching Jarrod out of the corner of his eye. Jarrod was sucking face with the Hispanic boy, the black guy nowhere to be found. No, wait, there he was, licking the Hispanic boy’s cheesy hightops. Jarrod jacked the Hispanic boy’s cock. The Hispanic boy raised his arms for Jarrod, and licked his deltoid as Jarrod licked his armpit. Jarrod raised his face to the Hispanic boy’s and kissed him. The Hispanic boy kissed back, running his hands over Jarrod’s torso.

  Marcus kept an easy rhythm in the boy’s ass, taking his time fucking him. He looked down at his spit-soaked cock gliding into the boy’s ass, and drooled a little more spit onto it. Then he drooled onto the boy’s back and bent forward so that he could smear it on with his torso. He reached forward and grabbed the boy’s cock. Like his, it was intact.

  “You’re uncut like me,” said Marcus.

  “Yeah,” said the handsome boy.

  “I really like that.”

  “Yeah.” The boy grunted. “Fuck me some more.”

  Marcus placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders and stroked his cock to the hilt into the boy’s ass, then slowly pulled back. Careful to keep the head lodged inside, he waited a moment before pushing back in. When he pushed in, he heard the boy whimper, a high, sighing noise, almost girlish. It turned him on. He stroked his cock out again, waited a moment, then pushed in full length. Again, the boy whimpered and squirmed as he settled his ass against Marcus’s groin. Marcus throbbed his cock, embedded in the boy’s smooth ass. The boy moaned and bucked.

  “That feels really good,” said the handsome boy.

  “Yeah.”

  The song wove itself into a longer mix, laced with vocoder and backbeat, still singing something about someone who’s blue, a piano cascading around the synthesized backbeat. Marcus had trouble understanding the words, but rode the beat in his head. His hard cock felt as if it were dancing in the handsome boy’s ass. Marcus began dancing along with the two rhythms—the insistent thudding backbeat and his own fuck-beat, double-time then half-time, the phase shift teasing more whimpers from the handsome boy before him, riding his hot hard cock first to, then out of, time with the omnipresent music. The crystal in Marcus’s body built structures of infinite pleasure, which vibrated with every touch—the handsome boy’s hot sloppy hole, the waves of sound from the dance floor, the humidity of sex in the room—and he knew he was high.

  He glanced at Jarrod, who was licking the Hispanic boy’s tattoos. Jarrod always got off worshipping someone’s body, and seeing it, Marcus grinned. The black guy was next to them, sucking a tall white guy’s cock. The Hispanic boy loved the attention from Jarrod. Jarrod licked the Hispanic boy’s taut belly, jacked his cock, licked his balls, then turned him around and licked gingerly at the boy’s buttocks. The Hispanic boy reached back and spread his cheeks for Jarrod. Jarrod placed his tongue right in the center of his crack, and licked the Hispanic boy’s hole.

  Seeing it, Marcus could feel a tongue on his hole, even though no one was rimming him. It must be the drugs, he thought. He kept fucking the handsome boy, running his hands along the boy’s smooth back and sides, verging into dancing with him. His whole being felt centered on his cock in the boy’s ass, on the tide of sensation washing over him, on how good each stroke felt, feeling as if he could fuck this boy all night for the sake of fucking him, of making the handsome boy feel good and liked and wanted.

  The handsome boy’s hole flexed on Marcus’s cock, sending piquant shivers into Marcus’s balls and belly. “Yeah,” he said.

  The boy turned his head. “What?” he said.

  “I said, ‘yeah.’ I like it when you do that.”

  “Yeah. It feels good.” The handsome boy turned his head forward again, impaled himself further on Marcus’s cock. Marcus ground his hips in a circular motion against the boy’s ass. The boy whimpered each time Marcus hit his sweet spot.

  Marcus saw Jarrod about to fuck the Hispanic boy. This’ll be cool, he said to himself. He wondered if he could get Jarrod’s attention, then gave up and simply hoped Jarrod would see him watching. The Hispanic boy braced himself against the wall, standing almost erect, his hard cock hidden from view. Jarrod grasped his own hard cock in one hand. Using the other to hold the Hispanic boy’s cheeks apart, he slid it in. The Hispanic boy flinched, then settled and backed up to Jarrod. Jarrod started fucking him in quick, rhythmic bursts, pistoning then stopping. Jarrod reached up and squeezed the Hispanic boy’s nipples, which made him buck hard against Jarrod’s groin.

  I oughta try that, thought Marcus. He reached forward and brushed his fingers against the handsome boy’s nipples. They were small, but erect and very hard. The handsome boy moaned. Marcus was afraid to squeeze them too hard, so let his fingers play fairly lightly on them. The handsome boy shivered and clamped his hole down on Marcus’s cock.

  “Fuck,” said the handsome boy.

  “Yeah, fucking you,” said Marcus, hardly hearing what the boy said.

  “Do you like that, too?”

  “What?”

  “You like your, um…your…” said the handsome boy.

  “Oh, no. It doesn’t feel like anything on me,” said Marcus, throbbing his cock in the boy’s ass.

  “ ‘kay.”

  Marcus started making long strokes, his balls slapping the boy’s ass. His balls felt warm, and he liked the playful impact they provided. The boy jacked on his cock. Marcus timed his strokes with the boy’s jacking hand.

  “Fuck,” said the handsome boy. “Feels like your cock’s inside mine.”

  “Cool,” said Marcus, thrusting into the boy’s ass. The handsome boy’s hole was wildly wet now, slick with mucous and dickspit.

  “I want you to fuck me,” said the handsome boy.

  “Yeah,” said Marcus.

  “I want you to fuck me forever.” He jacked diligently on his cock.

  Jarrod and the Hispanic boy were moving as one, like a machine. Marcus watched them, and for a few minutes matched Jarrod’s thrusts with his own. He threw his hands into the air and fucked the handsome boy with his entire body, accentuating his thrusts with his back and legs. The handsome boy was thrown off balance once, but Marcus caught him and kept fucking. The boy whimpered and sank against Marcus, panting and moaning.

  It was all one beat in Marcus’s head, all one hard, heavy, throbbing, thudding beat, all the drugs, all the sex, all the hole, all the cock, all the boys, all the balls, all the sweat, all the heat. It built in Marcus’s groin and slithered up his belly, igniting his spine.

  “I’m gonna…,” he said, unable to finish the sentence.

  “Yeah,” said the handsome boy.

  Marcus plowed his cock into the handsome boy’s ass, held the boy’s shoulders. He felt dangled on a precipice, the good feeling growing subtly, so slightly, but growing, encouraged by the boy’s hot ass, and he knew the slightest push would tip him over. Marcus distinctly felt the cuff of his foreskin flap over his cockhead in the boy’s ass and that did it. The rush charged from his butthole to his navel, up his chest, and into his head, and he bucked hard as he shot load after load of jizz into the handsome boy’s ass.

  The handsome boy pushed back against Marcus’s thrusts, jacked his cock, whimpered one more time. By the time Marcus stopped thrusting, the handsome boy presented him with his jizz-covered hand. Marcus hugged the boy, belly to back, kissed his neck. He looked toward Jarrod and the Hispanic boy, who were still fucking and dancing and dancing and fucking, the fluorescent graffiti floating above them.

  “I wanna do that with you again some time,” said the handsome boy.

  “Yeah,” said Marcus.

  AIDS IS OVER, said the handwringing on the wall, begging the wrong question.

  Body Symphony

  Barry Webster

  Contrary to popular opinion, Tchaikovsky was not an easy lay. I had to work damn hard to get that sucker to show me his boner.

  “William, my dear friend,” he said, “I think you are a superb fellow, but such things simply cannot be done. Sexual feelings must no longer shake my fragile soul.” He looked down.

  “Everything is consumed…“ his eyes blackened “…by music.”

  “Music? You mean it’s better than cock and balls?”

 

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