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When I Lost _ PART THREE
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When I Lost _ PART THREE
David asked me if I had to leave, curling its hand around Jack and my balls is if by holding onto it all it could persuade me to stay. Dressed and parting at the door, we kissed.
Sometimes one kiss is enough. Just that one kiss is enough to convey everything. You walk away from it dancing on air and can't wait to get back. It's all you can think about, but, at the same time, you can wait, because you know more than enough, already, about that other person, more than enough to confirm that, when you you do return to that mouth, you'll have beautiful sex. Beautiful, dirty sex.
You just know.
That's how it felt in my head. We'd fucked and fucked, but I was still in that "can't wait to do it again and again and again" space. If I'd had time I'd have fucked it all day and all night for a week, but I do have a life, and work beckoned; I had to leave it. I didn't mind; I knew I'd return that evening and I'd it screw all night, for as long as David's backdoor still had any life left in it, I'd screw it til dawn.
It's fair to say that, though we were into each other, we weren't a perfect fit. David's skinny latte: neat, tight, smooth, and so white that the details - the eyelids, nostrils, lips, nipples, navel, cock-and-ballsack - stand out like little pink cuts, wounds, or sores.
I'm more of a bear, you might say. When I look in the mirror, I like what I see: muscular, furry chest, legs and arms, my deep black pits, my big Jack, and the way the thin wrinkled skin of my scrotum pulls under the weight of my bollocks. I'm tanned, bear-balled and built to grapple.
David is no weakling; just more of a sprint, and I gradually found out that the perfect features, the smooth, translucent, almost featureless skin stretched over a boney developed musculature, the eyes that seemed to disappear into a pale blue-grey distance deep inside, were the foil to a mind that was relentlessly sexual and corrupt. It took me a while to work that out. I was fooled, David. You fooled me.
•
When we met again, that evening, for dinner, Jack was a little more relaxed, a little more civilised. I chose a place in Soho I like. Somewhere we could relax. Dark corners. Lots of drapes. We played footsie and touched hands a lot during the meal. Drank lots. My treat. Taxi home. My place this time. David didn't ask, just followed me - followed me and started kissing me, pressing against the full length of my body and holding me really really tight - the moment we were inside the front door. Jack was wide awake. We groped and snogged each other all the way up the darkened staircase and, once I'd unlocked and released the door to my flat, we almost fell in, pulling each others clothes off - his penis knocking against Jack like two lances, or umbrellas, or walking sticks... or something. Its legs wrapped round me as we tumbled onto the bed and soon Jack was fucking it; I was holding its ankles.
"You like my big stiff cock," I said. David laughed and said, "Sex talk is funny." I laughed, "I suppose it is." I fell forward, pushing its thighs to its chest with my weight; our faces met. "I suppose sex is funny," I said. I pushed Jack up it violently so that my balls slapped satisfyingly. "Is this funny?" I said. I did it again. It smiled. "Yeh," it said, "OK. I like your cock. I like it." I withdrew and then pumped it. "C'n you feel that?" "Yeh. I c'n feel it." "Like it?" "Yeh. I like it." "You like my cock." "Yeh. I like your cock." "That's better," I said, grinding it hard in. "David, I know what you like."
I put its hands above its head and held them there, ramming it hard for a while.
I had no idea.
Jack was fine with it.
•
David, when it walked, it walked with that beautiful mechanical clarity some men have; balanced, vertical and correct. It was a joy to watch (I'm more of a lumberer). If I held my hand on its waist as we strolled, it was like putting your hand on a dangerous engine. The thrill of feeling it move, knowing that it was yours, there was nothing like it; and when we sat in the restaurant, and I was playing with its hands while it talked about its life, I was embarrassed for the other guests trapped in their envy.
David liked experiment, and smiled when that raised my eyebrows.
"No I, I mean, like, in art. The avant-garde. That sort of thing."
"I know what you mean," I said. "You prefer the strange to the mediocre, interesting rather than comfortable. Am I right?"
"Yeh. Right," flicked its hair and laughed, stuffing a forkful of meat into its mouth, and chewed.
"You're into arresting images," I said, "like that huge Yoko Ono poster over your bed - pretty strange." "I like it" - mouth still full. "You like strange." "I like you." "Am I strange?" I said.
It swallowed. "I don't know. Are you?" I didn't say anything. "Not eating?" it said. "I'm eating!" "Not much." "You're eating enough for two." "Eating for two?" We laughed, like the joke was I'd been fucking its arse so much it might be pregnant.
I grabbed its paw and said, "I can't wait to get you home and fuck you again."
It smiled and looked down at its plate. Its fork was full and stayed motionless even when I let go. When it raised the fork to its lips, it paused and said, "Am I a good fuck?" and then it ate, looking down.
I reached under the table and squeezed its leg. "You're not just good," I said, with embarrassing sincerity, "you're the best. And you know it!" "I do?" "All I want is to fuck you," I said. "... Sounds boring." "Does it?" "No... !" "Just not very strange or experimental? Too vanilla? You ready for more spice?" "What's that?" "Let's see," I said. "Eat up."
David ate.
"What do you do with other guys?" I asked. "In bed?" "Yeh, in bed, or out of bed. What are you into. What's your kink?" "My 'kink'? Different things with different guys." "Different things with different guys..." I said. "That's not much help. I'm trying to find out what you're into, what you like, what turns you on, and you're giving me Yoko Ono!" "You know what turns me on. We've been fucking for like continuously since we met." "So, I know you like getting it up your tight cunt." It looked at its plate. "And I know what you like," it said. "What do I like?" "You like fucking." "Too right." "Anything." "Not 'anything'." "Practically anything. You're a sex pig, aren't you?" "A sex pig? That's a bit ripe." "True though. You are pretty predictable. You like getting your cock serviced." "What's so unusual about that?" "Nothing. But there's more to sex than that." "I just do what I do. You don't seem unhappy." "I'm not." "What is it then?"
It put down its fork and started to stand. "What's up?" I said. "Nothing. I need to go to the toilet."
It lifted its leg over its chair and twisted on the other foot, scanning for the gents. It walked away. I watched its bottom. Jack was interested, so after a moment I followed.
The toilet door was hidden behind a staircase. Inside, a partition of etched glass hid the interior. I found David at one of two urinals, starting to piss. I walked up and slipped my hands round its waist, putting my fingers round its hands and into the jet of piss before it could react. I kissed its neck. Its blonde hair touched my nose. I pushed Jack hard against its backside. "You can't..." it gasped and stopped pissing. "Keep pissing," I said. It let out a few jerky spurts and then resumed its flow fully, dousing my fingertips, leaning back against me. I lifted one hand and put it over its mouth. It licked its own piss off my hand. At the same time it was packing its junk back into its jeans. It turned and pressed its pissy face into mine. "Get in," I said, pushing it towards a cubicle. We went in. I pushed it round to face the wall and pulled open its trousers, opened them and lowered them, and it's black nylon briefs, enough to expose its soft white behind. I sat on the toilet seat and held its arsecrack open so I could look at its hole, and rim it. Then I stood up and turned it around so I could kiss it and it could taste its arse on my face.
When we returned to the table we were both so horney. Jack was rampant.
•
The restaurant was so gay. The tables were nearly all boy couples. The waiters were screaming. The pictures on the walls were 'esoteric queer' genre montages of magazine cutouts. When we left I felt relaxed enough to hold David's hand, squeeze its jeans, caress its waist, right in front of the waiter.
He held out our coats for us, patiently, whilst we French kissed. He wished us good night. He smiled politely. He knew perfectly well: We were going home to fuck. He was mildly jealous. Why shouldn't he be? It was normal to be jealous. It was normal.
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END OF When I Lost _ PART THREE