Apologies for the interval of silence. Chapter Five follows, moving along a story that can stand alone but is a continuation of the first one I posted, "Divine Neglect," (/nifty/gay/adult-youth/divine-neglect) which was itself slightly revised and recently posted in gay/beginnings under the title, "As Flies to Wanton Boys." It may help, but it is not necessary to read one or the other version. The author-- park517@aol.com -- welcomes comments and dedicates the story to Matt, the first reader to respond to "Divine Neglect" a decade ago.
[DISCLAIMER: The following completely fictional story, the sole copyright for which belongs to the author, contains explicit depictions of sexual intercourse between men and should not, therefore, be read by anyone under the legal age of consent in whatever jurisdiction or by anyone offended by homoerotic and/or pornographic material. It is forbidden to post the text electronically or disseminate it in any manner without permission of the copyright holder.]
Doctor of the Heart -- Chapter Five
In the event, the movie was free. Tommy wanted to see something Iranian and grainy with illegible subtitles at the museum. We went. Mitya napped. I fidgeted. Even Tommy agreed after about an hour that he wasn't getting much out of it. My favorite pizza joint had great food but no air-conditioning, so we took two of their finest with everything back to my place and consumed them and an inappropriate amount of beer to wash them down. I don't know what got into Tommy during the meal, but when we finished and the coffee was beginning to percolate, he leaned back in his chair and asked, "Would you mind telling me, Mitya, what you didn't like about the parade yesterday?"
"But I did like it. It was amusing and mostly nice. Why do you think I was disapproving?"
"Because Yves told me you went home right afterwards. What parts were not mostly nice?"
"They were not important. Really, I had a good time. It was happy and impressive for the large part."
"But there were some small parts that bothered you, weren't there? I was right behind one of the leather groups and I looked up and saw you looking like a storm cloud."
"Well, then, you saw those men who had other men on chains, like dogs. I hated that doing. When I first found Rifat, my sergeant had put the collar of a dog on him. It is not human. It is horrible."
"It's not my taste, either," Tommy said languidly. "But it's just role-playing, a kind of sexual make-believe that some gays and even straights get a lot of pleasure doing."
"In the bedroom in the darkness, perhaps it can be understood," Mitya said. "On the street, it is very ugly. I am sorry, Tommy, I have lost a friend because of such games. He has become degraded, and I loved him very much. And that love is gone now, too."
"Forgive me, Mitya," Tommy pulled back. "I didn't know. And it's none of my business. Would you like to talk about Rifat some more? Would the two of you have been able to live together as lovers openly in Montenegro?"
"Probably not. At least it would have been hard. Gays do not have parades there. They hide. Or they run away. Here, yes, things are better, but also it may be that some people go too far. Or so it seems to me. I am from away, a stranger, though, and I do not have the right to make criticism."
"Of course you do," I interjected. "Mitya, sometimes I worry that you are too polite or afraid of offending people by saying or showing what you believe."
"It is maybe that I am not sure what I believe, Yves. I used to be generally certain about many things. I did not ask many questions of myself then, but now I cannot to feel so sure of the way I think or understand living. Causing Rifat to die has made me to feel of no worth."
"But you didn't cause him to die." Tommy leaned intently across the table. "You saved his life. You gave him love. You could not have done anything more."
"You are so certain, Tommy. I am not. And not just about Rifat. About the parade, for instance, I do not understand why are so many signs about pride or gay pride. What is that? Why should gays be prideful?"
"Proud," I answered. "Not prideful. We are proud that we are open about ourselves, that we do not run away and hide anymore. Proud because we are not ashamed." I went and got the coffeepot off the stove. Tommy waited till I put it on the table and poured for the three of us.
"It's more political than that," he said. "Gay pride is a way of saying that we are not like everyone else but still we are just as entitled to dignity and respect and equal rights as everyone else. It's a slogan for mobilizing gays and lesbians to come together to demand equal treatment."
"But," asked Mitya, "are you truthfully proud not to be like other men or are you pretending so that you can shock people and make them to pay attention to you? Even if I felt assured that I wanted sex only with men, I do not think I would want everybody to know of that about me. Not from shame but from privateness."
"They're almost the same thing, though," I said a little hotly. "Mitya, you just said that it would have been hard for you and Rifat to live together as lovers where you come from. But living in secret, living a lie would have been awful, too, wouldn't it? It would mean living outside the rest of the community, and pride is a way of saying that we are a full and natural part of the community. How can you be against that?"
"I am not against it for other people, Yves. I do not express myself well. It is that I do not want to wear a badge or carry a sign that says I am different in this sexual way. I hope I will be proud to be a good doctor some day. I will always have some kind of pride in my family and in being from Montenegro. But I do not think I should feel pride that when I look at you, Yves, I feel desire for your body."
"You do?" I blushed with pleasure and not a little hope.
"Don't flirt, Yves," Tommy cut in. "We're talking about politics, not romance. Mitya was just giving a hypothetical example. But he was also saying, I think, that it is better for him to deny his sexual identity than to advertise it. That is a very old-fashioned way of thinking, Mitya, and it has caused lots of misery."
Tommy spoke passionately, with a note of anger. "If gay men do not stand up for themselves and for each other, they will go on being persecuted, even killed. Pride may not be the perfect word, but without it we have no defense against hate."
"I am old-fashioned then," Mitya snapped back. "To my way of mind, it is very dangerous to act proud of something most people do not like at all. Like the men with collars in the parade. Seeing that made me angry even though I have sympathy for men who love only men, even though I may be such a man myself. But if I felt so much provoked to dislike by what I saw, how do ordinary people feel when they see what being gay can to mean? You will not get dignity and respect that way, I do not think. You will get only more hate."
"Well, I admit..."
Mitya put up his hand. "Also, Tommy, before it is forgotten, I was not being hypothetic when I said I had desire for Yves. I know you have such a feeling. Why should not I also?"
"Yves and I have gotten beyond those feelings," Tommy said quietly. I said nothing. I avoided looking at Mitya, afraid he would see how naked my feelings were. Fortunately, he was still concentrating on Tommy.
"Tommy," he said, "Tommy, forgive me if I do not completely believe what you say. I do not think it is possible not to hold feelings for the first person you have love for. I came to Canada really because of such feelings. I wanted to get away from Yugoslavia. That is true. But I wanted to get with my first love again. Rifat remembered me about him."
"Reminded you?" I asked.
"Yes, reminded. And I hoped - it was so stupid - that he would bring Rifat back." Mitya's shoulders hunched up. That look of terrible grief came back into his eyes. I was afraid he would cry and that, once again, I would not know how to help him.
"You found him?" Tommy was being matter-of-fact.
"Yes. In Toronto. I had the house number but no telephone, so I just went to there and ringed the chime."
"Rang the bell," I said.
"Yes, bell. An older man came to the door and would not let me to see Ivo."
"Ivo? That is his name. Like Yves?" Goosebumps popped up on my arms.
"I had not thought of that," Mitya said with a little smile, "but, yes, Ivo has sound like Yves."
"And you did get to see him?"
"I said to the man at the door that I had message from Ivo family for him. I said urgent, and he let me to come in. But only to hallway. Then he called for Ivo. Actually, he clapped his hands and shouted 'boy.' He was not so old, maybe 35, and I thought it was strange he would call Ivo a boy, but I said nothing. I just waited. And then Ivo came. It was terrible." Mitya stopped, and I saw that he was twisting his hands together almost violently, and he was looking down at the floor not at us.
Tommy saw, too, and he put both his hands over Mitya's to make him stop wringing them. "Tell us, Mitya," he said. "What was terrible? You told us about Rifat. This could not be any worse. Ivo was alive after all."
"Alive, yes." Mitya's voice was full of bitterness. "But after I saw him like that, the way he was, I thought he should well to have been dead. It would have been for the better."
"I don't understand," I said. "Had he been hurt? What was the matter with him?"
"He had stopped to be a man, Yves. That was the matter. He came into the hall of this house on his knees and his hands, and he was almost naked. He had a black band around his neck and some kind of shiny black pants, very small, very tight. That was all I saw at the first, and Ivo kept his face down so I could not see his eyes. He put his mouth on the shoe of the man who had called him and he waited like that until the man told him to look at me and tell him if I was a friend to him.
"Ivo looked up then and he seemed much surprised to see me, but all he said was 'Yes, master' and he put his head down again. The man told him I had a message from his family and asked Ivo if he wanted to hear it. 'You are my only family, master,' he answered. The man looked at me and lifted his shoulders..."
"Shrugged," I said.
"Shrugged," Mitya repeated. "And then he said I could go because Ivo had nothing to hear out of me. I got angry. I almost struck at him, and I said I had come from very far to see Ivo and to talk to him, and I would not leave like this. 'You want to see my boy,' the man said. 'Okay, I let you see him.' And he told Ivo to stand up in front of him, and then he pulled the little pants off and put his hands on Ivo, on his penis, and he played with it and pointed it at me.
"He said, 'This is what you want to see, isn't it? Well, take a good look and then get out. This is my boy. His cock and his ass are mine.' And he made Ivo to turn around and show me his bottom. It was very red in streaks. I could not look at it. I could not look at him. I ran to the door and outside in the street I was sick with retching.
"I still feel sick when I remind to myself of how Ivo looked. He had no hair on his body and he had two rings on his breasts and a string of metal between them. He was made not a man but a kind of grown-up doll, and when we had loved, he had been strong and alive. I do not comprehend what became to him, but it is terrible, and I have no sympathy for men who would do that to other men.
"I cannot have pride to be like such men, Tommy." He was very nearly shouting. "It is not a game, like you said, a pretending thing. It is murder of the being of a man. If some man like that put Yves on a chain, Tommy, and played with him out of his clothing in front of you, you would understand how I feel."
"Yes, Mitya, you're right. I would." Tommy had pulled Mitya's hands apart and pushed them flat on the table with his over them, holding them down. Now he let go. "What you saw was awful, but what you couldn't see is important, too. From what you say, your friend was not a prisoner. He was not being kept like that against his will. Maybe his will has been destroyed somehow, but it is more likely that this is the life he wants. We think it is terrible. He may think it is wonderful. What you didn't see is how he and the man found one another and established their relationship. Ivo may be lost to you, but it could be that he has found himself."
Mitya stared at Tommy, furious. Then he turned to me. "You say I am too polite. Okay, I stop now to be polite." He switched back to Tommy. "You speak foolishness, Tommy, my friend. A man cannot find himself on his knees, letting another man to beat him. That is a self-death..."
He hesitated. "Suicide," I put in.
"Yes, suicide of the soul. Thank you, Yves. You would not stand by and let a man jump off a high building, I think. You would try to stop him. And you should not approve of men, of gay men who you are so proud of, who push other, weaker men out windows of high buildings. If a husband hits his wife, she can go to family or to the police to make him to stop. But you think if a man beats his lover who is also a man, you should be proud of them both.
"That is stupid thinking. Stupid and dangerous. If gays want honor for being gay, Tommy, there are some things they do that they should not put on parade and some kinds of gays they should not walk with in parade or any time."
Mitya did not shout, but his voice was passionate with loathing, and neither Tommy nor I knew how to respond. Finally, Tommy stood and put his hand out to Mitya. "You are a fine man, a noble man, Mitya, but you are ignorant of our world. Gays are in the middle of a very important struggle here, and we cannot afford to exclude any group that will share in fighting for the rights of all of us. At least, not as long as what they do is legal.
"It may make you sick, but men like Ivo usually surrender their freedom because they desire to do so. That kind of sex is legal. Sex with children, though, is not legal. If Rifat had lived and you had brought him here, you might have been arrested. Then you would want the help and support of gays like me. That is why we have to be proud of all kinds of gay people. If we start to push any of them away, we make ourselves more vulnerable to the people who hate all gays, whether they wear collars or neckties." He stopped, still holding his hand out to Mitya who had not taken it.
"It is late," Tommy went on. "I should go home. Good night, Yves." He bent and kissed me quickly. "Good night, Mitya. Please do not be angry with me. I respect you very much. We just see things from very different perspectives."
Mitya looked up at him and then stood up and hugged him. "I am not angry with you, Tommy. I know you are trying to learn me. But it is hard for me now. I will try to understand. I will try."
He took the coffee cups to the sink. I walked Tommy to the door. We hugged. "He is hurt even worse than I thought," Tommy said to me in a low voice. "Try to make love to him, Yves. He needs love so badly."
When I got back into the main room, Mitya was standing at the bottom of the stairs. "Goodnight, Yves," he said. "Tommy was right about one thing. It is late. Golden dreams."
"Mitya, wait," I answered. "Tell me something, please. You said the other night that you wanted to stay away from love because it hurts when it ends. I know you are in awful pain because of Rifat and of Ivo, but I think you need love. Tommy thinks so, too. Would you let me make love to you, please? Would you let me hold you and touch you and kiss you and let me be your lover and try to take away some of your pain?"
"Do you really want to do that for me?" He didn't seem surprised, more curious. "Yves, you know I think you to be very beautiful, but love is one thing and symphony..."
"Sympathy."
"Sympathy. I am without hope in English. Sympathy is something else. I do not now feel love for anyone, not even for you."
"But I feel it for you. I have felt it since the first time I looked in your eyes. And I want to see if I can give you enough love for both of us. Please, Mitya, let me try."
He smiled at me, a sad, small smile, and then he took my hand and drew me to him. "You said you are a doctor of the heart," he said. "I hope it is true. And I will tell you a little secret. I did not pull the sheet over you last night until I had looked at you a long time in no clothes. I liked what I looked at. I would have pleasure to look again."
I pulled his face down to mine and brought our mouths together. Taking his hand, I led him upstairs and into my bedroom. There, very gently, very respectfully, we undressed each other and lay down on the bed and let our hands explore each other. He was magnificent, just as I had imagined he would be. I did not dare tell him how much more I loved him in my embrace than I had when I only imagined embracing him, but I think my body broadcast my passion. And his, I thought, was broadcasting some of the same signals.
He quickly became hard between my fingers. I bent over to tongue the huge helmet that his foreskin no longer covered and lapped at it with more eagerness than I really felt. Big would have been an understatement for his penis. I guessed it was close to ten inches long and far too thick for me to suck skillfully. I like being able to give my partners more than just quick release, but with Mitya I didn't see how I could manage even that. Or how anybody could.
Running my fingers through the luxuriant growth of glossy black hair on his chest and belly, I pretended not to be daunted but merely curious. "Mitya," I looked up from his crotch to his face, "are you a typical Montenegrin? I mean, well, are all the men there endowed like you and so furry?"
"Endowed?"
"Big. You have a really large penis. It's beautiful." I was in trouble. "It's awesome. I love it. I love everything about you. I just wondered..."
"Come here," he put his arms around my back and dragged me up his body as though I were weightless. "Yves, I do not know should I be in laughter or crying. What you just asked of me about men from Montenegro and their sex and their hairiness, it is exactly what Rifat asked when he first put his hands on me down there. Why do you keep remembering me of Rifat? It is wonderful but it is scaring. And you do not look like him at all."
"Rifat loved you, and so do I. That must be the explanation. I am like him because I am just getting to know you and to know your body so I react the way he did. I don't believe in ghosts. Do you?"
"I am to be a doctor. I should not believe, but, yes, some, I do. There are many things I cannot to explain just by reasoning."
"But that doesn't mean they are inexplicable." This conversation was all wrong. My erection had subsided and so, I glanced downward, had Mitya's. "Mitya, what did you tell Rifat when he asked about Montenegrin men?"
"I made joke. I said my nickname at home was Pee-wee." He gave a short laugh. I hugged him.
"Mitya, do you know, that is the first time you've spoken of Rifat and laughed instead of mourned."
"Mourned?"
"Showed sorrow, grief. Tell me, am I like him in any other way? Yesterday, there was my underwear. What about now, without underwear?"
Mitya sat up and drew me into his lap. "You have the same number of arms, of legs, of eyes, Yves, and Rifat also had no covering on his penis, like you." He stroked my circumcised organ gently, almost absent-mindedly. "But, no, Yves, you and Rifat are not alike. He was a farmer boy but he had a very fast mind. You are a gentleman, and Tommy said it correct, you are elegant. Also, I admire your talent very much. You are to be a very fine artist, I am sure. But what I felt for Rifat, I have sorrow, I do not feel for you. Please you will excuse me."
"It's all right, I understand. But do you mind that I have very strong feelings for you? I have had them since you knocked me down on the sidewalk, and the more I know you, the more I want you. I can't help it, Mitya. Do I annoy you?"
"How could you annoy me when you are so kind to me? I am surprised by you and that you think you have fallen into love with me. I do not comprehend how that can happen. But, Yves, I like you very much. I would like very much to stay in your bed tonight and sleep with my arms around you. You are of much comfort for me."
It was better than nothing. I kissed him and kissed one of his nipples and put a hand on his cock. "Mitya, that would be wonderful. We will sleep as though we really were lovers, but before we sleep, would it be all right if I put you in my mouth? I just want to hold you and taste you. It must be a long time since you had sex. I will try to make it good for you. It will only be sex. I do not fool myself about love, but sex can be good for you, for both of us."
I felt him stiffen. "Yves, what are you speaking? Once more, these are the words of Rifat when he thought I could not be into love with him so quickly. But I was. I had washed his body where he had made it dirty from his fear, and I had fallen into love as I cleaned him."
"Then you should be able to understand how I have fallen in love with you from the moment you picked me up. It can happen that way, Mitya." I wrapped my arms around him and burrowed into his warmth. "It can. It happened to you. It has happened now to me. And it is the most wonderful feeling. Please let me make love to you."
"Not just sex?" He tilted my head back and looked into my eyes. "Will it really make you to be happy, Yves?"
"Oh, yes," I breathed. "It will." He kissed me then lightly and let his hands wander over my back.
"But you must let me to please you, too. At the same time. Why not?" He guided me off his lap and onto the bed so that my head was level with his groin and his mouth was positioned just above my genitals. "Ivo taught me to do this. He said it was like the numbers six and nine in match with each other in reverse."
I chuckled. "Mitya, it is called sixty-nine here and, I think, everywhere. I am so glad you want to do it. But you don't have to. I would be very happy just to suck you."
He didn't answer. Instead, his lips took hold of my cock and began to massage it, and his fingers caressed my balls and the sensitive flesh behind them. My erection was almost immediate and almost painful. He was slower to respond to the gentle nibbling that I did along the heavy shaft of his organ. When I drew his testicles, one by one, into my mouth, though, I heard him mew with pleasure and felt his penis begin to stiffen. I licked my way back up it and around the glistening cap and brought him back to the rigid state that had first intimidated me. This time, though, I was not scared, just eager.
I knew I could not take his full length, but I could still bring him to orgasm just by the right amount of tonguing and lip work around the head of his penis and especially on its ridge. Uncircumcised men are supposed to be even more sensitive there than the rest of us. Mitya, I would say, was very responsive. As I drew his foreskin back and circled the exposed corona lightly with just the tip of my tongue, his hands and mouth left my crotch and his whole body arched in pleasure.
"Yves, Yves," his voice rose half an octave. "That, what you are doing, is too much sensation. Please, I have not had emission in many months. I will lose myself if you work me so before you are ready also."
I didn't want to talk. I just shook my head slightly, but I did move my tongue lower down his shaft, bathing it till it was slick and then taking it very loosely between my fingers to caress. He was a little over-eager with me, but Tommy long ago taught me some yoga practices, and I was able for a while to resist the urgent, wet, hot massage I was getting in Mitya's mouth. He was determined. I was coy. But after quick forays by my tongue around the circumference of his head, followed by gentler lickings along the supporting column, I sensed the tightening of his whole body and especially his balls. The thrill of anticipation was enough to bring me to the edge, too, and I tried to squirm out of his grip so that I could discharge anywhere but inside him.
To my surprise, he wouldn't let me go. He wanted me. Maybe he wanted me in some of the way I desperately wanted him. I swallowed, took a deep breath and pushed my mouth onto its prey. It worked. We came together, to me not just a sign of good technique and mutual respect, but a real exchange of some of our essence. Casual sex, without love on both sides or either side, can bring a wonderful physical lift, but passion that comes out of the spirit and expresses itself through the body takes me, at least, to a higher plane of happiness. Even though I had to fight not to choke on the fierce jets Mitya poured into me, I felt transported when we both came up for air. I licked at the last cloudy drop of his semen and, speechless with delight, burrowed against his upper thigh. I no longer wanted just to lighten his sorrow. I wanted to take Rifat's place, exorcise his ghost and make this glorious man my love of loves.
When I felt his hand ruffling my hair, I thought I might have made some progress. The caress was loving and possessive, but the words that came from above me were of gratitude, not passion. "You are very skilled, Yves, and you have given me great, very much pleasure. You were right. Sex is good. Rifat would not want me to be a monk for ever, I think." He stopped. He was holding back a new burst of grief. I moved quickly to lie alongside him and wrap my arms around him.
"Don't, Mitya. Don't, my love," I whispered as I snuggled against him. "No more ghosts. Not tonight. Not ever again."
He said nothing, but he did allow me to nestle there and, in that delicious intimacy, to fall asleep. We woke together, and it seemed to me that in his smile and in the way he stroked my back, he was acknowledging something more than gratitude, a fondness that was not love but was a step, I prayed, in that direction.
"I must to exercise now," he announced as he rolled away from me and off the bed. "Would you like to watch again? Or," he grinned, "it would be good for you to do it with me."
"Not until I pee and brush my teeth and shave and wake up some more, thank you," I said a little stiffly. Didn't he like my body? I liked it. I'm fit, and fortunately I don't have to get all sweaty to stay that way. I left the bed and tried not to glance back at Mitya's nakedness as I went into the bathroom.
After I'd been in the shower a few minutes, I heard him come in and use the toilet. Then his head peeked around the shower curtain. "Good morning, Yves," he said. "I did not mean to tease you or make you angry. Are you angry?"
"No, not at all. Would you like me to prove it?"
"How?"
"Come in here with me. I'll wash you. It is what Canadians do the morning after they first make love."
"When in Rome...," he laughed and stepped in next to me. He was sweaty, and I couldn't resist. I bent down and licked his stomach, then made a long sweep of my tongue from just above his navel up to his clavicle. Somewhere on that path I must have touched a special place because when I finished, I saw that his head was thrown back and his eyes shut. I moved on to his throat and then his jawline and back to the lobe of his ear.
"Oh, Yves." It was almost a moan. "You must not to do this." But he let me go on. He even put a hand behind my head to guide me back down to his chest and from there to the other ear. I braced myself with my hands against his hips and then pressed into him until I felt his erection against my own stomach. He said nothing as I took it in one hand and nothing as I lowered myself to embrace his knees and, stretching mightily, to swallow the engorged head of his cock.
"That is so good." Both his hands clamped on my head. I put the palm of my free hand between his legs, brushing his testicles with my wrist as I lifted my middle finger into the cleft of his ass. Would he like being groped there? I didn't know, but I wanted to explore every part of him. And he didn't protest as my fingertip brushed his anus. He actually wiggled, adjusting himself so that his legs were wider apart and I could push deeper. As I did, though, he gave another moan, a loud one, and the organ that had been sliding through my fingers and between my lips suddenly turned from flesh to iron, a cannon barrel from which hot, liquid grapeshot poured into me and, as he withdrew, over me.
I turned my face up into the flow of the shower to let the water clean me, but Mitya blocked the spray. He lifted me to my feet and licked his seed from my forehead and cheek and then, with a deep, contented sigh, he kissed me. Not passionately, not urgently, but hard on my lips.
"You are wonderful, Yves. It is the truth," he said. "And it is wonderful that you love me so much that you will do such things on me. You are a very loving person, Yves, but you should not to waste your lovingness on me since it is so that I cannot to give love back. You understand that about me. Yes?"
"I understand that you are that way now. But you can love. You did. And you can again. It just takes time and having someone love you deeply, the way I do."
"I do not think the shower is where we should have such talk. The shower is for washing, and I am going to wash you. Without conversations."
He did wash me. Actually, he scrubbed me, as though he were cleaning a child. Even when he worked on my cock and balls, the touch was clinical, caring the way a nurse might be with a patient, not erotic, not the fondling of a lover. Still, having Mitya touch me would have been a treat any time. With both of us naked, the pleasure rose to another level and so did my penis. Mitya, though, pretended not to notice, not even when he was toweling me off and, bending down to dry my legs, was almost blinded by my erection.
(To be continued.)