The events and characters in the following story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is purely coincidental.
Midnight. A surreal hour. I'm sitting at the keyboard. Fingers possessed with autonomous life. Evoking the fading spectres of the memory. Infusing them with fantasy, dream. This hour, where darkness blends the corporeal with the ghost. The solid and the ethereal become indistinct. Through the window, London's concrete towers and the sky merge in the dull haze of insomnia.
I light a cigarette, take another pill. The sandman is now exiled. A swig of cheap red wine (how bohemian). A night blurred at the edges. No longer caring about the clutter of letters unopened since Christmas. Bills to pay, greeting cards, junk mail. The consequences of 21st century living in fragments and soundbites. The screen seems blinding. Where's this story going?
It's about this guy, Dan, the central character. He's a failed screen writer from England working in LA. Does a mini series then spirals into narcosis. He's sitting at a basketball court on Venice Beach, downing methadone tablets. Wondering if he should go for a midnight swim and not come back. The guy's reached his nadir. Another wasted life. But then fate directs him in a different direction...
"Hey chicken shit, got any dough?" Dan looked up as the five punks encircled him at the spectator stand. "He's fucked man!" Dan became aware of cruel laughter. "Asshole, answer me my friend! You got any dough?" Dan looked up indifferently, disembodied from his surroundings. Five dark shapes obscured the dying sun. Young, pale faced ghosts. There was the smell of spliff. Two of them were swigging at beers. The tallest stepped forward, grabbing his arm. "Check this arm. Guys a fucking shit-head, dudes. Got himself a habit." Another figure stepped over to him. "But whadda ya know, chicken shit's wearing a damn Cartier. Hey! I like your watch motherfucker. You gonna let me borrow that sweetheart, huh?" Dan looked back down. The tresses of his straggly raven hair framing the asphalt. "Take what you want. Leave me." He muttered. A rough hand pushed him from the bench. The ground jumped at him, slapping his head. A foot pressed his ear into the ground...
I guess Dan has to meet someone, get straight into some horny action. Isn't that the litmus test for erotica? Cut out the prelude and get down to the nuts and bolts. More to the point, I've only been to LA once. What do I know about Venice Beach? Nevermind, it's imaginary. Who's going to know if I stretch the truth a little? If Prime Ministers can do it then so can I.
Dan of course is an alter ego. Isn't that what storytellers do? Reconstitute themselves and the people that they've met in their characters. So, into the frame steps Troy. A tall black macho basketball player. An ideal perhaps?...
"Hey! What chu motherfuckers doing on our damn square? Get the fuck away from that guy! He ain't doin nothin!" The figures turned. The foot came of Dan's head. He was aware of shouts, some kind of stand off. A scuffle; some surreal ballet flickering in the footlights of sunset. Figures merging. Then a powerful pair of hands lifting his prone body back onto the stand.
"What's happnin bro? Look at me. Hey! What's going down wit' you?" "Huh?" Dan turned and saw a flash of dark skin. A thick calf muscle, long blue baggy shorts. A taught sculpted bicep. A sheen of sweat causing golden highlights to dance over it like a bronzed statue. "Hey, me and the brothers just saved your motherfucking ass." The voice was deep, authoritative. "Thanks, I'm so sorry. My name's Dan." "Hey, I didn't ask your goddam name. What kinda shit you on anyway?" "Please, I just need to get home...will you drive me...please?" Dan idly wondered why he still contemplated returning to his empty husk of a life. Perhaps he was too cowardly to confront an abiding sense of futility. "I don't have no car, man." "No, I meant my car. Please, I'll pay you..." "Yeah sure! Thousand dollars and you get your cab ride." "Ok. I'll pay you. What's your name?" The guy laughed and shook his head. "Troy." He turned and cursed at the night under his breath, "crazy motherfuck."
There was a long silence. Dan struggled to light a smoke. He glanced at the face of his saviour in the fading light. The exquisite curve to his head, the gentle, nobility to his features; dark piercing eyes, nose flared like some mighty nubian gladiator. Dan shuddered. He tried not to torment himself as his eyes drank in Troy's perfection like some delirious anodyne. He dragged his eyes to the dying rays of the sun. The last golden embers snuffed out in the watery grave of the Pacific. He fumbled, trying to open a pack of Gitane.
I suppose Troy should be straight(ish). I could give him some association with the Crips, perhaps? Give him a gangster edge. That means more research, though. I'll probably end up with too much narrative if I go into lengthy detail about backgrounds. Dialogue is the key. Dan and Troy sit together. The other basketball players disperse.
"See you later cuz." Dan looked up as a few of the figures left the court. "Want a fag?" "Hey, I ain't no faggot motherfucker!" Oh my gosh, I mean a cigarette. Forgive me. I'm English, for my sins. Over there they call fags poofs'. Dan offered him the pack. "You shittin me right? I ain't gonna go asking no cuz if he can fire up my damn poof." Dan tried not to smile. "No you misunderstand me. They call gays poofs', not cigarettes. Cigarettes are called fags. Well, sometimes anyway. Both terms are a little vulgar." Dan doubted that he was sounding coherent. Troy looked over to the gathered silhouettes. Once again the remaining basketball players were bitchin about some foul. Still trying to play in the gathering night. Dan felt disconnected from inhibition, reckless, romantic? It must be the drugs, surely? "Anyway what's wrong with being gay?" He looked directly at Troy. "Hey, I don't talk to no faggot motherfuckers." "Why not mate?" "I don't like that nasty shit they do to each other." "Why, do they force you to watch?" Dan flashed a wry smile. "No man, but it ain't natural. Getting their freak on up each other's ass, yunno what I'm sayin. Shit." Troy pulled a face and spat. "So you've imagined it then?" Troy stood up, merging with the inky background. "Listen motherfucker don't lay that shit on me. I told you, I ain't no damn faggot okay?" "I'm sorry. Troy, please, I'm a just bit crazy at the moment. I just need to sort my head out. Sit down. I need to ask you a question." Reluctantly, Troy sat. Refusing to look at Dan as he spoke. "I don't wanna hear about your shit, man."
In his mind, Dan could hear himself uttering poetry to his heroic Troy, over the tender chords of Rachmaninov...
Too cliched. No one believes in romance anymore, do they? I think I should re-write this pathetic attempt at a story line and inject some realism. Troy and Dan go for a quick bit of oral action in the lifeguard's hut. I am sure Troy would oblige with the right financial inducement.
Dan looked at Troy's moody expression, wondering if, for a second, a smile had flickered in his eyes. No, it can't be. The guy sitting next to him might as well be a million miles away. He needed face reality, get real. Why did his feet never touch the ground? Why did he exist in dreams, for dreams? Why did he never learn, as the world remained intent on crushing them all to smithereens?
He smiled nervously. What did he have to loose anyway?
"I like you Troy, a lot in fact. You probably saved my life, although that's a may be mixed blessing. Perhaps lurking under that machismo is a sweet, lovely guy with the soul of a poet." Troy's eyes remained fixed in the distance as the basketball players dispersed. "Hey, I already said, I don't wanna hear this shit. You're cool, but I already told you I don't go for in that faggot shit." "Ok, three thousand dollars. Stay a night." "What the fuck? I ain't no damn ho. Your jerkin me around right?" "Not necessarily. Just a hug. Just the opportunity for me to fall asleep in the arms of my hero. Is that really so terrible? What do you say? I swear to God, I only need a hug, I'm lonely okay. Loneliness can prove fatal..." Troy eyed him up and down warily, speculating whether the fool was insane. "Yeh, okay, I'll do it. For three thou' I might even let you suck on my dick." "Just a hug Troy. Simple. Doesn't every man deserves at least one night of happiness before they die?" "But none of that kissing shit." "I would not presume to kiss such perfect lips. Even looking into your eyes feels like an act of theft. Listening to your heartbeat would fill the lonely chasms of my mind with symphonies. Perhaps I could even imagine that you felt the same." "Hey I'm only cuttin this deal cuzza the dough. I don't wanna hear about all that crazy shit you got going on in your head." "So we have a deal?" Dan extended a trembling hand. Troy slapped it manfully.
The two of them said little as they walked along the sea front. Street artists and musicians gathered up their wares. Shops were closing, lights dimming. Dan felt unsteady as he turned left and tried to find his Cadillac amongst endless rows of cars. At last, he noticed it, parked diagonally and adorned with a parking ticket. "Oh joy." He mumbled to himself, bitterly amused by life's cruel irony.
Now we're getting somewhere. Troy gets into the driving seat and takes Dan home for a good old-fashioned fuck. Forget the preliminaries...
In the black saloon, Dan squinted as the lights from the Chinese theatre merged and warped in the dull haze of his brain. He wondered what the hell he was doing with a total stranger in his fucked up condition. What the hell was he was doing picking up some basketball player and imagining he somehow symbolised an abstract, idealised love, a memory of something that cynicism should have left buried. He cursed himself. What a fool to think that someone such as Troy could ever have feelings for some dumb-ass junkie like himself. Was he really so desperate to find a soul mate? There he was, being dazzled by the first guy that cared enough to save from what was probably a well-deserved beating.
"I got beaten up in London once you know. The guy crept up from behind. What a coward eh? Queensbury rules certainly didn't apply that day. The bastard broke my glasses too. I think he used a chair leg on my head. Ended up with five stitches and a very bruised ego."
They stopped at the traffic lights. A deluge of cars sped across their path. Troy glanced over. "Well check this shit. Troy lifted his singlet top revealing the awesome undulations of his abdominals. In the dim light, Dan noticed that traversing the tattoo of a tiger was a thick scar to the left of his navel. "Oh my gosh, Troy, that's terrible. Why would anyone want to hurt you?" "Life on the street, homie. Dats the way it rolls downtown." "Thank goodness you survived. You really are a fearless gladiator." "You're crazy man." Troy laughed. The sound of it brought a brief respite from Dan's pervading sense of gloom. He felt a reckless tenderness towards Troy that scared him. The lights changed and Troy wheel-spun the car forwards. Dan began to feel a craving for coke and a night where he didn't have to face the cold desolation of his bed.
The apartment was just off Hollywood Boulevard. As they dipped down the ramp into the basement car park. Troy seemed more relaxed. "You know, Troy, I hope you don't think I'm in the habit of taking strangers home. Perhaps loneliness does some strange stuff to the mind. Perhaps I just need to chat or something. If you would prefer to sleep on the couch then, don't worry, I'll still pay you." "You okay cuz. Yunno, you remind me of dis smart girl I used to hang with. She used to come out with all this brainy shit, tellin' me I got nice eyes and shit." "She's was absolutely right. You do have lovely eyes. One could get quite lost in them." "Hey I told you, stop sayin' that shit to me man. I ain't no homo." "Troy, I'm sorry okay, but is it really such a crime that I like you? You're talking to me as if you hate me. I'm lonely okay? A bit screwed up. Humour me sometimes, okay?" "I don't hate you bro. Your just talking like some dam sister, all sensitive and shit. I ain't into all that, man." "Again, forgive me. It seems my prince valiant is spurning me." Troy laughed, smiling broadly. "You crazy motherfucker." Troy pulled up the handbrake and rested his forearm on the steering wheel. "You a writer?" "Well, was a writer. How did you know?" "Saw you writing, man. You gonna write `bout me?" "Maybe. I'm between projects at the moment." Troy parked up and handed Dan the keys. "So why don't you try it with a woman homie? I can hook you up with some sweet little princess." "The same reason that you don't go for guys. It doesn't really appeal to me. Do you think that I have any choice about it? It's not easy you know. Some people can be pretty cruel if you're gay." "But you gays started of all that AIDS shit. Always fuckin other bros up the ass." "Have you ever stopped to wonder why gays find it difficult to form relationships, Troy? Okay, supposing I met a nice guy... could I kiss him in the park? Could I take him home to meet the parents? Could I fall in love and marry him? Look around you Troy. We're marginalised, stereotyped. We're forced to move away from small towns and small minds. Obliged to loose ourselves in the big city. I have a friend from Wales who got thrown out on the streets by his parents at sixteen. He's forty-five now and they still refuse to see him because of his sexuality. Imagine how that makes him feel." "Yeah, it's tough out there bro." Dan swept the hair from his eyes. Troy stared at him with a strange intensity. "I am not suggesting that all gays are perfect citizens. We're flawed just like anyone else. But that's the point. We're more than just a label. We're more than a casual screw with some stranger. People are complex, unique, multi-faceted." "True." "I guess that you like girls, fine, but that isn't the entire definition of who and what you are. People are more than the sum-total of what they do in the bedroom. Perhaps you enjoy feeling the sun on your back and staring at the ocean. Perhaps you feel poetry in your soul when you look at the stars. I don't know, but the point is that being straight or gay only one aspect of an individual." Troy extended his hand, brushing Dan's palm. "Okay, chill out man, I'm just sayin what I heard. You ain't like some faggot anyway, all girlie and shit. You're cool bro. Relax." "Would it be futile to hope that I might see you after tonight?" "Yeah, man. You're cool. Sure we can hook up sometimes. Just don't talk about that queer shit in public. Keep all that shit on the low." "Of course. I wouldn't want to jeopardise anything."
A bit too much social commentary, perhaps? This is supposed to be erotica, not some hackneyed script for some Canadian Gay rights drama. Back to the action. A quick screw for the finale and done. Promoting liberal attitudes has its place but not here. This is something for people get off on, hopefully. A bit more wine, that should loosen things up a little...
As the two of them strolled towards the elevator, Dan marvelled at Troy's height. His lithe athletic frame towered over him. "Is your father tall like you, Troy." "My old man's dead." "I don't know what to say. I'm sorry.' Dan felt his cheeks flush as he offered his trite condolences. He stabbed at he lift call button impatiently. Troy seemed reluctant to elaborate and Dan began to suspect that he resented being asked personal questions. Perhaps, in time he might be able to talk about things. "Well I hope my neighbour doesn't see you. I think she'll start swooning, the poor girl." "What's she like. She pretty?" "She's very attractive for a seventy year old. Used to be a big name in Martini ads. Don't think she's been shaken or stirred for some time. In fact, I know how she feels."
They stepped into the lift, both staring at their reflections. Troy surveyed his muscles proudly, while Dan looked at his dishevelled jeans and unkempt hair. His eyes looked like black holes and greying stubble clung to his face. "Jeez, what a mess." He muttered. The door opened up with a `ping' on the forth floor. Dan felt a strong craving for heroin. He had been off the stuff for a month, but it still had a hold on him. At least the methadone tablets would get him through the night. That was what mattered. Tomorrow was another day. Until then, oblivion called.
Troy stayed behind Dan warily as they headed along the corridor. The walls seemed to shift and pitch as he staggered slightly to the door. He tried to focus as he put the key to the lock. He turned back. "It's a bit messy in there. I wasn't actually planning on a return visit."
God, what a bloody cliché; older rich guy meets hot black stud. I definitely think I should get out more. Visit a sauna or go up to Hampstead Heath. Perhaps not. Saw a guy bent over a fallen tree trunk there on my one and only visit. Dozens of guys queuing up for a piece of him. Quite a revelation! Not really my kind of thing though. I like to think that I have some kind of discerning taste...
BZZZZZZZZZ!
Who the hell is that? It's 1.30am for God's sake. Probably, it's my friend `Lucky' after some cash for a quick blow job. I'm really not in the mood for him. Sure, I miss him, but the guy's a crackhead. I am just another punter who enjoys worshipping his impressive manhood. He brings colour to my existence, but I need something more than transient encounters. I suppose I'd better see who it is...
"Hello?" "Yo cuz, it's me." "I'm sorry. Who's this... Lucky?" "You know who it is..." I should never have taken that ketamine with the wine. I'm hallucinating. "What's your name? I don't recognise your voice." "It's Troy man. Come on cuz, let me in. I'm freezing my ass off." Count to ten. Breathe slowly. I think my heart's going to jump out my chest any moment. I had better let him in. "Come up then... Err, try not to slam the front door." Shit, I can hear him climbing the stairs. He's at the door. This isn't real. Troy was just a name I plucked out of the air. Surely imagination can't encroach on real life. This is madness. Troy cannot exist. He does not exist.
BANG!
Shit, he's at the door. Let's confront this particular demon. Open the door. I must be tripping in the more traditional meaning of the word. "Troy." "Yeah man, what took you so long?" Troy's standing in the hall. The embodiment of perfection. His light blue shorts vaguely revealing the outline of a huge cock. I suspect that it's a much sought after prize. I feel like falling to my knees and kissing it, but inhibition leads me to offer him a drink. A cool beer should distract me from this torment. "So, what do you think of Dan, Troy?" "He's cool. Sure, he's a faggot, but he just needs some of this. Troy sat on the sofa and grabbed at the prominent cock twitching in his shorts. "I don't blame him. How old are you Troy? "Twenty eight. I'm in my prime bro. You like me a lot, huh?" As Troy adjusted himself, a knife fell from his pocket. "Would you say that you have a propensity for violence, Troy?" "I just do my shit. Say, you got any more beers?" Troy swigged the remnants of his Stella Artois "Sure." My head's spinning. The trip to the refrigerator brings about a dizzy euphoria. I return with two beers. Troy has dropped his shorts. Protruding from them is a long, fully erect dick, lolling at his left inside leg. Troy points at it as he drags on his cigarette. "Get on it man. Kiss it." As I kneel down I allow my lips to press against it's hairy solidity. I run my tongue along it's impressive length. As he lifts his singlet top, it twitches once more. "Start worrying the head, man." As I clasp his hips, my tongue flicks and toys with the tip of his manhood, causing deep rumbles of satisfaction I his chest. "Dat's it man. Gimme that nasty shit." His thick cock is now deeply embedded in my throat, but I am still not taking all of it. I begin to feel dizzy again and wonder if I am existing in some alternate universe. There is a sense in my being that I need to allow Troy to enter my body by other means. A deep-seated urge to relinquish my body to his masculine potency. I wonder if, like Francis Bacon, his dominion over my body might bring about temporal release. Maybe sex and power are inseparable twins and I am their play thing. The stiff prick plunges deeper in my throat as Troy raises his hips, forcing deep his inflamed member. He grips my lank blonde hair, cursing and loving me in breathless utterances. "Shit. Mother-fucking homo bitch. You'd better gobble it all up, you fuck." Troy begins to work his hips more earnestly, clamping my head still with both hands and fucking my mouth in frenzied thrusts. "Yeah...yeah...yeah." I feel a torrent of spunk released down my throat as his beep thrusts began to make me gag. I wondered if he might hate me for my willingness to swallow his seed. His dick remained in my throat as his lifted back his arms, revealing dense regions of hair. His eyes closed. I imagined that he thought I was just a cheap slut who gave it up for just anyone. My reputation tarnished further as a lover of dark skin. Could he ever realise that I had spurned so many advances in search of an icon like him. All of a sudden, sleep took me. I found refuge in oblivion.
Morning bathed the room with sunlight. I revive, nestled under the arm of my sleeping Goliath. A smile crosses my face. I haven't smiled for a long time. My head rested on a broad smooth chest. The musky aroma of Troy's body seemed intoxicating. I feel an arousal. "Oh God, this is sheer torment." I try to content himself with snuggling up against a blissful waking dream. Troy stirred, stretching his arms upwards and yawning. His sigh was a deep rumble in his chest. Troy's eyes flickered open, then squinted. "Shit." His booming curse seemed lyrical. I tried not to smile as Troy lifted his head slightly and looked at me with surprise. His head slumped back to the pillow. His handsome face stared disbelievingly at the ceiling." "Aw Shit, man." "Did you sleep well?" I whispered gently. I felt Troy's hand brush my arm and reach down to his nether regions. "Damn!" "Would you like a coffee, Troy?" Troy's hands moved back out from under the covers. I kissed him on his chest, hoping that he would not be too angry about such audacity. Troy's hand patted my head then tentatively began to push it under the covers. "Get on it man. Yeah that's it." My head glided over Troy's slim torso and belly. Its soft hairs brushed his cheek. In the dark hot enclosure, the Troy's hand guided me to the burning tip of his manhood. I heard Troy groaning as his my kissed it. It twitched expectantly. "Yeah, that's it." He whispered gruffly. I allowed the bulbous head to slip into his mouth. The hand continued to push as he eased in some of the shaft. "Yeah, thassit. Take that big ole cock. Gimme some of that nasty shit." I kissed and licked the cock adoringly. It was divine. I shifted slightly and ran the tip of my tongue along its long shaft, licking at the low slung balls. "You like all that shit don't ya?" I tilted my head "Oh yes. You know I do." He whispered "Get it going faster now. That's it faster. Hold it with both hands, start licking over da end. Yeh, you like this cock huh? Hey, slower, I don't wanna come yet. That's it, cool it down man." I stopped. There was a desire within me that his selfish needs needed to release. "I am not doing any more." I intoned, rebelliously. His body tensed, and I knew that I had angered him. "Get back on it man!" "No, I need you to make love." "You fucking queer motherfucker. Just get on it. Stop playin me." "If you want me Troy, just do it." Troy turned me unceremoniously on my front. In an instant, I felt a long stiff prick pressing along the groove of my buttocks. "This what you want, bitch? You want me to fuck yo ass? I do it man. You go git what you dreamin bout homo!" As the head of Troy's cock discovered my pandora's box of longings, I felt an an ecstasy as he delved into my being, invading me like a conquistador. I was his chattel, but as his length filled my being, I was enslaved and yet free. Bliss and desire overwhelmed me as his loveless pounding of my arse brought about a quivering and sublime torrent. I was his fuck-piece and my world was revolving around the piston action of his baby-maker. His power of creation, exercised, wasted, consuming. As he poked my firm muscular butt, he cursed the heavens, in some heretical rage. God, Jesus, all fell about us in field of unbridled glory and rebellion. I longed for his seed to fill me in some bastardised Milton-esque blasphemy. In sulphorous flames and deep pounding thrusts, he sprayed his manhood into the seat of desire. Time and space dissipated at I came on the sheet, quivering in a molten desire that seared my being.
I was hurt by the rapidity of his withdrawal. His cock was still rock-hard as he drew his sated prick from my being. Perhaps prejudice, stereotype casts a hideous spell upon man and man. In the rotting fruits of our loins, he laid, uncertain, angry. As a dream diminished, I considered planting a kiss on thick, succulent lips. I considered speaking my forbidden love. Why would the world understand such things? The world does not accept dreams.
I awoke alone, distraught, unsure where reality begins and dreams end. Descartes once said "cogito ergo sum." ... I think therefore I am... Existence. Isn't that why religion became popular. The human need to rationalise the act of "being'. I offer no explanations. Maybe sex it just an outlet to overcome futility? Perhaps, we are all whores, storytellers. Pretending to be respectable, yet knowing otherwise. Celebrating the act of being with others. Divining meaning through the people that we meet... The people that we imagine...