So he fucked me all night. I fucked him back. Now, in the quiet that ensued, around the hour of four past midnight, I shook and shivered myself awake. A dreadful nightmare, filled with childish fear. A fear sprung from that desperate search for a mother who will not show... whose maternal caress will forever pass you by.
Gelatini, the old walrus of some 50+ years snored unfettered next to me, his bulging body made all the more repulsive by the coolness of his sweating soft skin. His hair, like the rest of him, was dying: scarcing out into pathetic lonely plumes. His eyes were boring, overworked. Suits were the attire he wore for his work and as the best way to hide his rotund corpus.
As for me, the mirror induced a heavy bout of self-reflection. I was all he was not! I was sixteen and my stomach had been called both wash- and surfboard smooth. My hair was blonde, my eyes blue. I was in essence the crystallisation of a dominant motif in gay eroticism: a Siegfried in school uniform.
After paying me $500, naturally I would respect and abide by his requests. One such was that I never ever divulge my intercourse--either sexual or otherwise--with him to anyone. The other requests are coital and are rather too private or too boring to discuss.
He proceeded not only to tell me who he was, but why he was here. He told me he was in town for a conference. "Adelaide now has a new convention centre... so the EU has told me to come here." He went on to describe how he was needed to elaborate to "members of the Pacific region"--that's Australia and all else close to it--"the transition to unified European cash currency." Blah blah blah. He skimmed on all the political 'intrigue' that he presumed would not interest a callboy.
He didn't like escort agencies. No sir. He was much more cunning and discreet. He had scouted me out through "trusted agents" and politely enquired as to my availability. "Agencies carry such stale meat," he said at some time, some hours prior, while I was playing with his smelly cock. Yes, even a high-ranking Eurocrat's dick stinks now and then.
We were high up in the Hyatt Hotel. In some suite or something. Alone in a tower. Just he and I. I was kind of trapped, requested to remain for another round in the morning. The room was nicely decorated... sumptuous even. Everything fit the scale of the grand man Gelatini. His flabby arms and body, with all its sagging tits and gut, were turned as if he were looking at me. Watching me. He had an expression of childish attachment. Although he wasn't physically stunning, and definitely not youthful, he wasn't cruel either. He had a laughable interest in my wellbeing. Having never been for sex, and having engaged in it only a few times, it turns out my naiveté and inexperience were what he'd predicted and desired in someone like me.
The money would come in great. I didn't know exactly what I'd do with it. But there are things. There's always little things... quotidian matters, hard to list but necessary and self-evident when they arise.
There was that inescapable, almost indecipherable hum one gets in hotels. It's like the whispering groans of a leviathan of hospitality. The city below us slept too. How would I explain two things the next day? One: where the hell had I spent the night? Two: where the hell did I get five hundred dollars?
I meandered out of bed, over to the couch, sort of in another room, pouring myself a glass of juice along the way. I turned on the telly. The usual late-night drivel selling Chinese-made goods with American accents and 'celebrities' on an Australian TV station... globalisation!
"James!" my heavily accented name was called out. I tiptoed over to the bed again. In I went. We rocked it around a bit, the whole five minutes it took. His cum slithered down my hard chest, as he came on me from a standing position, squirting onto the V between my neck and shoulders. He was already retreating into sleep, a clammy hand firmly clasping my shrinking member.
There is that intangible region between awake and asleep, whose explication I'll best leave to psychoanalysts, where reality and fancy fuse into a realm of credible unusualness. I was in precisely such a place of the mind when a weird sensation grabbed me. I was levitating! The fixed Earth below me moved. The bed upon which I had been lying swirled beneath me. I had become the frame of reference! The frightening frenzy jolted me awake, whence I gasped in a daze.
The snoring returned; the dimmed light of the city outside returned; reality returned. I felt convoluted, unsettled. Then in stung me: a feature of reality equally scary, if not more so. In the other room, I had left the television running. The banal advertisements continued. The same stupid message! It was such a brutal, confronting realisation, a shiver played my spine like a xylophone.
The TV continued on unnoticed, its cold, electric fingers extending into the room unconditionally. It showed us people. They sounded like people. They laughed, they cried, the communicated with each other. The grand illusion of the twentieth century hit me in one encircling bang. We were idiots staring at indifferent, uncaring, inhuman boxes.
What compounded my dismay was the man next to me, his indifferent snoring, his indifferent fucking and his indifferent sucking me. I needed love to comfort me. I needed the embrace of my mother, the smiles of my family and the conversation of my friends.
I trembled out of bed, looking at him. A cooling tear ran down my face as the mirror showed me just what he saw me as: a compact, luscious piece of flesh whose features were in full bloom and far from fading.
The abysmal sound of the TV, speaking to no one, yet speaking nonetheless, the same stupid words in a million homes! I ran over. I turned it off. I collapsed near the blackening screen. Now there was silence, bar the hum of leviathan and the corps-to-be in the bed. I put on my clothes in an expert manner, surprised at my militarism.
I looked one last time at his body--turned--and walked out the door.
I would go straight home and tell my mother everything. No more anonymous sex, thrilling as it may be. I wanted openness, acceptance and above all the unconditional human love of a parent.
And, for the moralists out there... yeah, I kept Gelatini's money!
Andrew Staker http://www.geocities.com/adonipolis