Seriously A. Cheshire Catt write me (and I love smutty pics): kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com Two Weeks in May 2006
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It was weekend of constant drug-use, dancing, and daring garrish grins; finishing it off at my place with friends and acid.
Like, Sundays are totally my busiest day right. Having gone out Thursday night to the Lotus Lounge, and worked all day Friday, Friday night is a house party at the usual place, mine, and everyone's laughing and hysterical about themselves because they're just ridiculously fucked up. Saturday is the day of rest, in the afternoon, with the sun shining in the living room bathing the slumbering fools on the sofas and in the chairs with their bared feet raised in the air as glorious icons of the dance, their bodies throbbing after copious amounts of joints and a few futile lines of speed, it's all snoring and subtle twitches. Then there's the blitz of Saturday Night, the bars and the sketch parties, the blur of the people in the streets, downtown buzzing with students and sharks, tourists and urban cowboys, car horns honking, sirens blasting, beats roaring out of windows, fashions and fabulousness, the flash of cameras and the splash of cash from machines. Then the After-Hours, as the night drags by and the streets empty out, the thrill having ebbed, the plastic bags twirl in twilight breezes, pigeons waken, and in dark cavernous spaces in barely noticeable corners of downtown, the finest djs and the most fantastic-elastic dancers spin themselves a web of a Scene, a hedonism that fades like sunrise into Sunday. The blur of Sunday, the after-parties, the summer sun, the gorgeous bodies, the music, mmm, the people all so happy, it is the triumph of our youth, a youth of jubilance and decadence and scandal and disco and the thrill of being blasted in broad daylight. After all that time, after the days and days of it, Sunday night, as things cool down, the weekenders take pause to reflect on their artistry: the whole bunch of us left over from the way the weekend started, littered throughout the Party House playing round after round of Crazy Eight Countdown, smoking pack after pack of cigarettes, cracking crass jokes, filling otherwise dull sentences with funny sounding words, like strange characters used because they're added zest, topics about nothing, drinking water, eating pills, breathing smoke, cutting lines. Melted, a mass of bodies on the floor and furniture, that's where this story begins.
Ridiculous. Fantastic. Fabulous. Papaya. Wasps, Orgasms and Lisps. Violet, Orange, Lavender and Blue. And the favorite, like a bit of punctuation: Seriously.
There was this one guy who made me laugh all night. He was so funny. His name's Albert, he's fucking delicious.
He's got the smooth complexion of a virgin but there's something ridiculously naughty in the emaciated rings around his eyes as he squints to focus on the cards in his hand. He kept smoking cigarettes even though he was fucking disgusted with the way his voice sounded, but it was so funny yo, the way it made him sound like a veteran drag queen. We imagined getting him all in drag for Halloween, getting him a filter and really bad make up that smears, a tacky veil or something. He's petite in size but he's totally ripped. Seriously, he's one of the most gorgeous kids we got in town, it's great that the gays get to flaunt him. He's hot. Like his sleeves are usually rolled up almost to the elbow, the cuffs drawing lurid attention to themselves. His exposed arms, tan and with barely any hair at all, as tempting as a long shaft one wants to, oh if only just so gently, stroke by accident, upon stumbling upon occassion to be so close. Albert's sense of fashion is preposterously on time. His boyfriend, a relatively handsome young man, works with Holt Renfrew on a few contracts and there's much hubbub on shopper appreciation night when they bring them both in, Albert by special request, for the fresh tailoring, the finishing touches. Imagine the blonde-tipped cockatoo-tail-feather hair, the flowing feathers of the peacocks with zeal for detail, the cawwing and clucking of the tailors performing their magic, tugging on long leather rulers that reach up into the cavities of so many men's fantasies, bickering about in-seams, waist lines, hems and pin-cushions. The crystal ornamentation of the chandeliers on the boutique's ceiling sending their array of affectionate color upon the startled eyes of the debonair young lad as he's turned upon his pedestal to behold his new outfit in the most fortunate mirror in the capital. Such a fortunate bitch. His hat tilted only slightly more for attitude, a cocky grin, the raising of an eye brow, the pleasant grin.
I've been in the scene long enough that I am seen as some sort of professional, well-learned in the way of the Scene. When some of the old girls find young gay boys they see as having any degree of potential, any spark, they bring them to me. I know them, Those Who Are Important, I know the paths that lead to the Fun Side. It's tricky, and it often involves subtle hints outside while we're having cigarettes, but it's the most glorious experience, being adopted by the Scene. There have been many nights when I led the prospective Boys along the curb outside any variety of club and taken them by those two, the Beautiful Couple, as they smoked with the hot chicks, the few straggling queens, the prim princess gossips. I would smile as I passed them and the new Boy would ask who they were and I would tell them their names, perhaps introduce them if the moment or the circumstance were right, but not really linger as I am not really of the same essence that they are. I take the new boys by, to a car say, across the street, and with the window rolled down a sliver and the music playing just right, while smoking a cigarette, in the pouring rain, I casually instruct the rookies, "Now, you can't have those ones, they're the beautiful ones. So many wish they were them, you'll sleep with dreamers."
I'd met Albert's boyfriend years before, on the dancefloor. He's a Persian prince with stunning features, an olive skin like the flesh of mysterious gods of desert tribes, eyes big and dark and glistening like the ornamental eyes of a golden calf added with the precision of the most refined artist. Albert's boyfriend's name was Anthony. Anthony smiled just right and new slightly more people than myself, but really he burned out fast, snuffed out, disappearing with a season. It was rumored it was a professional decision. It was rumored that he'd moved to that faraway realm of gaydom, San Francisco, or maybe it was Toronto, or perhaps it was even the psych-ward. It wasn't until almost six months after his absence that his name was mentioned. It was about that time that this other boy started coming around to the day-clubs and though I'd heard of Albert, and heard of an Albert in relation to Anthony, I'd never really seen him before. When I saw him I stopped dancing and looked in awe of his little body perched against the rail of the bar admiring the dancers dance. Oh it was a delicous treat. "Who is that?" It was Albert.
I've always been the sort of guy to respect the relationships of others, you know, nurturing in others' relationships the sense of necessary hope for a future relationship that I dream I'd like to have some day. When I learned who he was I didn't go after him or flirt intentionally, and though intentional flirts never caused anyone trouble, there's always that unintentional gaze, that freakish flourish that eye lashes do, that even men can muster in themselves: that finger left a little too long, that sentence left hanging, the thought unfinished. Okay, I'd flirted with him, but really I must confess that I was just hoping he'd notice me, you know, so what if I'm a bit of a climber. I wanted to be smiled upon by such beauty. Even though I know I'd never be that close to the niche, that I'd never come across as partial to the inhabitants of the delicious nest, there is still comfort in being noticed by it. After a while Anthony started coming back, it was, but of course, without ceremony. After a while the parties started coming to my place after the bar on Sunday afternoon, I'd found a great place really within blocks of the bar the Scene haunted all day Sunday. After a few months there was definitely a core group of us who hung out at my place. Because of this my name was starting to go further and further. Eventually, because of the parties' reputations for being a lot of fun, he spoke to me outside the bar one sunny spring Sunday. He'd learned my name from a gossip that he'd interupted with something more pressing, after some time he introduced me to his boyfriend on one of the few garrish occassions when Anthony blessed the nasty filthy underground with his refined presence (that's sarcasm, seriously) and I mean it could have been the drugs that day but I could have sworn I saw the moment Albert pointed me out to him, leaning up to mention it with an air objectivity, you know, "Have you met him?" You know how it goes, "That guy keeps talking to me, he says his name is something-or-other, he's really quite nice." Then Anthony smiled that hedonistic grin, pleasure tooth for tooth. He leaned down and actually held up his hand to mute the never even remotely overheard signal to abort socializing with "that one." I could have sworn I saw it happen, but maybe it didn't, and maybe still I put way too much meaning into them.
After that spring had passed and the dizzying humidity of an early summer heatwave started, a few of us headed over to my place early so I could clean up some dishes and stuff before the rush of people came after the bar closed. My close friend had met a boy at the bar that she'd really started to like and she was walking ahead with the keys, she had to use the washroom or something. Albert was with me. He asked me questions about how long I'd been living in the city and stuff, the standard perimeters when getting to know someone. I was shocked to learn this was just a young kid. You know what I mean, I mean ... Have you ever looked at someone and thought they were so hot, they're so cool, they're so unattainable, and then you hear something like their age, or you hear them talk and they fuck up a work like maniacal by saying maniac-al, and then you realize they're not perfect, they're nothing exceptional, they're just like the rest of us, they're just 19 and still learning stuff, they bleed, they get hungry, they shit? Compared to Anthony, who was 26, my age, this kid was such a trophy wife. Until that moment he'd told me his age he'd seemed to have belonged to an even older man, he belonged in a mansion on a hill looking out the lonely little window in the attic like a fairy tale Rapunzel. He giggled when he saw my passive reaction, puffing a cigarette, uninspired. I mean, sure, he was 19 and could get in the bars, fuck, but he was just 19. He was cool and making me laugh, and I'd judged him on several occassions and thought he had a fair amount of respectable traits. He was polite, he was soft-spoken and a great little dancer. Sure he had a crazy life too. I couldn't help but detect in his speech a certain quiver. He was sort of being led around the community bars, displayed for the benefit of Anthony. Oh but he loved every minute of it, don't get me wrong. Maybe he loved Anthony, sincerely and everything, but I started to realize at that moment, what he really loved was not having to deal with the cumbersome issue of sex or the clamor of the fools trying to court him. "Everyone knows I'm Anthony's," he said as we walked up Gigues in the shadow of a church in the evening sun, "I am not Albert. I'm Anythony's." He was pretty high, he caught some spit on his lip and wiped it off. Perhaps he thought I'd caught him commiting some flaw, like none of should ever accidentally spit when we talk, or perhaps he was proud of he eloquence in that thought, but that's when we first looked at each other with a certain commonality. We looked in each other's eyes just a little longer. His eyes were the color of a deep moss, richly green with sprays of brown.
We jumped off the sidewalk and started to veer to the other side of the street. There was no traffic, just cars parked and a dog barking far away. Along this street no two homes are the same but they're never more than three stories, they're all old and have verandas and pretty backyards. I passed him my cigarette and we discussed Anthony only briefly again as we were almost at my place. His boyfriend wasn't expected home from a business trip till Wednesday. As people are oft to do when higher than high after days of partying, he jumped with fright at nothing more than the passing shadow of a gull. When he jumped he naturally pulled closer to me. I laughed as he rubbed the length of his body against mine. He turned again to look at me and he smiled at me, you know what I mean, it was nothing I'd said or done, it was what he'd done and it was a smile of being glad that he'd done it in front of me. He looked around but there was no one there. No one saw. Not that it mattered or anything.
That night the chemicals marinated the souls of the lounging lizards of disgusting idulgence, smoky-eyed sloths creeping along the edges of a twilight golden room, hissing sarcasm, spewing random bullshit. Laughing, thinking they're so beautiful, the madness filled all the rooms of the large three bedroom home, a turn of the century place. The two guys that lived with me were straight and reputable and went to all the same parties I did. One of them was a dealer, the other was affiliated with several DJs as a promoter. It was a fuckin' prime location for parties, with a large living room on the south end of the house opening out onto a rich green lawn with fences draped with ivies and ancient, flowering, monstrous vines. There were lanters hung in key corners, torches burning for a while, wrought iron furniture with fresh linen cushions were scattered after the evening usage at the end of stone path on a stone patio. As the light of the day died away, the torches were lit and then they too were put out, and the seemingly normal people all around the city simmered to a cool slumber in the summer even though this party of gypsies still played their cards and waited for another dawn, another weekend.
After the acid was finished peaking, after the vines had stopped growing and moving around like serpents at the far end of the lawn, moving constantly the whole night like a waterfall, my friend and I seperated, as if a magic removed a sparkling bind between us. I'd dropped the acid with the girl that had come back from the bar at about the same time I had. Just the two of us were on acid. People were on everything though. I mean, I'm friends with several dealers and several dealers know several more. There was literally everything in that house. I mean, within reason: G, E, K, acid, mushrooms, blow, speed and, you know of course there was lots of weed being smoked. No one does crack, no heroin either: eww. There'd been all sorts of people in the house too, straight and gay and bi and whatever you can possibly imagine. No one was over the age of 35, no one was younger than 19 (Albert, unknowingly, had been the youngest there). But no one got hurt, no one was ill, everyone was able to manage their trips, to dose responsibly, and though most were gone as it neared midnight, as most had to work the next day. But that's the thrill of the party that burns into the week itself, there are those that go to work on Monday morning from this place and come back when they're done, not having slept in days, not really having eaten that well, and they do more and stuff, and they hang out and do nothing. Days of parties turn into weeks this way, weeks into months, months into seasons ... ah, but I digress.
My friend and I had done acid that night. By midnight of that evening she'd got all mashy like whipped potatos flung from a wooden spoon to land on the floor in the corner with her beau. They were curled up on the pillows by the book case flipping through one of those Phaidon coffee table books filled with inspiring, random imagery. They'd laugh every once in a while loud to be heard over the din of some chill beats and the ruckus of Crazy Eight Countdown as it neared another end. A lot of huffs and sighs and subtle cheers as good runs were laid out, as the Queen of Spades was played and someone had to pick up five, as three twos were played and someone had to pick up six, as a Jack was played and someone missed a turn. They were playing Crazy Eights with the house rules, Aces - Runs - but not the Four rule. I hate the Four Rule.
There was a DJ that had spun at the day lounge much earlier in the day, (DJ)KFB, a great guy with astonishing talent, reviewed in important chronicles of up-coming stars. He was talking to a young protege about the business, about the tricks to getting a great gig, it was probably the last thing that the tired, stoned DJ could have wanted to have done that night. As I played a pair of sevens I looked across the room to see the DJ tugging on the peak of his cap as he twirled in the swivel chair we had set up at the decks. The protege was a bi-guy named Abraham, he was flipping through the records while the DJ leaned back more and took a grand haul from Abe's cigarette. I mean, even generally speaking, it's a tricky business, DJ-ing, and there are times when it actually happens, people go off to some success in a dreamland Ibiza: the closet avenue to that dream is the mighty Montreal, just a few hours to the east; it happens, people go there, and there are those among us, dancers dancing during those damned drugged Sundays, that rise to to the occassion and desire to be the DJs, they relish in the thought of the complicated rhythms, they marvel at the spectacle of a crowd gone wild as they chase their dream of their very own Ibiza. Justly, there are those who don't make it, no matter how hard they try, be it a lack of money, connection, talent, or presence. Scandalously even, there are those who cross paths with the starved fiends on the path already, not just DJs but the promoters too, the flyer girls, the bar owners, and they are never heard from again. Sometimes there are DJs who simply disappear like that track you may have loved that time you'd heard it, that time you'd heard it and you had to grab your head because it was so good you thought your head would explode, but you never heard the name of it, so good, but gone then forever, like a protege who struggled and was heard, mentioned once at a party once somewhere, but alas, never to be heard of again. As the electronic scene in Ottawa is so small names are everything and the DJs are untouchable if they come from the time when House Music was just started. There are those who don't even realize what's happened since it started, how many bars there's been, how many generations of people have come and gone, how many drugs have come into fashion and then fallen out of fashion again. There are so many who don't realize that as long as they stay at the party they run the risk of becoming nothing more than a drifting breath of smoke in an otherwise hot-boxed room, every weekend being the best weekend of their lives forever and ever, every summer being the best summer ever, summer after summer, until the autumn comes, until the winter of their own discontent.
The DJ leaned back and laughed his signature cackle. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Albert was about to play the ace of diamonds but stopped mid-movement with the sort of precision of a speed-freak and leaned over to me to ask, "Who is that?" I laughed, he didn't even recognize the DJ from that afternoon that he'd said he'd loved so much. It happens. I asked how his night was going. It was the best night ever, he'd said.
Another reason the DJ doesn't really want to be doing this is because it's about to chime the witching hour, the work week is about to begin. It's like Batman lingering in some belfry somewhere in Gotham, late late some Sunday night, talking to some punky kid from the circus about acrobatics when really he knows there's a pile of shit in the in-box at Wayne Industries that's calling his name for tomorrow. The room mate that is the dealer had taken some girl to his room and it was to be accepted that store hours were closed. Everyone was well-stocked for the next couple of hours. The room mate that is the promoter had taken a bunch of people to a club in Montreal, about eight of them, two cars anyway, and we weren't to expect them back till tomorrow. I was in charge of the phone but no one calls at this time. And as the clock chimed it reminded people who couldn't handle it anymore, having been awake since they'd awakened on Thursday, the week had come, and there was a crowd about to leave, and there were some falling to sleep on the furniture, like martyrs giving up their souls for Christ.
It was becoming quite apparent that it was just going to be only Albert and I playing the next round. My friend and her lad were going to be off talking quietly with each other for hours, entirely removed from our party. Dimming the lights in the room, it was as if the social stars and constellations that make up the Milky Way of our little community of After-Hour partiers were fading accordingly to properly coordinated to form a most interesting insinuation that there might be an affair between myself and the beautiful boy. I kept looking across the large room across the barren floor that we sat on to check if my friend noticed me with Albert but really she didn't and there was no one else left by then.
I shuffled the cards, dealt out eight for each of us and saluted the commencement of this, our ninth round of Crazy Eight Countdown. We were playing as close to the open French doors as possible without going outside. The cards looked very cool to me still, as in there was plenty of punch left in my acid trip. He'd taken a pill about an hour and a half before. He was getting high all over again in front of me. Because I'd found it hard to concentrate on who had the next turn, having been used to playing with three or four people all night, hel stood a ridiculous chance of winning. We both knew that. We'd stopped to shuffle the deck, after having picked them all up when he mentioned a joint that he had rolled that would be great to smoke. A pungent, balmy breeze blowing so softly the leaves on the vines barely feigned interest he lit it and took a break, ceasing the sactity of the game, releasing ourselves from it. We couldn't even finish it.
We leaned against the door frames then and tried to seem more like we were staring out at the lawn than simply at each other.
Have you ever seen Clue, the movie based on the board game? There's a scene near the beginning, once all the illustrious characters have arrived and they're all dining with the host, Mr. Body. Mr. Body leaves the room and the paranoid guests all wonder what they're there for. Mrs. Peacock can't stop talking, she talks about anything and tries to get the other guests interested but really she's the only one talking and it shows her level of anxiety more plainly than the subdued Madame White or the demure Professor Plum or even the gauche Miss Scarlett. I am a Mrs. Peacock. I talk when I feel uncomfortable or when I sense that the discomfort is weighted on me. It usually goes terribly once I start talking. It's called sketchy, right? I mean, I just start talking to fill the silence.
It was such a beautiful moment too, a late night urban dreamscape, the hum of distant traffic droning in the background of a garden parallelled only in John Singer Sargent portraits of rich children playing with lanterns. Crickets were keeping the beat with the track playing at that particular moment. Albert talked about fire flies and I asked him where he was from originally. He told me he was born on a farm in western Ontario, which like a cultural dead zone I know, which is something that always amazes me about kids that come from nowhere to this place, this barely anything-somewhere. They're genetically-dispositioned to have a certain prestige upon discovery, and they're like finds, you know, projects in the waiting. Pretty-faced projects for the idly rich high-tech wave--riders that are dying for ways to invest their money, if not in a portfolio then on an Adonis.
We smoked, the embers of our cigarettes teasing the darkness, and we talked about the fire flies that couldn't resist showing themselves. We talked about country life compared to city life. I wanted so badly to tell him something, I wanted it to be something about him, something about the way I saw him, but I gave up with my mouth open, with adjectives clammered on the tip of my tongue, because as if he's never been told how darkly the light played with his eyes, as if he's never been told such simple things. He asked what I was about to say, I faked it, I told him I couldn't remember, adding a forgetful toss of my arm. "It's nothing." I was glad he accepted it and turned again to look at the fire-fly-lit lawn. I told him stories about the farms of my family's distant connections, farms that I almost never refer to except when pulling out the heavy artillery to get through an awkward silence. I could feel the alleviation but it all depended on me, and just like a refreshing glass of water in a heatwave, I also didn't want to have my cup run over, I had to stop pouring it out. He didn't seem interested in farms anymore.
I asked him where he'd met Anthony and he told me something I wasn't really surprised to hear, they'd met in a bar, one of the typical bars on a typical night, and though it was said it had been love at first sight, Albert knew it had really only been love at first sight of the name brand he'd worn that night. Alas, the more he spoke of Anthony the more was revealed about the noble boy's true self. Though he calmy patted his hair down on his head when he took off his cap to fan himself in the sultry evening, the smell of his sweaty crown escaping, a scent loaded with cosmetic beautification, there was in him such a Romantic baffoon, like a model for a painting about the French Revolution, it was in him, this spirit, it was what the essence of the trickery in eyes so darkly. Albert didn't really know he was as beautiful as he was. He knew what he was. He knew he was Anthony's. He knew old men ogled him and young men creamed themselves, but he didn't see it, he didn't really feel that important.
Suddenly he felt compelled to tell me about his clothes. It was jeans, stained in some appropriate way, a simple black polo shirt, collar flapping, a white long-sleeved thing underneath, his shoes were at the door, his white socks were stained, and in a pile next to him, and his hat, tilted for attitude. I drifted off staring at him, watching his mouth form words like they were kisses moulding scrumptious morsels of chocolate passion, and when I came back upon the reality of what he was saying I heard the names of some of the finest coutures of Europe and America in reference to things he must have. It saddened me, I'm not a materialist person at all. In fact I harshly judge people who who put so much emphasis on fashion, as most gay men do in the Scene. Relying, as they do, on what they wear as oppose to how they wear what they've got. Anthony was constructing an Albert that was intended to be gazed upon like an icon of fashion, only to be understood completely with the knowledge of how much his outfit cost, with eye for logos, with an appreciation for stitchings, not to mention its connection to television and Hollywood, as if it were the clothes of the gods he wore. But I gushed to see his passion ignited by the topic, it was something he knew if he knew nothing else and the power of his famliarity set him ablaze in a rant. When he stopped for a haul from his cigarette he hesitated and thought about something and when the smoked came out it brought with it a new subject. He talked about Anthony a lot and mentioned how much he missed him, as if in passing, as if to keep their relationship from being forgotten, the obligatory mention. I gushed to see someone younger than myself filling the dutiful shoes of the gay wife, believing that by being so honorable in this single relationship he was saving himself the fate of those bald men in bath houses preying on boys in their stupors. I mean, he was bound to be professionally gay. Even though he had aspirations and intentions to be some vagabond artist (but never the sort that gets his fingers dirty), he may not ever have the time to explore his potential as he's constantly busy being carted around in the flurry of fabulousness.
He didn't realize yet that there was an invisible force in the city that steers all the youth who come here. It isn't the indulgence, it isn't the fabulousness. I told him something then, as we lay sprawled at the door with summer smells putting soft thoughts in our mind a truth told to me once when I had come to this place, this Scene.
"There is one last goddess that art never captured and she is such a powerful being that no one will ever justify her with worship. She is a dignified femme fatale, a radiant beauty in a perpetual state of flux with her wardrobe. The weather may change, but she is always ... she is Always. She sometimes frightens us, sometimes pleases us, she sometimes leaves us to starve with the rats when the day before we'd feasted with the kings. Her mastery will never be completely understood, nor her prowess ever rivalled. Understand Albert, though things seem so certain and set in the stone your family from far away would have you believe to be true, there is nothing certain in the grip of this lady-god, for while she tickles your fancy, twirling in her fingers her long summer heatwave hair, she sings her anthem like a mother that smokes, 'This too shall pass, this too shall pass.'"
I asked him what he thought he would be if he hadn't met Anthony that night. He told me that he'd probably be just some face in the crowd, grumbling in the line up at the cafeteria in the community college from which he'd fail inevitably, he admitted he wasn't very bright. He believed at that point of failure without having been saved he'd be barely able keep himself as a young man in the city should, that he'd fall to wallowing in the misery of being obese and ridiculous. He confused realism with pessimism, but it was sweet to see him think himself triumphant.
After the joint was tossed we grabbed a couple of cigarettes and headed into the damp depth of the lawn, a place shrouded in the mystique of a chivalrous shiver, draped in the mist of bejewelled cobwebs and dew drops, in the sinuous vines the cocoons had erupted and birds' nests were airy beds for day-weary songbirds. The acid was still causing me to vibrate at a high frequency, to jump at sudden movement and twitch at the most subtle change in the breeze. He asked me if I was alright, I told him I was fine. We ended up standing so close to one another, not even really looking at anything or anyone, no one could see us in the shadow we'd found there. Now, I knew very well we'd end up having to talk to one another at some point at some party somewhere. It was bound to happen. I'd never really thought it would be a moment so drenched in the effects of drugs. The vine at the back fence poured like a waterfall of green billowy leaves, the blooms were all closed up tight for the night, and we stood just in front of the lush cascade. He pulled himself closer as if he'd forgotten who I was, forgotten himself, forgotten the clammy hands of drama. I didn't fight it though, I couldn't fight it. I am a weak beast. I could smell some sort of high end cologne emitted from his throbbing throat, the beating of his heart having heated up the spot where a small stain of the fragrance remained. He was looking at me and smiling and I was looking at him, rather nervously even though it was something I'd told so many boys they couldn't have. I suddenly saw myself gushingly sweep stray strands of his hair to the side as if the were in the way. His forehead even ... he was entirely desirable. He put his hand around my side, his hand resting in that soft skin under the ribs, and pulled himself up by the hip against me. We were pressing then, taking short nervous breaths in our liberty, heated with a wild sort of lust.
There was such patience on his part, he did not swoop in powerfully kissing me, as a child might. He hovered just in front of my face and I could smell the smoke on his breath, the acrid wash of disco having lingered there all day. I put a hand on his shoulder, and with a delicate swipe of tickling fingers, reached above the collar of some Diesel brand sweater, its sleeves seductively flaunting the arms that made him a legend. I touched his arm, I grabbed gently his forearm, his skin touching mine. I pressed my arm around him and took on the obligation of this kiss. I couldn't wait anymore. His fearful apprehension, his shortened breath, his wandering eyes, sweaty forehead, his moaning self-defeat, it was in the palm of my hand. And his lean body, worked to the physique of a model, tanned and delicate and smelling insufferably fresh was a brittle bon-bon, a tender treat constructed with the finest quality ingredients the Dandy Pastry Chef of Lady Cosmopolitan's regime could muster, it was a scrumptious mouthful: he lips didn't pucker, they remained still, a tiny pool of his warm breath, no more than a thimbleful dripped into the cavity above my upper lip. It was such a small, simple kiss.
He'd left his eyes open to scan mine, it wasn't just a kiss anymore, it was that we were so close and our bodies produced two halos of heat that clashed when they touched.
Ahh, but the loss of it, when suddenly he pulled away.
"No."
"I can't."
"Why? You're so . . . "
"Beautiful?"
"No, that's not what it was. You're so . . . "
"What? Tell me what I am."
"Please, stop it. What I am about to say is true and . . . "
"No one must ever know about this." By this time he felt there was nothing left he could do, Albert was obviously about to leave. He'd stepped away from me and the air between us was suddenly cold. I didn't understand what happened.
I stepped toward him again. I was sure he'd run, he seemed about to jump off a cliff. There was a tear in his eye and concern on his lips.
I pouted, "Please, give me a chance."
"I can't though, what if people found out?"
"Who would find out? How would they know?"
"They'd know, they always found out. This Scene is sick with Gossip."
"I'm the one that gossips though, you don't need to worry about it. I won't tell anyone."
He thought about it. "No! I can't do it."
"No." I called out. "Albert, please."
He started walking back toward the house but I actually lunged out at him and grabbed the arm I'd considered so sarcred moments before.
He stopped and looked at my hand gripping his forearm. He looked up at me then and had such an angry look on his face.
I was sad at that moment, as he grew angry with me. I sighed quietly, "Please?"
"Never."
But I couldn't let him go then, not now, he could ruin me, everything that I had built up over the years was about to be shattered by the whistling of this pretty boy. All he'd need do is summon the right people, call out someone's name and relay to them the incident and surely they'd believe him over me.
I wouldn't let go.
"Let go of me you fool." His soft eyebrows furrowed.
"No."
"What?"
I yanked him back and he fought me for a second but, maybe it was the drugs, but I was resisting his every attempt to break free. He grabbed my other arm and I grabbed his side and soon we were wrestling each other and then suddenly we were on the ground and there was a grass stain on his elbow and my knees were pushing into the dirt on either side of his belly. His shirt came up and I saw his abs, he was a strong little guy and something was telling me that he wasn't really trying. He was, but I thought he was stronger than that. I lowered my face down and only managed to smear spit across his cheek. It was hot. He grimaced. Again I got angry and really pulled up a hork of spit and launched it onto his mouth, his pretty little mouth.
He spit back, it landed on my shirt.
"Stop it," he grumbled, he fought me harder and harder. Suddenly I was somehow able to pull him toward me on the ground and I got his arms held back and I saw his chest and little nipples, dark brown and about the size of large chocolate chips swelling on top. I licked one and sensed in his a softening, but the moment I tried for the next one he fought again and I was suddenly pushed to the side.
He struggled to get up but for some reason I was becoming an animal or something and I was up so fast. I've never fought before, I've never hit anyone or been hit, I've never even considered violence as a solution. But I'd been so close. It was like I could smell glory in him and he was just about to whip it away from me, I'd never known it before but now that it was so close I couldn't let it get away.
I was standing between him and the door to the house. My friend was in there laughing. I could see Albert's eyes veering toward her. I thought he might call out. He didn't though. We braced ourselves with our legs and arms out like warriors that have lost their swords over the very cliff Albert had only moments before looked as though he would leap from. I reached out and suddenly we were locked an embrace and we were wrestling like kids. I was aware then that he was trying to get my shirt off my back so I did the same to him. I grabbed at the tail of his shirt, as he did mine, and when we pulled away from each other we pulled one anothers' shirt off and we were topless. Silently, we stood in awe of what we were doing to each other.
Suddenly I lunged at him and got him to the ground with a thud of the earth, there was pulling and pushing and then the belts came off, the pants were lowered and then I was kissing him and he was kissing me, my tongue was shoved deep into his mouth and I opened my eyes to see his shut, as he gasped for air and pushed at me to get me off his chest. Then we were in our underwear. Myself in boxers and his in some tight bikini style things. I grabbed at his balls and really yanked them. He yelped. It was the loudest noise we'd made and we stopped at noticing what had happened. He kneed me then in the balls and I groaned. I think it became sex then.
I grabbed his face in my hands, there was grass on his cheeks, and he was looking at me with this really angry fire burning in his features. We threw each other around and he all of a sudden had me with my legs pinned up and his throbbing eight incher was weilded, the bikini having merely been shoved under his ballsack. He laughed at me. He had I reached my hand around to his ass and found his hole there and fingered it roughly while he squirmed, but he didn't let me out of this vulnerable position.
"Fuck me Albert!"
"No."
"No?"
"I can't -- don't do this."
I feigned surrender. I relaxed. Just as he showed sign of falling for trick I flipped him over and in that instant that he was winded on his back I got my boxers down and my mouth down to his cock. His semen was oozing out, I could taste his gorgeousness as he squirmed and I couldn't believe that I had him so close, so inside me. I spit on my hand, a great big snotty on and slapped it on his hole and then, like an animal again, on the dewy grass in the shadow by the flowing vine I huddled over him and got my fat eight inch cock up into his tight hole. He wept a bit when I thrust it without mercy all the way in. He got upset looking and he shut his eyes, I didn't take long to start thrusting at him and instantly we both started sweating. We were all dirty with mud and grass and the sweat only made it worse. But we smelled so good, like creatures of the bush, like farm animals. The fire flies flickered all around us.
He was moaning and I jerked his meat while I fucked him with a macabre rhythm, unrelenting.
He was crying a bit, he was telling me I was hurting him. I kept going though. I was unstoppable. He was holding onto my arms, gripping them, trying to hurt me maybe with a pinch, trying to push me away but unable to finish the action. "Stop."
"I'm not going to stop until you tell me you hate it."
"Ugh, please. I can't do this."
"Tell me you hate it bitch."
"I hate it. I fuckin' hate this."
"No, I mean your life with your boyfriend, tell me it's killing you and that you want to be with me. Tell me you want to be with me." "Never."
"Come on bitch, I could fuck you all night muthafucka!"
"No, don't, stop please." "Tell me you hate him." "No."
I fucked him hard, we were nearing the fence I was pushing against him so hard, it was as if the waterfall threatened to crush his head, but it was only a vine. I leaned down and licked his face shamelessly. He wrenched away from me and then I started to jerk him.
"No, don't make me cum, please. Anything but that."
"No bitch, I want all your cum, I want to taste you so hot."
I felt his hips trying to shake me but I fucked him and jerked him and when I felt his anus clenching my thick meat I lowered my head down and felt his cum, hot and silky, splashing onto my lips and face and got some in my mouth and I couldn't believe how great it tasted.
But you know how it is, right, when you're a bottom and you've cum and the guy's still fucking you and it's just not the same. It hurts more or something, you're just not as into it. That's why I kept fucking him. I kept it up and thrusted my dick into him without mercy.
I smelled shit and knew that I had just fucked the shit out of him. He opened his mouth to the heavens in a silent cry. He was truly wishing his Persian Prince would save him. He wasn't coming. Not any time soon. I lowered again as my balls slapped against his ass and there was no room between us, my cock being driven with a relentless lack of mercy further and further, burrowing even the thick end of my shaft in as much as possible, putting him at the edge of excruciation. Then even more than that I started to slide on finger in with it, and when he started to moan real loud I got down and shoved my tongue in his gaping mouth to keep him quiet. blanketed in the moan of his sweet pain, with my ear so close to his mouth, crumpling him in my arms, I could hear him whispering something. Something like a name, and for a moment there I could have sworn I heard him say mine.
That made me cum.
I pulled my cock out of his ass and got up on the back of his legs, pressing his knees over his shoulders, cumming into his face, all over his face, degrading him with my load. I threw my face up to the sky and tightened all the muscles in my back, like a mermaid crashing through the surface of the water, grunting, mounted on top of him, forcing him to accept the loads of cream on his face. There was so much cream there too. It went into his gorgeous hair, onto his hat, all over his perfectly shaped eyes. It was ridiculous how much of it I shot on him and then when it was over I lay back and I couldn't believe how the stars burned brightly and the night sky moaned, like a sea writhing with black creatures witnessing what had happened.
And as I lay there, slain like a dragon with my own sword in my heart, I felt everything about me shrinking, as it was with him, subsiding and passing and clearing and the cascading vine siezed to move and the silence became like a charcoal painting on silver paper, the sky was like water, I could swear I saw ripples. I rolled over and saw that he was already moving around, that the grass was mashed down where it had happened, I looked the other way. I couldn't move.
He was up by the door, the French doors, his skin all dirty and a bruise on either elbow. He'd thrown his clothes back on but I think he'd gone for the cigarettes.
He came back down to me and I lay there, naked, dick wreaking like his shit, my whole body oozing with the stench of chemical and sweat and musk, dirty with grass stains and mud. He didn't have shoes on and I could see everything about his feet as they came across the lawn at me. I was so out of it, the acid was crazy hard at this time. I was so sketched out, you know. I'd just raped the beautiful boy and now he had the upper hand, he approached me. He tossed a cigarette at my face, he lit his own in the same movement. I can't even remember how it got in mouth, if I moved to place in my lips I don't know, but suddenly I saw, as if from inside myself the fire of the lighter lighting the cigarette, my body seemed to remember how to enhale. I was so upset with myself, with what I'd let myself become. When he was done lighting his cigarette he just stood up and lowered his fly and whipped out his dick.
That inspired me to move but he lifted and put his left foot on my chest, up by my neck to hold me down, pressing me onto the ground. He took out his balls and everything and just started to piss. His stream shot out and it hit my crotch, it was hot, I think, it wreaked though. It was a lot of water, probably a day of disco's worth of water. He let it out all over me. When he got bored with unleashing it on my cock and balls, up to my belly he came with it, then onto my chest, my nipples. He sprayed his own foot with it, he didn't care, he held the cigarette in the corner of his mouth while he did it too. He was so hot still.
He saw me looking and started pissing all over my face, I turned to the side to get out of the splash, I shut my eyes as it went right up by my temple, into my hair, then down on my cheek, the cigarette got a little wet, not bad though. When he stopped I was still able to draw smoke from it, through the sopping pissy filter. He shook his shaft and for some reason I wanted more of it, I reached out and wanted to catch every last drop on me. But there was none to be had. When he was done with that he lowered himself on me, straddling my shoulders, I didn't fight him anymore, he just eased himself onto my chest.
He started jerking off right above my face, he didn't say anything either, I just watched him jerk himself into an erection. I felt him fart through his underwear and pants too, from my fucking him, it was hot on my skin, it was hot no matter which way you looked at it.
He took out my cigarette and pushed his cock at my mouth. He quietly said, "Suck it, get it wet."
I did my job. It tasted better than it had before. I sucked it loosely, meaning I let all my saliva collect on in the grooves around the head and helmut. His pants were getting wet in the piss that cooled on me. I stunk. He pulled out and put my cigarette back in my mouth after letting the ash fall degradingly on my neck. He continued jerking himself slowly. He did this for about five minutes. He just let the orgasm sort of come out of him, like I mean he came and it went all over my mouth and the cigarette and shot up the side of my face, but it wasn't like he made it loud or violent or passionate or anything, he just scrunched up his face, his eyebrows bent up, and he just thrusted his taut hips on my torso only so slightly. He wiped the excess on my chin.
When he was down he leaned down and said, "Like that, bitch. Just like that." I wanted him to kiss me.
He stood up and took the gate out to the side of the lawn when he left the place. He didn't look back, I barely moved.
Suddenly I heard music from one of the rooms and remembered there was a party and stuff. I shook myself and got up. I was naked. I grabbed my clothes and was just dressed in time to see my friend, the girl that had been partying with the guy the whole time, arrive at the French doors. She asked where Albert had gone. I told her he'd just gone home, like nothing had happened, that she'd "just just" missed him. She didn't think anything had happened. She asked if I wanted to take more, go to the park that was nearby, and just hang out for a while. I told her I would, to roll a joint with my stuff and get me a pill, I wanted to have a shower first.
She reminded me that the people who'd gone out to Montreal were probably having the times of their lives right now -- best party ever -- kind of night. I said, "The acid's a bitch eh?"
"Want more?"