The Boy on the Bicycle. 1/3 by davistrell@aol.com
The boy on the bicycle followed the man in the car, pedalling hard, keeping up, till they stopped at the down-town light. He was breathing heavily and slouched on the handle bars and stared through the window at the driver. He was about eighteen I guess, but looked younger. His hair short, with blond bangs, a T-shirt with Ren and Stimpy, short cutoffs, hightops and slim hips, strong legs. The driver looked back at the cyclist, who was catching his breath. This was the third time in the last ten days this had happened. Who was this kid? He was sure he didn't know him. He had a good memory for faces, and his wasn't one he recognised.
And that look he was being given.
A frown, animated, turning hot and cold, a tongue that poked out almost imperceptibly. The lights changed, he moved forward on the green, and saw the youth ride away, taking a left on Morrisey, disappearing from view.
Next time, I'm going to take that left, he thought; next time.
He was in his early thirties, worked for the EDD, finding jobs when he could, for those who couldn't do it for themselves. He parked, went in, walked down the corr caught up on paperwork, read his E-mail, drank the first coffee of the day. But he was clearly distracted, he usually didn't take sugar and cream, but the boy had wakened up his sweet tooth.
Why was he following him day after day? Coincidence? Same route; same schedule?
But why did he stare in that way? Why wasn't he brave enough to roll down the window and simply ask? Tomorrow he'd ask. Tomorrow.
He looked at the desk photo of him and Ben on that fishing trip they'd taken. When they'd become lovers, it had happened on that trip. By the lake they'd shared a tent, a sleeping bag and each other.
That beautiful night, that first night. They'd hiked in the day, swam in the river, caught fish, cooked them as night fell, in the campfire, the big tench sizzled, and fed their greedy appetites, washed down with white wine and the boombox playing saucy melodies from the fifties, when romance was innocent, but potent. Maybe the lyrics used words that men don't share with men, well, don't say out loud. They looked at each other lit by the fire, and sat close, both aroused.
Ben's mother never forgave him, wouldn't even speak to him at the funeral, just glared as the priest who said those saddest words of all. It hadn't been his fault. He was a good driver, but couldn't avoid that sedan and took it broadside.
The photograph is the only memento, but not the only memory. It's been a year since Ben died. He's been lonely since then. At first because of grief, then because of indifference. He eats alone, sleeps alone, tries not to masturbate, thinks of Ben, comes, and then he's racked with guilt. He tries to work hard, but it's not that kind of job. He's happy if he places that laid-off worker, puts them back in the workplace, even if means a down-turn for them career-wise. That manager who used to make a fat salary, now working for a video-chain, thanked him profusely with tears in his eyes. At least I'm useful to others, if no help to myself. He'll talk to the young man on the bicycle tomorrow, he promises himself. The day's work is done, he packs his briefcase, goes to his car.
On the steps of the building, he's surprised to see the biker, waiting. He sees him staring again. He gets up, walks over, pushing his bike and stops by the car. He looks nervous, he's breathing awkwardly, his eyes are downcast.
"What do you want? Why are you following me?"
"I don't know..."
"Why are you here? What do you want?"
"I don't know..."
He says the same thing, the words barely rising above a mumble. They just stand there, the key to the car unlocked, the door half open, but he doesn't get in. They just stand there, the only sound, audible breathing. Minutes pass.
"What do you want..and don't say you don't know again."
He says nothing.
"Look I've got to go home, this is plain ridiculous..."
"Let me come with you..."
"What for?"
"I don't know..."
He looks so sad, like a puppy. He holds onto his bike.
"Do you know me? Have we met? I don't remember you..."
"No, I just saw you at a traffic light a couple of weeks ago. I followed you."
"I noticed. But what do you want from me...?"
"I don't know..."
"Oh, jesus, not that again! I'm leaving!"
"Don't go. Please, let me come with you."
He began to notice the other office workers leaving, some from his department. Tongues would wag, if they stayed frozen like that.
"All right. Follow me, I'll drive slowly."
He did as he said, and the bike tried to keep up with the car. At one point, he thought he'd lost him, but as he pulled up at the light,the bike caught up, stopped, stared in at the driver, and smiled. They moved on, the twenty-minute drive till he reached the apartment complex, and put the car in the garage. As he emerged he saw the boy again, panting faintly, and staring again. He decided to take the backstairs, the boy followed carrying his bicycle up the three flights. He opened the door to his apartment, let the boy in, checked his messages, nothing of importance.
The Boy on the Bicycle.(2/3) by davistrell@aol.com
"Would you like a drink? I've got Applejuice, I think."
"That would be nice."
As he filled the glass he asked the boy's name.
"Bryan."
He gives him the drink and the boy swallows it all, slowly, and his eyes keeps staring.
"Now, what do you want? Why have you been following me?"
"Don't you know?"
The apartment's not big, just a partioned room, a kitchen, a TV and a bed, neatly made, a sofa, a table by the window, a poster that Ben had bought, the only decor. He takes off his jacket, unloosens his tie, sits back on the sofa looks up at the boy.
"You've been following me for days, but won't say why. I'm supposed to guess, have I got that right?"
Bryan stands uneasily shuffles his feet.
"I saw you...I just want to be with you."
"But why?"
"I don't know..."
"Oh, no not that again."
"I'm sorry..."
He notices the photo of Ben.
"Who's this?"
"Friend of mine...he died...."
"I'm sorry..."
"It's ok."
"Was he your best friend..?"
"Yes."
"Can I be your friend?"
"Why? Shouldn't you be hanging out with friends of your own age?"
"You're the one I want to be friends with."
He sat down beside him, and please...I want to be friends."
"Anthony, but my friends call me Tony."
"Tony? Don't you know what I want."
"I'm beginning to get the idea, but it's all a little strange."
"I don't feel strange with you."
"Well, what do you want to do? Just sit on my sofa and say "I don't know", all night?"
"I don't know..I'm sorry.. I just don't know what to do... will you show me?"
He stroked Tony's thigh, moved his hand up, to the crotch and felt the growing hardness, leaned forward and kissed Tony's lips. Bryan put his arm around Tony's shoulder, pulled him toward him and kissed back.
He lifted the T-shirt and felt the young man's back, and his hand glided and pressed tightly around the boy's waist. Bryan took his T-shirt and pulled it over his head, opened a few buttons of Tony's shirt, felt the strong chest, his fingers touched a nipple and he stroked and continued to kiss. Tony removed his shirt, lay slightly back, let the boy run his tongue over his torso and belly. Bryan put his hand on Tony's pants and explored.
"Show me what to do."
"Let me close the curtains."
He returned to the sofa, unzipped and pulled his pants down, and the boy just stared at the bulge in the underpants. He reached forward and pulled them down too. His penis was hard, and the boy looked at it intently, not sure of it at first. He put his hand to it, felt the shaft, felt the balls beneath. Stroked and rubbed, and Tony stood close, brushing his hand over the boy's fair hair.
"It's beautiful, I knew it would be."
Tony brought the boy's head closer. Closer to Bryan's mouth. His lips came into contact, he tasted the tip. His tongue, wet, touched.
"Open!" whispered Tony, and Bryan took the man into his mouth. His eyes were closed, and Tony looked down as he filled the boy's cheeks. Bryan started to move his mouth up and down, taking in more and more.
It was clear the boy didn't know what he wanted, or at least couldn't articulate his feelings or desires. He felt he was a target, a gun, both at once. He knew he had a fierce urge to be naked with a man, a teacher, a hero, a big brother, a stranger, someone who could set him on fire. He'd fixated and found such a one.
Tony was gentle and felt unleashed emotions that had been hidden by grief and cradled Bryan, close, and led him onto the bed.
The Boy on the Bicycle.(3/3) by davistrell@aol.com
"I just wanted to be with you like this. To put my arms around you, I just want to crawl inside you, let me hide."
Tony looked down on the mess of confusion, laying beside him.
This man, this boy, this his. His to have just for the for the taking. His to have, his to hold; his to do with as he pleased.
He lay his hand tenderly on Bryan's belly, over the navel, pressing gently, making the abdomen sink, and the chest rise, releasing that audible sigh. His hand moved forward, downward, underneath the band of Bryan's shorts, fingers spreading, burrowing into the pubic fur, surrounding, then fondling the boy-man's erection, flat-lying, pointing upward, stretching, bending in a strong columnar arc.
"Is this what you wanted.."
"I don't know....yes...this is what I want."
"I want this too. Hold your breath while I suck on your cock."
If Bryan was shocked by the vulgar word, he didn't show it, he'd learn more words that night, in the warmth of that bed.
Bryan remembered for the first time in months how good a man felt, smelled, and tasted. He turned his legs around, put them closer to Brya as he sucked that sweet cock, he showed Bryan how to do the same for him.
It was gentle, no hurry to cum, no fast head-movements, just a languorous licking. Tony moved his tongue attention, to the nutty brown sac, to the seam that joins the two halves of the body, found the separation of buttcheeks, fingers pulling the two sides open, and let his hot tongue lick the skin-darkened hole of Bryan's warm ass.
Inarticulate Bryan didn't use words, but showed with moans and sighs, the pleasure he was feeling. No longer sucking cock, but squirming gracefully as Tony pressed a fingertip against, and opened up that warm wet crater. The fingertip moved in, the fleshy part pushing into flesh.
Bryan arched his back, lifted his butt a little higher, and the fingertip slipped in further, till it was joined by another fingertip, wrapped together as in a promise, and slipped in further, slipped further inside.
"Is this what you wanted... don't say you don't know."
"More..I want more... I want all of you inside me."
Tony rolled over on top of Bryan, his legs between the other's thighs.
Their cocks met together, rubbed each other, Bryan took his hand to guide his dick into Bryan's waiting ass.
The pain was mainly mental, exaggerated by inexperience, magnified by the mind. But when the head was in, really in, going in further, more of the shaft buried deeper, a pleasure center was triggered, pain slipped away.It hurt, God it hurt, please hurt more.
The thighs wide open, the legs turning in, taking as much cock, as he could, he became even more excited as the man lying on top of him started to pull and push. He started to using his own legs, catching up with the rhythm of Tony's butt thrusts. This was being fucked, yes, this is what he'd wanted.
Tony was having feelings, suppressed for so long, and felt all the feelings he'd thought long forgotten ; ejaculating forcefully, filling the insides of the young stranger below him, spending, shooting, cumming, delivering, overcome with passion with romantic meaning.
Later he let Bryan, feel the same, do the same to him. And when it was over, they lay in each others arms, exhausted, crying and smiling, and thought of tommorrow, thought about the days that would follow, thought of the future. They'd work it out.