by Zack
Mike held out the long can. “Zoosh.” He could hardly croak the word out, so constricted had his throat become.
“Zoosh?”
“You know, whipped cream in a can.”
Julian just stared, face creased in surprise.
Mike took two steps toward the divan, kneeing the coffee table aside in the process. Julian followed with wide open eyes, but Mike detected no overt repulsion. For a second, his friend’s mouth opened and closed like that of a freshly landed fish.
“What…?”
“Your fantasy.” Mike faltered, but then let the weird of the moment consume him. He dropped the full can on the table as he knelt down beside Julian’s outstretched thigh and began to loosen the belt buckle. For a second he was certain Julian would push him away, but after a long hesitation, Julian leaned back and started to unbutton his shirt. The fantasy was under way. Mike still couldn’t believe he was going to do this or that Jules would let him, but when he unzipped and started to pull the cord pants down (he didn’t bother with the sneakers), Julian lifted his butt off the sofa edge to make the job easier. Mike hooked fingers under the waistband of the plain underwear and hoiked the whole lot down to Julian’s ankles.
As for the victim, Julian had let his head fall down on the low sofa back, and that spot on the ceiling was under thorough examination again. If he was acting passive, his cock wasn’t. Mike had seen his friend undressed in the showers at Fabian, oh how many times? Hundreds maybe, but never… no, never like this. As thick as four of Mike’s clenched fingers and perhaps seven inches long. A thick vein snaked up one side and pulsed with the blood which was engorging Julian’s cock. His foreskin was well retracted even before Mike began any ministrations.
I can’t believe this is happening. The dope’s done my head in and I’m dreaming.
He fumbled behind and knocked over the can of cream. His fingers found it and brought it around over Julian’s middle. He depressed the top stud and with a zussshh, thick cream squirted out in decorative coils and whirls. In seconds, Julian’s rampant genitals were buried under a mound of thick whipped cream. The white pillow did not sit still. Its pearlescent surface bounced and heaved with small earthquakes of excitement. Mike ran a hand down to collect some cream to coat the underside of Julian’s firm balls, and Julian instinctively widened his thighs so some cream slid down toward his ass crack. The only sound he made was a quiet but harsh nasal puff with every exhalation, which matched a heartbeat heave of his rigid belly and a continual clenching of fists pressed hard to his hips.
When Mike had come back into the sitting room, only vaguely aware of having got up and left it, let alone opening the fridge to remove the cream—a luxury he allowed himself rarely, but how handy just now—his mouth had been bone dry. Now, faced with a dessert lacking only a scattering of raspberries, saliva coated his tongue and dripped from his lips like a Labrador denied food for two hours. He started with the top of the nearest thigh, and drew his tongue strongly through the lightly sweetened confection, which came to the taste buds with a faint hint of Julian’s sweat.
In a minute, the coating vanished and it was time for the other thigh and the shallow valley between hip bone and groin. In this position, reached over him, Julian’s cock kept tensing and jabbing up to dab cream under Mike’s chin. And Julian resembled a surf board, a straight, rigid form of wiry sinew, strained so that only the back of his head and the curves of his buttocks made contact with the sofa.
Mike tongued closer to the heaving ridge of cream in Julian’s middle. Licked his lips in anticipation and then dipped down to erase a line from balls to crown. The cream vanished down Mike’s throat, and he thanked the manufacturers for cheating by making the stuff almost evanescent in its artificiality, otherwise he’d be too full to really appreciate the climax.
Julian’s breathing had grown stertorous, a series of uneven gasps interspersed with clenching gulps, as Mike worked down onto his friend’s cockhead properly, slurping down the last of the cream as he moved to a full deep throat. Lips clamped firmly around the base of Julian’s throbbing shaft, fingers pressed down to separate both straining balls, Mike went for broke in a furious mouth-fuck, delirious himself. His own cock strained against the imprisonment of pants. The sweet cream flavor melded into a saltier taste as Julian leaked pre-cum, which mixed with Mike’s copious flow of saliva and went down his consuming esophagus.
Suddenly, Julian ceased his labored breathing. Every muscle in his tormented body turned to rock, and then with a ragged gasp, he started coming. Mike felt his balls contract and pulse, and the vibration of a massive orgasm shot through the column of Julian’s cock to fill his mouth. He pulled back in order to swallow and massage the corona of Julian’s cock hard for maximum pleasure. Then he started to shoot his own load, unable to stop, and felt it flood the insides of his briefs. But he went with the flow, pleasantly exhausted mentally as much as from the effort.
God save the queen, the fascist regime…
Mike sensed Julian’s gradual relaxation, a slump into the confines of the lumpy sofa. His cock, still big though not rigid hard, twitched and slid across the top of his thigh. It glistened with the residue of cream, spunk, and Mike’s saliva, and he couldn’t resist a quick lean in and a tongue wipe under the seam of the crown and up to diddle lightly at the still oozing slit. A deep groan rumbled in Julian’s chest. Then he blew out a burst of air.
God save the queen she ain’t no human being…
“Whew! What the fuck just happened…?”
“Sorry.” Mike’s mumble was almost lost. His lips fell back to Julian’s wet thigh.
“Why? It was fucking amazing.” Julian blew out another breath. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I haven’t turned queer or anything, but that was the best blow job I’ve ever had.”
There was a touch of genuine amusement in his friend’s voice, and Mike sat back on his haunches. He finally dared to look up and reacted to the wry smile which greeted him with a slight one of his own. “You mean that’s the first blow job you’ve ever had.”
Julian shrugged nonchalantly. “Could be. I think I need that spliff now.” He tugged his underwear and cords back up, humped up off the sofa to slide them under this ass cheeks, and zipped up. He wiped a hand across his damp, flushed face, and grinned at Mike’s obvious discomfort. “You okay?”
Mike expressed a quiet snort as he got to his feet and fell back into the armchair, trying to ignore the sticky dampness of his crotch. “Yeah, fine. I just sucked off my best friend without warning. I’m dandy.”
Julian leaned forward, flicked his Zippo to life and held the flame to the end of the joint. He snapped the lighter shut, took a drag on the spliff and handed it across. He looked serenely into Mike’s eyes. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“You… you’re okay with it?”
“I told you, it hasn’t turned me…” he rocked his outstretched palm from side to side. “Not even AC/DC. I was feeling randy as hell. I just… didn’t expect to get it like that. The cream—wow, that was a touch of genius.”
“Your idea,” Mike pointed out, beginning to feel a bit happier.
“Yeah, brilliant or what. But that you actually had some… zoosh!” He made a squirting gesture over his crotch. “That’s what’s fab. Anyway, it’s not like I don’t know you’re bent, and you can hardly be blamed if you can’t keep your hands off my dick, can you—”
Mike possessed one cushion, usually resident on the armchair, but it made a satisfying flump as it flattened Julian’s face and threw him back against the sofa. A stifled laugh raised a dust-devil from the flung soft furnishing.
God save the queen, we mean it man, we love our queen…
Amber sodium light rimmed the window edge, a thin shore between the dim yellow light of Mike’s cramped little arty sitting room and the deep blue-black of the night outside. The background buzz of London, an urban tinnitus, came through the open window. Mike peered out between trees, whose thinning autumnal shapes sto
od silhouetted against a string of more distant street lights, and wondered what Kevin was doing. He’d screwed that up, and now he was convinced he’d done the same with Julian. Johnny Rotten had left the building, and Julian had gone with the punk singer tucked inside a small leather shoulder bag. Mike couldn’t say he was sorry that Julian had taken the 45 vinyl (he had a habit of forgetfully leaving his things behind), but he now felt very sorry about the madness that had swept over him.
The call from Jim only minutes after he’d shut the corridor door on Julian’s back hadn’t helped. Jim had a great idea for tomorrow night. A winner, no less. Loads more loot for everyone. Yeah.
Whatever Jules had said, however calmly he had reacted, Mike just knew that everything had changed between them and he suspected he would not see much, if anything, more of his best school friend. Somehow, the potential loss hurt more than being dumped by Kevin because he and Jules went back a ways. Not that Kevin had really had any other option once it all came out about Mike’s being on the game. The fact that he never really engaged in the sex… well, not in himself, not in his heart, and that most times he got away with giving the punter a hand job and nothing more, none of that had assuaged Kevin’s horror and disgust. And it was almost worse that Kevin had so urbanely tried to avoid any real censure. He’d just quietly shut down, affection fled the windows of his eyes, his expression froze, his humanity withdrew. And then he’d fled to Prague, or Paris, or maybe even as far as Panama or Paramaribo.
And now his inability to control his basest desires had almost certainly brought the curtain down on a friendship of several years. Mike raised his left hand to the stud in his ear and tugged it gently to remind him of Kevin. He lifted his right hand to the cooling breeze coming across the backyards of the houses on Gilston Road. “Bye, Kevin. Bye, Julian… Be happy, mate.”
CHAPTER TEN
A Language Lesson
“We’re going upmarket, sunshine.” Mike trailed slightly behind Jim, following in the wake of his great idea. “Yup, a much better class of clientele.”
“What happened to Donny?”
Jim threw him what Mike had come to think of as Jim’s careful look, a general guardedness which covered up something unpalatable. “He’s got something else on, some stupid punk band with razor blade necklaces he wants to see.”
“Sounds about right.” Mike smiled. “And he’s not exactly ‘up market,’ is he?”
Jim sniffed.
“So, where are we going?”
“A small place up on Wardour Street. Classy club. There’s a guy I know got me a membership.”
“What about me?”
Jim treated him to one of his cheesy grins. “You, my darlin’, get in on your youth and your looks.”
After the bustle of Old Compton Street, Wardour was dark and quiet. A couple of taxis swished up toward distant Oxford Street, and a few young workers slid between cutting rooms and preview theaters with film cans in their arms. Mike eyed what they carried enviously. Halfway up Jim came to a halt and pointed to a small plaque beside a deeply recessed door squeezed between a cinema equipment hire store and a daytime delicatessen. Mike squinted in the dim light at the plaque which bore the simple legend: A&S Club. Members Only.
“Does it stand for anything?”
“Arts and Stage,” Jim answered. “It’s for the ritzy movie and thesp crowd—in other words arty-farty poofs, and trust me, those dah lings are only here for one thing,” he added darkly. Jim pressed a small bell push on the door frame and after a few seconds’ wait, a tinny voice crackled from the small entryphone speaker. Jim whispered what sounded like a series of numbers, presumably his membership identity, and the door buzzed. Jim pushed it open and ushered Mike through. They were immediately confronted by a steeply rising narrow staircase with somewhat faded maroon carpeting with Art Deco-style swirls that might once have been cream but were now a muddy gray. The sound of a piano tinkled down the stairwell, growing slightly louder as they climbed.
At the top a narrow and oddly crooked corridor of dark varnished floorboards with a faded Persian runner down its wavering center ran away from the top of the stairs to a dimly lit door at the far end. Mike could not make out the image on a small signboard on its central panel. To the left, two closed doors offered no clue as to the purpose of the rooms beyond, but on the right a larger door stood open, and from within came the buzz of voices and the jangle of a piano which Mike’s musical family background told him needed tuning badly.
The room was as dimly lit as the corridor. The few wall lights protruding from the dark-paneled walls could have dated from Tudor times as far as Mike could tell in the red-tinged gloom. The ambient color came from chinzy, tasseled shades on the lamps. Across the far corner a tall bar supported a few older men seated on ornate stools, while around the edges tables and velveteen benches were squeezed between shoulder-height wooden partitions. Jim led Mike around the edge of a tiny raised dance floor. Its opaque plastic panels alternated in color from flashing lights underneath. It looked out of place in the twee décor of the establishment (he couldn’t think of it as a club ).
At a few of the tables Mike saw young lads of his own age seated with older men. The daddies or uncles all seemed to be dressed in a style that smacked of the fifties as depicted in movies he’d seen. Oddly, suited in his gabardine, Jim didn’t stand out. From all around, eyes glinted brightly, all turned on the newcomers. He reckoned he knew what it would be like to be alone in a dark forest surrounded by slavering wolves. This was the very definition of the phrase meat rack.
“Oh varda the bona chicken with the lovely dark riah, such a fantabulosa ecaf.”
“Nanti varda! Ogles off. Yah, though, the basket’s mangarie for the ogles.”
Jim sidled up to the end of the bar beside the two men huddled in their conversation. Their eyes never left Mike and he understood their talk less than Donny’s. He’d never felt quite so undressed in public before. Mike leaned against the curve of the bar on the other side of Jim from the rude men. He nudged Jim and screwed his face into a what-the-fuck expression.
Jim leaned close to whisper. “You never heard it? Christ you’re so green sometimes. These old queens all natter on in Polari.”
Mike looked blank.
Jim shook his head resignedly. “Old fashioned gay-speak. You never listened to Round the Horne on the radio on Sundays when you were a kid? You know, the two queers… Julian and Sandy?”
A light dawned. Mike nodded. He vaguely remembered the banter but had never really understood the double entendre jokes of the camp actors.
A woman dressed to the nines in what looked like a vermillion skin-tight gown encircled with flounces sashayed along to face Jim. Her over made-up rouged cheeks and carmine lips greeted them both with a terrifying smile. “What’s yer bevvy my bold boys?” The crusty bass smoker’s voice gave the barmaid’s gender away. “Got yerself well dragged up tonight. Proper schmutter,” she-he said, eyeing Jim’s suit.
“Looking handsome yourself, Missy Prunella. Let me introduce you to my friend Michelle.”
Mike bridled. He hated the way some boys on the game affected being women and used feminine names. Missy Prunella’s lascivious examination, which joined forces with the two men peering around Jim’s back with no hint of shame at their cruising him didn’t make Mike feel any happier in this freaky… place.
“Best keep her out the carsey if you don’t want these omi-polones here to get their dirty luppers all over his cartso,” Missy Prunella said to Jim. She gave vent to a loud, coarse laugh from a red gash of mouth stuffed with too many large teeth and cuffed the nearest man to Jim. “And speaking of fingers, if that meschinger on the bloody strillers doesn’t get a bijoux tune out of it, I’ll have her bollocks for garters!” She turned back to Jim and magically made two tumblers appear, filled with Scotch and water. “That’ll be a quid.”
“Are you joking! The other day they were thirty-eight pence.”
Missy shrugged her padded shoul
ders elaborately. “Cost of the law goes up every week, my love. The charpering omnis demanded a pony only the other day.”
Scowling furiously, Jim handed over a pound coin.
Unabashed, Missy fixed Mike with a stern look. “You hear me, Michelle ma belle. Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble, très bien ensemble…” she trilled in a falsetto calculated to curl tooth enamel. Then the voice dropped two octaves. “Keep out the carsey or one of these dizzy crimpers will plate you.”
“Suck you off in the loo,” Jim said helpfully.
Mike nodded and took a quick swig of his Scotch… well, warm water with a drop of something whisky-flavored in it. He wasn’t happy with the way Jim immediately entered into a low-level conversation with the two old queens. The nearest kept grabbing theatrically at his cravat like a dame about to swoon in some Edwardian drama and then batting at Mike suspiciously long black eyelashes which didn’t match his coiffed silvery hair.
“Get some jarry down yer.”
Missy slapped a paper picnic plate on the counter in front of Mike, then swept off to do a round of the side booths. Mike eyed the plate’s contents suspiciously: a limp lettuce leaf and something that might have been ham, or spam. Whatever, it looked as if it had died a long while ago.
Seeing his expression, the nearest queen leaned around Jim. “Don’t touch the mangarie. It’s totally naff, cod stuff,” he said with a warning shake of the head. “It’s to stop the charpering omnis raiding the latty.”
Jim came to Mike’s rescue with a grin at his blank look. “After eleven they’re only allowed to serve alcohol with food or risk a police raid on the club. That’s the meal. He says it’s vile. Don’t touch it!”
“I wasn’t going to. Can’t he speak English, and what’s a ‘pony’?”
“Twenty-five quid.”
“So, that was the police she meant, wanting that much money?”
“Ooh, bona, the dish speaks,” gray-rinse exclaimed, hand to throat in mock shock. “A gift a day keeps the pigs at bay,” he added in a camp croak but at least in clear English.