I buried my dick in the mattress, seeing spots. He wanted me, right that second. I could slick it up and bury it in that tight ass balls-deep, and he'd love me for it. Love me for fucking him senseless. Love me for my stiff cock and my pure unscrupulousness in the name of mindless sex.
You can lie to me. I don't give a fuck. Just make it sound good.
I thrust down into the mattress again, groaned with the heat it generated down low in my spine, and applied all my darkest thoughts, all that hot energy, to sucking Brady off. I rubbed my spit all over him, circling his asshole, then pushing up with a fingertip when I went down. He was a straight, gorgeous six inches or so, but I couldn't quite get all of him in me; the back of my throat had a bad habit of fighting back. I got enough that he was writhing and panting in seconds, anyhow. Letting him fill me up, the taste of his pleasure teasing me.
He rocked his hips, and I sped up. I exhaled when his cock swelled, took him in as far as I could, relaxing my throat. His hands tore at the sheets; his legs shook; his ass lifted off the bed. He didn't say a word, just came in my mouth with a gasp. I swallowed before he was done, and he gave a low "mmm, unh" kind of sound. His cock pounded with his pulse. He shot off more, and I swallowed again.
I could've done it over and over all night for the satisfaction of tasting him. And God, he must've needed it, because that was a long one.
He sat up, his stomach curling in on itself, and touched my face.
I looked up, let his slowly deflating cock go, and dragged the back of my hand over my mouth.
Still panting, he said, "Come here." He held out one hand.
I stretched out at his side, but he kept pulling at me, arranging me until I was on my knees beside him, and he was slouched against the headboard, about eye level with my desperate cock. He took it in one hand, stroked the length of it so I had to grab the headboard to stay upright. Again, and I closed my eyes, bit my lip, trying to think of something else—anything else—to make it last a little longer.
When I opened them again, my dick was about an inch from his lips. He kissed it, licked me once, then pulled at my leg as if to suggest I straddle him.
The second I complied, spread over him in the most obscene way imaginable, he opened wide and took the head into his mouth.
I gripped the headboard so hard the metal bars creaked. So warm, so wet, those lips, that—
His tongue flicked over me, circled my head. His hand grabbed for my ass, pulled me toward him.
At first I didn't move. My brain was too busy exploding to understand.
He readjusted his position, sliding down farther, and took more of me in. This time he didn't grab my ass so much as smack it—a bright sting that cut through the thrill and magnified it—then squeezed and pulled forward.
The natural impulse was to jerk into his mouth, but I fought it, gritting my teeth.
His fingers dug into my ass. Goddamn, he had some strong hands. He looked up with those black-lined, bright blue eyes, his tongue flicking over me again. And then he sat forward, took more of me in. And more. And then—
Jesus Christ, that wet, sucking sensation closing in around me. The kick was so intense that, at first, I didn't even notice he had six inches of my dick in his mouth like it was nothing.
His fingers dug in again with a shock of pain, and he dragged me closer.
Now I shoved forward with my hips, burying my cock in him.
He closed his eyes and growled—his throat vibrated, my cock vibrated, and I almost blacked out. I pulled back. Again, he squeezed my ass, and I thrust into him. Now he brought his free hand up to my hip and used both of them to keep me moving, but by then I had gotten the message. A little more guidance, him pushing me back when he needed air, then pulling to get me going again, some serious encouragement from his soft, wet tongue, his relaxed throat, his hands—suddenly cold again, that crazy heightening of sensation wherever they went. I hung on to the top bar of the headboard with both hands and leaned back so I could watch myself fuck his mouth.
Never in my life had I seen anything like it—outside of a movie, anyhow. Just the idea would've gotten me off in ten seconds, no actual blowjob required. The feeling of so much of my cock, swollen and frantic, buried so deep in that hot, slick place inside him, opening up his throat and—
It was divine, but even in that state, I was too aware of his likely discomfort, no matter how happy he seemed. Lucky thing I didn't have to make any decisions. My orgasm came on like a freight train. I arched my back; he sat up and took me in, intensifying the climax at the high point, when it was like a goddamn supernova inside me, vibrating for one perfect second—
Right down his throat. He swallowed—I felt him swallow—and shuddered.
When it was finally over, he let me go. I crawled off him and fell at his side, breathing hard.
He swallowed again, coughed once, and stretched out next to me. Literally stretched, like a cat getting up from a long nap, hands over his head, back arching high. His cock had begun to stiffen again, lazy and still slightly wet against his leg.
Oh, God. What had I just done? That…
Was not appropriate first-night behavior. At all.
"Mmm, that was fucking hot," he said. No, purred. He was purring again and smiling.
"How the hell did you do that?"
"That's for me to know and you to exploit, sweetheart."
There were several ways I could've reacted right then. I could've laughed, for obvious reasons. I could've been relieved, because he was so suddenly back to—well, back to what I thought of as normal. I could've been confused or annoyed or scared. The list went on and on the longer I stared at him. But in that single, rare moment I was seeing him without thinking of how much I wanted to get into his pants, all I really recognized was that I wanted to kiss him again. For a really long time.
"I think you might be insane, Brady. Like, certifiably."
"Sexy, innit?"
"Absolutely." So I kissed him again. For a really long time.
*~*~*
Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke to the feeling of him running his fingers through the hair on my chest. His head was on my shoulder, but I pulled back enough to see his eyes were open. He'd washed off the eyeliner—said he hated "waking up looking like a goth kid"—but didn't look so different. A little more fresh-faced but still a goddamn punk.
"Why are you awake?" I asked.
"Thinking. That was kind of amazing," he said.
Half-asleep was still sufficiently awake to be flattered, I guess. "Yeah?"
"No, not kind of. You spent all that time just feeling me. What's that about?"
At first I thought he was joking. But he didn't laugh, didn't even smile, and so I answered, "Wanted to see what you liked. Where you wanted me to touch you."
"What'd I tell you?"
"Not everything, but some things." I traced an X with my finger in the crook of his elbow.
He smiled. "Yeah."
I ran the finger up to the beginning of his swirling nouveau sleeve tattoo. "What are these for?"
"For me."
"Yeah, but what do they mean?"
"Nothing means anything in a postmodern world, Etienne."
I smiled, thinking of Une Saison en Enfer again: Il faut être absolument moderne.
We must be absolutely modern.
Definitely a poet for the punks. Hardly a serious sentence passed their lips without leaving that irony aftertaste.
"Everything is disposable." He threw his arm over my middle.
"Not everything."
"Not these. That's the idea. These are choices I made. Part of me forever."
I kissed his sweet-smelling hair. "You never regret anything? Never want to take it back?"
"All the fucking time. But not these."
"What about the Kinks lyrics?"
"'You really got me.' Same thing. And I think I'd like to be had, you know?" And before I could reply that I didn't, precisely, he said, "You really want to
do this again? Like, find the rest of those spots I like?"
"Yeah. That enough reason to come back?"
"Mmm-hmm. But I wasn't supposed to have one."
"I know. But I'm glad."
He smiled and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER FOUR
I smiled before I even opened my eyes the next morning.
Then I did open them, saw the dent from his head in the pillow, and stopped smiling. A thorough search of the apartment confirmed my suspicions. No trace of Brady except for a little note on the fridge where I kept a pad for grocery reminders.
You can leave messages at the Flowers. I'll get them. Borrowed your Rimbaud.—B
Even that was more than I had any right to expect. I didn't know him, but I knew that much. Anyhow, if he had borrowed something, that implied that he meant to bring it back.
I was covering for the weekend manager that day, but I scribbled out a note and crumpled it into my pocket on my way out—early, hoping a good walk would clear my head of him. The weather had cooled sometime in the middle of the night, injecting a sharpness into the afternoon, with the light trying to slant too early and rain threatening from the north. The town was half-asleep, the shops indolent, the restaurants sluggish. The chilly air on my face did the job.
I fingered the note in my pocket and wondered if it had really happened. The music, the kissing, the hitch in his voice. The bed, his sighs, the taste of him. His mouth, his tattoos, his weird, broke-ass beauty.
Even in the depleting fall sunshine, I could recall the events, the emotions and sensations that had passed in the dark. Rationally, I knew I should be wary. He was clearly damaged, used up in ways my relatively sheltered and cared-for existence didn't allow me to fathom. But now that I knew for certain it was there, it was so much less disturbing than the suspicion of some unnamable potential trouble had been.
And not because he could deep throat like a pro, either. Nice bonus, anyone would agree, but no. It never occurred to me not to leave him a note, not once, because even if it took me forever—as I suspected it would—I had to know Brady Sinclair.
I made it to the cracked sidewalk outside the Flowers and belatedly realized the door was probably locked so early in the day. But it swung open at a tentative push. The bartender—I had some vague impression that his name was Ed—looked up and nodded.
It was different in the light too. The age of the furniture, the smallness of the stage, it all stood out, but in a good way. I smiled and approached the bar. "Hate to bother you. Ed, right?"
"Yeah."
"Etienne. Is Brady Sinclair going to be around?"
"He stops by. They practice here sometimes." He raised watery dark eyes and inspected me as if I might be one of the shadier characters to have entered his bar. "I don't know anything about him, though. No address or—"
"No, he's…he's a friend." I dug the note out of my pocket, feeling almost guilty in the face of his defensiveness. "He said I could leave him a message here."
"Sure, kid." This, though he wasn't awfully old himself. Younger than my parents, certainly. He reached out, took the note with two fingers, and put it under the bar without looking at it.
I wished I'd thought to put it in an envelope.
"I'll make sure he sees it. Etienne, right?" He pronounced it in that American way that I've always liked but that drove Mom crazy.
I was out the door with a nod and a, "Yeah, thanks."
It wasn't much, but last night had proven that less was going to be more when it came to Brady. So all I'd written was:
Brady,
You disappeared again. I'd think I was crazy, except my Rimbaud is gone and my sheets smell like rock star.
At least give me your number.
Etienne
*~*~*
Susanne called me the next morning before I left for work—which meant she was already at the station—using her worried-mom voice. "So, I did a background check."
"Isn't this abuse of power?" I asked.
"Anyone can get a background check, kid," she said. "And Brady Sinclair doesn't exist."
I snorted. "That's the impression I get."
"No, I mean, there is no Brady Sinclair in Pittsburgh. No driver's license, no apartment, no house, no car, no job, no nothing."
"No record, then. So that's good."
"Et—"
I sighed. "What are you suggesting?"
"Well, nothing, really. Not yet. But—"
"Exactly. So he doesn't have a Pennsylvania license. Pretty sure he's not from here. He has an accent sometimes."
"What kind?"
"The hot kind." I smirked, even though she wasn't there to see it. "Maybe he's in witness protection or something."
"Get outta here."
"Relax, super-cop. It's not like he's moving in tomorrow. He's just a guy I may or may not see sometimes."
"Oh, God, you went out with him."
"Have you checked up on everyone I've ever dated?"
"Yes. And Gina when she and Marcel got engaged. And she didn't steal his credit card."
"Well, he made it out of my apartment the other night without stealing anything." Borrowing wasn't stealing, right?
"He knows where you live now? Oh, kid, you're killing me. At least tell me his birthday. Or his social security—"
"How would I even know…?" I stopped myself. Engaging the madness only gave it a foothold. "Suse, deep breath. Remember how you always swore you wouldn't become an overprotective, crazy Mom-type? You're almost there."
Eventually she relented, in a sulky kind of big-sister way, and I started out the door to walk down to work. I stepped out into the fall morning and nearly tripped over a brown paper bag on my welcome mat. I ducked, opened it, and pulled out a pair of metal handcuffs—the novelty sex-shop kind, not the actual cop kind—with a note attached.
Sorry, sweetheart, only real people have phones. Try these next time, if you don't want me to disappear.—B
Which may have been the best "turned down for a phone number" moment in the history of mankind.
*~*~*
The more I thought about it, the more I knew Susanne, neurotic though she was, was right. It was beyond weird in this day and age for someone in his mid-twenties not to have some kind of electronic trail leading to his current city of residence. And all the disappearing, the coming and going… Hell, maybe he really didn't have a phone to his name. The number should've shown up if he did, right? Did that mean he wasn't who he said he was, that Brady wasn't even his real name, maybe?
It should've bothered me more than it did, but I believed what I'd told Suse. I liked him. He was screwed up and lovely, and I'd be happy to make him happy anytime he wanted. But I couldn't see—or didn't want to see—how I could be in any danger whether his name was Brady Sinclair or Lord Henry Wotten.
Who knew if he'd call again, anyhow? It had been two days, and I didn't expect to hear a thing for a few more, if I heard at all. I wanted to. I thought about it roughly every three seconds. For the first time in my life, I'd became a compulsive phone-checker.
But it wasn't miserable. It just…was. The joys of no longer being sixteen, I guess. Not much perspective but enough to keep me from being intolerable to my coworkers.
When my shift was over, I said my good-byes, slipped out the door, and turned around to walk home.
And there he was.
The night was our first really chilly one. The leaves had started to turn, hanging like mad jewels over the hills and rivers, and I'd thought to bring a jacket. But Brady leaned against the brick wall in a thin baby-pink T-shirt and a pair of hole-riddled jeans. Cigarette in hand, eyes on me, comfortable as could be.
So much for not being sixteen anymore. My throat sort of closed up, and I grinned so hard it hurt. I went straight to him, noticing that his shirt wasn't just pink but also had a black screen-printed Debbie Harry on it and heralded BLONDIE.
"Hey, handsome," he said.
"Back atcha. Nice shirt."
; "Reminded me of you."
I leaned with one shoulder against the wall, facing him, close. The smell of his cigarettes and hair product gave me that inexplicable rush. "I'm definitely not blond."
"I always remember what was playing when something interesting happens." He sucked in another drag. "It was 'Atomic' when I spotted you at the bar." Then he breathed out the smoke.
I would've attacked him right there if he hadn't been enjoying that cigarette so much. A thought I'd had that night, though in another context entirely, reoccurred: Who cares what his name is? "Yeah, it was."
"Good tune." He held up my Rimbaud, which had been tucked against his side. "Brought your book."
"Like it?"
"Yeah. Prose more than poetry. The thing about the seminary was sick." He grinned.
Un cœur sous une soutane. Sacrilege and one masturbation joke after the other. "Should've known you'd like that. You can have it, if you want. I have another edition."
He smiled and flicked his cigarette into the middle of the silent street. "I could steal my own."
"Mon cher enfant terrible." Not so much in the traumatic Jean Cocteau sense, but in the original, more general sense, Brady must embody the term.
He must've agreed; he came near and kissed me close-lipped.
I ran a hand through his hair. He was cool to the touch, but he usually was. My hand was much colder.
He said, still leaning into me, "So this is me, coming back."
"Yeah." I closed my eyes and put my forehead to his. Vanity, pride, lust, name your sin, but it was magic to hear him say it. "Wanna do it again?"
"Shit that good is always bad for your health."
"We're all gonna die," I said. "Might as well go out happy."
He kissed me again, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his pack as if to prove the point. We separated so he could hand me a cigarette and get another for himself, then light them with a beat-up Zippo sporting a Penguins logo.
I'd bet a hundred bucks it wasn't his and that its owner didn't even miss it yet.
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