Gay Fiction, Volume 1 Page 19

  As women washed their hair on the boob tube, I was explaining the pleasures of male anal sex.

  Aunt Fran was curious and eager, and I offered her all of my answers on a plate of candor and truthfulness that I have never owned.

  “Do you love Nathan?”

  I sighed, fiddling with the silver band around my finger. “Aunt Fran, I said yes, when I shou-should have been say-saying no.”

  A flash of anger illuminated her green eyes. “You have been trespassed on. You hear me, Derek O’Reilly? Trespassed on!” Her voice had risen abruptly, and it startled me quiet. “I’ve been watching you, Red, all these years, and you have allowed every one of your greedy lovers to rummage through your temple, and without any consideration for your limits, or boundaries, you have let them claim it as their empire.”

  My lips parted.

  Reality’s icy fingers clasped the side of my head.

  Be quiet.

  Don’t talk about this.

  Be good.

  Say yes.

  Wear this. Wear that.

  Eat this. Eat that.

  Blow me.

  Let me fuck you.

  Turn around.

  We don’t need rubbers.

  Open your mouth.

  Shut up.

  My jaw tightened, and a quiet but deadly rebellion inched up my spine.

  Aunt Fran fell back onto the pillow. “Honey, promise me something.” She closed her eyes, obviously exhausted. “Don’t go to Milan.” She opened her eyes. “Go to Split and kiss Nicolas Lund on the mouth.”

  I laughed.

  It felt tremendously good.

  “I’m serious, Derek. Enough already. You go there, grab hold of that magnificent beast, and you stick your tongue down his throat.”

  Laughter quenched my soul.

  She smiled. “I bet you he’ll let you,” she said before dozing off into a morphine slumber. “I bet you that cold ocean could use a little of your warmth.”

  *

  “O’Reilly.”

  I had just fallen asleep when Nick called.

  I pressed the phone to my ear, and glanced at the clock. “Hi.”

  “Sleeping?”

  “No,” I lied.

  It was ten p.m. How pathetic of me. How lame to have been reduced to falling asleep at this hour.

  “You alone?”

  I was. Nathan hadn’t come home yet. He was still at the gym.

  “Yes,” I returned, feeling my body harden under the sheets. “How are you?”

  “Good. Sorry ’bout not calling.”

  “It’s okay. Figured you were bu-busy.”

  “I’ve got shit coming at me from every direction.” He exhaled. I pictured him standing at Split’s back door, looking like some kind of Dionysus. “I need to get out of the kitchen. I need to blow my lid, you in?”

  I sat up, my groin filling with heat. “Yeah,” I whispered in a breath. “I am.”

  “Good. Come, then.”

  I almost did. Right there in my pajama bottoms.

  “Where do you-ou live?”

  “Right on top of things. Split’s second floor.”

  What a complete control freak Nick is.

  “I’ll be there in about —”

  “Whatever, O’Reilly. Just come.”

  As I climbed up Split’s iron staircase, I could almost hear my mind humming.

  I paused on the last step, watching the door.

  I looked down at myself.

  I wore my black jeans and an army green shirt. That shirt is snug in all the right places, and my black jeans have gotten me more action than any other pair of pants I own.

  I blew a breath into my cupped fingers. Spearmint.

  I ran a nervous hand through my hair. Not much I could do about that.

  I took a shallow breath and knocked.

  Immediately, the most gruesome, hellish sound filtered through the thick wooden door. I shrank back from it, as if the very sound could tear my throat open.

  “Quiet!” Nick’s tone had a chilling authority to it. “Stille.”

  The thing, which I imagined was the offspring of Cujo and the devil, instantly stopped its barking.

  Nick popped the door open. “Hey.”

  My eyes darted down to the monstrous animal he was holding back from murdering me.

  “What is tha-that?”

  “This is Escoffier. Don’t worry, man, he’s real sweet.”

  I smiled. “Sweet?”

  “Yeah.” Nick began petting the thing, rubbing its gigantic head with vigor. The thing, which is in fact a red nose pit bull, is Nick’s “baby.”

  “Come in, he won’t bite you. Well, only if you show weakness.”

  Then I was screwed.

  I eased myself into the entrance, my eyes never leaving the dog’s jaw.

  “Put your hand out, let him smell you.”

  I was quite sure the dog could smell me just fine from where I stood, but Nick’s blue eyes insisted, so I extended my hand, prepared to be carrying it in a bag of ice to the ER in a few seconds. The dog’s nose was wet and cold. “He’s very ni-ice.”

  Nick laughed. “Go on, Esco. Get.” The thing padded down the hall. “Go destroy my boots or something.”

  In the living area (everything is an area, as there are no rooms, no doors, just one huge space with scarcely any furniture), Nick pointed to the only chair in the place. “Sit down.”

  I did.

  He went to a box and pulled out a bottle of wine. “Take your shoes off, relax.”

  I took my shoes off.

  He then went to his laptop, which was set atop another box, this one wooden, and began scrolling down some list. His eyes were fixed to the screen, and I indulged myself while I could.

  He wore faded blue jeans and a tight white T-shirt.

  Nick’s lines are graceful. Everything on him is long and hard.

  His ass tortures me.

  As my eyes wandered over every inch of his body, I remembered the L-shaped couch.

  I recalled the blue ink that had stained my sweaty fingers that night.

  “Wing it, O’Reilly.”

  Slowly, I loosened my grip on the moment and inhaled deeply.

  Nick’s hair is shorter now, but the ash blond strands still hang loosely around his face, reaching just above the neckline. He kept pushing it out of his translucent eyes. “Yeah, this is good,” he whispered, stepping away from his computer.

  David Usher’s childlike voice streamed out of the various speakers scattered around the room. The acoustics in the loft are amazing.

  Nick uncorked the wine bottle and flipped a thick, sturdy cardboard box upside down. He set the glasses on it.

  “Just moved in?” I asked.

  Nick sat on the floor, curling his long legs under him. “No.”

  I glanced around. “Okay.”

  He lit a thin cigar. “Do you mind? I quit smoking last year, and this is my last guilty pleasure.”

  I didn’t mind, but every time his lips sucked on the cigar, I held my breath, trying to hold myself back from knocking the box over and ripping his jeans open with my teeth.

  “So, you never answered my question.” His blue eyes danced on my mouth. “Who’s we?”

  I took a generous swill of the wine. It was fantastic. Deep, rich, and earthy.

  “Come on, O’Reilly, tell me all about Mr. Roboto.”

  I frowned.

  “Boone told me. This Nathan guy, you live with him?”

  I took another mouthful of the wine.

  “So you guys are like, monogamous and everything?”

  That word. That awful, awful word.

  I shrugged. “Dunno.”

  Nick choked on the smoke.” What do you mean, you don’t know? Are you guys fucking other people or not?”

  Mr. Smart-ass.

  I sank the rest of my wine and rose.

  There were some drawings taped to the brick wall. I wanted to get a closer look. “You made these?” I asked, h
oping to stray away from the subject of my degrading sex life, or lack of it.

  “No.” There was a subtle tension in his voice. “Quit poking around my stuff,” he added. “Sit down, O’Reilly, and I promise not to ask any more dumb questions.”

  The drawings were nothing but circles and lines. One of them looked like a face, but I wasn’t sure. “Who’s Spencer?” I asked, reading the name at the far corner of the paper.

  “Nobody.”

  Nick’s breath had warmed my ear.

  And I turned around to find him standing less than two inches from me.

  I hurt to taste him.

  “Wow.” He inhaled, skimming his nose along my neck. “I remember that smell.”

  His T-shirt grazed my shirt.

  His breath caressed my nose.

  I tensed, trying to keep control.

  Carefully, Nick moved in closer, and when I felt his own desire, pressed hard against my lower stomach, a small moan escaped me. I leaned into him, pushing my face into his chest, getting high off the scent of his clothes. “Nick,” I pleaded again. “Oh God, please. Please.”

  His body tensed, and his mouth scorched my ear. “Don’t, O’Reilly. No need to beg.”

  I turned my face to his voice, dying to catch his mouth with my lips. He clasped my arm, and slowly, he raised it over my head. Then the other. Nick held me tightly, trapping my body between him and the wall. My knees bent. His lips skimmed my skin, moving up my neck, pausing on my chin, heating my flesh with a paralyzing lust.

  But he teased.

  His mouth touched mine, but never fully quenched it. His fingers held me prisoner, yet it was his feverish blue gaze that bound me to him. His hips pushed into mine, and at the feel of his erection grinding up against mine, I shivered and cried out, mad with need.

  His fingers released my wrists, but before I could plunge mine into his hair or jeans, he had slipped my shirt over my head and was working at my belt. “Help me with this—” The belt was stuck, and our fingers tore at it. “Fucking thing,” cursed Nick under his breath. “This thing a chastity belt or what?”

  I gently pushed his fingers away and yanked at the belt, then the zipper. Nick’s warm fingers didn’t hesitate for a minute. They dove inside my briefs and freed my swollen cock from its confinement.

  At the touch of his fingers, I nearly came.

  Slowly, Nick got to his knees, sliding his warm hands down my bare chest, and I leaned back on the wall, but refrained from closing my eyes.

  No. I wanted to see.

  His mouth steamed my skin. His velvet tongue glided along my erection—his desire obscene and raw.

  There is no excuse on his tongue. There is no apology in Nick’s sexuality.

  As his ardor heightened and his lips raced along my erection, I became aware of every nerve under my skin—every breath moving my chest.

  Every bloody minute I have ever wasted.

  Our eyes met.

  A surge of pleasure burned my loins, and I tried to pull away, afraid to soil his perfect lips, but his fingers dug into my ass to bind me to his mouth, and I touched his face as I came, letting the nirvana chill thunder through me, until it had left me limp. Spent of everything.

  I leaned back, trying to steady my legs, and I caught the thing, Escoffier, watching me. “Your dog.”

  Nick rose, running his tongue along his swollen lips. “Don’t worry about him. He likes you. Come here.”

  I fell into his hands.

  Nick smiled. “Let me see those wicked green eyes.” I looked up and playfully batted my eyelashes. His gaze clouded over, and he bent to me, cupping his fingers around my face. Again, his lips only grazed mine, but I would not be teased any longer. I drove my hands into his hair, and pulled him in. “Kiss me, Nick. And don’t stop.”

  I needed everything. His tongue, fingers, cock inside me.

  We tumbled to the mattress that serves as his bed, and as pants and underwear flew about, I gasped for a breath, but never could tear my mouth from his.

  “Wait.” He pulled away from me, and I watched him fumble through a small box. “Rubber.” His voice was thick with lust.

  I traced my fingers along the small of his back, my eyes roaming over his naked body. There is no sense in trying to be good, hoping to find myself back in God’s grace, when Nick’s skin makes heaven seem like a flooded trailer park.

  “Got it.” He ripped at the package with his teeth and dropped it in my hand.

  I carefully eased the condom out, and with trembling fingers, rolled it down the most perfect cock I have seen. It is smaller than I had imagined, and a bit crooked, but if I could stare at it all day, I would.

  His mouth found mine again, and as our tongues tangled and tasted each other, his fingers crawled around my inner thigh. “Can I?” he asked softly, gliding his index down my ass cheek.

  “Yes.”

  His finger hurried a little, as if I could change my mind. “Can I?”

  “Yes, Nick,” I moaned.

  I had never heard myself saying yes this much.

  Without a word, nor a whisper, Nick made love to me. He fucked me slow and deep until we had both exhausted our bodies, and for purely mechanical reasons, had to release the other’s limbs.

  We lay quietly for a long time, waiting for our hearts to slow and our bodies to recover.

  Nick turned to me and smiled. “Sleep?”

  I thought of Nathan. I had left a note on the kitchen counter, letting him know I might be spending the night with Aunt Fran, but that I would call.

  I glanced over at my pants, debating on that phone call.

  “No?” asked Nick, peering into my eyes.

  I nodded. “Yes. Sleep.”

  “Come closer.”

  I cradled myself against his smooth chest, with my cheek against his rune, and listened to the sound of his heart.

  “Good night,” he whispered.

  The dog jumped up on the mattress, making a nest of blankets at my feet.

  “Good night.”

  I closed my eyes, listening to the two of them breathe in sync.

  *

  This morning, Nick was gone.

  I haven’t heard from him since then.

  But really, Bump, did you think I would?

  Chapter Eight

  Nathan has asked me to give him an answer before the end of the month.

  I could give it to him now, and I should, but I cannot make myself care enough. I have no desire for confrontation; as a matter of fact, I have no desire for anything but Nick’s skin.

  I stumble through my days, with barely enough concentration to find a matching pair of socks.

  Nick hasn’t called.

  And Aunt Fran is leaving me.

  I was in that dreaded hospital room this morning, watching Aunt Fran challenge time with every painful breath.

  “Call Nicolas,” she insisted from under the oxygen mask. “Don’t let the cloak of insecurity fall over his eyes.”

  Her sickness has blown poetry into my life. Her every word opens a closing door.

  “I don’t want to pu-push him,” I argued weakly.

  “Call him. Call Nicolas.”

  Aunt Fran can’t understand. It doesn’t work that way.

  Right?

  “Don’t go to Milan.” Her eyes scorched my face. “I don’t—” She paused, struggling to suck in one salvaging breath.

  I cringed, clutching the bed’s metal post. “Aunt Frannie, don’t talk, please.”

  She rolled her head on the pillow, and her gaze shrouded with fever and urgency. “Listen,” she shot under a shallow breath. “Listen to me.”

  When I was a boy, I believed in the notion of restorative karma. Do good, and you shall be rewarded. After all, what is love but a warm look, a comforting touch, a word of praise? All those things Aunt Frannie has bestowed upon me when no one would? Francine St-Jacques has walked a line few people have. She has had gusto. Courage. Her straightforwardness has laid a foundation inside me,
something solid I have been able to fall back on through the lonely, confusing years.

  Many times, we have disagreed, but never about the important things.

  In a world full of wannabes, posers, and fast-talking happiness pushers, Aunt Fran has been the only real deal.

  I can’t let her go.

  I don’t want to.

  I’m not ready. I need more time. There’s so many things I still need to learn from her.

  And so many more I would like to teach her sometimes cynical heart.

  “I’m so proud of you, Derek.”

  Why? What have I done but sink in my own troubled waters?

  “Do you remember the man…” Her voice was barely a whisper, but she pressed on. “The man at the Dragon Hair counter, that day?”

  I remembered.

  The taste of sugar and oil filled my mouth, and I could almost smell the roasted peanuts.

  “You are the sorcerer, my love.” Aunt Fran held her fingers out, and I cupped them, letting the moment drown my mind in sorrow.

  “You’ve remained unscathed, untouched by the ugly.” She closed her eyes. “You’ve blessed my life, Derek O’Reilly. I wish you could have been my son.”

  A sob curled at the edge of my lips, but I shook my head, fighting it back, afraid I would collapse and steal this powerful, lucid instant from her. “Aunt Frannie—” But I could not speak.

  “I won’t leave you, Derek.” Her eyes blazed. “I’ll watch over you. You and Nicolas.”

  I fell on her hollowed belly, letting her fingers comb my hair. “Don’t, Aunt Frannie. Don’t go-go.”

  Her hand caressed my neck, and I heard the disease, that treacherous bastard of a disease, howling inside her chest.

  “I’m so-so alone, Aunt Frannie. So alone.”

  “No.” Her hand paused.

  I lifted my blurry gaze to meet hers.

  She tried to smile through her own tears. “No, honey. You’re not alone. No. No. You never were. You have Nicolas. You hear me?” She closed her eyes. “You have Nicolas.”

  They believe she might make it through the weekend.

  I’ll be with her when it comes.

  That murderous thief.

  *

  Nick and I were together again.

  Yesterday.