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RICK HOWMAN - PART SEVEN
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RICK HOWMAN - PART SEVEN
Haven't you ever wondered? Did he have long hair wound under his turban? Did he take it off, his turban I mean, immediately he got home and throw it down, like I empty my keys and wallet into a tray by the front door when I get in; let his hair hang loose, shake it to help it fall neatly? Do not tell me you have never wondered. It is natural to be curious - like we all are about other men: Are they hung? Do they wear underpants? What do their armpits taste like? Stuff we wait to find out when they undress, or stuff about their homes, like, are they stylish decorators? Is the toilet clean? Will they beg or do they have to be seduced?
Ok, not the last one - that should be pretty clear from the get-go.
"I'm glad that you agreed to come back, to my place," he said.
So was I.
"Are you glad?" he said.
"Yes."
"Sure?"
"Of course!"
"Not just saying that?"
He put his hands around me and squeezed me and held me like a doll, like a man holds a doll, a man-sized doll.
"No I'm not just saying that."
He kissed me and once again I could taste the strange throaty flavour of his teeth.
"Good."
(Sorry, the answer is: He did have long grey-black hair, but he tied it back into a kind of bun; and he took his turban off when we undressed - which just happened to be the moment we got through his front door!)
There are things I just cannot forget ... but I had forgotten, how much I like to be touched by gay men. His strange confidence radiated like a hot lamp, when he placed his hand on me, seeming to set off a kind of electricity which expanded a weakening force inside my body, drawing its strength from my strength; and yet I leaned into it, relishing the warmth, the spiritual rush, the flooding sexual thrill.
"Look at you: Four-square," he said, stroking me.
"What does that mean?"
"Look at you! Look in the mirror. You look in the mirror don't you?" He pushed my shoulder round so that I faced a large dressing mirror by his bedroom window. Its light cast shadows where my body folded beneath the weight of muscle. "Oh god look at you," I thought, "your old tired body."
"That's what I'm talking about," he said, "Four-square. Solid. Not a mean sinewy fitness like a runner, or a packed redundant mass of useless beef. Just the kind of four-square muscle and masculinity I look for in a man. Strength and suppleness. That's what I like. Physically, you're four-square, aren't you?"
"I guess I am," I said, looking at the figure in the mirror. I wanted to struggle when he held me, nuzzling my face; he had so much body I felt he could absorb me completely and I would disappear without trace.
"You express yourself through violence," he said when I fought him off.
"I've always been like that."
"That's got to stop. It's got to change. The moment I touched you I could feel the need in you."
(The need for what? I wondered.)
As if reading my mind, he said, "The need for love."
"So what do you need?" I snapped. It was biting, all this ... sensitivity and feeling. I could feel Janki inside me, psychologically, moving around like a man explores an empty house, finding out about its owner from the ornaments and possessions on display, checking out drawers and cupboards, opening closed doors, investigating long-locked rooms, searching for something: the clue to an inner psyche, what motivates me, who I really am.
"What about you?" I said.
"What do you mean?"
I gulped a lung of breath, "You think I have had no love in my life?"
He blinked.
"You think I have lived alone and based my existence in the accumulation of wealth and that all my social contacts are directed towards that end. But I have loved. I have. I have given love and received it. I have loved. I have made sacrifices for love, not just for money. I have exchanged love for a love returned and I have lost love, not because it became financially expedient, but because ... it has ... not ..." My lungs were empty.
Janki laughed and smiled, in a sad way, and stroked my head. "Have you? Have you loved? I believe you. And have you been loved? That's easy to believe. But when you say it, I can tell, it has not been a happy experience for you. And. I don't think, you truly know what love is, because, for you, love hurts. And it shouldn't hurt."
Suddenly, I realised, I was upset. "What do YOU need? What?"
Janki smiled. He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them and then put them to my lips to kiss. "This," he said, dragging the tips down, snagging my lower lip, then stroking my chin, my neck, my chest, eventually coming to rest over my heart. "And this," he said before moving his hand down and grabbing my crotch in a hard possessive grip. "And this," he whispered with a smile. I tried not to resist when his grip on my balls got so tight all I could think about was the pain. He released and tickled me and laughed. Then he reached behind me with his other hand and grabbed me there. "And this," he said.
God. Could I have got here without a journey?
God, the way he looked at me, kept looking at me, insisting that I look back. If I drifted he said, "Hey, don't drift off!" and I had to meet his gaze once again. We lay on the bed staring at each other's eyes, faces - legs knotted round each other - for ages - stomachs touching - like it would be enough for me never to move from him and he was happy to let it stay that way. I never thought I'd want to be in bed with a man who was so much of him!, cumming again and again while he stroked my arse, encouraged me and said nice things to me. It was strange.
"Ahh this is nice; our bodies fit together perfectly."
He looked at my shoes, lying by the bed, soiled blue trainers with narrow white wedged heels; they were made of a metallic nylon that reflected blue shiny light unexpectedly through the dirt. He said, "You have beautiful feet, small, narrow, athletic. You can run. Can't you?"
"Yes."
He smiled. "You have an intelligent face. You look at me when I speak, listen to what I say; your eyes clearly comprehend."
"I didn't know that."
"Didn't you know that?"
"No. I didn't know that."
"Cool as parquet, aren't ya?" he said, unimpressed, "I like that you're so butch, so masculine," he made it sound like an endearing weakness. "So much nicer when the man you're with is a real man; so much nicer to feel him ... " - he touched my cheek like I was his girlfriend - "... collapse ... like this." I opened my lips and let him place his fingers inside my teeth.
He grinned, "I'd like to kill you. I'd like to watch you die. Would you like that?"
"I -ngwould," I mumbled round his fingertips.
"You would?" He laughed and rolled onto his back, arm round my neck. "You're so cute! ... ... What do you think of my body? Do you like it?"
"I do," I said. I didn't hesitate to reach out and stroke his mound of flesh.
"You like that?"
"Yes." I climbed onto it, like he was my pet, spreading my legs around his legs, and lay face down, rubbing myself against him. And whilst I ejaculated, he stroked my head, and murmured, "I'll bring you flow-er-ers."
I lay still. "To my funeral?"
"On a rainy day-ay-ay."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous!"
"No, you're ridiculous."
"No, you are."
"No, you are."
"No, you."
"You."
"You."
"You."
"You."
"You."
He liked to watch me shit. I sat down and he pushed the door open. I didn't tell him to go away. Only half embarrassed, I let it come out, hitting with a plop; actually somehow even a little proud when he smiled and nodded and said, "That was good. Now wipe" - approvingly. "Would you like a drink? Have a drink."
Strange that I wanted to please him. He had me eating out of his hand, literally: holding up a piece of toast and marmalade for me to eat like a tame bird. I only did it to make him smile; I was not hungry. Not for toast. He made me dinner and fed me rice and curry with a large spoon at the dining table. I thought it likely he would make me kneel on the floor, paws on his knee, whilst he made me eat from his hands. He did not. He watched me chew and swallow with a kind of purring approval. I could always hear him breath while he watched, waiting for me to be fed the next spoonful.
"Eat all of it." I did. "That's good." I felt a strong sense of satisfaction, childishly, at his approval and recognition of my achievement. Silly. "Would you like to masturbate?" he asked as if he was asking if I would like any desert. He was right. I did want to. I got my cock out and stroked my fist over it. He had excited me. While I rubbed he put two fingers into my mouth again and played with my tongue as if he were that fascinated. I came quickly and grunted when the white film spewed out. "Yes. Yes," he said. "That's so nice."
"Men want to make their fantasies a reality. That's what makes men different. That's what makes men men! Men are weak, shallow, changeable, corruptible. They are foolish. They don't know right from wrong. They make bad decisions. They make mistakes and then don't know how to correct their errors. They mislead themselves and in so doing, mislead everyone else. They lie, but they also tell the truth by lying - because their fictions are informed by their facts. So, if you listen to them, you will learn something. Believe me. That's why you fascinate me."
"So its not just the sex!"
"Plus, there's the sex. That's also nice."
His house smelt of strange Indian smells. The carpets were thick - so thick the fibres caught between my toes. Various religious portraits and gaudy ornaments, exotic and meaningless to me, decorated the walls. It was a strange new experience in fabulously bad taste, and yet familiar in that it was somehow typical to experience the accumulated junk and private mess of another man I had picked up and returned with to his home. He was swamped with space, since he lived alone, most of the time. He stood in the kitchen and pointed at the other rooms through the walls and ceiling, "These rooms would be, my children. There, my wife." He looked at me. "So. There's plenty."
"Why don't you rent this out and live somewhere smaller ... and more central?" I said in my business voice.
"Can't do that," he replied enigmatically. Then he grabbed my chin in a single grip, squeezing my cheeks so that my lips made a grotesque kissing-arsehole shape. "There's too many bodies buried under the lawn!" He made a face.
When he released me I laughed, nervous.
Janki smiled. I guess he knew, how much I wanted him. I moved my leg slightly - I was getting uncomfortable with my pose - and caught in his eye the glint of him knowing he excited me and what I wanted. And the way he talked, made me want to fuck.
It's difficult to imagine, I know it's difficult to imagine, what it's like to be washed up. If you haven't been there you can't imagine it.
"I'm broke," I said. "I'm all washed up. I've had it." I told him about Baby. Janki held me tight and stroked my hair, said, "There. There. There. We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better, than he was. Better, stronger, faster. Lovelier. More beautiful. More fuckable. Cuter. More of a babe even than he was before. Baby-er. You need to go to the gym," he said, "use the time to workout. You need to workout, don't you?"
"I do?" I answered, affronted that he should think my physique inadequate.
"Yeah. You do. You're a gym bunny, aren't ya?! I just know, gym bunnies like you need to get down the gym, toy with them machines, play with the weights, work off some naan!" Janki liked playing with me.
I laughed condescendingly. "That 'naan' is muscle!" I said.
"Whatevs. You need to get to the gym, like I said, or you get depressed."
I had a private gym in my own house, with a view of the countryside through its plate-glass windows! but he wanted me to go to the local one where men hung out, as they do, comparing reps and muscle groups, looking at each-other like wives and girlfriends at the nailbar, envying and fancying themselves.
Janki liked playing with me
I woke in some pain from my hardon which seemed to be more rigid than I had ever experienced it and truly ached from the duration it had been like that. We had slept cuddling, spooning, my back tucked into him. I was so hot - no, literally; he had this terrific body heat like a furnace. At one point I had to stick one leg out of the covers to cool my blood. He held me so tight I could hardly breath, let alone move about. One hand cupped my junk. The other held my tit, squeezing it like it was an inflated prosthetic. I felt like laughing. My stick was between his fingers, gently gripping it, so I was stuck. "He is still asleep," I think. Now with the low sunlight in my face, the clock-radio started with a bleep, blaring some old tune by Lenny Kravitz, I felt kind of guilty at being so elated. When I moved my arse a bit to snuggle and get more comfortable, the sweat between us felt like a river; his arms around me tightened, squelching us together. He whispered, sleepily, "Keep still or I'll strangle you." I knew that I felt happy and safe.
Janki liked playing with me
No. I mean, he really liked playing with me. Talk about toys; he liked me to wear a butt-plug and what with all the things I went about with stuffed up my arse - that he stuffed up me and left there - I had to walk funny. I was always hard, always horney, and it was like, for anybody-else, anybody-else who might be watching, nothing else existed: Like all I was, was a fuck.
Janki liked my shape and started wanting me to show it off, an extreme, imposed exhibitionism that I don't know why I cooperated with; I had to wear tight clothes and as I walked down the street (wiggling my bum) it was actually embarrassing to notice people looking at me, women and gay men, staring, taking second glances and even stopping in their tracks to turn and watch me walk away - even the ones deliberately averting their eyes embarrassed me. If I could have simply worn baggier clothes it would have been better. But dressed up like that, I felt so exposed. I could feel my clothes rubbing across my skin every time I moved - scraping my nipples, tight in my armpits, scratching my buttocks. Exciting me. I mean, I liked that I was hard and horney and hot, but having a hardon and everybody seeing ... And I think people knew how I felt because I could never look them in the eye, because if I did, I'd give myself away. Because the fuck was always there. It was always on my mind: The fuck they saw, when they saw me, all they saw, was a fuck. And I thought that all these people just want to have sex with it, all they see is a piece of meat, this is what it feels like to be sexually objectified! If they speak, when they speak, they don't see me as an equal human being, they see a thing they want to have sex with. Into this; this is what he has turned me into. I felt.
"Only tight clothes when you go out. Tight jeans, tight Lycra - I want to be able to see your asshole when you breath. When you are out with me, remember I own you."
"You own me, Sir. Yes Sir. You own me."
And yet, this is what I wanted. I wanted to be objectified, I wanted to be. I was waiting for him to do it. I wanted to know what it felt like. I wanted to know how it felt, because I wanted to know how it felt, to BE Baby.
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END OF RICK HOWMAN - PART SEVEN