Page 14 of Torn
THE B&Bwas alive with light and laughter. In the common room, what the Egyptian and his British lover called the lounge, there was a large group gathered, most of whom, I was sure, weren’t staying there.
I peered into the room from the front door, Walt looking over my shoulder. A cloud of smoke rolled toward us, like a blue-gray fog, and it was a potent mixture of tobacco and cannabis.
Someone was playing an accordion fitfully. I heard a snatch of that old Big Band standard, “Mairzy Doats,” which stopped as suddenly as it began. There was weak applause and much laughter. Then the accordionist started in on “Days of Wine and Roses.” Lord!
Mostly men occupied the room, of all shapes, sizes, ages, and races. But there were a few women too—an exotic looking Asian woman sat off to herself in a corner, wrapped in a large blue satin pashmina, smoking a pipe. Hashish? I wondered. Next to her a voluptuous redhead, her hair a mass of tight-knit curls, her eyes big and brown, was reading, seemingly undisturbed by the raucous laughter and loud conversation. The book open on her lap was Henry Miller’sTropic of Capricorn. Something she read caused her to throw back her head and emit an earsplitting shriek of laughter. At least I think it was laughter.
Had no one here ever heard of “inside voices”?
And I clutched and squeezed Walt’s hand, still in mine, the sweat from both of us gluing us together, when I saw, with great relief, Boutros come in from the kitchen. He had a pint of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The Egyptian was close by, following like a dark shadow—or a puppy. Boutros was ignoring him but pointedly so.
I smiled and turned to Walt. “We’re in the clear. Let’s get upstairs while the room is still empty. I don’t know how long it’ll stay that way.”
We were up the stairs practically without our feet touching the treads.
I unlocked the door, let Walt precede me, then followed him in. I shut the door behind me, smiling and a little breathless. The door was heavy and the sounds of the party downstairs were almost completely obliterated.
I eyed Walt and burst into laughter. Not because this was funny—although it did have its humorous side—but because, after so much worry that this could not possibly happen tonight, it finally was.
He pressed against me, flattening me against the door with his body. A surge like electricity—blue and white—coursed through me. I visualized sparks. My dick, never less than half-mast, flared into full-on iron bar erection. In books, they’re always talking about someone’s heart skipping a beat, and I don’t think mine did, but it sure as hell sped up. So did my pulse. Beads of sweat broke out simultaneously on my forehead and at the base of my spine. The slow crawl of one down my back tickled.
Our mouths locked together. Our crotches ground. Someone was moaning, and I wasn’t sure if it was me, Walt, or the both of us. I went weak in the knees. Was an onset of the vapors far behind?
We continued this behavior for several more minutes, stoking the fire so much I was certain that with one more movement on Walt’s part, no matter how simple, I would explode, filling my pants with premature DNA.
Out of self-preservation, I pushed him roughly away.
He stumbled back and regarded me, panting. His lips looked bruised. His face was red, both from desire and the sandpaper of my several-day-old beard. His eyes, I swear, were alive with light, flashing. He looked like a bull, ready to charge. My fuck-or-flee instinct was aroused.
I breathed heavily for a moment, getting that heart rate and pulse more in check, waiting for the spasms in my dick to die down. I was nearly at the point of spurting like a volcano.
“Just wait,” I begged. “Give me one minute. Just. One. Minute.”
“Okay, but that’s it. One.”
I watched him move back toward the bed. He plopped down on it, pulled off his shoes, and flung them into opposite corners. He yanked down his pants and boxers all at once. His uncut dick sprang up, proud, and slapped against his flat belly. In a flash, he pulled his shirt gracefully over his head.
He sat naked before me, legs spread, eyes pleading, dick twitching—a Colt fantasy come to life.
It was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. And that’s saying a lot, because I was no stranger to seeing many, many men similarly presented.
I wanted him with a passion that went beyond words, exceeded reason, existed on a plane far above mere lust.
I felt dizzy.
But not dizzy enough to repress my pounce instinct.
I shed my clothes in a blur and came to him. Our lips joined together once more, while our hands, like independent beasts, began roaming over the other’s body, pausing to tweak, fondle, caress.
Our movements in the brightly-lit room could have been choreographed. The touching, grasping, kissing, and sucking went on for what seemed, paradoxically, like a very short time and for what seemed like forever. At least I didn’t want it to ever stop! But there was a sense that we’d always been in this moment. Surreal and hyperreal, all at the same time.
And then Walt had me at the edge of the bed. He stood between my legs, his dick rising up between them. My own dick twitched above my belly. A line of precome pooled in my navel.
Walt reached down to grab a drop of it with his fingertip and then put it to his lips. “Sweet.” He swallowed. “Now please tell me you have condoms.”
I smiled. “And lube. In the nightstand drawer. Hurry.”
He found the supplies we’d need, donned the condom quickly, and positioned himself between my legs. He looked down at me and frowned. Not the reaction I was hoping for.
