The events and characters in the following story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is purely coincidental.
My story is brief, though not inconsequential to me. Sigmund Freud might have surmised that I constructed my dream through subconscious observation. But I have always thought that Freud sounds so much like fraud. Besides which, I have never met anyone with an Oedipus complex, although there are certainly plenty of motherf**kers in the world. Trust me, I work with most of them.
The dream involved my best friend having sex with my boyfriend; regular fodder for Jerry Springer and agony aunts, I think you'll agree, but probably uncommon to most sentient beings with an IQ of over 50. So the dream was lucid, but a dream is a dream right? It's some absurd work of metaphysics, conjured up from the abstract allusions of the subconscious. Well, it was, until I confronted my boyfriend, Joe with my unholy vision. At first he shifted nervously on the sofa, trying to phrase a response. Perhaps I caught him off-guard as he stuttered something unintelligible and floundered for words.
Vivid dreams have a haunting quality about them. I was at work when an image of Joe fucking my best friend, Tony, invaded my thoughts like some unwelcome interloper. Joe was slamming my friend like a jackhammer, pulling it out to the glistening tip then ramming it back home. Tony was clinging to the bed sheets in closed-eyed delirium, sweating like a stuffed pig and jerking madly in some blind frenzy of forbidden pleasure.
The day I heard Joe's confession taught me to trust in my dreams. It taught me to give credence to the intangible and offer cynicism to the logical. It taught me to trust in my intuition as Joe appeased his conscience by imparting his intimate confessional.
Joe is black, African by origin. He is about 40 but struts around as if he's god's gift to women. His physique is lithe and muscular. His baggy clothes conceal a taut athletic frame and he sports a surprisingly large appendage. He was circumcised and has stabbed plenty of girl-meat over the years. He has even got a couple of girls pregnant, but he is scanty on detail about this. He is certainly experienced in servicing them and I don't doubt his ability to satisfy. Besides, he doesn't need references. I can testify to his sexual veracity. A smile seems to have fleetingly passed over my lips.
I have often wondered what he sees in me. After all, I am not even his preferred gender. I am just some creative type who regales him with poetry and happens not to get jealous about his dalliances with girls. I suppose that I understand that his attentions will inevitably be divided. Provided that the other party was a girl, it did not seem to be conflict of interests to me somehow. I was just his special guy who tolerated that certain loveable roguishness. Besides, sexuality is more fluid in Africa. People tend not to attach labels to the direction that that their desire leads them. They lack the western fixation to categorise sexuality into neat little boxes.
I diverge. I will attempt to unravel the spool of events and retrace time back through its dark labyrinthine corridors. I will attempt to confront this demon of betrayal. My friend is called Tony. When events took place he had nowhere to live, so I allowed him an indefinite stay in my London flat. We've known one another since school, which amounts to 25 years. We've shared loss, heartache, and put the world to rights on numerous occasions. I would say that he is scholarly; he attended Oxford University. He has also studied many of the mystic teachings of Hinduism. He has often lectured me about the importance of transcending the ego and overcoming the more base instincts within myself (ironic laugh). I would have even described him as a mentor; a platonic friend who bestowed wisdom and learning.
That morning, I left the flat for work. Tony looked at me with his big brown doey eyes. "Have a good day, Graham," he grinned. "Thanks." As usual, I did not relish the idea of 8 hours with certain homophobic work colleagues. Joe was lying on the bed in his shorts, his mind assuredly on pussy. Tony reclined on the sofa, looking furtively though the bedroom door over a herbal tea and a rice cake. He had no intention of wasting time. "Hey Joe, d'you want a coffee?" "Huh?" Joe was still recovering from the previous night of excess. "Coffee. I can make some toast for you too if want?" Joe was roused slightly from his stupor. "Okay, that would be nice." He intoned, afraid to open his eyes and unleash a blinding flood of daylight. The breakfast was soon forthcoming. Tony lounged next to Joe on the bed, kicking his feet out from the edge like some coy debutante. He eyed him demurely as Joe ate with considerable relish. "Is that okay for you Joe?" "Hmm... nice" Joe folded the remaining piece of toast into his eager maw. "Would you like a massage, Joe?" Joe felt hesitant, but then dismissed the idea that there was some hidden agenda to the offer. "Okay."
Tony had studied Shiatsu massage for years. He knew all there was to know about 'meridians' and 'pressure points'. He was well versed in which buttons to press. He had even advertised in gay circles as a masseuse. His stories of offering optional extras to clientele had amused me on numerous occasions. Joe turned over, sinking his face into the pillow. Expert hands kneaded and caressed his back. Joe was grateful for the attention. He was still dazed from the drinking spree the previous night. I have no doubt that he wished that they were my hands easing away his knots and tensions, however, he felt a certain inexorable stirring. "I can do your chest too if you want?" Tony purred, trying to sound incidental. "Okay."
Tony gazed in awe as he applied his hands to the compact muscles of Joe's chest. He shifted his knees, bestriding him, hungry eyes flitting over the large twitching outline in Joe's shorts. He removed his shirt, revealing a rather scrawny torso, working his hands over the temporary object of his desire. As he felt Joe's prick pressing into his thighs, he began to work the ridge of his butt over it. Perhaps, he may have pondered the ethical connotations of his actions, but it seems unlikely. After trawling the Internet for some years, experience had taught him not to miss the opportunity of a discreet ad-hoc fuck. With his short, skinny body, blotchy skin and flat batty, he did not have the luxury of choice. Any hard, cylindrical object was eligible. To this day, I still ponder the disappearance of the large candles that I used to own.
I would like to think that Tony considered our 25 year friendship as he yanked off Joe's shorts and pushed his undergarments to his knees. But as his bare buttocks toyed with Joe's impressive shaft, it seems more likely that his mind was occupied with more basal urges. Tony began to jerk off his large ill-gotten prize, looking it over with delight. It was a good 9 inches and thick. Around the impressive edifice was a dense matt of pubes trailing of to the undulating foothills of large bulbous balls. Tony knew only too well that his quarry had a high libido. I had informed him of Joe's sexual marathon some years ago, when he had serviced three girls in one day while in Nigeria. Perhaps that is part of his allure; a beguiling aura of masculine sexual potency.
Tony was consumed with a rabid lust as he continued to work the prick with expert hands, guiding it greedily to his insatiable butt. Despite its dimensions, it was quickly embedded with one swift downward thrust, sending Tony into hysteria of frenzied lust. He tossed himself maniacally as he rode the rearing beast at full gallop. Panting, sweating and looking skyward in gratitude as Joe's rigid manhood rammed deeper into his well-explored arsehole. There was no need to look at Joe, or savour a kiss. No need to touch his athletic body. There was only one sun burning in his universe, a furnace that was being stoked in his loins and illuminating his being with the power of atomic fusion. As Tony ascended towards greater bliss in his rapacious loins, the world outside paled into a dark occlusion. Past lives, friendships, eclipsed by the incandescent flame of wanton desire. Sensation and baseness had woven its spell of moral waywardness and the great guru no longer practised what he preached. He was wallowing in the mire of debauchery and joyous in his enslavement to lust.
As Tony drove Joe's organ ever deeper, the rising tide of orgasm overtook him. Joe grabbed his thighs anxious to discharge his own frustration into the loose-moralled slut who had 'given it up' at the first available opportunity. Tony had no thought of what was attached to the prick as he shot his load over Joe's hairy chest, marvelling at the exquisite torment that escaped his being in long ecstatic squirts.
Joe continued to thrust upwards, escalating his own selfish bliss that had no regard for form or type. This was just an easy fuck; somewhere to pour frustration without utterances of 'I love you'. Joe slam-dunked his shot into the ring like a pro. He groaned as his load sprayed up into the piece of nubile flesh that had given him release.
Tony grinned and climbed of him, his mind already preoccupied with thoughts of other guys. He threw a towel over Joe as if casting aside yet another transient encounter.
I returned to the flat late that evening. I was feeling quite down about another day in the company of bigots. I planted a kiss on Joe's lips with a sense of awkwardness in front of Tony. Tony sat at his laptop, dredging the Internet for more casual liaisons and smiling at a web cam. Still, I thought, that was just his way. He is just having fun. At that time I still mistakenly believed in his integrity as a person.
I guess I should have trusted in my dream. I remember that Tony had already mentioned that 'Joe is a handsome man' before the event, but I assumed that thought and deed were separated by ethics. With hindsight, my sense of betrayal is compounded by that remark, because it suggests there was forethought to his actions. Maybe this is why I cannot forgive. I no longer see either of them. Perhaps, reader, you might consider me to be judgmental. But as our three separate lives diverge, I realise one thing; I need trust as much as I need love. I need to believe that friends and lovers consider some things to be forbidden.
Graham Collett copyright 2004