Nyte Flyte
Excerpt from a novel in progress
After dinner, Leonard took care of the cleanup while Dylan took the dog outside for a quick run. He was gone less than ten minutes, but as he padded back through the door, barefoot as usual and tracking wet footprints across the floor, Leonard caught him by the waist and pulled him close. He smelled like leaves and rain, wet fur and wood smoke. When their lips met, Leonard tasted apples.
“You couldn’t just stand on the porch and let the damned dog run, could you?” he growled into Dylan’s ear. “You just had to run around in the rain with him. Get out of that wet shit before you get pneumonia. Sometimes you’re worse than a goddamned kid….”
Dylan shut him up with another apple-scented kiss. He considered the big man gravely. “Yeah, it sucks to be away from you, too,” he said, then his thoughtful expression gave way to a slow smile. “God, we’ve got it bad, don’t we?” He peeled off his shirt and jeans, which were saturated from the knees down.
“What’d you do, go wading in the river?” Leonard grumbled, taking the wet clothing from him and spreading it near the stove. “It’ll be a miracle if these dry by morning.”
“Next time I’ll just go out there naked. Would that make you happier?”
“Next time the damned dog can go by himself. You can get naked, though. Naked is good. I like naked.” Leonard caught him up again, this time lifting him off his feet and spinning him round. The cabin rang with the hard, bright sound of their laughter, and Whiskers scurried in circles around their legs, yapping. Then Dylan’s laughter softened, and his arms tightened around Leonard’s neck, pulling him down until 2-day-old beard bristled against 3-day-old beard, and their mouths met and locked.
Leonard lost himself for a while in the hungry press of lips, thinking this is a man, I’m kissing a man, and it’s the most natural thing I’ve ever done and the best feeling I’ve ever had and I don’t want it to stop, not now and not ever. He slipped a finger into the waistband of Dylan’s briefs and lightly stroked the skin over his hipbone, raising goosebumps there. When he ran his hands over his partner’s chilly flesh, feeling more bumps rise on his arms and sides, Dylan shivered a little, and Leonard shivered in sympathy. The flickering lantern light had turned Dylan’s eyes the color of November sky. As Leonard stared down into them, all he could think of was how good it would be to warm them, how happy he would be if he could just drive the cold from Dylan’s life forever.
They tumbled into bed together, shedding Dylan’s briefs and Leonard’s clothes along the way. Leonard ordered Dylan to lie face down and gave him a massage, vigorously rubbing his arms and back and sides to drive the last of the chill away, then slowing down to really work the muscles in his back and shoulders. When Dylan lay limp and completely relaxed in his hands, Leonard’s touch lightened to a caress. He followed the progression of his hands across his partner’s body with his mouth, nipping Dylan between the shoulder blades, then tickling the bite marks with the tip of his tongue. He worked his way down Dylan’s back, alternating licks with kisses, gentle nips with harder bites, smiling to himself as his partner jumped and twitched, hissing and sighing beneath him.
He paused at the base of Dylan’s spine, admiring the pale rise of his buttocks, their smoothness and their symmetry. Elegant, Leonard thought, not for the first time. The way Dylan was put together was just so fucking elegant. He stoked one white cheek, marveling at the contrast of dark skin touching light, calloused palm brushing this unexpected softness. Who could have guessed how good it felt to discover these soft, secret places on a man’s body, a body most people would think of in terms of angles and lines, muscle and bone? The muscle was there, firm and stationary and well defined, giving the neat, compact body substance and form. As for the bone, it was more prominent than usual, Leonard realized with a pang. Dylan didn’t have much to lose to begin with, and his three-day fast had taken a toll on his meager fat reserves. But it was the softness of his skin that touched something deep inside Leonard and hurt him as well, made his chest ache and his eyes sting.
He couldn’t keep his hands off that elegant ass, squeezing and stroking, at once protective and possessive. When he felt Dylan tense, his touch turned lighter, more tender. He rubbed his face back and forth across his partner’s hips and between his thighs, coaxing them apart with the gentle pressure of his cheeks and chin. He licked the back of Dylan’s scrotum, circling each testicle with the tip of his tongue, then turned his attention to that smooth white ass once again, stroking, stroking. But when his fingers slipped into the divide between those two pale cheeks, Dylan clenched and knocked his hand away, scooting across the mattress to put as much distance as possible between them.
“Don’t do that,” Dylan said. “Don’t you ever do that.”
For a few stunned seconds, Leonard just sat there, feeling like an idiot. Then he scrambled after him, tried to pull him close but met resistance. “I just wanted to touch you. You felt so good to me. I wasn’t going to….”
“I know,” Dylan said wearily. He shook his head as if to clear it, then repeated the words with more conviction. “You just took me by surprise. I guess I don’t deal so well with anything that goes on…you know. Back there. My father….”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything else. I know what he did to you.”
“No, you don’t. Not really.” Dylan studied Leonard’s face intently, then closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I can show you, if you want.”
“Dylan, you don’t have to….”
“S’okay. It’s not fair to you, not letting you know what you’re dealing with. Here, give me your hand.” Dylan stretched out on his belly, his face averted, and pressed Leonard’s index finger deep into the gap between his hips. “There,“ he said. “Do you feel that?” At first, Leonard wasn’t sure what it was he was supposed to be feeling. Then he realized his fingertip was tracing a thin ridge of raised tissue, about an inch and a half long, then another and another. Shocked and sickened, Leonard spread his partner’s cheeks and stared down at the scars, jagged and pale and barely visible in the dim and flickering light, radiating outward from Dylan’s anus. “Oh my god,” he said, swallowing back the urge to vomit. “He ripped you to pieces.”
“Yeah, pretty much.” Dylan turned to face Leonard, his expression wary. “So.”
Leonard looked away, his eyes streaming. “But he couldn’t do this with just…him. He had to use….”
“Anything he could get his hands on. Stuff from his tool belt, bourbon bottles, his fist, a hunting knife, the barrel of a shotgun once or twice. He liked to put out his cigarettes there, too, and sometimes on my balls. Once in a while, he’d have a couple of friends over, and they’d….”
Leonard covered the smaller man’s body with his own, pressed his wet face against Dylan’s dry one. “Don’t,” Dylan said, wiping the tears away. “It tears me up inside to see you cry.”
“I’m just so sorry,” Leonard said. “I’m sorry all this happened to you. I’m sorry I didn’t kill him when I had the chance. If I’d only known….”
“You are such a fucking mystery to me. How in the hell can you stand to touch me now? Doesn’t it make your skin crawl? It’s me, Len. There’s something wrong with me, something defective inside that people like my father pick up on. It wasn’t just him. Maybe I could live with it if what he did was the end of the story. But it’s a pattern. My so-called good buddy from high school, people I knew when I was on the streets, a couple of guys from the academy, even. All my life, people have been grabbing at me, wanting a piece of me. When I won’t give it, they try to take it. Shit, they don’t even want me to give it. Taking it and making me hate it, that’s the whole point. I’m so fucking sick of fighting them off, Len. Until you came along, no one ever tried to touch me for anything except to hurt. What’s wrong with me? What’s so goddamned unlovable about me?”
“You know how I feel about you. You’ve always known. You said so yourself.”
“I know it, I just can’t make any sense out of it.”
“You don’t believe it, that’s the problem. What can I do to make you believe?”
Dylan thought for a long hard moment. “Make me clean,” he said at last. “If it doesn’t make you sick to touch me, make me clean. I feel so fucking filthy sometimes….”
“Now?” Leonard asked, incredulous. You want to do this now?”
“Never mind,” Dylan said, pushing the big man off of him and sitting up. “Believe me, I can understand if you‘re not up to it. Why would you be? Why would any decent person be, considering….”
“Oh, I’m up to it. With you, I doubt if I could ever not be up to it. It‘s you I‘m worried about.” Leonard caught Dylan’s chin in his hand and studied his face, looking past the guarded expression to find a raw, agonized longing that matched and possibly even surpassed his own. Knowing Dylan wanted him as much as he wanted Dylan brought back the surge of excitement he’d felt earlier. Fear was holding Dylan back, of course. Fear of pain and fear of rejection, mixed with simple lack of experience. Responding to the silent plea in his partner’s eyes, Leonard conceded the point. If they were going to dance at all, it was up to him to take the lead.
“I know what you’re asking me to do,” he said, “and that’s not going to happen tonight. You’re not ready and I’m not ready. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere without protection and without anything to make it more comfortable for you. When that happens, if that happens, it’ll be when we’re better prepared and both wanting it so bad we can taste it. I’m not about to risk hurting you just to prove a point. I can’t make you clean, white boy. You’re not dirty. I think you’ll figure that out eventually, once you get used to being with somebody and being safe. Meanwhile, I think there’s plenty we can do to make each other feel good if we just chill out and don’t force any issues. Whadda ya say?”
“Set the pace, Baryshnikov. I’ll try to keep up as best I can.”
Leonard answered the shaky joke with a laugh, but it was a nervous one. He had no delusions about being classified as an virtuoso in the bedroom. The scant feedback he’d received from his limited array of sexual partners, though tinged with kindness, had been depressingly unanimous; he was a nice enough guy who tried hard but was no great shakes between the sheets. Over time, he’d come to see himself as a well-meaning oaf with his too-big body and oversized, clumsy hands, his good intensions and constant need of reassurance. But he couldn’t be an oaf with Dylan, wouldn’t let himself be, because he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the boy couldn’t tolerate it, wouldn’t be able to handle rough or ham-fisted treatment of any kind. So, for perhaps the first time in his life, he let himself be guided by his head and his heart instead of his hard-on.
Slowly and deliberately, he touched every part of Dylan’s body that he could reach, alternately exploring and caressing with an almost painful tenderness. Wildly aroused himself, he forced himself to block out his own needs and to listen -- really listen -- to the signals Dylan’s body gave him. So much easier to read, the clues a man’s body provided. Who would have thought, after 25 years of marriage, that this barely charted territory could feel a thousand times more welcoming than his wife’s ever had?
Christina’s body had always seemed an alien landscape, a pleasant vacation spot that frequently drew him in for a visit but where he always knew himself to be a tourist, inept and bumbling, with a faulty sense of direction and a serious need of a translator. But Dylan’s body was another matter. Touching Dylan was like touching himself. When he brushed his fingers across Dylan’s belly he felt a light tickle on his own, when he gently bit a dark pink nipple he felt a resonant pinch on his own brown one. With each touch he felt some of the residual fear in Dylan dissipate, with each embrace he felt the younger man relax a little more in his arms.
Gradually, Dylan began to explore Leonard’s body as well, at once shyly and eagerly and with an endearing awkwardness that made the big man so crazy with love and desire he would have lost control if he’d allowed himself to. But those gray eyes kept him grounded, those eyes that constantly sought his own for approval and encouragement, those eyes that were no longer guarded, but filled instead with love and trust and an almost childlike innocence that reminded Leonard just how young Dylan really was. That anyone so damaged and abused could still seem so fucking innocent….
When Dylan tried to take him into his mouth, Leonard stopped him and eased him down against the covers. “Not tonight, white boy. This one’s about you, not me.“ He touched or tasted every inch of Dylan’s torso, noticing for the first time how the sparse stand of hair on his chest and belly was a shade lighter than that on his scalp and groin, soft and brown and curling. Leonard trailed his fingertips in it, making a leisurely progression from collarbone to pelvic bone, then began working his way back up again. He lingered over Dylan’s stomach, paying special attention to the scars there, still red and painful looking after all that time, tracing the keloid tissue first with his fingers and then with his tongue. When he felt Dylan stiffen, he wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed his face into the younger man’s belly, nuzzling deeply.
“Don’t,” Dylan protested weakly, trying to cover the scars with his hand. “It’s ugly. So much of me is ugly.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Leonard said quietly, setting the hand aside. He nuzzled deeper still, then worked his way down once more, temporarily bypassing Dylan’s cock to lap the soft, crepe paper skin of his testicles, tasting their salt tang and smelling their spicy musk, finally drawing first one ball into his mouth and sucking gently, then releasing it and turning his attention to the other. He heard Dylan gasp in surprise, felt his fingers clutch at his hair.
It seemed to Leonard that he could feel the younger man’s need throbbing like a physical ache between them. A series of tremors passed over Dylan’s body. Carefully, Leonard withdrew and waited for the tremors to pass. Then he drew Dylan’s cock into his mouth and felt the younger man lurch beneath him. “I’ve got to see you,” Dylan pleaded, his voice strained, distorted. “Please, let me see you.”
Shifting positions so they could lie face-to-face, Leonard captured Dylan’s cock between his thighs, nearly losing what little self-control he had left as the younger man rocked against him, his swollen organ brushing Leonard’s genitals with each stroke. Moments later, Dylan reached a prolonged, shuddering climax, and Leonard toppled over the edge with him, cradling him close as they shook and strained together, each of them crying out over and over until they were both emptied, spent.
Once again, Dylan wept. Leonard felt a momentary jolt, remembering his earlier anxiety attack. Then he recognized the difference, saw that this time his partner’s reaction had nothing to with panic and everything to do with relief and release. Relieved himself, Leonard cuddled him closer, murmuring rough endearments until Dylan lay calm against him. He wondered if it would always be this way for Dylan, if sex was such a highly charged issue for him that his long-suppressed emotions would always require this type of release. Disconcerting, but he decided he could deal with it, if that’s what his partner needed. He was beginning to suspect he could deal with damned near anything if it was what Dylan needed.
Several minutes passed before they forced themselves to move, straightening the mangled covers and wiping themselves clean with a spare blanket before settling in for the night. Leonard was far too limp for pillow talk, but there was something unfamiliar, something distinctly “un-Dylan-like” about the depth of his partner’s silence. Concerned, he nudged him.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just wondering if you’re okay.”
Dylan lifted the warm weight of his head from where it had been pillowed on Leonard’s chest and briefly regarded him with eyes already glazed with sleep. “I’m better than okay,” he said, yawning. “I’m better than I’ve been in a helluva long time. You know, I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think I just might be happy.”
“You couldn’t just stand on the porch and let the damned dog run, could you?” he growled into Dylan’s ear. “You just had to run around in the rain with him. Get out of that wet shit before you get pneumonia. Sometimes you’re worse than a goddamned kid….”
Dylan shut him up with another apple-scented kiss. He considered the big man gravely. “Yeah, it sucks to be away from you, too,” he said, then his thoughtful expression gave way to a slow smile. “God, we’ve got it bad, don’t we?” He peeled off his shirt and jeans, which were saturated from the knees down.
“What’d you do, go wading in the river?” Leonard grumbled, taking the wet clothing from him and spreading it near the stove. “It’ll be a miracle if these dry by morning.”
“Next time I’ll just go out there naked. Would that make you happier?”
“Next time the damned dog can go by himself. You can get naked, though. Naked is good. I like naked.” Leonard caught him up again, this time lifting him off his feet and spinning him round. The cabin rang with the hard, bright sound of their laughter, and Whiskers scurried in circles around their legs, yapping. Then Dylan’s laughter softened, and his arms tightened around Leonard’s neck, pulling him down until 2-day-old beard bristled against 3-day-old beard, and their mouths met and locked.
Leonard lost himself for a while in the hungry press of lips, thinking this is a man, I’m kissing a man, and it’s the most natural thing I’ve ever done and the best feeling I’ve ever had and I don’t want it to stop, not now and not ever. He slipped a finger into the waistband of Dylan’s briefs and lightly stroked the skin over his hipbone, raising goosebumps there. When he ran his hands over his partner’s chilly flesh, feeling more bumps rise on his arms and sides, Dylan shivered a little, and Leonard shivered in sympathy. The flickering lantern light had turned Dylan’s eyes the color of November sky. As Leonard stared down into them, all he could think of was how good it would be to warm them, how happy he would be if he could just drive the cold from Dylan’s life forever.
They tumbled into bed together, shedding Dylan’s briefs and Leonard’s clothes along the way. Leonard ordered Dylan to lie face down and gave him a massage, vigorously rubbing his arms and back and sides to drive the last of the chill away, then slowing down to really work the muscles in his back and shoulders. When Dylan lay limp and completely relaxed in his hands, Leonard’s touch lightened to a caress. He followed the progression of his hands across his partner’s body with his mouth, nipping Dylan between the shoulder blades, then tickling the bite marks with the tip of his tongue. He worked his way down Dylan’s back, alternating licks with kisses, gentle nips with harder bites, smiling to himself as his partner jumped and twitched, hissing and sighing beneath him.
He paused at the base of Dylan’s spine, admiring the pale rise of his buttocks, their smoothness and their symmetry. Elegant, Leonard thought, not for the first time. The way Dylan was put together was just so fucking elegant. He stoked one white cheek, marveling at the contrast of dark skin touching light, calloused palm brushing this unexpected softness. Who could have guessed how good it felt to discover these soft, secret places on a man’s body, a body most people would think of in terms of angles and lines, muscle and bone? The muscle was there, firm and stationary and well defined, giving the neat, compact body substance and form. As for the bone, it was more prominent than usual, Leonard realized with a pang. Dylan didn’t have much to lose to begin with, and his three-day fast had taken a toll on his meager fat reserves. But it was the softness of his skin that touched something deep inside Leonard and hurt him as well, made his chest ache and his eyes sting.
He couldn’t keep his hands off that elegant ass, squeezing and stroking, at once protective and possessive. When he felt Dylan tense, his touch turned lighter, more tender. He rubbed his face back and forth across his partner’s hips and between his thighs, coaxing them apart with the gentle pressure of his cheeks and chin. He licked the back of Dylan’s scrotum, circling each testicle with the tip of his tongue, then turned his attention to that smooth white ass once again, stroking, stroking. But when his fingers slipped into the divide between those two pale cheeks, Dylan clenched and knocked his hand away, scooting across the mattress to put as much distance as possible between them.
“Don’t do that,” Dylan said. “Don’t you ever do that.”
For a few stunned seconds, Leonard just sat there, feeling like an idiot. Then he scrambled after him, tried to pull him close but met resistance. “I just wanted to touch you. You felt so good to me. I wasn’t going to….”
“I know,” Dylan said wearily. He shook his head as if to clear it, then repeated the words with more conviction. “You just took me by surprise. I guess I don’t deal so well with anything that goes on…you know. Back there. My father….”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything else. I know what he did to you.”
“No, you don’t. Not really.” Dylan studied Leonard’s face intently, then closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I can show you, if you want.”
“Dylan, you don’t have to….”
“S’okay. It’s not fair to you, not letting you know what you’re dealing with. Here, give me your hand.” Dylan stretched out on his belly, his face averted, and pressed Leonard’s index finger deep into the gap between his hips. “There,“ he said. “Do you feel that?” At first, Leonard wasn’t sure what it was he was supposed to be feeling. Then he realized his fingertip was tracing a thin ridge of raised tissue, about an inch and a half long, then another and another. Shocked and sickened, Leonard spread his partner’s cheeks and stared down at the scars, jagged and pale and barely visible in the dim and flickering light, radiating outward from Dylan’s anus. “Oh my god,” he said, swallowing back the urge to vomit. “He ripped you to pieces.”
“Yeah, pretty much.” Dylan turned to face Leonard, his expression wary. “So.”
Leonard looked away, his eyes streaming. “But he couldn’t do this with just…him. He had to use….”
“Anything he could get his hands on. Stuff from his tool belt, bourbon bottles, his fist, a hunting knife, the barrel of a shotgun once or twice. He liked to put out his cigarettes there, too, and sometimes on my balls. Once in a while, he’d have a couple of friends over, and they’d….”
Leonard covered the smaller man’s body with his own, pressed his wet face against Dylan’s dry one. “Don’t,” Dylan said, wiping the tears away. “It tears me up inside to see you cry.”
“I’m just so sorry,” Leonard said. “I’m sorry all this happened to you. I’m sorry I didn’t kill him when I had the chance. If I’d only known….”
“You are such a fucking mystery to me. How in the hell can you stand to touch me now? Doesn’t it make your skin crawl? It’s me, Len. There’s something wrong with me, something defective inside that people like my father pick up on. It wasn’t just him. Maybe I could live with it if what he did was the end of the story. But it’s a pattern. My so-called good buddy from high school, people I knew when I was on the streets, a couple of guys from the academy, even. All my life, people have been grabbing at me, wanting a piece of me. When I won’t give it, they try to take it. Shit, they don’t even want me to give it. Taking it and making me hate it, that’s the whole point. I’m so fucking sick of fighting them off, Len. Until you came along, no one ever tried to touch me for anything except to hurt. What’s wrong with me? What’s so goddamned unlovable about me?”
“You know how I feel about you. You’ve always known. You said so yourself.”
“I know it, I just can’t make any sense out of it.”
“You don’t believe it, that’s the problem. What can I do to make you believe?”
Dylan thought for a long hard moment. “Make me clean,” he said at last. “If it doesn’t make you sick to touch me, make me clean. I feel so fucking filthy sometimes….”
“Now?” Leonard asked, incredulous. You want to do this now?”
“Never mind,” Dylan said, pushing the big man off of him and sitting up. “Believe me, I can understand if you‘re not up to it. Why would you be? Why would any decent person be, considering….”
“Oh, I’m up to it. With you, I doubt if I could ever not be up to it. It‘s you I‘m worried about.” Leonard caught Dylan’s chin in his hand and studied his face, looking past the guarded expression to find a raw, agonized longing that matched and possibly even surpassed his own. Knowing Dylan wanted him as much as he wanted Dylan brought back the surge of excitement he’d felt earlier. Fear was holding Dylan back, of course. Fear of pain and fear of rejection, mixed with simple lack of experience. Responding to the silent plea in his partner’s eyes, Leonard conceded the point. If they were going to dance at all, it was up to him to take the lead.
“I know what you’re asking me to do,” he said, “and that’s not going to happen tonight. You’re not ready and I’m not ready. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere without protection and without anything to make it more comfortable for you. When that happens, if that happens, it’ll be when we’re better prepared and both wanting it so bad we can taste it. I’m not about to risk hurting you just to prove a point. I can’t make you clean, white boy. You’re not dirty. I think you’ll figure that out eventually, once you get used to being with somebody and being safe. Meanwhile, I think there’s plenty we can do to make each other feel good if we just chill out and don’t force any issues. Whadda ya say?”
“Set the pace, Baryshnikov. I’ll try to keep up as best I can.”
Leonard answered the shaky joke with a laugh, but it was a nervous one. He had no delusions about being classified as an virtuoso in the bedroom. The scant feedback he’d received from his limited array of sexual partners, though tinged with kindness, had been depressingly unanimous; he was a nice enough guy who tried hard but was no great shakes between the sheets. Over time, he’d come to see himself as a well-meaning oaf with his too-big body and oversized, clumsy hands, his good intensions and constant need of reassurance. But he couldn’t be an oaf with Dylan, wouldn’t let himself be, because he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the boy couldn’t tolerate it, wouldn’t be able to handle rough or ham-fisted treatment of any kind. So, for perhaps the first time in his life, he let himself be guided by his head and his heart instead of his hard-on.
Slowly and deliberately, he touched every part of Dylan’s body that he could reach, alternately exploring and caressing with an almost painful tenderness. Wildly aroused himself, he forced himself to block out his own needs and to listen -- really listen -- to the signals Dylan’s body gave him. So much easier to read, the clues a man’s body provided. Who would have thought, after 25 years of marriage, that this barely charted territory could feel a thousand times more welcoming than his wife’s ever had?
Christina’s body had always seemed an alien landscape, a pleasant vacation spot that frequently drew him in for a visit but where he always knew himself to be a tourist, inept and bumbling, with a faulty sense of direction and a serious need of a translator. But Dylan’s body was another matter. Touching Dylan was like touching himself. When he brushed his fingers across Dylan’s belly he felt a light tickle on his own, when he gently bit a dark pink nipple he felt a resonant pinch on his own brown one. With each touch he felt some of the residual fear in Dylan dissipate, with each embrace he felt the younger man relax a little more in his arms.
Gradually, Dylan began to explore Leonard’s body as well, at once shyly and eagerly and with an endearing awkwardness that made the big man so crazy with love and desire he would have lost control if he’d allowed himself to. But those gray eyes kept him grounded, those eyes that constantly sought his own for approval and encouragement, those eyes that were no longer guarded, but filled instead with love and trust and an almost childlike innocence that reminded Leonard just how young Dylan really was. That anyone so damaged and abused could still seem so fucking innocent….
When Dylan tried to take him into his mouth, Leonard stopped him and eased him down against the covers. “Not tonight, white boy. This one’s about you, not me.“ He touched or tasted every inch of Dylan’s torso, noticing for the first time how the sparse stand of hair on his chest and belly was a shade lighter than that on his scalp and groin, soft and brown and curling. Leonard trailed his fingertips in it, making a leisurely progression from collarbone to pelvic bone, then began working his way back up again. He lingered over Dylan’s stomach, paying special attention to the scars there, still red and painful looking after all that time, tracing the keloid tissue first with his fingers and then with his tongue. When he felt Dylan stiffen, he wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed his face into the younger man’s belly, nuzzling deeply.
“Don’t,” Dylan protested weakly, trying to cover the scars with his hand. “It’s ugly. So much of me is ugly.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Leonard said quietly, setting the hand aside. He nuzzled deeper still, then worked his way down once more, temporarily bypassing Dylan’s cock to lap the soft, crepe paper skin of his testicles, tasting their salt tang and smelling their spicy musk, finally drawing first one ball into his mouth and sucking gently, then releasing it and turning his attention to the other. He heard Dylan gasp in surprise, felt his fingers clutch at his hair.
It seemed to Leonard that he could feel the younger man’s need throbbing like a physical ache between them. A series of tremors passed over Dylan’s body. Carefully, Leonard withdrew and waited for the tremors to pass. Then he drew Dylan’s cock into his mouth and felt the younger man lurch beneath him. “I’ve got to see you,” Dylan pleaded, his voice strained, distorted. “Please, let me see you.”
Shifting positions so they could lie face-to-face, Leonard captured Dylan’s cock between his thighs, nearly losing what little self-control he had left as the younger man rocked against him, his swollen organ brushing Leonard’s genitals with each stroke. Moments later, Dylan reached a prolonged, shuddering climax, and Leonard toppled over the edge with him, cradling him close as they shook and strained together, each of them crying out over and over until they were both emptied, spent.
Once again, Dylan wept. Leonard felt a momentary jolt, remembering his earlier anxiety attack. Then he recognized the difference, saw that this time his partner’s reaction had nothing to with panic and everything to do with relief and release. Relieved himself, Leonard cuddled him closer, murmuring rough endearments until Dylan lay calm against him. He wondered if it would always be this way for Dylan, if sex was such a highly charged issue for him that his long-suppressed emotions would always require this type of release. Disconcerting, but he decided he could deal with it, if that’s what his partner needed. He was beginning to suspect he could deal with damned near anything if it was what Dylan needed.
Several minutes passed before they forced themselves to move, straightening the mangled covers and wiping themselves clean with a spare blanket before settling in for the night. Leonard was far too limp for pillow talk, but there was something unfamiliar, something distinctly “un-Dylan-like” about the depth of his partner’s silence. Concerned, he nudged him.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just wondering if you’re okay.”
Dylan lifted the warm weight of his head from where it had been pillowed on Leonard’s chest and briefly regarded him with eyes already glazed with sleep. “I’m better than okay,” he said, yawning. “I’m better than I’ve been in a helluva long time. You know, I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think I just might be happy.”
Short Story -- "Time Flies"
A/N: This story was written in the early '90s and is definitely a product of its time. It was originally published in Freezer Burn magazine, and later in ECCO.
My boot heels drum the pitted blue linoleum of the Allyson Street Clinic, ticking off the passing seconds. Feeling my ass cheeks beginning to go numb, I squirm and stretch in the orange plastic nightmare of a chair I’ve been consigned to for the past hour. I cross my legs, uncross them, cross them once again. I’m not looking for a comfortable position anymore, just a bearable one.
I run hand through my hair and over my beard, wipe my forehead and the back of my neck. Frowning at the greasy dampness on my fingertips, I scrub them against my thigh, leaving dark blue splotches on my stone-washed jeans. Damn, it’s hot in here, and so crowded you can barely inhale without cracking a rib against somebody’s elbow. I want to come out of this jacket, but I’m wedged in tight between two sagging old men. Every time I move, I jiggle some of their spillover flesh, bringing me into unwilling contact with people I don’t know, don’t want to know.
I check my watch, wondering if the receptionist is ever going to call my name. She hasn’t said a word since I signed in, hasn’t moved from behind the frosted glass partition separating her desk from the rest of the room. Nothing ever seems to move in this place, not even the other patients. A good two dozen people are jammed here waiting for their names to be called, and they’re all doing a better job of it than I am. But they’re all old -- old women and old men waiting for flu shots or to get their cholesterol checked, all sitting here with the same unblinking, impenetrable patience, all obviously with much more time on their hands than me.
The morning drizzle seems to seep through the tired cinderblock walls, adding a whiff of mildew to the musky stew of shoe leather and umbrellas and damp fabric. The air’s thick, stagnant, weighed down with stale breath, stale skin, stales clothes, stale lives. I start to light up just to improve the smell of the place, but as soon as I fish out my Camels, the guy on my right clears his throat with a big harrragh like he’s trying to dislodge a wad of phlegm the size of a golf ball and shoots me a Meaningful Look. I slip the cigarettes back into my pocket and try not to think.
The door opens with a series of thumps, its bottom edge hanging on the warped flooring. The clammy November wind blows in a round blond woman with a gaggle of kids who wriggle free of her before the door rattles shut. They swarm around a wobbling, toddler-size table, fighting over a set of Busy Beads. The youngest dumps out a cigar box of crayons and scoops them into a pile, snatching up the stragglers as they clatter and roll. Ignoring his mother’s command to draw on one of the nice coloring books instead, he begins to scribble furiously on the table top. He draws big red circles and big purple ones, interlocking them so they look like the Olympic insignia. When he notices me watching, he grins and I quickly look away, glancing at my watch again. A quarter past ten, and my appointment was for 9:15. I’m ten minutes ahead of the clock above the receptionist’s desk, but that’s nothing new. Damned thing always runs fast. I pull out the watch stem and bring the slim red hands in sync with the fat black ones on the clock. My fingers tap dance on the scarred gold case. What in the hell can be taking so long?
“I have a Mickey Mouse watch.” The kid’s standing in front of me now, clutching a fat red crayon. “Is your watch a Mickey Mouse watch?”
I dredge up what I hope will pass for an indulgent smile and shake my head, rotating my wrist to give him a better view. My stomach rumbles and I rub it, wishing I could put some food in it and maybe founder the swarm of butterflies flittering around my insides.
“Your watch looks really old! I got mine for Christmas, and it has a red band and everything. Maybe you should get a Mickey Mouse watch, too.”
I take a quick peek at his mother, half hoping she’ll holler at him for talking to strangers and order him into a chair. But she’s turned toward her other three, watching wordlessly as they rip out coloring book pages and wad them into balls, tossing them at the ceiling and each other.
Not ready to give it up, the kid tugs my coat sleeve. “Did you get your watch for Christmas when you were a little boy?”
“No, it belonged to a friend, somebody who…somebody I don’t get to see anymore.” An image of Paul pops into my head, catching me with my defenses down. Paul toward the last with skin like white tissue paper mottled with purple and his hand so dry and weightless against my palm. I close my eyes and count to ten, willing the waterfall swelling behind my lids to evaporate.
The kid grabs my sleeve again and yanks for all he’s worth. “I’m Jakey Lee Browne and I’m five years old. I’m going to get a shot so I can go to school, but I don’t want to go to school. Do you go to school?”
“I go to college part-time. Does that count?”
He nods emphatically. “Are you going to get a shot, too?”
“ No,” I tell him, forcing the words past dry tongue, dry lips. “I took a test last week, and I came to see the results.”
“Mandy flunked her spelling test yesterday, and Daddy’s gonna bust her butt good if it happens again. I don’t want to take a spelling test, do you?”
I shrug and check the time. My empty stomach flutters and gurgles, teetering on the edge of a cramp. This can’t be right. No way in hell can this be right. My eyes fly to the clock, and I almost double over as the cramp takes hold, knocking air from my lungs as it damned near rips me in two. Fucking watch. Damned fucking watch. I know it runs fast. It always runs fast. But to gain almost ninety minutes in this short a stretch is crazy. It’s impossible. It’s….
“I don’t want to take a math test, either,” the kid jabbers on, oblivious. “I don’t want to take any kind of test. I want to stay home and watch Power Rangers.” He slows down long enough to nibble the end of his crayon, peeling away strips of red paper with his teeth. With a furtive glance at his mother, he moves closer, wedging himself between me and the old fart who wouldn’t let me smoke. “I have a penis,” he informs me in a loud whisper, “but Mandy doesn’t. I want to show her mine, but Daddy won’t let me. He says people with penises oughtta never show theirs to people without penises.”
The cramp lets up just enough for me to cough out a weak laugh. “I never do,” I say without thinking.
“JACOB BROWNE!” A coloring book cracks across the tabletop. “You get your butt over here right now!” The crayon hits the floor and Jakey scurries to his mother’s side, wiggling his fingers in a secret goodbye as she hauls him onto her lap. He’s not watching me anymore, but she sure as hell is, broadcasting her righteous indignation loud and clear from across the room. I’m treated to a concerto of rustlings and chair squeaks as everyone in the place turns on me, their dead eyes coming to life as they add their voiceless condemnation to hers.
Feeling my cheeks ignite, I look down at my watch again, and what I see sends me out of my chair, gulping back a sudden surge of bile. The second hand’s gone nuts, spinning wildly out of control, seeping away minutes in what should have been seconds, minutes that should have been mine to touch and savor. And the hour hand -- the hour hand announces a leap in time so huge and implausible I can’t take it in at first, while a frantic sweep of the clock tells me the last thing I want to hear, that I’m making the leap alone.
Of course these dull-faced strangers are content to plod through the morning here, barely moving through time as time barely moves for them. Of course they can afford to be patient. They have all the time in the world stretching before them, while my future is shrinking fast.
I barrel for the door, cold fingers fumbling with the watchband as it slides off my wrist. The receptionist scuttles out of her crystal cave and catches my arm, telling me that Doctor wants to speak with me, that she knows I’ve had a long wait, that if I’ll just hang on a little while longer, all my questions will be answered. Hang on a while longer? That’s almost funny. I shake my head, tuning her out. I can’t believe I’ve killed so much time here, waiting for answers I’ve already guessed. If the watch is right, if I am hurtling toward that inevitable dead end of nonexistence, I sure as hell don’t want to spend the last leg of my journey here.
I feel Jakey jerking on my sleeve again, his rapid-fire chatter mingling with the receptionist’s please for more time. Strange how that’s all either of them seems to want from me, when it’s the last thing in the world I have to give. The watch slips from my fingers, slaps against the worn-out floor. Then I pull away, shattering it beneath my boot heel as a walk out the door.
I run hand through my hair and over my beard, wipe my forehead and the back of my neck. Frowning at the greasy dampness on my fingertips, I scrub them against my thigh, leaving dark blue splotches on my stone-washed jeans. Damn, it’s hot in here, and so crowded you can barely inhale without cracking a rib against somebody’s elbow. I want to come out of this jacket, but I’m wedged in tight between two sagging old men. Every time I move, I jiggle some of their spillover flesh, bringing me into unwilling contact with people I don’t know, don’t want to know.
I check my watch, wondering if the receptionist is ever going to call my name. She hasn’t said a word since I signed in, hasn’t moved from behind the frosted glass partition separating her desk from the rest of the room. Nothing ever seems to move in this place, not even the other patients. A good two dozen people are jammed here waiting for their names to be called, and they’re all doing a better job of it than I am. But they’re all old -- old women and old men waiting for flu shots or to get their cholesterol checked, all sitting here with the same unblinking, impenetrable patience, all obviously with much more time on their hands than me.
The morning drizzle seems to seep through the tired cinderblock walls, adding a whiff of mildew to the musky stew of shoe leather and umbrellas and damp fabric. The air’s thick, stagnant, weighed down with stale breath, stale skin, stales clothes, stale lives. I start to light up just to improve the smell of the place, but as soon as I fish out my Camels, the guy on my right clears his throat with a big harrragh like he’s trying to dislodge a wad of phlegm the size of a golf ball and shoots me a Meaningful Look. I slip the cigarettes back into my pocket and try not to think.
The door opens with a series of thumps, its bottom edge hanging on the warped flooring. The clammy November wind blows in a round blond woman with a gaggle of kids who wriggle free of her before the door rattles shut. They swarm around a wobbling, toddler-size table, fighting over a set of Busy Beads. The youngest dumps out a cigar box of crayons and scoops them into a pile, snatching up the stragglers as they clatter and roll. Ignoring his mother’s command to draw on one of the nice coloring books instead, he begins to scribble furiously on the table top. He draws big red circles and big purple ones, interlocking them so they look like the Olympic insignia. When he notices me watching, he grins and I quickly look away, glancing at my watch again. A quarter past ten, and my appointment was for 9:15. I’m ten minutes ahead of the clock above the receptionist’s desk, but that’s nothing new. Damned thing always runs fast. I pull out the watch stem and bring the slim red hands in sync with the fat black ones on the clock. My fingers tap dance on the scarred gold case. What in the hell can be taking so long?
“I have a Mickey Mouse watch.” The kid’s standing in front of me now, clutching a fat red crayon. “Is your watch a Mickey Mouse watch?”
I dredge up what I hope will pass for an indulgent smile and shake my head, rotating my wrist to give him a better view. My stomach rumbles and I rub it, wishing I could put some food in it and maybe founder the swarm of butterflies flittering around my insides.
“Your watch looks really old! I got mine for Christmas, and it has a red band and everything. Maybe you should get a Mickey Mouse watch, too.”
I take a quick peek at his mother, half hoping she’ll holler at him for talking to strangers and order him into a chair. But she’s turned toward her other three, watching wordlessly as they rip out coloring book pages and wad them into balls, tossing them at the ceiling and each other.
Not ready to give it up, the kid tugs my coat sleeve. “Did you get your watch for Christmas when you were a little boy?”
“No, it belonged to a friend, somebody who…somebody I don’t get to see anymore.” An image of Paul pops into my head, catching me with my defenses down. Paul toward the last with skin like white tissue paper mottled with purple and his hand so dry and weightless against my palm. I close my eyes and count to ten, willing the waterfall swelling behind my lids to evaporate.
The kid grabs my sleeve again and yanks for all he’s worth. “I’m Jakey Lee Browne and I’m five years old. I’m going to get a shot so I can go to school, but I don’t want to go to school. Do you go to school?”
“I go to college part-time. Does that count?”
He nods emphatically. “Are you going to get a shot, too?”
“ No,” I tell him, forcing the words past dry tongue, dry lips. “I took a test last week, and I came to see the results.”
“Mandy flunked her spelling test yesterday, and Daddy’s gonna bust her butt good if it happens again. I don’t want to take a spelling test, do you?”
I shrug and check the time. My empty stomach flutters and gurgles, teetering on the edge of a cramp. This can’t be right. No way in hell can this be right. My eyes fly to the clock, and I almost double over as the cramp takes hold, knocking air from my lungs as it damned near rips me in two. Fucking watch. Damned fucking watch. I know it runs fast. It always runs fast. But to gain almost ninety minutes in this short a stretch is crazy. It’s impossible. It’s….
“I don’t want to take a math test, either,” the kid jabbers on, oblivious. “I don’t want to take any kind of test. I want to stay home and watch Power Rangers.” He slows down long enough to nibble the end of his crayon, peeling away strips of red paper with his teeth. With a furtive glance at his mother, he moves closer, wedging himself between me and the old fart who wouldn’t let me smoke. “I have a penis,” he informs me in a loud whisper, “but Mandy doesn’t. I want to show her mine, but Daddy won’t let me. He says people with penises oughtta never show theirs to people without penises.”
The cramp lets up just enough for me to cough out a weak laugh. “I never do,” I say without thinking.
“JACOB BROWNE!” A coloring book cracks across the tabletop. “You get your butt over here right now!” The crayon hits the floor and Jakey scurries to his mother’s side, wiggling his fingers in a secret goodbye as she hauls him onto her lap. He’s not watching me anymore, but she sure as hell is, broadcasting her righteous indignation loud and clear from across the room. I’m treated to a concerto of rustlings and chair squeaks as everyone in the place turns on me, their dead eyes coming to life as they add their voiceless condemnation to hers.
Feeling my cheeks ignite, I look down at my watch again, and what I see sends me out of my chair, gulping back a sudden surge of bile. The second hand’s gone nuts, spinning wildly out of control, seeping away minutes in what should have been seconds, minutes that should have been mine to touch and savor. And the hour hand -- the hour hand announces a leap in time so huge and implausible I can’t take it in at first, while a frantic sweep of the clock tells me the last thing I want to hear, that I’m making the leap alone.
Of course these dull-faced strangers are content to plod through the morning here, barely moving through time as time barely moves for them. Of course they can afford to be patient. They have all the time in the world stretching before them, while my future is shrinking fast.
I barrel for the door, cold fingers fumbling with the watchband as it slides off my wrist. The receptionist scuttles out of her crystal cave and catches my arm, telling me that Doctor wants to speak with me, that she knows I’ve had a long wait, that if I’ll just hang on a little while longer, all my questions will be answered. Hang on a while longer? That’s almost funny. I shake my head, tuning her out. I can’t believe I’ve killed so much time here, waiting for answers I’ve already guessed. If the watch is right, if I am hurtling toward that inevitable dead end of nonexistence, I sure as hell don’t want to spend the last leg of my journey here.
I feel Jakey jerking on my sleeve again, his rapid-fire chatter mingling with the receptionist’s please for more time. Strange how that’s all either of them seems to want from me, when it’s the last thing in the world I have to give. The watch slips from my fingers, slaps against the worn-out floor. Then I pull away, shattering it beneath my boot heel as a walk out the door.
