“Whoa! Whoa! Stop!” cried Carl, flipping over and yanking his legs free. He curled bent-kneed on his bunk, half trembling. “That’s enough! You’ve got to go to tennis now.”
During the final ten days of camp, there were a lot of one-on-one canoe trips. Animal Caruso took me out to Deer Island and showed me the cave.
“Dude?” he said. “You’re not gonna tell, are you?”
“Tell what?” I asked.
“All the stuff Jer and Curtis and I did with the Navajos this summer.”
“It was just fun,” I said. “No biggie, right?”
Animal laughed, kind of surprised. “Right. No biggie.”
I affectionately squeezed his crotch through his denim shorts, and scrambled down the hill. “Right!” I laughed. “No biggie there for sure!”
“You’re fucked up, man,” said Animal, when he caught up with me, his face twisting in genuine revulsion. “But here’s ten bucks from me and the guys anyway. We need our jobs again next summer, if you know what I mean.”
I skipped my final tennis lesson for the Needles of Ecstasy.
Since that second backrub, Carl had hightailed it out of the bunk after showering each Wednesday afternoon, telling me to sweep and take four caramels if I wanted. But this was my last chance.
“No, Carl!” I snapped as he started to leave. “I think you want a backrub.”
“No thanks, man. I’m cool. Help yourself to candy if you want.” He flashed his dimwit grin, all those sexy Chiclet teeth wasted on such a straightedge dorkus.
“Come on, Carl. Just hop up on your bed. You know you liked it.”
“Nah, bud. Gotta run.”
“Hey Carl,” I hissed. “What if I tell?”
I almost didn’t let him have the towel.
“C’mo-o-on, ple-e-e-ase,” he’d squealed, like pussy little Brady, begging to keep it.
He was flustered and blushing and I knew he’d lose it anyhow.
I grabbed the underpants he’d dropped on the floor and pulled them over my head to make a mask.
“Did you ever see Friday the 13th?” I asked. “Well, now you’re you, and I’m Jason.”
I treated myself to something sweeter than caramel; the winey ferment of his raw teenage feet. I poked my face through a leg hole of his crotch-smelly BVDs and pressed my nose and mouth against each sole for five deep breaths. Each exhalation drove him to writhe and whimper. Then I drizzled cool coconut lotion over his heels, letting it run down to his toes in shiver-inducing rivulets.
“Oh stop oh stop oh stop,” he squeaked as his ass bucked. The towel slid off and fell to the ground. Then, like a snake, I wove my tongue between his toes.
“Oh oh oh.”
“You love that, don’t you?” I growled, hearing Jerry’s voice emerge within my own. “Piggy, piggy, piggy!”
There were no words coming out of Carl any more. Just muffled noises as he buried his shamed face in his pillow. I gave him the cream rub for a good ten minutes, smelling the heat that rose off his asscheeks, spying the golden hair on his balls every time his pelvis arched. When I let go of his feet, they were flexing and unflexing involuntarily, like hooked fish on a line.
“Jesus Christ!” he shouted as he sat up, about to spring down from the bed. “Are you satisfied, you little pervert?”
“Back down!” I growled, stepping over to the corner of the bunk and heading back to the bed, broom in my grip.
“No fucking way!”
“I’ll tell! I’ll tell! I’ll tell!” I cackled.
“So?” shouted Carl. “In prison I’d at least have a chance to fight this shit off!”
“It’s not what you think, Carl.” I thrust the broom toward him, letting him catch hold of the handle. “I haven’t done anything to hurt you yet, have I? Now lay down, counselor.”
He did as I said. I ran my hands down the length of the broomstick beside him, then plucked out two tawny straws.
The view was excellent from eight inches back, all the clenching of buttocks, all the gooseflesh rising on thighs. I pinched one end of each straw between a thumb and forefinger, and then, barely touching the opposite tips to his feet, I drew long, slow, excruciating lines. Carl whelped, and groaned, and gurgled staccato symphonies. I traced the silk-smooth skin along his insteps, turning the merger of white flesh and tan line into a full-body network of electrical nerves. Each toe pad, in turn, was poked and circled, every exposed millimeter of sole most unlovingly and pointedly caressed.
And in the end, as Carl reached ceilingward with his perfect asscheeks and thrust a greedy hand down to his own proud whiskbroom, I thought of writing home to share one last wonderful summer memory. Carl screamed and squirted as I invisibly signed my name upon his feet.
Kindled by Vowels (An Epistolary Seduction)
Ian Philips and Greg Wharton
1. Nearer My Greg to Thee
I lie.
We both do.
I, naked, in San Francisco. Waiting for your call.
You, naked, there. In Chicago. Dialing the numbers hurriedly.
I shudder as the phone—as thick and hard as Bakelite, as red as Fiestaware—rings. It is an old phone, loudly rattling its metallic phlegm.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” you coo. Your voice is deep and sonorous. My marrow liquefies. My bones melt as if they were sculpted of butter.
What a priceless lubricant the sound of your voice has become. My sweet aural sop. Confirmation that you do exist. Evocation of the very body that—because of only a week’s worth of hours together since this year began—I am slowly, unbearably forgetting as days accumulate into months apart.
That, and your daily emails.
I read of your body weeks before you ever sent me a photo, months before I finally stripped away the last barriers between us on the way from my kitchen to the bedroom.
Ours was an epistolary seduction. An incendiary flirtation, kindled by each dry, brittle consonant and every oily vowel.
Dangerous Liaisons penned by two middle-aged queer men. One as terse as the other is verbose. One with a fondness for the violence, born both of nature and of artifice, that flowers so well in the Midwest. Tornadoes spun of cotton candy and blood. The other dreaming of being made a word in an 18th-century novel or a note in a baroque opera. Consumed by seething festoons of trills, of participial phrases.
One with a husband. One without.
Both now with a paramour.
You and I.
Two professional writers pitching woo through an endless stream of ghostly print in cyber–billets-doux.
Love among the fiber-optic cables.
And now, every Monday, while your husband sits unaware at work, in the hour and a half before I go to sit mindlessly myself at a desk, we telegraph—in a series of gasps and grunts and oh, god’s—our newest desires for what we shall do, one unto the other, the next time we can swap skin cells and spit and sperm.
“Are you naked?”
I hear your well-lubed fist sucking on your dick. It is a loud and constant sound. Like the sea.
“Yes,” I say, half-present. I am imagining your porn-star dick.
It is the kind that, as it grows, droops. Hangs heavy from the weight of the blood now widening the middle of your river of flesh, tributaries of veins swirling off, before tapering to the small, swollen pink dam that is your cockhead. Without setting eyes on you, I know it is once again broken, leaking—like our love—immoderately, and will inevitably burst.
“Are you hard?” you ask more breathlessly.
“Yes.” And I describe the rigid crook of my cock that has delighted you every time I have thrust it—in word or in deed—into your mouth or hole.
“I wish I had my mouth around your dick right now.”
“I do too. I wish I had your head between my hands so I could pull it down onto my fat cock. Shove it all the way into the back of your mouth.”
You moan. You are flushed—with memory and more blood filling your swollen dic
k.
“Yes,” you say when you remember to breathe. “Oh, god, my dick is so hard. I don’t know what you’ve done to me but it’s bigger than it’s ever been.”
I imagine it, red and engorged, twitching. My Sears Tower, I’ve called it. And it is a marvel. A wonder of flesh that stands alone and several thousand miles from me.
But the sound of you is here. In this room. The earpiece of the phone is cupped against my ear like your hands. It cradles your absent mouth. But I feel your breath. I feel the lips and tongue and teeth that shape it and push it toward me. It is as if you are beside me, whispering as we spoon.
“What are you doing?” I know but I want to hear you tell me.
“Jerking my dick.”
“Good boy. I wish I were there to watch. Let me hear you twist your tit. Go on. Pull it.”
“Okay,” you purr. And then your mouth buzzes with a swarm of consonants that stream out of your mouth as honey-coated mmms.
Mmm. This is the most frequent call and response in our emails. This is the succinct written testament to the vibrations that hum throughout either of our bodies whenever we communicate. However we communicate.
“Harder,” I encourage—I demand. “I wish I could be there to bite it. Chew on it. Remember how I chewed on your whole pec.”
Now come the sweet vowels. Long o’s and short u’s.
“Take that hand and suck on your finger.”
The receiver bangs against your jaw and shoulder as you make way for your hand. There is slurping. There is smacking. There is humming. I am happy.
“Rub it over your hole.”
“Oh, yes,” you throatily agree.
“Now push it in.”
Staccato breaths tap against the mouthpiece.
“How’s it feel?”
“It’s never the same as yours.”
No, I think—sad for us both.
“Stick it in deeper. And wriggle it around like I do.”
You oblige, warming quickly to the request, but it is I who am rewarded.
“Anything,” you sigh in response to a question I have not asked. “You can have me do anything. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to crawl through the phone,” I say without thinking.
You laugh. Either at my breaking of character or at a more private joke between you and your finger.
“What do you want to hear me do, babe?” you say.
“I want you to slide that butt plug of yours into my hole.” I swear I can hear you grin. “And I want you to talk me through it. All of it.”
“Yes, Sire.”
I smile at your nod to my Jacobean fantasies—games we play whenever we are skin-to-skin.
I listen to you move loudly about your bedroom. At last, you speak, winded more from excitement than exertion. You tell me you how you are sitting on your bed, your knees spread and your ass arched, one hand prying a round cheek from the sleepy embrace of its twin, the other pushing in the tip—you groan enticingly—and then the shaft—you grunt out a long, maddeningly arousing string of “unnh”s—and finally the base.
We both oh, god appreciatively. I hear the loud tides of you pulling feverishly on your dick and I stroke mine all the faster and tell you so. You are inspired to get off the bed and stand up, thus wedging the plug into a new and more sweet-burning position.
I have never heard you make such a sound—any man make such a sound—the raw, yet stylized last gasp of one of Michelangelo’s dying stone slaves.
I have never wanted you more.
I have never felt farther from you.
“Take it….”
“What?” you say as your mind staggers up your spine from your asshole.
“Take it. Take the plug and fuck your hole with it.”
You moan something that sounds like “Okay.”
And this is what sends us both over orgasm’s edge. You: the sensations that I graphically attribute to my phantom limb. Me: your rapid, rabid pants and hissed whispers of “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”
I shoot. My cum slides out in time with my spurting breaths. You explode. Howl. As if your cum had crystallized into diamonds that tear and bleed you as you spill a king’s ransom onto your bed.
I press the phone to my ear, smiling. It will ring with the sound of you all day. And my dick will thrum from your imagined touch. And your hole will quaver around the butt plug until I write you later to give you permission to remove it.
We gasp our way back to breathing. When we can speak, we talk over the other. To thank you, to thank me for the pleasure of the last hour’s lustful riposte and release. You piss and I stop to listen to the water rumbling in the bowl. You have already begun to move about the house. You can only lie still if I am truly there and holding you.
As you inhale on a cigarette I have yet to hear you light in any of our calls, we chatter about the day before us. The errands to run. The chores to be done. The words to be strung into sentences, into paragraphs, into stories to sell. Like this one.
Then we come, at last, to the true little death.
“Good-bye,” you say quietly.
“Good-bye,” I echo.
We hang up.
And, until our next telephonic tryst, we will lie.
Here and there.
Lie in wait.
You and I.
Lie.
And wait.
2. Husband, Sire, It
At thirty-nine, who would have suspected that I would find sexual bliss? Hasn’t it always been a much-repeated fact that a man reaches his sexual prime at seventeen? How horrible to be just at the beginning of something as wonderful as sexual activity, knowing that it will go downhill from there. At seventeen, I was certainly active, but the pleasure then—in fact the pleasures I have enjoyed my entire life—are nothing compared to what I have now. I have found IT.
The IT has come after a long-distance courtship via email with SIRE, a writer I’ve admired for years. Our friendship grew over months of writing, secrets shared, desires confessed, pictures taken and attached. And then I took a trip to be with SIRE. And I found IT.
I live with HUSBAND.
The dried rose lies on his bedside table, perched on a pile of books. A single rose, now lacking most of its color and scent, but not the meaning. This rose was a small gift—a surprise—from me while SIRE was on a reading tour. He was in Vancouver, so far away, and I was home in Chicago wishing I could be with him. I had a friend who lives there deliver it at the reading, with a whispered message, “To SIRE from your boy,” knowing that hearing those words would be as precious a gift to him as any I could offer.
The pressure builds with every day.
I jog. I play tennis. I work out. Nothing helps. I think of him every minute as I sweat and sweat and sweat, trying hard to feel release. Nothing helps. I will see him again in a month.
I live with HUSBAND.
It is my first night with SIRE. I am naked, standing alert and aware—at attention—waiting for the games to begin as he lights candles around his bedroom.
He shows me the way he expects me to always position myself when starting a night of play between SIRE and boy. He then inspects me, whispering firm yet loving descriptions of what he sees and feels. We discuss my “safeword” and what it means, and when—if ever—I should use it. I am shown all the toys he might use to either please or discipline me—dildos, clamps, restraints, rope, his new riding crop, soft floggers, not-so-soft whips, a cane. The cane, he says, will never be used on my soft beautiful skin; he doesn’t wish to cause that kind of pain, to scar me in that way.
Whispering softly in my ear, he asks what I want. When he speaks this way during play, he sounds very much like an 18th-century Lord, much like one of the characters he has created. “What do you want, boy?” Partly from this reverie of his, of my being one of his lordly characters, and partly because I am excited to be here, I smile and stifle a giggle. I tell him only to please himself, whatever SIRE desires. The smile is returned.<
br />
The pressure builds with every day.
I hear pop songs from open car windows and take the melodies of love to heart, make them my own. Feel them as if written for me. I am falling in love with SIRE. I will see him again in three weeks.
I live with HUSBAND.
When I take the position he expects—on all fours, knees spaced far apart, ass spread wide, my mouth and tongue cleaning his boot—I know that I have found IT. I clean his right boot with complete attention until I am told that I have done a good job, and start on his left. I lick every inch of his jeans, spending extra time at his crotch, licking until my tongue is dry and scratchy and his crotch is completely wet. As instructed, I undress him slowly, enjoying every inch of skin I bare as if I hadn’t spent the entire weekend already getting to know it.
I take SIRE’s cock in my mouth. I am suddenly hungry to make him come. I worship his hardness with undying focus, spending time with his balls all the way up to the wonderfully wide piss slit that I lap at heartily, eager to get as much of my tongue inside as I can. I fuck him hard with my mouth, the intent simple: to pleasure him, to feel him buck against me and fill my mouth with his cum. I am almost there; I know this from the way his thickness is building, his balls pulling up tight, his legs slightly shaking. He instructs me to stop and firmly pulls my mouth from his cock, leaving a trail of his pre-cum and my spit down my chin.
The pressure builds with every day.
I masturbate several times daily to release it. It doesn’t help. I work all night—editing and writing—and I smoke more and more, hoping to feel the release. But it doesn’t help.
The pressure is much deeper; a scar is now forming in my heart. A permanent tattoo, more permanent than the marks he leaves when we play, that mark me as his, as belonging to SIRE. I will see him again in two weeks.
I live with HUSBAND.
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