by Rick R. Reed
I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. I stared up at him grinning, helpless as my jeans tightened uncomfortably—and delightfully—in the crotch.
“You got a place?” You whispered and bit my earlobe hard.
I pulled back, stunned. The flow of blood farther south increased, making me feel like buttons were about to start popping off the fly of my jeans. The image made me laugh. You pulled back to cock your head and give me a quizzical look.
“You’re a devil. And yes, I’ve got a place. I’m a couple blocks from here.”
“You’re right about the devil part.” You grabbed my arm as if you already knew the way. “Let’s go.”
* * * *
How could I have been such a fool? Had I really mistaken lust for love? How could I have been so stupid not to have seen through what I’m now sure was a practiced ruse, something that had worked for you time and again?
A dark cloud passes over the inappropriately bright sun, chilling me for a second.
The guy to the north has laid his bicycle down and I sickeningly get the impression he’s moving slowly closer, as one would do when confronting an easily-startled animal.
Should I just jump before he has a chance to get any closer?
No, first I have to allow myself the memory, to wallow in the heat and promise of it.
* * * *
I tripped over the cat when I entered my dark apartment with you close behind me, your hand possessively on the small of my back. Hubert, my Siamese, hissed and dashed from the room, casting one haughty, betrayed look back before disappearing into another room. I shook my head and moved to reach for a little lamp I had on a secretary desk by the front door.
You grabbed my hand. “No. I like it dark. And I wanna kiss you. I’ve been dying to kiss you. All night.” You pulled me close and your kiss was rough. Your mouth pressed into mine hard enough to hurt and your tongue didn’t just probe my mouth, it invaded it.
Normally, I might have put a hand to your chest to get you to slow down, but I was loving this, loving this feeling of being an object of sheer and absolute hunger. Like you were a starving man and I—at last—was sustenance.
Your kiss was primal. I felt consumed and all that I could do—really—was to surrender. I slumped against your body, which felt hard everywhere, a column of metal, but with liquid beneath…liquid heated to near boiling.
You pushed me back, seeming to already know in which direction the bedroom was.
And the whole time you were backing me toward the bedroom, I felt we were performing some sort of complicated dance, one in which I was compelled to helplessly follow.
I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
We didn’t make it as far as the bedroom. We found my couch first. I hadn’t even realized the sofa was there until my knees were hitting the back of it and I was toppling, ass first, down on to it with you on top of me. You stopped for a moment to grab my legs and turn me so that I was lying in a horizontal position. Then you stared down at me for a moment before removing every stitch of clothing you had on.
Supine, I watched breathlessly as you pulled the sweatshirt over your head, tousling your already messy long hair and somehow managing to make it look even more fetching. You smiled your cockeyed grin at me, sending it down through the darkness, making me feel I was all that existed in the world for you.
I started to sit up to take off my own clothes and you pushed me back down on the couch. “Just wait.”
Your chest was smooth and defined, with just a small tuft of hair in the center, separating two taut little nipples I was desperate to taste. A treasure trail of matching hair led down, and into, your jeans. And now, you were slowly unbuttoning those jeans, never ceasing eye contact with me as you did it. I kept looking into your eyes, then down again as your practiced fingers undid button after button…agonizingly slowly. Just as you got to the bottom button, you laughed softly. With my gaze, I traced the outline of your cock pressing against the worn denim fabric. I couldn’t wait to see it. You took hold of my head, forcing me to meet your eyes.
“What?” I whispered.
“I need to get out of these shoes before I go any further.” You laughed.
I glanced down at the Cons you were wearing. One by one, you shucked them without untying them, flinging them into the shadows in the corner of the room.
And then you returned to the main event. You popped the last button, waiting a dramatic beat, and then began to wriggle your ass as you slowly teased the jeans down from your hips. Then you turned, so you were facing away from me as you lowered the jeans to your thighs, then knees. Your ass and thighs glowed ghostly white in the darkness and it was all I could do not to reach out and grip the two perfect globes in front of me, to stroke their firm whiteness, to pull the cleft apart and to see the wisps of curled hair and the tight ring of muscle just waiting for my tongue.
But I had already caught onto the fact—wordlessly—that you were the director of this show and my role, right now, was to wait.
Finally, you stooped down, freeing the skinny jeans from your ankles and flinging them into the corner, along with your shoes.
And then—slowly—you turned to me, revealing the full length of your hard, lean body. Your erection, impossibly hard, pointed straight up at the ceiling, uncut, a drop of precum poised at the tip of the exposed head. I would guess you measured somewhere around eight inches and your dick was roped with protruding veins of which I longed to explore the topography. Your balls hung low and asymmetrical beneath your dick.
Now it was really difficult not to reach out with fingers, with lips, with tongue, and touch you. But I could see by your impish grin you were daring me…and it was a dare I was so willing to take. I was burning up. My face, my ears, and my chest all felt flushed, as if the blood just beneath the skin was beginning to percolate. I dug my fingers into the brushed cotton fabric of the couch beneath me.
“Beautiful,” I whispered, staring up at you. “Do you realize how beautiful you are? And how you are exactly what I would order up if someone asked me to describe my perfect man?”
“Shhh. Right now, this isn’t about talking.” You bent over and kissed me again, so hard and wet, I feared I would go to work on Monday with bruises around my lips. I didn’t care. I hungrily took your tongue, your mouth, as though I was starving.
I reached up to pull you closer to me and you stepped back. “Patience.” You practically hissed.
You then stretched yourself out of top of me, like a gorgeous, silken blanket, your hands pinning my arms down so all that I could do was lie immobile beneath you. The sensation of you lying naked on top of me while I was completely clothed was electric. Rather than feeling like a barrier, it only served to ratchet up the sexual tension, to celebrate the contrast between clothing and bare skin.
You ground into me, your hardness pressing into my own. You stared down at me, gauging my reaction. Perhaps you reveled in the lust you saw as naked on my face as your body was. Perhaps you wanted me to beg. And I would have—gladly—but you had ordered me earlier not to speak.
After what seemed like minutes, perhaps even hours, had passed, you lowered your face to mine and began kissing me hungrily again. Not only did you pay ravenous attention to my mouth, but you kissed my eyelids, earlobes, and neck as well. Your tongue darted in and out of my ear. You bit the lobes hard enough to make me squirm, to make me wonder if you had drawn blood.
I didn’t care.
At last you released my hands, and almost as if they were spring-loaded, my arms popped up to encircle you, to run up and down the length of your spine, reveling in the feel of the muscles, the skin, the bumps of your backbone.
And then you stood again. Undressing me was not some slow-motion tease as it had been with you, but quick, ruthless, ripping my T-shirt, pulling my jeans from my body roughly to fling them across the room.
I was ready for you. Perhaps later, there would be time for more careful ministrations, but when you spread my
legs apart and lowered yourself between my thighs, I wanted nothing more than to feel you inside me. My ass moved toward your cock as though it had its own agenda, heedless in its need to be filled. You pressed the head of it against my ring of muscle. I knew it would slide in with little to no resistance. Not that I was used to this, but because I wanted it so badly, I was nearly in tears.
But common sense, a miracle in this darkened, charged, atmosphere, prevailed. You got up for a moment, found your jeans, groped in the pocket, and then made me watch as you slowly, so slowly, rolled the condom down over your cock, which was so hard it was twitching.
You positioned yourself where you had been before. With my hands on your ass to guide you in, you entered me slowly, first resting the tip just inside, then a bit more and a bit more until you were buried all the way deep inside me.
I looked up at your face and your eyes shut against what I was sure was the same wave of pleasure that pulsed through my own body. Then you opened your eyes and our gazes met. An almost telepathic connection surged between our eyes, each grateful for the pleasure one was giving the other. You smiled at me then, and it was a smile filled with tenderness and warmth. You reached up with one hand to cup my chin as you lowered your face down to mine and you kissed me softly, your tongue darting into my mouth so gently it ticked.
And then you began to move inside me, slowly at first, and I arched my back to push myself against you as you began to pound harder, the tempo of your thrusts building with each passing moment, becoming harder, faster, and more insistent as time wore on.
At last we were into each other’s rhythms, our bodies working together to wrest the most incredible waves of pleasure and passion from each other. My hips rose to meet your thrusts; my mouth connected with yours; my hands gripped your ass cheeks, pulling you inside deeper, deeper.
I grunted, “Harder,” and you obliged, bucking and writhing, making me feel like you would pound me through the frame of the couch beneath me.
When had we begun to sweat? I suddenly noticed how our exertions had slickened both of our bodies with perspiration. Droplets fell from your face, now contorted in pleasure, as you pumped away inside me faster, faster, your breathing turning into gasps and grunts. The sweat fell into my mouth and I tasted the salt of you.
Finally, you stiffened above me and cried out into the dark living room. I looked up as the bliss flooded your body, making you buck and tremble for what seemed like minutes as you emptied inside of me. I held fast and didn’t even realize until later that I had come myself, the splashes of it hitting my chin, chest, and belly.
You slid your arms beneath my sweaty back, squeezing me so tight I wondered if our bodies would merge.
You licked my ear and then began whispering.
“Is that what it feels like to fall in love with someone? I am so completely into you.”
“In more ways than one.” I reached up and brushed a strand of hair that was glued to your forehead with sweat away. “I feel the same. I could get used to this.” I grinned. “It’s been a long time.”
“I definitely wanna do this again…and soon.”
“Me, too.”
“We’re—the band—going away for a couple weeks. We have shows in Portland, and northern California, but as soon as I get back, I’ll be calling you.”
I tweaked your nose. “I’ll hold you to that.”
You didn’t sleep over, but we held each other on the couch for hours that night, whispering, conspiring over a future together.
With dawn’s gray light creeping in through my windows, I walked you to my door and kissed you just before you opened it.
You held my face for a moment, staring into my eyes. “I love you. I’ll be back.”
Just before you started down the stairs, I grabbed hold of your sleeve. “Wait. I’ll be right back in just a second.” I dashed inside, grabbing a receipt from the secretary desk in the entryway, and scrawled my cell number on the back. I handed it to you with a smile, as if offering you a gift. You grinned, winked at me, and stuffed the paper into your pocket.
I watched as you descended the stairs. You didn’t look back. Part of me wonders now if I was already fading fast into memory.
It was the last time I’d spend any significant amount of time with you. Perhaps if I had known that then, I would have slammed the door as you retreated, just so you’d know I was alive.
* * * *
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” The guy who had been on the bicycle has moved a bit closer. I step back a bit from the bridge’s edge, not wanting him to think I am contemplating anything as outrageous as jumping. He is typical Seattle: shaggy dark brown hair, full beard in a matching hue, cargo shorts, and a “Trophy Cupcakes” T-shirt. There’s a tattoo of a fish on one of his calves.
Please don’t be some kind of do-gooder. I just want a few minutes to remember the best and the worst…and then, quickly, and with true finality, to free myself of a world with you in it.
I glance over at him and give him a small smile: tight, and I know it has to look awkward. “Not much, buddy!” My voice comes out cracked and overly bright. “Just admiring the view.”
“Mind if I join you?” The guy inches a little closer and I can’t help but notice the cautious way he approaches me, as though he’s afraid one false move will result in disaster.
Perceptive guy.
“Yeah, I do kind of mind. I was looking to be by myself for a bit, you know?”
“I can understand that.” He stops his progression toward me, and lifts his empty palms up in a gesture that looks to me like supplication. He glances down at the sweeping panorama spread out before us beneath the bridge. “I’m Russell.”
I nod. I want to just say, with a little dismissive gesture, “Pleased to meet you, Russell. Now, just be on your way.” But I say nothing more. I have a feeling that what Russell wants is to engage me in conversation and I’m not falling for that. I stare down, for once truly seeing my fate before me in the most literal sense.
Russell steps a little closer and I notice how brown his eyes are and, of course, that reminds me of you. I meet those eyes and I can see a couple of things going on within that young, admittedly handsome face. First of all, Russell is scared. Perhaps he has never been confronted with a situation like the one before him and maybe he feels powerless to stop it. Maybe he’s terrified he’s going to see someone die and, not only that, but in a spectacularly gruesome way. But there’s also a wary interest in his gaze. Whether that interest is simply from do-gooder tendencies or if he has a more personal interest in getting to know me better I suppose I will never know.
I try to give him what I think of as a genuine smile. I really try. I just want him to think there’s nothing wrong, that of course I am not contemplating jumping from this bridge so popular for offing oneself it’s known as the suicide bridge. I am just another happy-go-lucky Seattleite with no fear of heights out for an early summer morning stroll. That’s all. Now just leave me the hell alone.
But he doesn’t. He stands close by, hovering, wringing his hands. I just know he is wondering what to say next, how to keep me engaged. I bet he thinks if he can do that long enough, more formal help will arrive, and the burden will be off him. Or at least he will have back-up.
He wants—I just know it—to be my savior.
Why couldn’t you have wanted that? I gave you plenty of opportunities.
* * * *
As promised, you came back to town two weeks later. But I would not go so far as to say that you were a man of your word. Because even though you did come back, you never bothered to inform me of that fact.
No, I had to find that out for myself. And I had to find it out just like anyone else in Seattle who picked up The Stranger weekly newspaper and saw the ad for your band buried in the back pages.
Surely, you had meant to call me and let me know. I consoled myself with thoughts of how busy you must be, and how draining touring would have to be—especially for a small band like y
ours, traveling all over the west coast in a beat up Volkswagen van.
The call would come, wouldn’t it? You told me. You promised me you’d be back and would see me again.
I waited for days, my cell phone always nearby, if not held nervously in my sweating palm. I jumped when it rang. I checked it constantly for missed calls. I turned the ringer to high on the landline phone in my apartment, checked more than once to make sure the voice mail worked properly.
And, as the days wore on, closer and closer to your Saturday night appearance at a club called Rat City in the downtown neighborhood of Belltown, I became more and more inconsolable, certain you were not going to call.
Had you forgotten me? Found someone else?
But then I would think back to the magical night we had shared and thought those things just weren’t possible. We had made a real connection, hadn’t we? I wracked my brain trying to think if there was a time during the course of that evening you had left me a number, or any way, in fact, to reach you.
But you hadn’t.
Surely, that was a simple oversight. It was late. You were tired. So was I. It had never even occurred to me to ask.
Yet I could clearly remember me giving you my cell. You knew my address and the landline number should be easy enough to obtain. After all, I was listed.
But you could have lost the number. Easy enough to do when you’re on the road, sleeping in a van and different hotels. Maybe even as I was thinking these thoughts, you were despairing because you had searched and searched and searched and still had been unable to find that easily-lost slip of paper with my number.
I tried not to think of the fact that you could have dropped by; you could have knocked on my door, left a note. I tried to ignore the fact that if you had really wanted to get in touch with me, you would have.