While Adonis Dances

While Adonis Dances By: A.Cheshire Catt Emails are cool, send pics, kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com June 10,11 2006

I forget the girl, I forget the night, it was someone that I was speaking with recently, it was probably at a party I was at, she was there and she'd probably heard me mentioning how much I was needing sex. She said the thrill was the hunt. Lately I've been so busy writing about sexual exploitations that I haven't actually gotten around to doing anything. Abstinence, relunctant as it's been, has been driving me crazy. Watching a straight couple groping and fondling each other on my own bed last weekend was the last straw. Then I started having to work weird shifts, getting home at weird hours, our internet being down, the whole situation was killing me. I had to have sex.

I was sitting on the bus the other day and all of a sudden it was filled when we drove by the University. There were all these kids that got on in their Abercrombie and American Eagle brands, looking stylish with their shaggy rockstar hair and slick reflective Chopper glasses. Boys are beautiful in the summer. Staring darkly back at ourselves from their glasses as they scan for seats. I was so horny that I lifted my head up from the copy of Memoirs of a Geisha as if I'd detected their delicious scent hacking through the lumbering midday crowd and started to scan their faces for someone who might be letting their glimpses linger a little too long, maybe someone would get off at the next terminal. Not because I am but because if he smirked just right I'd go with him. I'd never done it before but I've heard of a spot at the place called Hurdman where people get off the bus with someone and go for a walk to the bushes down by the old Rideau River and get it on, swiftly, before coming back to board the next bus. There's even someone in the local chat room that uses the name Hurdman because it's his favorite haunt, he's just a cum-pig. Cum-pigs and cock sluts, they're of a breed that I can't associate with anymore. One might say I'm above that. I think I've just moved on. When I stopped doing that the spirit of it rested. Only because I've had better, only because I don't have time anymore to slip off the bus.

Responsibilities are killing the young slut in me.

So there I was reading about Japan in World War II when a young man wearing green canvas shorts with a hem running all the way down to mid-shin, postured himself directly to my left. His cock was right there: you know what I mean. I couldn't even see his shirt out of the corner of my eye, his crotch was right at my shoulder. This is the moment I knew I had to have sex soon or it was going to destroy me. He was so close that I instinctively twitched. He may not have noticed but I have this fear of people being inside my personal space when I'm not inviting it. A fear not of what they might do but what of what I might do, or what I might seem to do, appear to do, you know what I mean, right? As the bus started to weave toward Hurdman we swerved through the transit-way the buses take, the corners being like deep grooves that made the people on the bus lean this way and that, like infants in a crib at the mercy of a dopy sitter. The young guy standing next to me leaned but faltered and a moment later I felt his crotch graze my shoulder. I looked up at him. He was probably 18 years old, tanned, with a huge jaw, barely any stubble growing on it. I smiled but focused quickly again on the words in my book. I could feel the fabric of his fly tickling my shoulder through my cotton shirt. But it was barely touching me, I was just so sensitive. It was such a tease. I wanted there to be a dog run out on the road or something like that to cause him to fall right into me. I begged God to let me have this boy land in my lap.

Of course we simply arrived at Hurdman and the boy got out and was gone. What was I expecting anyway? I mean the kid was obviously just standing there, how much pleasure could I have gotten if his elbow had driven into my crotch and he banged his head off my chest? Probably only the satisfaction of having looked at myself in the glimmer and shine of his $20 sun glasses. That's not much.

As we drove on I was driven crazy with the memories of the most recent sex I've had. Most recently was the previous Thursday, one week ago today. I'd been hoping to turn a trick but had ended up making myself silly with lust waiting for a bite and had to resort to childish advances in a matter of convenience. Being as it was 11.30 pm on a balmy Thursday night, social obligations were summoning me even though I didn't even know it yet, I was in a hurry and needed to get my rocks off, you know how it is. A cafe, late at night, it's about to close, you need to fuck, you know how it is, right? I landed at some guy's place within a few blocks of the internet cafe I was at. I'd typed to him, "I want to come in and start immediately. I want there to be pushing and shoving, I want you to be aggressive and manly, none of this straight to bed bullshit." He'd said it sounded like it would be a lot of fun. I told him I was serious.

If a man says to another man that he wants aggression and passion is implied, upon arrival one should not through the ridiculous formalities. "Hank." "Joe." "Nice to meet you." That sort of shit. No no no. I think sex should be unabashedly ruthless, especially among strangers, and the only way to remain strangers is to remain nameless, is to remain closed-mouthed. Just smile and nod.

When I'd arrived I'd found that he was heavier than his picture had illustrated. And upon instigating a growling, pushy approach he pulled back and said that he'd like to go more slowly. Slowly. I hate slowly. Slowly's for lovers and I don't fake that shit unless the price is right.

His place was a nice pad, the large space was actually just a badly decorated bachelor's apartment. The Bed, a massive sleigh style structure with smooth lines and sheets with a high thread count, was the center piece. It was exactly what I didn't want. Grumblingly I growled through an ordeal that was like sex, but the bastard even had a Prince Albert and I hate sucking on metal, clanging in my fillings, it disgusts me. I made like I was lazy and came on his face then slumped off to the side to allow his load to shoot with an empty wind of pomp onto his belly.

Last night I wanted better sex. I went to the cafe again.

The second last time I'd had sex it was a little better. It was with someone I'd done before, a rock climber and cyclist, he had a killer chest and powerful legs, he also liked to piss on people which is something that always drives me nuts. It was from him that I got the desire to have sex like an assault. It had been perfect that night. I'd done enough drugs all weekend to tire the Queen of the Disco, and danced all damned day. He'd picked me up at my place after a short booty call at nine on the Sunday previous to Prince Albert and took me to his condo where he has a bird that repeats the most irritating songs from Chicago and Moulin Rouge and all these ridiculous flicks. "Roxy. Roxy. Roxy." The bird sang it over and over again. I found this so interesting. The first time I'd been there we'd watched that movie and that had been my favorite song in the movie. I'd gone around that night and the next morning singing the words that I could remember. Here the bird was singing it again for me.

But the point of all this was the entrance into the place. See, the sex was purely carnal, no passion, no love really, on my part. Simply functional, good design, like a chair with fine lines and simple purpose: I wanted it to have no frills. I remember walking behind him down the corridor of his condo toward the door of his place and the way I stalked him sent shivers up MY spine and I felt like a hunter, like the hunt had been back in the good old days of prowling and pouncing. As soon as we got into his place it was started against the door frame, tearing away clothes and kissing long and hard, our stubble grazing each other's cheeks, burning the flesh. Our bodies pushing into each other and then finally I pulled him down to the tiled floor and tore away his clothes while his pet bird chirped, "Roxy. Roxy. Roxy." I hated it, being as it was that I was high and brutalized constantly by annoying sounds.

I pulled him up the stairs, he pulled me down to the carpet there, it burned my back but we took to it anyway, we basically used each other to climb the stairs, like one the shadow or reflection of the other, like a strange Siamese monster, two half faces, four arms, several legs. I took him to the bedroom where we tried desperately to get the last bits of clothing off our bodies, and finally achieving nakedness we were gnarled in a clenched knuckle of fuck, breathing heavily, moaning with our mouths together, humming. I took his cock in my ass like a pro, making it a smooth transition, aiming it while at my ass while I straddled him. The thrust of his hips at me was like that of a beast, starving, mad. I could stand it on the bed anymore. He said roll over and I said, "Never." I got off the bed and went over to the wall beside the mirrored closet doors and spread my legs, putting one hand on the wall and using the other to pull an ass cheek to the side. "Fuck me." He slid in and I moaned and my fingers grabbed at the wall as they might a sheet on the bed, my knuckles turned white with pressure but my face remained cool, I breathed just ever so slightly more purposely, focussing all my energy on the area around me fucked ass. I relaxed and breathed out as I cocked my eyebrow at myself in the mirror, letting him see, moving my ever so slightly to take him in as he fucked me and sweat from his forehead, gasping as a pornstar might. Pornstars and pornographic zombies and the boys who want to be them can make the most adorable faces when they're working on their loads. I told him to fuck me until I came and when it was just about to happen I told him and he pulled out. I turned and he'd already knealt at my feet, mouth open to the offering, hungry still for it. He jerked himself so that he came all over the blonde pubes in a patch on his lap and as he gasped in pleasure of his own cumming I groaned and pointed my cock at his face and shot it all over lips, nose, chin. We rested, breathing heavily for a moment then I declared my desire to leave, I had to get back to whichever party I was at that week. "But don't you want me to piss on you?" No. I didn't. I wanted a fuck, it was too late now for a shower. I never get what I want, it seems. Nothing is really what I need it to be. Now that I left him rather dissatisfied I felt a little disgruntled, I mumbled an apology and then he drove me home.

As I sat down last night at the computer I was thrilled with the prospect, I wanted it to be like that again, I wanted us both to be satisfied though, that would leave me satisfied. Though it was later than what I'd expected I was still hoping to catch some people before they head out to the bar. The crowd diminishes around that time and pickings are rather slim.

I hate the smell of alcohol on the breath of the man I am devouring. I hate the stench of poppers too, but that's a story for another time. I hate gay bars most of all. I didn't want to have to go out and find someone to take home and do like that. I hate the process of meeting someone at the bar. I hate it so much that I was there, in a cafe, on a great night to be out, at about that time when it's great to be out.

Sitting there I imagined the bar, the line up, the people that would be there. I imagined people I know there and I could see them laughing as they scooped up tourists and regulars in the ladel of their lust, pouring it into the bowl of satisfaction later on. Spooning till morning. But I shrugged my shoulders, hating the thought of having to do all that myself. The thought of seeing these people I know while I do the business of hunting seemed impractical and outright dull.

I hate the music, I hate the drunkenness, I hate the slobbering nonsense of delinquents thinking they're beautiful.

It's all fun and games until they wake up with a hang over.

I wasn't finding anyone serious about meeting as soon as possible. I didn't want this to be an all-night hunt. The girl the other night that told me she liked the hunt was preaching to the choir. I so enjoy the ridiculousness of flirting with men online. I love the dialogue, obviously there's an abundance of it as it is the only thing that keeps men hooked when the pictures may be great.

But one can talk and talk or type and type until they're blue in the face, eventually it's going the be up to the other person and the only one that I had going on for any length of time wasn't really going to be the greatest lay, it was going to be like the last one I'd had, the one with the annoying piercing, the guy who'd promised a blockbuster and had turned out rather lack-lustre. I was willing to take him but he opted out, claiming it was too late.

I surrendered, I'd go to the bar.

Upon seeing the line-up I went with plan C: the Bath House.

The Bath House is a blande concrete-block warehouse style building off Bank Street, the main drag of this town. There's nothing to advertise it anywhere, just the number on a green door and the ominous presence of strange men lingering outside smoking cigarettes waiting to go in.

Back in the day of my glory, this was my throne room. It was my smoking room when I was planning wars. It was my opium den when I was a disillusioned artist. It was my cottage when the city was getting too close. It was my hiding place when the rent hadn't been paid. It was my hunting grounds when I was a young tiger finally away from his mother's ways. I've written so many stories describing the innards that really the beast that it is is no longer a mystery for me. Now the beast simply digests me, and I am in it when I am in it and I am out when I leave. A man I once knew in this place said that it is one of the few places left on this planet, like a church, where one leaves with what they came with if not just slightly changed somehow.

For years I've been waiting to say to him that the Disco is like that too. When you don't leave with anyone.

I walked in and took a locker and stripped with delicacy and grace, like the undressing of a geisha. There were a few men around that were of the variety to make one sick. Fat, balding, white, the skin or their bellies and shoulder as smooth as plastic. When I was much younger I'd written a story about a young man touring an art gallery in his own mind and he came upon a scene with two older, uglier men bordering, trapping, damming the pure white flow of the young man between them. It was this sort of place I was describing. Wrapping myself in the softest of soft white towels I began a tour of the place to see who was in. On the main floor there was no one, and I thought to myself how dreadful the prospect would be, to end up sleeping with one of these ridiculous characters. The sauna was calling my name but I wasn't ready yet.

I took a gallant tour around the second floor rooms, admiring the hideousness of large, bloated, beached whales, smirking at the twitch of buttocks as they awaited the attention of eager cocks. I rolled my eyes with such childish boredom, it seems as though all these men come here to have sex with Adonis, all of us have come here to have sex with Adonis, but it was obvious to anyone who'd been alive in the last five years, since smoking had been banned in the bath house, since the local chatroom became as popular as it was, since the bars got better, there weren't very many people who would prefer to be in here when they could be out at the bar. Standing in lines, listening to women tickle their own fancies, comparing fags, the hags, that's where Adonis is, rolling his eyes as I do, wandering a circular path over and over again, playing again and again some sad song in my mind. I don't know what was in my head but I was humming something, something moaned like a Ray Charles lament, or some sleepy Louis Armstrong shiver, "When it's sleepy time Down South . . . "

Up to the third floor then, to my perch. Having come here often enough to believe I'm memorable, "my perch" is the seat at the end of the couch by the door to the room. Men lean against the threshold there, they feign interest in the porn playing on the screen. I have my feet up on the table, high arches, long toes, trimmed toe nails, a smear of grime on the heels, a few hairs on the knuckles: the man that leans there watches me closely, watches me as I seemingly dreamily tickle the hairs of my legs, the length of them turned blue in the darkness and somehow lit up as if by moonlight in the flicker and flash of the pornographic zombies long dead to world yet dying eternally on the screen. The thought, not of the theme in the porn, but that someone is watching me, draws my imagination into a dark hiding space, an oasis, and my sac heaves and churns with the desires of my day. I click my tongue as the movie dares to attempt some thread of plot and opt to leave the room with an adjustment of my towel about my waist.

I feel eyes from uninhabited shadows follow me from the room. There are ghosts in the bath house and they come out late at night. They are the ghosts of boys who thought they knew themselves so well, as if they were delicious. Once I approached one and he said, "What are you looking at?" I said, "Nothing." Boys, they think they know.

I dart down the stairs, down down down, down to the place where I'd walked in. Circular. All of this is. I go to the locker and try to think of something I need, it's not fair that we can't smoke in here. I'd read just the other day in the newspaper that there was a brothel in Australia fighting to have the right to have smoking in their establishment because, "The two go hand in hand." It's true, I needed a cigarette, but there was nothing I could do about it but squirm. I went for a shower and relaxed a bit. You know how it is when you're tall and slim in the shower seductively letting the soap fall through the creases and cracks of the back muscles, letting the suds collect that the crack of my ass like I can control them, clenching those muscles there, taunting the ghosts of the boys in the hollow corners.

At one particular moment I turned and looked at the door and saw a man there had been lingering to watch the show of my showering. I put my hand against the tiled wall and the water changed its flow to something more of a flat wash over my torso, rinsing the soap away with one gush. I wasn't watching him anymore but almost as though I had anticipated it to the second it happened, he suddenly reached around my belly and I felt his body press warmly against my ass. He was shorter than myself, as I am quite tall, and if I'd just stayed there as I was staring at his tanned hand on my belly, the water rushing over his wrinkled digits, I could have let him stroke my length indefinitely. When I turned I was destroyed to see that he was ugly, too hairy for me, wearing a gold chain that smacked of mid-life crisis. I shut off the water.

Turning around fully, unabashedly, he thought this was a sign for him to launch his Armada, sorry to say, I wasn't interested and tapped him kindly on the shoulder while I went to the towel on the rack.

"You're beautiful," he cried out. I smiled without looking at him.

Once upon a time I'd run into an elderly friend here, right over there by the door to the stairs, by the door to the sauna, right over there. The ghost of myself was standing there right now. He was saying to that elderly gentleman, the ghost of whom was not present, how happy he was to see him. His sparkling spectre eyes glimmered with ghoulish intention, ahh I could remember that night well, the man with whom I'd been speaking had said, "You don't even know it but there are all sorts of people giving you the look." Suddenly the ghost said, and I mouthed the words with him, "I'm used to it."

I laughed.

The man said it again, "I think you're beautiful, do you speak English?"

In long strokes I dried my stretched muscular if perhaps just slightly feminine legs, gripping the slippery floor with my talon toes. Standing I dried my hair then and ran my fingers through it, posing for him like a delightful treat I said, "I do, and thank you. But no."

I saw him collapse under the weight of the shower water he turned on at that instant. He'd given up on me. I was bored already.

I went to the sauna to warm myself, to bake my skin, making sure the heat was up and the timer was set before I went in.

There were two other people in the small nook of a sauna with me. It smelled like a sauna I visited when I was a kid. It always does and always will. The ghost of a boy is sprawled on the back bench, he's dozing with a hangover, he's grumbling with dreary comfort. He's used to it. A man is sitting there, by his head, and the other man is drying himself and takes a seat on the lower bench by the ghost's phantom feet. I launch myself onto the upper bench in the corner by the ghost's feet. The sauna always gets me horny. It's the dark heat, it's the quiet. It's like when I used to have sex in bathroom stalls, Pavlovian like that, instead of taking a shit I'd always have to cum after having conditioned myself for years. This is the same sort of place, same song and dance. (And Adonis is dreary on the dancefloor too.) Another reason is because that in this orange burning ember chamber, the bodies cramped in here, three of us, very intensely, anyone can be beautiful. An artist's charcoal would give our bodies sultry lines and like a summer heatwave everything seems ablaze with the mania of some midsummer night's determination. The shadows of the room smelled of an ancient forest, filled with primitive possibilities, steaming and sweaty and all that. I lounge upon the top bench and sigh, and then that man there sighs and he's fast tonight, he moves into me and strokes my leg, the left, the one nearest him. It's the one sitting on the bench by my legs that strikes my interest. I begin stroking his shoulder.

He's actually older than what I'd thought, he used to work out, I can tell that much about him just by stroking his shoulder. It means nothing though. I know that much. In this drooling room there's little time for second thoughts. When the sex of this room is done well it is done with abandon and the man I crave takes my leg to worship it with his tongue and a gentle touch. A part of me often finds itself boasting and laughing sneeringly at society, that's the part of me that out there in the real world likes to be objectified, but it takes such a brawny strong man to wear the weight of such a weighty jaded armor. I wear it all the time out there. In this place I am adored. I can whine. I can dismiss. I can spoil myself. I can be relieved by the pleasure of giving in. I let my body be a temple for the prayers of others.

The other man gets the idea and flees with his dignity, and then there is only the two of us.

He's got a nice chest, his hair is trim, no jewellry or piercings, just a man's body. No frills. Perfect.

But by this point I was so warm from the heat of the sauna that a certain lethargic surrender was all I was capable of. I kissed him despite the taste of rum and coke that lingered on his tongue. When he put his arms around me I gave myself to him as though I were helpless, but then affectionately held him. As a single man, a young man, far from family, there's only so much time before one has to be held, and the importance of being held is as vital to a young man's life as the warmth of sun is to a budding bloom. The fires of his passion burned brighter, and we played such a combatative game of who is holding who before finally I was held and he leaned me to the side that he may more lavishly dazzle me with delicate kisses, as if upon each rib he placed a note and for each note he played a ticklish tune came from me. He brushed my outstretched arms with tender affection, and in the darkness, hot like burning coal, our breathing oozed and the press our bodies excited me. I discovered his powerful urge when my wandering hand went down between his legs to the puckering lips of his ass, when fingers danced there he moaned so contentedly that I knew I must take him.

Abruptly I sat up, adjusting my hair. I pushed him back, nearly making him fall in the sauna, never once letting my lips leave his. Standing now I told him to lean against wall, turning him around, spreading his legs. I lowered myself to bury my face between the tight cheeks of his ass. He was a roller blader, or a cyclist, his lower body was still quite strong while his upper body was in need of some attention. His thighs were massive. A runner maybe. I massaged them as I let my tongue jut and poke and pummel his ownership of the situation, strong limbs are a big turn on for me.

The spice of his hole coated my tongue, I closed my eyes as an attacking shark would, devouring the flavor hungrily. When he was hottest I put a spit-lubed finger at the hole and pushed open the door. He gasped and was helpless for that moment, like a child unsure of the intention, certain only of the thing he felt at that moment, helpless to my desire, just the body of a man but at MY fingertip. Delicious. When he was ready, and I was ready too, I stood and aimed my cock at his ass, before I poked it in I leaned over and whispered: "You want this don't you?"

I saw he was biting his lip nervously, "Yes."

I pushed against him and tried to take it slow. The head of my cock penetrated him, making him jump, the sweat on his back poured out. The heater of the sauna in a noisy clickety-clackety way made it hotter in there. Soon, I swear with the lube of the sweat that poured down his back to the crack of his ass, I began to tease him with a gyration that dipped the first inches of my cock into him, it was the first stages in this methodical fuck of his tight hole. He gasped and moaned like a child. It was too much, "Too much." He didn't stop me though, he stood still and took it. I caressed one of his arms, almost as though my intention was to attract attention that part of his body while I slowly pushed in all the way. He clenched, I whispered my wish that he'd relax, after some breaths he did: I began fucking him. Slowly, slowly, at first. I loved it. He was the perfect height for me. I relaxed myself and felt my balls slapping thighs. I rubbed his shoulders, I was sweating like hell, as was he, and the heat was making me dizzy.

The moment was intruded upon by a strange character I'd not seen before.

He entered the room to witness my tall thin body fucking the shorter more muscular one, the both of us standing there sweating wildly. The man I was fucking turned his face to the shadows to avoid the glaring light from outside. The man at the door was letting fresh air in and it was ruining everything. I gave him a scornful glare. I couldn't see him that well because the light was behind him, but I could tell he was really attractive, his hair was longer, cut nicely, conditioned, his shoulders bulged a little. Though he was muscular.

He came in.

As he neared he allowed himself to join in the fun, and I allowed him to touch me. I hesitated. I was like a dog letting himself be sniffed without letting his guard down. As if he sensed the hair standing up on my back he actually rubbed the tight muscles between my shoulders and told me to hush. The guy I was fucking said, "Fuck me."

The guy was about my height, I took stock of him while he circled around me. He went behind me and down and began sucking on my ass as I had done for the man I was fucking. It felt so good to be rimmed while I was fucking. A treat, I must say, a real treat. He fingered me ever so lightly, I felt his finger enter my body. I coughed in the heat, I was in ecstasy. He pulled his finger out and started to massage the area around it. Lined himself up and said, "I want to fuck you."

"Fuck me."

"Fuck me!" The guy I was fucking said, he said it to me.

I eased up on the motion of fucking for a second, it was like that part in Beethoven's Ninth, you know, right as the orchestral build up reaches the apex, there's a hesitation, the theme is hummed, hinted at, everybody knows what's coming. Then suddenly the Gentleman Intruder forced his way in and I nearly yelled with the pleasure of his entry. The climax began, oh and it was powerful, the three of joined in the fuck. Powerfully, I was driven into, equally I drove into too. Matching the rhythms of it all took a moment really but then everything was well in the end.

I was the one that wanted to cum. I said, "Oh my God."

It was the moment, was this worth it all, was this the thing that I had wanted so badly, this ...

I came suddenly, right up into the guy's ass, I reached around and clenched his balls in a fist with one hand and the other I used to hold onto the guy's thigh to steady him, I was hyper-sensitive and his fucking was delirious through my brain. I slowed it all down.

I thanked them, found my towel and key and left the room, coming upon a world of light, cool air, post-coital, giggling on wobbly legs.

A man cut me off but I ignored him by ducking my eyes and wiping the sweat off my forehead. I was on fire. The man that cut me off turned back and came at me. His eyes moved around me in a sketchy way, his hands fumbled with the corners of his towel. Muscular and tan, but ridiculously tanned, there was something just slightly off about this man. A doorbell rang. Someone new was coming in, I looked to the door and saw that as that person was coming in two more were coming as well. The bars had let out. Adonis was on his way, this man here could wait for him, he looked at me with those drunken eyes of his and believed me to be that Adonis. "No."

I stood for a second to catch my balance then moved into the shower where the man with whom I'd instigated the threesome joined me. I was still hard. My cock was bouncing around when I took away the softness of my towel away and when I turned I saw him there, still hard, still ready to cum. He walked toward me and for some reason I wanted to finish it off with him. I lowered to my knees with the hot water of the shower splashing on my shoulders, when I tilted my head back my hair was wet in it. I took his cock in my mouth to start sucking it. He pulled me off and I pouted. I saw a look in his eyes, a dark look. Not to mention the dark rings around his eyes, there was something sinister about this man's look, there was something a little harder about his intentions.

I looked at his penis as he aimed it at me. I knew exactly what was happening here. I started to stroke my shaft anticipating his next movement. Suddenly the lips of his pecker opened and a dribble of golden stench spewed out. In an instant the dribble was a stream, spraying me in his piss. It was incredible that he knew I was the sort to take it, but he didn't know, he just did it. He just did it. I took it too. I let him spray the hot piss on my chest and as it made its way down to my crotch I felt it slick and smooth on my shaft and the smell rose up to my nose. I moved in so close to his cock that the piss trickled off my lips. I'd never done it before but I actually took his flowing shaft into my mouth and tasted the fermented syrup of his body. It was so delicious I squirmed and began again to churn with desire. As his arch of piss ebbed and subsided he stroked his cock more earnestly and suddenly shot loads of cum at my mouth, nose, and chin. I opened my mouth and got some. Licking my lips, I smiled. He thanked me. Turning then, he left me in the shower, on my knees. I jerked one last time and suddenly came there, straight into the drain. Shivering with the last drop of semen to get out.

I moaned.

I collapsed a bit. The water washing over me, washing the stench of the piss off my torso, ridding my hair of the wreak of it, was as relaxing as the grip of a strong man massaging me. It was cool too, down this low to the floor and I indulged myself in the spray of cool water.

I stood, spent, and tired now.

Again the slow serenade of the soap upon my tall body, slim and hot from the sauna, down the sinuous lines of the muscles in my back, brushing the dimples, dipping into the crack of my ass.

Oh what lament. There's a word for it in Latin, the melancholy experienced by beasts after sex. The woe, the lament of it. A man who was a priest who was a customer of mine when I was working as escort, he was the one who'd whispered it into my ear one night.

As if involved in a ceremony I cleansed myself of the grit of my actions.

Drying myself was done alone, but with no less grace than if an audience of the whole city watched.

Dressing was done slowly, with the eyes of a man in the jacuzzi watching me apply layer upon layer. Socks, underwear, jeans, teeshirt, sweater, a bag, shoes -- the cigarettes -- and then out, fixing my damp hair in the dark reflection of the coke machine, dropping my towel in the bin by the door, handing my key to the doorman, bidding him a smiling adieu. I left with nothing more than what I'd come with, only just slightly changed by it.

The ghost of a boy lingered at the door, right at the precipice to this place. I threw open the door and saw out there three men finishing cigarettes, two of them laughing about something they'd seen at the bar. I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, slinking around the corner of the building to disappear from sight just as Adonis came 'round the other way to enter.

Circular, like that.