“I feel like Greta Garbo in Queen Christina,” I joked. “Saying good-bye to her room.”

  “I don’t remember Garbo smelling anyone’s armpit,” he said and offered me his other one. I took it. “And you don’t look like Garbo.”

  “No,” I said. “But that ballet dancer does!”

  “Yes,” he said. “He does, a bit.” We grinned at each other. We both knew I wasn’t jealous but the idea was an interesting one.

  “Do you wish you’d brought him back?” I said.

  “It’s your apartment,” he said, pragmatically.

  I pushed him back onto the bed.

  “Do you wish it was him who was going to fuck you right now?” I challenged.

  “Who’s going to fuck who?” he said, but we had really already decided. That night it was definitely my turn.

  “Don’t move,” I said, and I started to unbutton his jeans. “And you’ll find out.”

  He watched me as I peeled his fly open and delicately took out his cock. I rolled his foreskin between my fingers. I’m circumcised so that was always another point of interest. Sometimes we’d lie, erection facing erection, and he’d roll his foreskin down and over my glans. Tonight he lay still and I stretched the skin until it was a tube for my tongue. I probed gently, and he stirred a little as I tickled the tip of his prick, I’d never seen him quite so passive.

  He loved attention to his balls, his perineum, the shaft of his penis, but tonight I decided to remind him he had an arsehole, finish that rimming he hadn’t let me deliver on that triumphant Sunday morning. I trailed my tongue down between his legs, raised his thighs, and circled his pink pucker, slavering saliva round his hole, pushing it in with first my tongue and then my finger. He pushed slowly down, taking the finger farther into him. I pushed my middle finger in after it, and wiggled them. He felt smooth and velvety, pliable, as manipulable as a glove puppet. I looked up at him, through his legs, across his genitals, along his torso, to his face. His eyes were open and he was watching me. We smiled at each other then I pulled my hand away and sniffed my fingers, then reached up and rubbed his mouth. He wrapped his lips around them and I kneeled up and turned him over onto his stomach. He rolled easily with me, letting me do whatever I wanted.

  I pulled on a condom and lubed myself up, then I pulled his buttocks apart. He had a magnificent rear, full and round and muscular, and I would have liked to play with it longer, but even more I wanted to be inside him. I eased myself in, trying to feel every centimeter of the way, slowly and with concentration, a diamond miner searching for the great discovery that would make him rich. My prick had never felt so alive, a separate part of me with its own separate knowledge, sending urgent, intense codes to the brain. I could feel the messages traveling along my nerves, making my guts turn over, untranslatable into words my brain could understand. I thrust, spiraling down and in, pausing for a beat, then drawing slowly out. I was dripping sweat onto his back and I bent over and licked it off him, our two salts mixed but distinct. My own was sharp, a sea salt, but his was more mineral, full of other flavors. I licked between his shoulder blades, where his own sweat had collected, undiluted by mine.

  The source of that mineral flavor, I knew, was somewhere deep inside him and I thrust farther, as far as I could reach, thinking I could find it. I pushed my right hand under him and grabbed his shaft, pulling, stroking, titillating the slit then pushing his foreskin down and caressing the base. I was deep inside him; my own prick had never seemed so long and I could feel his blood pulsing. Then he came, the sperm soaking my hand and running over and through my fingers, making a pool on the sheet. I sank into him with relief, then with a surge found I was coming myself.

  We both lay there. I didn’t want to pull out of him. Our sweat glued my chest to his back. We didn’t say anything. Then he turned his head so that he could see me.

  “Oh, Greta, do it again,” he said. I started to laugh and the movement dislodged my cock from his arse.

  “Give me a couple of minutes and I will!” I said.

  The amazing thing was that I did. The second time it was a battle of bodies; he wasn’t passive any longer. He forced me onto my back and impaled himself on me, easing himself up and down until I grabbed him and forced him to stop. Stop, just for a moment. I wasn’t ready to come again, I didn’t want to come again, not until I had explored him more. We both stank and I wanted to roll in the smell.

  Coming was a slower, gentler thing this time. First he came over my face as I licked his balls and he jacked himself off. Then he licked my face clean and in his saliva I caught an echo of that mineral quality I’d found in his sweat. He sat on my chest and I gazed at the small of his back as he stroked me with a careful attention. I came into his hand and he turned round and clamped his palm over my mouth, feeding me my come.

  He left New York two days later, on a Sunday morning, appropriately enough. I didn’t go to the airport; we would both have felt silly saying good-bye there. I stayed in bed. We kept in touch, mainly by email, but he wasn’t a good correspondent. Then my attention was distracted by a painful, long passion that finally drove me to leave New York myself. Now, much calmer again, I think about what I call “the Erik time.” It’s like one of those perfect vacation memories, where you look back and ask yourself, “I wonder what it would be like to live there?” and you know there are far too many things about you that make it impossible. But you can’t help feeling you’d like to try. He was a holiday from love and we all need a holiday sometimes.

  THE HIPPIE DOWN-LOW

  Natty Soltesz

  The three beautiful hippie boys passed Nate on the parkway in their chugging red Honda. He saw them only briefly but the image seared: their easy smiles, the way the late-afternoon sunlight backlit the ropes of smoke from their joint. Their lives seemed effortless and full.

  And that was, in fact, the truth of it. The hippie boys had their own jokes, language, and intimate history. It formed an aura that anyone could witness but few could access.

  Their Honda told the story under its mats and in the cracks of its seats. Cigarette cellophanes that once held kind buds, sticks from the ends of burnt Nag Champa, a Hacky Sack someone had lost and forgotten about. It was all there: country cruises in the back cut, late-night beer runs, outdoor summer shows.

  Like Nate, the hippie boys were on their way to the Dead show at the Starlight Amphitheater, forty miles outside of Groom. But Nate was driving a year-old Grand Am, and the girl beside him, Tara, was sullen as she packed a bowl of dirt weed. It was her car. The only reason Nate was along was that she’d bought him a ticket. He was sure she had a crush on him, which only made it worse. He would’ve given anything to be in that golden moment with those boys, but all he could do was watch as they passed.

  Tara surprised him at the show with an eighth of ’shrooms. Later, when the landscape had begun to melt and merge with the sky, Nate realized he’d lost her—ditched her, maybe. He hadn’t done it on purpose, but he felt carefree for the first time that day.

  Galactic was the opening band. Nate was lying on the grass wondering if the stars in the darkening sky were actually there when a boy looked down on him.

  “Anything interesting up there?” he asked. He had a wide smile on his handsome, scruffy face.

  “Lots,” Nate said.

  “I’ll bet,” the guy, whose name was Conrad, said. Nate started to get up, and the guy held out his hand. Nate took it. It was warm. The guy pulled him up, and Nate saw all three of them. It didn’t seem possible, yet there they were.

  Next to Conrad stood a pale, dreadlocked guy, named Jake, who passed a glass pipe to the third—a short but bearish guy named Bowser.

  “Are they coming on soon?” Bowser said. He took a hit from the pipe and exhaled, looking at Nate through glassy eyes. “I hope they play ‘Saint Stephen.’ ”

  “They might,” Jake said. Nate would’ve been next in line for the bowl but Jake grabbed it from Bowser’s hand. “Stubby said they played it in Seattle last week.” He brushed back his immaculate white-boy dreadlocks before taking a hit. “ ‘Saint Stephen’ into ‘Dark Star,’ ” he said through held breath.

  “Oh, man, if they play ‘Dark Star’ I’ll suck their dicks,” Bowser said.

  Conrad laughed. “You’ll suck their dicks if they play ‘Happy Birthday.’ ” Conrad took the bowl that Jake held out to him, but passed it to Nate instead. He smiled as Nate held the bowl to his lips. It crackled and glowed.

  Conrad introduced him around. Jake shook his hand but didn’t smile. Bowser seemed too fucked up to care about anything. Conrad danced next to Nate in the grass for the entire show. Once Nate considered telling him how he’d seen them earlier, how he’d envied their lives and lamented his. Then he inhaled, exhaled, and let it go.

  Somehow he was still with them in the parking lot. His trip was subsiding into an electric buzz.

  “Did you come with anyone?” Conrad asked. His arm kept brushing against Nate’s.

  “Just a girl.”

  “You should come party with us.”

  “She was my ride.”

  “We can be your ride,” Conrad said. He was all straight teeth and floppy hair and a sinuous body that flexed under his T-shirt and shorts. “We live just outside of Groom.”

  “That’s where I live.”

  “No shit?” Bowser said, stumbling beside them, a beer in one thick hand and a packed bowl in the other.

  “Don’t you have to go to school tomorrow?” Jake said with a sneer.

  “I graduated last year,” Nate said.

  “Yeah, I mean, fuck it,” Bowser said. He put the bowl to his lips but blew out. Pot flew everywhere.

  “Aw fuck man!” Jake said. Conrad shot Nate a grin. They floated through the hiss of nitrous tanks and the murmur of the dispersing crowd. Just before they got in the Honda, Nate caught sight of Conrad cupping Bowser’s butt in his hand.

  An hour later they were approaching Conrad and Bowser’s house, which looked to be a converted garage. There were no windows. Strange how it sat alone, and only a yard from the roadside. The front door was open and the warm light from the room wafted out onto the dark road. Any passing car could glimpse the back of a couch, an orange lamp, a wood-paneled wall covered in posters.

  “You guys just leave the door open?” Nate asked as they pulled up.

  “Trisha does that,” Jake said.

  “She’s hoping some dude’ll breeze in off the highway and sweep her off her feet,” Bowser said.

  “Fuck off,” Jake said. The four of them headed inside. Trisha was lying on the couch, watching “Cops.” Jake kissed her forehead.

  “What the fuck took you so long?” she said, and Jake sat next to her to do damage control.

  “Dude, he needs to get her the fuck out of here,” Bowser said once they were in the kitchen. He grabbed three beers from the fridge.

  “Stacy’s coming to pick her up after work, just relax,” Conrad said. Nate took a drink from the beer. It was ice cold and hoppy. “So Nate, who was the girl who took you to the show?” Conrad asked.

  “Nobody. Just a friend.”

  “And you left her there?” Bowser said. He held out his beer and Nate clinked it with his. “That’s awesome.”

  From the living room came Trisha’s cigarette-roughened voice. “I fucking told you I don’t care,” she said. Jake was muttering: “Baby, baby…”

  “Do whatever the fuck you want,” she continued. “You will anyway.”

  “Love…” Conrad said.

  Once Trisha was gone Jake lightened up considerably, packing copious bowls of some of the best weed Nate had ever smoked. Jake found Nate to be a willing audience for his opinions on weed—the best strains and the effects of various growing conditions and other facts that were meant to impress. Nate was just happy to be on his good side.

  There was an undercurrent in the room that Nate couldn’t place. It could have been from the mushrooms, but it felt more anxious than that. It felt sexual; not that he was schooled in such matters—Nate was a virgin. Basically.

  Junior year he’d let his girlfriend at the time, Sara, blow him at a keg party on Derry Lane. He’d managed to cum by thinking about Woody Harrelson. Sara went off to college in Arizona a month later and he was relieved to have dodged any further bullets.

  Now Nate was working at NovaStar, a telephone survey gig in Latrobe, and living with his parents in Groom. He had work friends, including Tara, and they’d spend evenings driving around and getting high. Something was missing. They were his friends by default, since everyone else had split. He’d remained, in a netherworld between high school and whatever came next.

  “No more beer,” Bowser said, cutting off Jake’s soliloquy on the mechanics of a superior gravity bong. “What are we gonna do now?” He was gnawing on a cube of raw ramen.

  “Truth or dare?” Conrad said.

  “Who goes first?” Bowser said.

  “You do ’cause you asked,” Jake said.

  “Fuck that—the new guy! You have to pick one—truth or dare?” Bowser slurred.

  “Truth, I guess.”

  “You pussy!”

  “Shut up, Bowser,” Conrad said. “Okay, truth…how many times a day do you jerk off?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe once?”

  “You’re shittin’ me,” Bowser said.

  “I live with my parents…”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “Jake next,” Conrad said. “Truth or dare?”

  “Truth.”

  Bowser cut in: “Have you ever fucked Trisha in the ass?”

  “You think she’d let me near that?”

  “Huge surprise,” Conrad said.

  “Me next!” Bowser said. “Dare dare dare.”

  “Okay…” Conrad said, with a glance at Nate. “I dare you to make out with Jake.” Bowser shrugged. Jake leaned in. Bowser pulled Jake’s head to his and mashed their mouths together. It wasn’t silly—there was tongue on both sides. It was a jolt to Nate’s whole body. Everything changed.

  They broke apart. Bowser wiped his mouth. Jake pulled back his dreads and secured them with an elastic band. He looked at Nate and laughed.

  “I think we blew his mind. Conrad’s next.”

  “Dare,” Conrad said.

  “Make out with Nate,” Bowser said. Nate had known it was coming. Conrad looked at him.

  “Shall we?” he said, stepping toward him. Nate leaned forward. It was easy, Nate thought. How could it have been so easy this whole time? Their lips met, then their tongues, and there was nothing and everything to it. Conrad’s mouth tasted sharp like cigarettes. Their bodies came together. Conrad wrapped his arms around Nate’s back, bringing them closer still, and all of it went straight to Nate’s dick.

  Then it was over. Bowser and Jake were clapping and whistling.

  “Look, he’s totally hard,” Jake said, pointing at the front of Nate’s shorts.

  “Take it out, man,” Bowser said.

  “Leave him alone,” Conrad said.

  “Fuck that, I’ll show mine,” Bowser said. He yanked down the front of his patched pants, showing his dense auburn pubes and a fat, perky cock that bounced in the air.

  “Yeah, but that’s not what we wanna see,” Jake said, and spun him around. Bowser braced himself against the counter as Jake pulled Bowser’s pants down over his ass. It was a big, firm beauty. “Spread it, dude—show the new guy.” Bowser kicked off his pants and spread his legs. Jake gave the ass a slap. “That’s the stuff right there,” he said, fondling himself through his gauze pants.

  Nate watched in a daze. Of course it had all been leading up to this. Conrad had taken off his shorts and was now stroking a respectably thick cock that hung from a thatch of jet black pubes. Jake was untying his pants.

  “Here comes the big reveal,” Conrad said. Bowser turned around eagerly. Jake let his pants fall to the floor—he wasn’t wearing underwear. Hanging there was the biggest dick Nate could’ve imagined. It looked like a submarine. The thickness of it tapered at the head, which was uncut and half-sheathed, the head slick and moist. “Something, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be afraid,” Bowser said. He took Nate’s hand and brought it to Jake’s dick. Nate wrapped his fingers around the thing, which was hot, pulsing, and alive. “Biggest dick in the Conemaugh Valley,” Bowser said. Nobody laughed. Nate hefted it in his palm, let it glide back and forth. Jake was smiling at him. He seemed used to the attention.

  “You can try sucking it,” Conrad said. Nate looked up. “If you want.” Nate paused. It was too much, with the three of them looking at him like that.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Bowser said, taking Jake’s cock from him. He dropped to his knees and pointed the cock at his open maw. Holding Jake’s balls with his other hand he gobbled down the dick, all the way to the base. Jake’s lungs deflated. Bowser went for another pass, then another, his tongue curling underneath.

  Nate became aware of Conrad moving next to him.

  “You are hard,” he said in his ear, reaching down to feel. “Mind if I take it out?” Nate didn’t answer, and Conrad slipped his hand underneath Nate’s shorts and around his dick. “Feel mine,” he said. Nate reached back and took it in his hand. He turned around and their mouths connected. Conrad dropped Nate’s shorts to the floor. They held on to each other’s arms and pressed their naked cocks together. Nate could hear Bowser slurping on Jake’s cock, Jake’s increasingly labored breathing.

  When he looked up he saw that Bowser was bent over the counter again. Jake knelt before him, his head buried between the big melon cheeks of Bowser’s butt. Bowser groaned low and long.

  Jake stood and drummed his meat against Bowser’s ass.

  “Who’s gonna do the honors?” Jake said.

  “He doesn’t care,” Conrad said, reaching over to caress Bowser’s asscheek. “Slut’ll take anything that comes his way.” He gave the cheek a slap. Bowser remained prone, his ass presented to them.

 

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