Studs: Gay Erotic Fiction (18 page)

Sweet boy: he knows I like to see him struggle. He obliges me, grunting and writhing at my feet. He takes a short break, panting around the ball, breathing heavily through his nose, then starts fighting again, the muscles in his bare shoulders and arms straining with the effort. I watch in silence, and the windows fill with lavender twilight.

After a good ten minutes, Sam’s armpits are musky-moist—damn, he smells good, like spices and forest loam. His chin, chest, belly, and crotch are wet with sweat and drool, and both his cock and mine are thick in our jeans. Exhausted, he surrenders, hangs limply in his bonds. I reach over, place my hand over his hairy chest, and feel the racing of his heart.

Time for his reward. I pat him on the head, kiss him on his sweat-streaked brow, and then gently unbuckle the gag and pull it out.

“Thanks!” Sam whispers. I wait while he works the stiffness out of his jaw. Tipping the tumbler of Bushmills to his lips, I let him take a sip. Sam slurps greedily at the liquid gold, and a little spills over, joining the saliva in his chest hair. I wipe up the whiskey with a forefinger, run my finger around a nipple, then push my finger into Sam’s mouth. He sucks on it for a second, then I pull his head back by his hair and press my mouth to his.

Sam groans and opens his mouth to me. This time our kiss is untrammeled. Tongue to tongue, beard to beard. It goes on for a while, the kind of passion I thought I could no longer feel or find. Pretty soon my face is smeared with his saliva, and we’re both grinning and nibbling mustaches and lips. Every now and then I take a sip more Bushmills, give him another nip, and then we’re off again, filling one another, probing mouths scented with whiskey. What bliss he brings me. In this word-world, what bliss I bring him.

We’re both a little buzzed. The snow has thickened considerably during our tongue-fest, lining the limbs of the maple outside the kitchen window. Time to get dinner on, or we’ll never eat. I swig the last of the whiskey, hold it in my mouth, then kiss Sam a final time, pushing the liquor between his lips. He sips the burning from my tongue, swallows hard, and closes his eyes.

I reach for the gag on the kitchen table and am about to buckle it back in when he opens his eyes and says, “Wait. Wait, please.”

“Yep?” I kiss his shoulder, the gag hanging from my hand.

“Why am I here?” He opens his eyes and looks up at me, yearning, confused, as if he’s just forgotten something momentous.

“Because I’m imagining this.” Between his goatee and his sideburns, a few days’ worth of beard-stubble darkens his cheeks, and I brush it softly with the back of my hand.

Sam licks his lips. He kisses my hand, then turns his head and stares out into the snow. “Go on,” he says quietly.

“Because this is the only way I can have you. Because, if I had the power of a god, this is what I would most want, out of all the world’s erotic permutations and possibilities. Because you’re my Muse.”

Sam nods. “I understand.” He gazes out into the snow a moment longer, then looks at me solemnly and says, “Please, would you gag me again?”

Tenderly I push the ball against his lips. He smiles—wistful, I think is the word for that expression—and opens his mouth, takes the black ball between his teeth. As I buckle it behind his head, Sam mumbles “Thank you.” I sit there beside him in the dark for a while. Sam leans his head against my knee, and we listen to the wind come up, splintering the snow-silence that’s prevailed until now, thundering the tin roof, lashing the windowpanes with snow.

We’re both Southern boys, country boys—Louisiana, Virginia—that’s part of the attraction. So I know without asking—delicious how he’s in no position to speak, delicious the muffled replies he’d manage if I did ask—what kind of meal he’d relish on a cold night like tonight. I like to cook for my roped-up boy. First, some music: I slide
A Celtic Tale
into the CD player. Then a little more whiskey. What a combination of the perverse and the domestic: a drink in hand, a handsome, goateed slave, snow making parlous the roads, and a big down-home meal of barbequed ribs, cole slaw, kale, and cornbread. Hell, I’m the architect of my own paradise.

You’re missing a fine time if you haven’t been in Sam’s boots, if you haven’t been tied up and cooked for by a man like me. The sauce I simmered yesterday, the greens I cleaned this morning, and pretty soon the ribs are in the oven, the slaw’s shredded, and the kale is simmering with fatback. I sit at the kitchen table by a reading lamp and read a little of
Seven Viking Romances
. Every now and then I pull the gag out long enough to give Sam another sip of whiskey. Every now and then I run my fingers through the hair on his chest, flicking and tugging his nipples till they harden and the front of his jeans swells, till he closes his eyes, throws back his head, nods with pleasure, and groans gratitude into his gag. The furnace cuts on with increasing regularity—I have the heat up so Sam will be comfortable shirtless—which tells me the temperature’s continuing to drop. Tonight, Sam and I will have one another, flannel sheets, and my great-aunt’s homemade quilts to keep us warm.

We’re both really drunk now, and my intoxication is quadrupled by his bare torso, his handsome face, the smell of his armpits, his quiet submission. This fiction is what I’ve been waiting for, an excuse to have Sam, not a substitute, not a surrogate. And this is the miracle this little story allows: he’s both willing and eager. He’s not some distant, famous Nashville star who doesn’t know I exist. This, I think, rolling one nipple between thumb and forefinger till Sam groans, must be the sweet comfort the full-fledged psychopath enjoys. What good is the present state of virtual-reality technology if it can’t give me this, a weekend snowed in with Sam?

Every fantasy is a monologue, and since Sam and I are both happy with him gagged, it’s a monologue he gets now, as I sit here, lights off again, a few candles lit, wind hammering the house and tossing the line of pines against the horizon back of the house. Sam leans his head against my thigh, I stroke his chest and his brow, I talk and he listens.

I tell him about attending his Charleston concert last fall, standing in that packed civic center with thousands of sex-crazed women, young and old, whose screaming shenanigans made my passion for him seem moderate in contrast. I saw him pull off his sweat-drenched shirt after the last song, when he was halfway down the corridor leading backstage. I watched his smooth, broad, bare shoulders receding into the distance and disappear around the corner and I wanted so badly to follow him, to make love to him in whatever Kanawha Valley hotel he was staying in that night.

I tell him about “The Quality of Mercy,” the novella I wrote last spring, in which my protagonist, an obsessed ex-convict named Sean, fictionalized version of Jeff, kidnaps West Virginia country singer Tim, fictionalized version of Sam.

I tell him about the little Sam-shrine I have in my office: the baseball cap with his name stitched into it, the little ceramic tile with that hot picture that graced the cover of his last CD. Sam in black cowboy hat, black coat, black shirt open to his solar plexus, revealing the meaty curve of his left pec matted with dark hair, a maddening glimpse of nipple if you look closely enough.

I point out the photos of him stuck to my refrigerator, tell him about the Sam calendar on the wall by my bed, where he and I will be sleeping together later. In my closet, there are T-shirts with his name on them, “Sam-wear” I bought at the online fan store. There’s a black cowboy hat a lot like his that I wear with my drover when the weather warms up. Sometimes I see it on the table in the front hall and can pretend that Sam just took it off, that he’s around the house somewhere, that we live together, that he’s my lover. There’s a Sam sticker on the rear window of my pickup truck. And, of course, I own all his CDs and even play some of his songs on the piano and guitar.

I get a little worked up, explaining my ardor. “Nothing better than driving mountain roads in my pickup, listening to your CDs! The way you say
cain’t
and
thang
, just like me, makes me feel at home. Some of those songs, hell, I get so excited I start letting loose with Rebel Yell yee-haws of delight! Your voice, it’s like you’re there, you know? Like we’re travel buddies. I listen to your music and look at your photos, and think, Shit, this is crazy, his voice is right here with me, so why cain’t his body be? Why cain’t I touch his body the way his voice touches me?! Y’know?!”

Sam sits through this mumbled worship, grinning moistly around his gag, occasionally rolling his eyes but clearly impressed with, flattered by, my fanaticism. I can tell by the serenity in his gaze that he realizes that I’m no threat. He’s no more in danger than a god in the presence of his priest. What this confession, these relics, indicate is not insanity but passion. I’m in love. I’m just like all those hysterical women in the Charleston Civic Center last October, dreaming of a passionate, deeper, more fulfilling life, craving what they can never have, longing for what they find most beautiful. It’s the common lot of humanity. Some of us are just more honest than others about what we want. Some of us are just more enamored of the inaccessible and the perverse.

The timer goes off; the ribs are done. I pull them out to cool, mix up cornbread batter and pour it into a heated cast-iron skillet, and in half an hour we’re ready to eat. More music, the soundtrack to
Rob Roy
. Don’t want to embarrass Sam by playing his CDs all evening, and besides, we both have Irish blood, so I figure we’re predisposed to like Celtic music. The wind’s still rattling the roof, and now there’s the weary scrape of a snowplow on the road down the hill. I like the sound. It emphasizes the cozy isolation Sam and I share.

Great advantage to being a bondage top in fiction: no awkward fumbling with knots, no tying and untying. Simple shift of a paragraph, and now Sam’s bound in an entirely different manner. (What is good kink but working some variety into the demandingly tight constrictions of fetish?) He’s sitting beside me on a kitchen chair, within arm’s reach so I can feed him easier. He’s barefoot now, still shirtless, in a pair of black jeans with ragged rips in the knees and thighs, revealing the brown hair on his legs. His wrists are crossed behind his back and knotted together. There’s a good bit of cotton rope wrapped around his torso, securing his arms to his sides, cinching his elbows together. The white cords make his chest-pelt look even thicker and darker, his pecs even meatier. The gag’s different too: his mouth’s bisected by a thick bit—nothing much prettier than the juxtaposition of that goatee, the tender bow of those full lips, and that rubber rod between his teeth.

Around the kitchen I light more candles. I reach over, gently tug the slave chain around his neck. “Time to eat,” I say, unbuckling the bit.

I feed Sam with my fingers, just as my protagonist did the man he kidnapped, in the novella my yearnings for Sam inspired. Good to be doing it myself, rather than through a fictional persona. He’s as hungry as I am, eagerly taking from my fingers the rich bits of barbequed country-style ribs and buttered cornbread. I lift spoonfuls of kale to his lips, he slurps the pot liquor. We’re drinking Bud Light, his favorite beer, and, as much of a beer snob as I am, I have to admit that the clean taste works well with spicy barbeque sauce.

“Damn, this is good,” he sighs. “Kinda food I grew up on. Fighting your ropes really worked up my appetite. Gimme another swig of that beer.”

It’s a messy meal, and soon I’ve got a barbeque stain on my white T-shirt. At Sam’s request, I shuck it off. Now we’re both bare-chested in this warm space, grinning drunkenly, happy to be together, while the blizzard rattles the window-panes and the silhouettes of trees waver in and out of white. When Sam gets sauce on his furry chin, I laugh and lick it off. When my mustache gets buttery, he leans forward grinning—“C’mere”—and licks me clean.

“Pretty awkward,” Sam says at one point, as he angles his head to tug meat off a bone I proffer him.

“You want me to untie you?”

“Hell, no!” He flexes his chest and arms in their web of rope. “This feels great. Keep me this way as long as you want.”

“You really are my creature,” I say, tugging the meat off for him and slipping it in his open mouth. Pygmalion must have felt like this.

“Guess so!” Sam laughs. “Jeff, dribble a little of that honey on my cornbread, okay? And how ’bout a shot of hot sauce on those greens?”

We’re too busy eating to talk much, and by the time we’re done, it’s late. There’s a pile of cleaned bones on our plates, half the cornbread is gone, we’re belching softly, and I’ve unbuckled both his belt and mine. The snow shows no sign of slowing.

I lift Sam to his feet, wipe his mouth with a paper towel, and wrap my arms around him. His bare chest against mine is warm, moist, and soft with hair. We’re just about the same height, and I rest my chin on his shoulder, clasp his roped wrists between my fingers. “So, if such an idyll were real, if you and I together could ever come to be, what do you think we’d talk about?”

He grins. “Hell, you’re the author. You tell me!”

“Country living, country music?”

“Yeah.”

“Fathers. How they hurt.”

“Yeah…”

“Pickup trucks, motorcycles…”

“Yeah!”

“What would we do together? Maybe drink some beer, eat some chips and dip, watch some football?”

“Sounding good!”

“I could play the guitar while you sang?”

“Yep, whatever you want. That’d be fun.”

“Hmmm, guess I don’t know you well enough to put convincing words in your mouth,” I say, unzipping his jeans and tugging them to his ankles. “Think I’ll skip the dialogue and fill my mouth instead.”

His nipples are soft and hard at once, anointed with leftover sauce. Tonight, in this snowstorm, in this sentence, at last I lick them, softly at first, then, at his urging, harder. He’s made to like it rough. I take his pecs in my hands and massage their meatiness hard, just this side of being brutal. I suck his areolas, bite the very tips of his nipples till he’s groaning, wincing, hissing with pain and with rapture. I range a little, my beard-fur mingling with the wet hairiness between his tits, with the crest of fur along his belly, then I’m back to his nipples, brushing them with my cheek-stubble, lapping and teeth-tugging them raw, like some hungry god taking his turn at a bowl of ambrosia.