by Rodd Clark
Church, as if sensing his uncertainty, reached out and lightly rubbed his palm against the writer’s thigh, sending shivers upward, which Christian remembered feeling only when the killer has spoken about past murders he’d committed. Looking down at the prone figure on the bed, his eyes traveled from the killer’s face to his broad, muscular chest, then trailed, like the glory patch of hair, to the man’s generous shaft nestled in a dark bush. He could see the pulse of excitement stirring the killer’s manhood, and it seemed suddenly clear what would happen next.
For a first experience, Church seemed surprisingly adept at knowing what to do. His hands understood where they needed to touch to obtain the greatest sense of satisfaction. He took no shame in bathing Christian in long, wet sensual kisses along his chest and neck. He hovered over his biographer and held Christian’s face in oversized hands and ran his tongue along the length of Christian’s lips. For his part, the writer worshiped at the altar. Every secret fantasy broke the reserved, cool detachment he’d fashioned as his personality. He was lost in the need to rake his hands along Church’s sides, to grip his cock in his hand, and know him in every detail. Unapologetically, he returned each kiss with considered passion, and when the time came, it was Church who entered him.
Christian was on his back with Church riding over him and supporting each leg in his massive arms. As he thrust and withdrew, he did so hard and quick, but during the parry of their lovemaking, Church never took his eyes from Christian’s. They were locked by their gaze. Christian found himself staring into pale eyes that didn’t seem to want to blink; there was a void you could fall into and risk never finding your way home. The only sounds they made were the grunts of effort and the slap of skin on skin. Although Church’s sex was physical and forceful, his face was cold stone. His expression was fastened with Christian’s, and both seemed unable to pull away from peering into the vastness, as if searching for answers they both desperately needed.
Neither man could have told you how long they fucked. Time had sat motionless on the bed beside them . . . just to watch them play. Christian’s attempt at his first fellatio had been remarkably effective, mostly because every unknown yearning had risen to assist his labors. He wanted Church’s cock more than he’d realized. He remained burrowed into that first crotch like a lovesick boy. Whether it was an hour, or three, no one knew. By the time both men felt quivers from the multitude of climaxes, and their muscles and jaws ached from use, they lay side by side breathing hard and staring at the ceiling.
Christian wanted to roll over and rest his head on Church’s skin, wanted to open his body with a blade so that he could crawl inside and never be forced to leave. His body was soaked in perspiration, as was Church’s, but he didn’t want to shower until he had pulled every possible sensation out of this single greatest experience.
“Well, if you hadn’t done it before, you can’t ever say that now.”
Christian could feel the hidden smile edged on Church’s words. He smiled himself and somehow knew Church could sense it. However glorious this time was in Church’s company, he had to study on what this would mean for the book he’d set out to write. How much would their sexual act change the outcome of the manuscript? He wanted to mention that, but reconsidered breaking the silence in the warm, sticky afterglow of their lovemaking.
HISTORIES WERE like settling dust for Gabe; he could run a palm across it and dissipate the dirt, but sooner than later the past would come back and encase everything in filth and grime. He might run his finger in it, draw a line and leave his mark, but it would disappear with new dust—the dredged remains of too many years. His own history was something he had fought hard to escape, and now he was forced to relive it, when he’d thought those memories long dead and buried. Maxwell wanted to tell his story, and he in turn wanted to give it, but remembering meant getting angry. Which seemed ridiculous when those events happened a lifetime ago?
When that anger had taken over, the writer had feared for his life while in Church’s company, and that had been a consequence he’d never expected, nor one he’d ever desired. He’d not seen it happening. He was locked inside a notion that he’d failed to show his new friend just how substantial he’d become in his eyes. How had he misread his friendship with the writer and fucked up so badly by not noticing it was happening? Christian had misunderstood the suggestion of sex, and taken it as a threat of violence. The deed was done though; their relationship was on new and separate ground despite him. There wasn’t much he could do except let it ride and hope to repair the broken portion later.
Gabe’s mouth was parched dry, but he didn’t relish moving, choosing to bask in every second before the guilt had a chance to rise and stare at him inquiringly, demanding he explain his actions.
Chapter Nine
“WHAT ARE YOU gonna title my book?” Church asked, as he opened his arms and let his fingers play on Christian’s shoulder, running his thumb and forefinger along skin and watching the nerves make ripples under the flesh. He’d nestled Christian in the crutch of his arm, and the image was one of contentment, if not normalcy.
“Too early to say . . .”
“I think you oughta name it after me,” Church said. For the writer, that didn’t seem an unnatural response coming from a killer with a highly defined over-confidence. Christian smiled at that, feeling for a minute he thought he knew the man well. He could’ve guessed that’s what Church would’ve said; he was predictable about some things, while so many other aspects seemed exceptional and erratic.
“Let’s just do the work. We can decide that later, together.” Church had answered his fears of what sex had meant for the books outcome. It was obvious he still wanted his story told, but that he hoped Christian could still be professional and unbiased, given what he’d just done with the subject with tongue and mouth.
This is some illusion, thought Christian, something unreal in the grander scheme. He wasn’t lying next to a sexy stud after a strenuous round of fucking. This wasn’t really happening. It had been a dream he slipped into after he and Church had gone drinking. Maybe he’d passed out and this was the lasting effects from an over-abundance of alcohol. If it wasn’t real, then looking down and seeing the naked Gabe lying so close was something he preferred not to wake from.
He listened as Church’s heavy breathing starting to subside into a relaxed pace. He could still feel his heart slowing its race from inside its muscled cage. And he could smell the intoxicating scent from their lovemaking, remembered the odor of wet pine and smoke. He could die here . . . and if it happened at that moment, he would still be happy. But he could feel that Church had other plans; he was becoming restless and slowly attempting to extricate himself from the bed and away from Christian.
“You okay?” He could sense a dark cloud on the horizon.
“It’s cool. I just need a drink. Your skin has a way of pulling out all my spit and passion.” Although there was a smile, the storm cloud couldn’t be ignored. His cock bounced as he jostled out of bed, and it fascinated Christian to watch it. He hadn’t been around many naked men, and even those rare times he’d pushed himself to a gym, he’d averted his eyes and refused to partake in those sideward, but expected, glances. Being naked with another man was freeing.
Church moved from the bedroom and disappeared, arriving back seconds later with a cola from the honor bar fridge, making some comment how expensive a room this was turning out to be. He lifted his can and took a man-sized swallow of cola, standing naked by the bed. His manhood had become flaccid, but even soft he represented a man many should envy. His body hair started at his chest and covered his stomach until it dusted along his strong legs. He was uncut, and Christian hadn’t had much familiarity with uncircumcised men. His foreskin dangled beyond his prick-head, and his balls nestled in a matt of dark, inviting fur—he was a picture of a Greek Adonis, only with hair.
The brusque maleness of it all became an intoxicating sensation, partially by being naked and exposed, and partially
by being in the company of someone so sexually stimulating. A memory flashed in his mind of a time when he was a boy of ten or so; he’d made a friend from school that his mother didn’t much care for, she had told him to stop hanging around that Wilson boy, he was trouble, and she made some half-ass comment that the only reason Christian liked him was because he represented trouble. She had chastised Christian for making poor choices in friendships. She’d said, “Stop hanging around with hooligans. You only like them because it’s childish hero-worship.” Since the abstract vision had entered his head, it must have had a purpose. His mother’s voice seemed pulled from the past, telling him he probably liked Church for all the wrong reasons: he was trouble, and it must be hero-worship.
He couldn’t argue with that. He seemed to admire Church because he represented all the qualities he lacked in abundance. Even his unashamed way of strolling around naked was liberating. Even alone back at his loft, Christian always found himself wearing clothes instead of just walking around with his dick swinging. There was no particular reason for it; it just seemed an engrained indignity that had been the lasting contribution from provincial parents. To him Church’s nudity wasn’t a product of shame; he just recognized it for what it was.
It’s probably easier to be so unabashed and brazen when you’re sporting such a sizable dangle of man-meat, but his confidence went beyond his God-given equipment, it went to the very makeup of his personality. What makes a man? Christian wondered. What gives some males the ability to raise their heads above the shoulders of those lesser mortals in their presence? Whatever it was, Gabriel Church seemed to have it, and his mother’s warning of overindulgent hero-worship may have had a bigger impact because of their encounter.
Christian didn’t know what it was like when women loved other women, but he started to wonder how many gay men weren’t really as gay as they wanted to believe. Maybe it was male adulation, more than an actual desire for sexual congress. Ancient Greeks carved statues out of marble and fashioned figures in bronze, more male than females. They appreciated the manly form, its strength as well as its beauty. Staring at Church, in that instant, made him appreciate the virile, machismo of the man in his hotel suite. He couldn’t help but feel the tantalizing flow of blood engorging his member and stirring the heat in his chest to a slow, steady boil.
“I’m going to hop in the shower,” Church said, shattering any chance of Christian’s hopes in running his tongue along that animal chest and tasting the salt from his straining muscles.
“Sure, why not?”
He watched Church’s ass bounce and quiver as he headed to the bathroom stall. He wanted to crawl once again between those hairy, masculine legs and find his shelter. Instead, he decided he too was thirsty and jumped out of bed as the water began to pulsate from the adjoining room. He hadn’t got much work done tonight. However, it had been one of the greatest evenings of his life. It had set the standard and opened doors that once had been closed, but he still had a desire to pen Church’s story, hoping he was a proper writer and could present something more than a sadistic killer to his readers.
Christian reached for his jeans from the living room floor then quickly discarded the idea and chose to remain naked—the gift from Church still giving. He grabbed a cola from the fridge like Church had done and walked to the table and spotted the notepad staring back at him as a reminder of the mammoth tasks yet to come. His notes were sparse because his years at the university had taught him how to use the smallest scribbles to refresh memories and complete his papers for finals when necessary. Ever since Church secreted his notes at the café, he had begun writing in a code that only he could decipher. He did this for privacy. He didn’t relish the idea of having to explain his thought-process to the unlearned. He stared at his rough scrawls that only he could define, suddenly worrying what Church would say if he had successfully broken the code. The look in his eyes would have been unbearable.
If Church saw what Christian had written about his perverse nature, his personality traits, his abnormal attachments to misshapen ideology . . . he would have been upset, and Christian couldn’t accept how their relationship would be forever tarnished. But no matter how he liked the man, how much he wanted him in ways he couldn’t understand, it was what it was. There wouldn’t be a disguise to his madness, even in his relatively normal, lucid moments such as the hours they’d spent fucking until Chris’s nice hotel suite began smelling ripe like a brothel.
He could look at Church in several ways. He was the point of his research, the subject of his novel, an enigma, and a danger . . . but he could be more than that as well. As he gently thumbed the papers of the pad, he considered how much his affinity to Church might alter his viewpoint and his explanation of a killer he’d set out to explore. He wanted his book to show the sterile, analytical representation of Gabriel Lee Church, but his eye would be jaundiced and askew because he’d recently had the man’s cock in his mouth. As much as he loved their lovemaking, he hated himself for allowing it to change the perception of the novel in the making.
Christian was too lost in thought to have heard Gabriel slip up behind him. Apparently the shower had washed some of the dark from his eyes and improved his spirits because he wrapped his massive arms around Christian, startling him. His lips grazed Christian’s nape, and his breath was warm and inviting. The smell of Irish Spring soap flitted to his nostrils, and he decided without question that he could melt there and puddle to the floor, happily.
“How long do you have the room?” he asked without moving his mouth from the crux of the writer’s neck.
“It was supposed to be a one day deal. Looks like I’m extending my stay, though. I have no desire to race to check-out now, at least not while your dick is brushing my ass cheeks.”
Christian could feel the satisfaction from his companion; it was obviously what the man wanted to hear. The image of a young Church playing with Hot Wheel cars on the linoleum of a kitchen floor hit his mind, in contrast to the same brutal, sexual creature standing engulfing him with his strength. He would have liked to have known the man from the beginning, to have been that fly on the wall of his childhood. He would have to settle with Church’s recollections and stories for now. He would include all of that in the manuscript—people needed to understand the killer before he became one. It was quickly becoming very important that he show Church as he was then, and not just the thing he had eventually become.
“We still need to work tonight, but only if you haven’t got better plans,” the writer whispered over his shoulder. It was painful to think that the story could take precedence over just lying naked with the man in that inviting bed. But time was ticking, and his desire to know the man wholly was as strong as his desire to be with him intimately.
“I suppose we could. We have time for other things later too. But you have to give me some time. Sex with you can be exhausting . . . but nicely exhausting.”
With that Church disengaged his hug and strolled over to the chair where he’d begun his stories. He plopped unceremoniously into his spot, still naked and slightly damp from his shower. It was going to be difficult working undistracted if he remained unclothed, thought Christian. He had forgotten his own nudity but become anxious with the realization that Gabriel might see his own shaft, witness it rouse and awaken, as an uncontrollable gesture of his excitement in seeing a naked Gabriel within his grasp.
God, he thought, who is this man in my head?
Everything was changing too quickly. If you’d asked him a few days ago what he wanted, he wouldn’t have known what to say. Now he was like a kid in a candy store, drooling over the colored delicacies all within reach. His time with the killer would have lasting ramifications on the man left behind.
“Tell me a story about Gabe as a little boy?” Christian said without looking directly at his subject. He wanted to jot a few memoirs down before those invasive images of him and Church lying naked in each other’s arms found a dwelling.
“It was a d
ifferent world when I was young. You remember what it was like. No bottled water, a world without cell phones or iPads, no social media or YouTube. I was born in Kentucky, the back-ass-end of this country for sure. But Bennett had to uproot the family when work dried up in the region. For us that meant moving to Tennessee, where fortunately Bennett found electrical work and a steady paycheck. I hated leaving the blue grass state and learned to hate Tennessee even more. But there wasn’t much work for a mechanic after the plants closed. By the way, Bennett was a mechanic, I’m not sure if I mentioned that earlier . . .”
“Let me stop you for a second. You call your father by his Christian name. Did you always do that?”
“Only if I wanted a beating,” Church offered. “I started calling him Bennett when I was sixteen, and since then I couldn’t think of him as a father anymore. He was always just Bennett Church after that.” The reminiscent gaze had returned to Church’s eyes, and he yanked memories out with a look like he’d swallowed kerosene. His distaste for the man had been clear from the beginning. It was a source of shame and pain for him, but one he knew he had to talk about as if it was cathartic therapy with a head-shrinker. He told a story about Bennett, which Christian found both hard to believe and chilled him in ways he couldn’t bear to hear.
A TREACHEROUS look had taken Bennett’s face one night as the family was sitting watching their sixteen-inch Zenith television. Sissy Church was in the kitchen, cleaning up their dinner mess, a place she seemed to find comfort in. The young boy had often wondered how many dishes really needing cleaning, since his mother always seemed to be washing and drying plates, gripping sudsy glasses, and staring out the kitchen window with a faraway, distant look overshadowing her face. Gabriel had been sprawled on the floor engrossed in an episode of Hawaii Five-O, one of his favorite shows at the time. As Gabe recalled the story for Maxwell, the distinct image of the god-awful shag carpeting and the dim lighting of a living room from the late-seventies came into his mind.