Page 41 of Torn
“Well, maybe the first time tonight, eh?” I nudged him.
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
We started down the street. I briefly thought Mr. Tom Green was a very experienced boy and, even though I was kidding about being the first guy he was bringing home from the bar tonight, I realized that I could have been one of sort of a long line. He was a ten-minute walk away.
So much for keeping my dick clean and free of infection!
But, my oh my, I thought as I leaned back to take a look at his bubble butt, the worn denim clinging to it as it rose and fell, this is totally worth whatever risk I’m about to take.
I pointed to his cigarette. “Can you spare one of those?”
He slid one out and gave it to me. We walked to his place on Cornelia wordlessly, two men sharing, I was pretty sure, the same thoughts.
TOM’S APARTMENTwas a tiny studio—one big room with a bed shoved up against the south wall, a kitchenette opposite with a tiny table and two chairs, and finally, a big TV and VCR on a stand on the other wall. A doorway led into what I assumed was the bathroom. The floors were parquet and scuffed. There were two windows that, if I figured right, faced out to the courtyard of the yellow-brick apartment building we were in. But any views were blocked by the vinyl mini blinds Tom had in place.
He excused himself to go into the bathroom with a pointed glance. “Need to clean up, okay?”
I nodded and plopped down on his bed to check out the tiny apartment. I’d bet it wasn’t more than five hundred square feet.
There were a couple of posters on the wall—the usual Herb Ritts man-candy stuff in black and white. Dishes and glasses were heaped neatly into a drainer by the sink. The walls were beige.
The place was kind of soulless, and I felt a little sad for Tom in between the currents of lust coursing through me. The apartment looked like no one had lived here and everyone had lived here. These in-need-of-paint walls had seen many a lonely gay man, I thought, throughout the years. I knew gay because we were in Boystown, with close proximity to all the gay bars. I knew men because the girls tended to congregate farther north, up on Broadway and even farther up in the Andersonville ’hood.
I noticed there were no books, and that was a little disappointing. Maybe even surpassing my love of men was my love of books. I’d read all my life—and truly was nevernotreading a book. In my many, many moves around the city to various apartments, the biggest burden was always the heavy load of boxes and boxes of books. Mysteries, thrillers, true-crime, horror, biographies—from classics to utter trash, I was as indiscriminate and insatiable about books as I was about men.
The fact that the only reading material in the place was an old copy ofEntertainment Weeklyon the kitchen counter didn’t bode well for this encounter going much further than a one-nighter.
And that was okay. I wasn’t coming here for tea and biscuits and a nice chat about the latest Nora Roberts. We were here to fuck, and Mr. Green’s reading habits really couldn’t get in the way of that.
But a future? Even a date? Well, who knew?
I smelled the acrid burn of a lit match. Tom flushed.
I struggled out of my clothes in record time and lay back fetchingly on the bed, my erection pointing at the cheap cut-glass light fixture on the popcorn ceiling.
It was showtime.
WHEN WEwere done, we lay in each other’s arms atop sheets drenched in sweat. Our bodies were slick as otters. The room reeked of perspiration and come.
I marveled, “It’s a wonder we’re not husks.”
Tom snuggled into my neck. “What do you mean?”
“Dried out, not an ounce of water left in us.” I ran my forefinger along my chest. I held it up for Tom to see. A single drop dangled from my fingertip.
He lifted his head to lick it off. “Salty,” he said.
We’d spent the past two hours fucking. Those poppers had come in handy because we went through three rounds. It was all me as top, but I hoped to one day turn the tables, or as they said in the sex ads, “flip fuck.” I wasn’t confident it would ever happen. I don’t think I’d ever been with a man who loved bottoming as much as Tom.
My dick inside him seemed to take him to a place outside himself. His eyes glazed over. His toes curled. His mouth hung partially open in a kind of ecstatic joy (seriously… I’m not saying I wasthatgood, just that he loved being penetrated so much). His cries, moans, whispers, and exhortations were out of the realm of mere language. What he was experiencing, I think, could never be expressed in words. Words were too meager, too crude.
He shot every time, onto his belly or onto the sheets, depending on position, without ever touching himself.
After we were done, he went into the bathroom and came back with a warm, damp towel to clean me up. There was a kind of adoration in his eyes as he stroked my belly and thighs with the towel, and a flicker of a smile playing across his features, rarely breaking contact with my eyes. Maybe the adoration I saw in his expression was my own emotion reflected back at me.
And now here we lay, a little breathless, a lot damp, sated. I haven’t made any secret out of the fact that, back then, I got around. If I showed everything that had been stuck into me, I would have looked like a goddamn porcupine!
Tonight, there was something different. I felt safe here in this tiny studio apartment. I felt warm snuggled next to this big, furry man whose eyes reminded me of dark gems. Usually, after the roller coast of lust and sex were over, I wanted to go home. I seldom even liked to stay with a one-night stand for the whole night. After the climax, or climaxes as in this case, the first place my attention went was to locate my clothes on the floor, followed quickly by thoughts of how to get the hell out. “I have to get up early” usually sufficed.
