Word Slinger copyright 2015 Seth Kirkcauldy seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net
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I nudge open the door to the office building with my hip so I can exit to the street, and glance down at my watch. Shit. Shit! I'm late. I haven't missed a day in a couple months, and I don't plan for today to be the first.
My black oxfords are not shoes in which to run, but my meeting had gone too long and now I'm late. I push my reluctant body into a fast trot, winding through the lunch crowds already thronging the streets. I'm grateful for the cool December air which might keep me from sweating too much in my suit and tie, but even as I think this I feel a tickling bead of sweat along my ribs. I'm not in very good shape. I'm a bit tall and bear-cubbish, have unruly red hair, and am bespectacled; I'm smart enough at thirty-four to know that my mind is my sexiest feature, and nerdy enough to be okay with that.
There's a little knot of panic in my stomach at the thought that I might be too late today; and so I launch into a faster jog, not really caring if I ruin this shirt with perspiration. I can buy a new shirt; but I cannot un-miss his words.
I weave through the mob, without noticing any of the faces around me. The sea parts as if I am Moses, but I'm leading no one to freedom; I'm the one enslaved. The people mill aimlessly, not sure of their destination, swallowing the path behind me with their meandering bodies. I used to be without direction myself; but for the last two months I've had purpose and focus. What I need is very clear to me these days, even if I shall never have it.
The theater is a tottering, musty relic huddled between a check-cashing joint and a liquor store. It was once an intimate performance space; then later an adult porn cinema and bookstore; and now, showing its dubious parentage, it is a perfect meld of the two and an improvement upon both. There is only a small white sign tacked above the doorway that says: "Wordslingers."
I push through a glass door that is covered in black paint, and blink rapidly in the dim light of the cramped space. It has the unique smell of an adult store; and although the magazines and movies are long gone, the molecules of thousands of men and their spilled DNA detach from the darkened walls to orgy anew on my tingling olfactory nerve. They say the sense of smell invokes the strongest of memories; which is why the smell of a man makes me instantly hard: I'm remembering every time I've smelled this combination of sweat and lust before. I think I even recollect the communal memories of my predecessors who strained and thrust within this space long before I ever joined them.
This is now only an anteroom where the word junkies pay the portly bald man behind the register before shuffling into the theater for their fix. I've had my money counted in my front pocket since this morning.
He nods to me, and because I haven't yet caught my breath, I pant a bit as I push some balled-up sweaty bills toward him and ask, "Is he here yet? Has he started?"
"Naw. Riley's just finishing up now, though, so the kid's on next. I saw him come in the back; the place is packed for him.
Figures; word is getting around.
I hear applause from deeper within, and I head into the darkened corridor behind the register. It was previously used as an area for private booths; now it's just a shadowy labyrinth and its current Theseus is dressed in a sweaty suit and hunting the horny beast. I have my trusty spear with me, though; and it throbs along with my heartbeat.
The maze opens into the auditorium, but that's a hyperbolic label. There are only ten rows of theater- style seats with ten cramped seats in each row; and all are filled with men, many wearing rumpled business suits like mine. It's dark enough that I recognize none of them, and trust the same is true if they look hard at my silhouette. There are about twenty men standing around the walls, silent. I join them, finding just enough room for my shoulders to fit between two men who had been keeping a polite distance from each other. So much for that, I think, not caring about their politeness much. They edge away from me slightly, uncomfortable with my invasion into their personal space.
The kid has been coming to perform every day between noon and one; sometimes closer to noon, sometimes not. No one seems to know where he comes from or what his name is. I've only ever heard anyone refer to him as the kid; and most of the men here don't talk about him at all. I certainly don't: first rule of gay club...
There is a halo of light on the slightly raised stage, which is only big enough for the barstool that sits upon it, empty of matter, but filled with the promise of all that matters to me.
A nervous cough rises from one of the seats, and then I forget about all the other men because he is there, moving onto the stage to stand beside the barstool.
He ignores the audience and toes off his battered white basketball high-tops silently; then unbuttons his shirt, slipping it off and draping it over his abandoned shoes on the floor. This is no strip-tease; it's a young athlete undressing, and he is gorgeous. He's tall and trim -but not heavily muscled; a college- aged body of about twenty-two years. He has no rippling six-pack, but does have a completely flat, pale stomach. His chest is formed of taut planes of lean muscle over expansive bones that promise a broader build as he ages. He's in good shape with no extra fat on him anywhere, but no extra muscle, either. He has exactly what he requires for his needs... and for mine. I think he's flawless. He's not an underwear model, but I'd buy any pair of underwear he ever modeled.
He sits upon the stool then and pulls off his athletic socks, flexing his toes to the air as he balls up the fragrant cotton and lobs them perfectly on top of his shirt and shoes. Then he glances up at the crowd in the dark and grins shyly.
My knees go weak as his parted lips show the slight gap between his front teeth. I want to suck hard on it and see if I can make him whistle.
"Hey," he says in a voice that sounds as if it comes from some place much older than he is. It's a deep timbre, resonating through the room as if he'd spoken a word of power; and perhaps he has, for a whole lot of us are suddenly squirming in the darkness to adjust our trousers.
"Hey," a couple men respond back to him in shaky voices as if this is interactive art; but he'll set them straight.
His smile fades and he peers into the audience. "I'll sling the words. Ya'll just listen, okay?"
Nobody answers, and he's pleased with that. He nods once and slouches a bit on the stool, letting his bare toes play with the chrome bar that encircles the bottom as a foot rest. He's so beautiful; and I feel a tightening in my chest just looking at him, as if I'm seeing something forbidden to mortals. His own chest swells and contracts with his breaths, the large brownish nipples rising in peaks at the very edge of the pectorals. I'm timing my breaths with his. His torso is mostly hairless, except for about an inch above his navel where brown hair suddenly sprouts and dives downward with purpose.
His large-boned hand looks like it would be at home on a basketball, but right now it's deeply involved in pulling aside the denim flap on his fly to expose the silvery glint of riveting rivets.
"The three buttons on my fly are periods of ellipsis, a thought that forgets what it was thinking; or maybe, more appropriately, an aposiopesis, where the imagination takes over when words fail.
"That's today's word: aposiopesis, because that's what happens when you reach that third, important ellipsis." His fingers trail down the buttons of his fly, unbuttoning each with a snapping of his wrist.
"Words fail; they get interrupted. The mouth opens, yes; the guttural sounds come forth; but the brain forgets to turn them into something that means more than 'I want this more than anything.'"
The hush in the room is unnatural; no one is breathing now.
His fingertips leave his crotch - the fly spread open, but not yet revealing nearly enough of the thicket there - to touch his chest, to caress the raised nub of his nipple.
He slowly raises one arm, crooking it behind his head, and turns his nose toward the shock of dark hair on display.
"Scintillating, titillating, tit scent. The moist male mating musk waiting for you here," he growls this poetry slowly as every man in the room imagines his face pressed there in its moist, fragrant darkness.
"The shock of hair shocks the air," he says playfully, "Inhale me there."
He leaves the invitation open and hanging like one hundred and twenty mouths in the dark, and moves his hand slowly, reluctantly, off his nipple to ruffle the hair in his pit. Then he trails his fingers down his torso, following the fluffy brown down, down, downward path beneath his navel to where he clasps his denim-clad package in his fist.
He quirks an eyebrow. "A cocky rapper and his wrapped cock," he quips.
There is an audible moan from somewhere in the audience. I find myself scanning the silhouettes, trying to find the weak link, but his voice snaps my attention back to where it belongs.
His hands spread the fly wide, showing the brown, thick thatch to the crowd. "'Aposiopesis' is taken directly from the Greek, meaning 'a becoming silent,' much the way you did when I opened my jeans. It has come to mean more than that, though. It has come to mean 'an interrupted thought'. You'll see why the word is perfect when I ask you to remember what you were thinking before I unbuttoned my fly."
His fingertips fish playfully around in his jeans as if he's Ahab in search of the sperm whale, and I have no fucking clue what I had been thinking before he opened his fly; but now I'm thinking how grateful I am for his intelligence; how grateful I am that neither of us had actually thought the words "Moby Dick." Except now I've gone and blown it. God, how I wish I could blow it.
In his seated position, the jeans are stretched too tightly to allow the great exodus; and so he stands upon the chrome bar, perching precariously as he pushes his jeans down to his knees. He sits again, and lets the garment slink to the floor at the base of his stool, dripping off his foot like he's risen from water. He reveals to us that he finds underwear inconvenient; he's a bare-skin rug upon which I wish to roll naked in front of a fire.
Unlike his chest, his strong legs are covered in hair. It's as if its density caused gravity to pull it all to his bottom half. It curls around his calf muscles and thighs, around his ankles, and then smatters the tops of his feet to adorn his toes. His cock is corpulent, but pliant, still filling with blood, and stretching the circumcision scar into a tattoo of light upon the dusky skin. His scrotum hangs loose, unshaven and untrimmed like his pubic bush; the large orbs stretch down until they rest against the seat pad of the stool. The entire effect of his crotch is one of ripe fruits, plump with blood, juicy with ichor.
"My thighs cause sighs. And so does my size." He smirks and splays his knees so that his legs bow into a curvature on each side of the stool. "If my buttons are an ellipsis, then my legs are parentheses.
"And I bet you're having a parenthetical thought right now."
I'm the weak link; I admit it, all right? I groan again, and people in the crowd search for me again. Fuck them.
He heard me, I think; his lips crook in a grin and I see that beguiling gap in his teeth before he closes his eyes and lets his head loll back so that his body is presented to us as something to ogle while he cannot see that we do so. It's the ultimate gift, unwrapped and presented.
His cock is now the full diamond hardness of a twenty-two year-old. He probably jacked off ten minutes ago to keep from a premature orgasm. Ten minutes at the MOST, I bet. I fucking love him; in fact, I'd love him every ten minutes if he'd let me.
He starts a rhythmic flexing of his pelvic muscles, letting his hardness jerk and rock to the same cadence of my heartbeat; and while his head is still tossed back, ignoring us all in favor of the ceiling, he touches his cock with that large hand that makes me think so much of a puppy growing into the size of his paws.
His cock protrudes purple from his squeezing fist, a giant pearl of clear fluid gathering at the head. It slowly musters critical mass, and then drips to floor like thick syrup; but the sweet sound of its smattering arrival is drowned by the moans of one hundred and twenty men. The entire chain is weak.
"Your hunger writhes inside you. You want to taste it so badly, you're consuming yourself with need, an ouroboros devouring either head or tail, merely waiting for me to point to one or the other."
He raises his head and points - meaningfully - at the sticky crown in his fist, and then lowers the fingertip to dip in the honey there.
"I call you cocksucker, not to hurt or humiliate, but out of simple recognition. It is what you are; and you're grateful for the recognition; glad to be known this way, with no secrets to hide, and no facades to stand between you and what you need. So come, cocksucker, and suck cock."
He spreads his knees wide now in open invitation, the hairy thighs parted to make room for the willing worshipper. The room leans forward.
"Our relationship to each other before this moment is irrelevant now. We are not strangers; we are not friends; we are neither cousins, nor coworkers. We are a man and his cocksucker; and until I cum, that is all we will be.
"This is the ultimate aposiopesis; all your thoughts are interrupted. If you had anything to say, it was cut off by this organ entering your throat, taking what you so willingly offer, and using you for its pleasure.
"Clear your mind of everything but what is in front of you; it's not about concentration; it's about Zen. There is only now; there is only me; there is only this -" he pushes his cock toward the men in their seats, "and there is only your need to provide pleasure.
"When need meets cock meets Zen, we have a situation called an ultimate blowjob."
Deep chuckles drift up from the darkness and are greeted with a gap-toothed grin that has me sucking oxygen until I feel lightheaded.
"And that's what I want, cocksucker: an ultimate blowjob. Anyone can suck and lick and stroke and do their taxes in their head while I lay there and wonder what-the-fuck. I'm inviting worship. 'Take, eat: this is my body...'" once again, he tilts forward that beautiful organ, glistening with fluid at its bulbous tip. "My crotch is an altar, my cock an idol. Will you kneel? Will you submit to the blasphemy? Will you submit to your need? Will you partake of the communion rite, the right common union of cocksucker and cock? Yeah. You will. 'Drink ye all of it.'"
His cocky grin fades in the silence and his brown, serious eyes look toward the dark back wall, over the heads of his worshippers.
"That's why I need this from you, you know?" he asks quietly, sincerely. He squints in thought. "Out there on the street I'm just a guy. You probably pass me as you rush from here to there and don't even notice me."
Yes I do.
"But you get on your knees before me, and I'm no longer just a guy; you make me a god. Your eyes fill with worship, your mouth fills with cock, and you create a god in your own image. I need that, like you need this. I'm a man who needs to be treated like a god; so I can rise to meet the expectation.
"C'mon now... just lick the head."
My tongue pokes out and licks my lips. Shit.
I glance around, but no one is looking at me. After all, I am not a god; I am a worshipper, devout and true. I could be his warm priest on a cold solstice night.
"It's winter in California; and while not as cold as other climes, this dark cave can be our hibernaculum, a safe place to while away the winter; my cock warm in your throat, your face warm between my legs. It's the ultimate give and take, with me taking and you giving, and my taking is what you need given most of all."
His hand caresses that beautiful jutting organ, squeezing and milking it. I find myself swallowing in his rhythm, trying to offer him pleasure he cannot feel.
"Yes, to have you suck all winter long is hyperbole, but only just. We both know there are some hungers that cannot be sated. So, eat. Eat your fill, cocksucker. I've nowhere to go, unless you're tired. In that case there are one hundred and nineteen other places for me to go."
Fucking. Arrogant. Bastard. Prick. He'd never have to go elsewhere.
The room is silent but for the slick suction of his cock caught in the slow piston of his juice-lubricated fist. His head is tilted back again, contemplating the ceiling, while his thighs stretch so wide we could probably all do as he bids. His ass is tilted forward off the seat, his testicles now dangling free, the orbs rolling inside their sac in ecstasy. I close my eyes against the temptation to go to him and warm his balls in my mouth. The compulsion is almost irresistible.
"I love that humans have evolved to accommodate a cock," he tells the ceiling. "Women have their juices, designed to make things easier for them; but cocksuckers... cocksuckers have evolved to excrete throat fluids when they gag, fluids that have no purpose but to make a cock feel even better than it already does. It doesn't make it easier for the sucker; it's only triggered when the turgid tumescence pounds past the cocksucker's poor defenses and makes them struggle with their reflexes. It's only when the hard cock meets the reptilian brain that they both get what they want. It is silken wetness, slick heat, and slippery heaven. It's only in the cocksucker's discomfort that he serves totally and selflessly.
"So... you wanna gag on it?"
There is only one answer to that question, but like everything he has said, it is rhetorical, if not aureate. I find my head nodding wordlessly in a response I'm not supposed to give.
His hips are thrusting with more purpose now, his feet braced against the chrome bar while he grinds his crotch into the frictionless air. I noted long ago that he's left-handed, and so it's his right that snakes down to the pendulous scrotum to squeeze and tug at it. I know that means he's getting close, and I find myself spit-roasted on the mutually exclusive hungers to watch it happen now and to make it last much longer.
I can see his lips part in a gasp while his large left hand slows its purposeful pump and his right squeezes hard against the tender orbs. He bites his lip and grunts, squeezing both his cock and his testes as he resumes a faster tempo.
He tosses his head slightly and his eyes close while his chest heaves with shallow breaths.
His moan seems to start from his curled toes, rising up his trembling legs to where his hips piston in and out of his fist. The vibration thrusts up through his tight abdomen and reverberates through his beautiful chest before his lips finally part and introduce deep staccato grunts into the air. His semen jets up to meet the sounds there, colliding to form the pulsating tattoo of simultaneous need and fulfillment; then it rains back down upon his sweat-slicked skin, which is now dusky with his flush of arousal.
I think at first that the smattering noise around the room is applause; but it is appreciation of a much more visceral nature, and a sharp chlorine scent joins the memories in the air.
I'm gasping for breath and already wandering back toward the maze, trying to watch my step. My erection is pulsing painfully, but I have no thoughts of relieving it. I'll do it at home later when I can close my eyes and relive today's words, and not have to share him with anyone.
The sun is blinding, of course, after the shadowy den. The hibernaculum, he called it. I can see him there in my mind's eye, stepping out of the bright halo of light to grab his clothes and head into the theater depths to shower. I'd love to see him in repose, under the showerhead, with no eyes but mine upon him.
The shuffle back to the office is restorative in that it dries the sweat from my skin and allows my physical excitement to deflate, but not abate. My emotions are in a welter, and I know this lunch ritual is getting out of control. I think I'm actually becoming addicted to him; I don't know how I'm going to wait until tomorrow for my next fix. And the entire weekend? Christ.
I grimace at the few perky greetings I receive as I make my way to my office. I pull the door half shut behind me and collapse into my chair. Everything around me seems so flat and distant; I find it all a dull grey except for my thoughts of him.
My eyes settle on a framed photo of my sister and her husband holding their two children. The small siblings are wearing the insane-but-matching Christmas sweaters so often gifted by well-meaning parents; the boys seem happy despite their parents' unfortunate choices.
I'd like to be a father someday.
The glass covering the photo feels cool under my fingers, like chrome beneath bare toes.
I'm going to have to make a change, that's becoming obvious. I'm contemplating what sort of change that might be - Abstention? Counseling? - when the knock on my office door breaks me out of my thoughts. Is it two o'clock already?
"Hey, Max," he says lightly, his deep voice rocking my insides while the gap in his teeth croons silently to my tongue. His hair looks freshly washed, tumbling across his forehead and softening his sharp gaze. He sets a handful of mail on the corner of my desk.
"H-hey. Thanks." I flip through the stack so that my hands and eyes have something to do. "I-it's mostly just junk, like at home. I should probably just recycle it all."
"Still, it's nice to make the rounds and chat with you. Unless you're busy; shall I leave you alone?"
The question is so ripe, its sweetness fills my mouth when I open my lips to respond.
"I would not like that at all," I murmur truthfully, and glance up at him.
His hand reaches out to brush my word-of-the day calendar, and then his finger extends to touch the date briefly. His nails are short, trimmed and blunt.
"Aposiopesis," he says carefully. "That's a nice word."
"It's my favorite word in the history of all words that have ever been uttered," I say in an embarrassing rush. Fuck.
"Really?" He grins at me slyly and then his fingers curl on the paper to turn the page. "What's tomorrow's word?"
My own hand reaches out and touches his skin for the first time ever. It's silk over bone, desire wrapped tightly on power.
"I don't look ahead. I like to be surprised."
"I see," He motions his head toward the door. "Well, I guess I'll just be..."
I stand, abruptly, dangerously. My erection is pushing the front of my pants forward, demanding.
"Wait... please..."
My plea is interrupted by his shy grin, the gap in his front teeth cutting short all thoughts and words.
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