Nick held the burden of his weight with his
legs and moved his ass up and down. The cock slid in and out
of it with ease; its rigidity, coupled with thirty minutes of
ass-play, assured easy penetration. Nick was grateful they assumed
this position. Facing the man’s feet, all he would have
to do was bounce. There would be no need to present an orgiastic
façade. He was free to roll his eyes, yawn, or stare,
as he was, at Stephen Walker’s Table for One.
The print hung on the wall opposite the bed
and presents a deceptively simple scene of a man seated at a
table for two. The man is positioned with his back to the viewer
and faces a wraithlike doppelganger, who is fractionally and
transparently represented from the torso up. The play of color
and chiaroscuro is ironic. The presence of light illuminates
one side of the fully bodied man, who is rendered in grayscale,
and the presence of shadow predominates the wraith, who is rendered
in flesh tones. The division of light implies one is the negative
of the other, and the spectral double suggests the projection
of a dream lover or the residue of a lost one. The print moved
Nick in ways he could not express, and he deliberately positioned
it so it would be the first thing he saw in the morning and
the last thing at night.
Unable to articulate the caption that hung
on the tip of his tongue, Nick dropped his eyes to his semi-flaccid
cock. Something was wrong; he was too distracted to come. He
looked over his shoulder at the man beneath him. Seeing his
face, Nick remembered how attractive the man was and thought
him even more attractive wearing the pained sexual expression
he wore now. The pained look told Nick he was tired. They had
been fucking for nearly three hours, and Nick hoped he would
not object to a break: “Is it okay if we crash for now
and finish this later?”
With one more upward thrust, which was held
for several seconds, the man responded: “Sure. I’m
pretty beat.”
Pulling himself free, Nick sat on the edge
of the bed as the man slid between the sheets and said more
to himself than to Nick: “It’ll be a monster cum—with
all this build up.”
“Yeah,” replied Nick as he studied
the man. A change in breathing told him the man was already
asleep. Tracing his profile, Nick found him increasingly attractive
as the innocence of sleep suffused his countenance. Nick thought:
I’ll have to ask for his name.
Walking quietly to the bathroom, Nick gently
closed the door and waited until it was fully closed before
turning the light on. He opened the faucet as he glimpsed himself
in the mirrored cabinet over the sink. Returning his own gaze,
Nick spat, and the spray of saliva splattered over his reflection.
“I see you everywhere but here,”
he mumbled.
Flattening his palm against the mirror, he
pressed with increasing pressure until the mirror cracked. Pressing
harder, the crack spread as glimmering shards rained into the
basin and swirled down the drain. He pressed at the mirror until
a line of blood streamed out from beneath his palm and ran down
the mirror.
He turned his hand and examined the cut. A
dagger like shard pierced his skin deep enough to cause bleeding
but not enough to keep him bleeding. Watching the blood drip,
his heart pounded as he pulled the piece of glass free and sliced
his wrist open. Blood oozed instantly and formed into beads
before falling and swirling the drain water with a murky rose
color.
Nick raised his eyes to the mirror. It reflected
his face in a gross caricature of panic, like a funhouse mirror.
He refused to acknowledge what he recognized in the kaleidoscope
of mirror, saliva, and blood. Instead, he retreated behind his
eyelids:
I see you in every pair of eyes and lips,
in every hand and foot, and in every set of fingers and toes.
I see you in every curve of every pec, every hip, every asshole,
every set of balls, every cock, and I feel you in every alley,
rest room, rest area, backroom, and bed. Monday—I pressed
my lips to his, but I was pressing them to yours, and when
I sucked his tongue into my mouth and massaged it with my
own, it was your tongue I was sucking, and when I tasted his
salty lips, it was you I was tasting. Tuesday—I pushed
his cock to the back of my throat until I gagged and pushed
my lips over his shaft until they touched his bush, but it
was you I was choking on; it was you I was sucking. Wednesday—I
shoved my cock between his lips, grabbed his hair, and fucked
his mouth. Unable to swallow, he drooled as I shoved my head
to the back of his throat, but as I gripped his hair, it was
your hair I was holding—it was you drooling over my
shaft. Thursday—I buried my face in his ass and probed
with my tongue. I flicked his hole open, but it was your asshole
I was opening, and as I explored him, it was you I was seeking.
Friday—I sat on his face, and as his tongue pushed into
me, I rode it until I burned, but as I laced his chest with
cum, it was your chest I was lacing. Saturday—I grabbed
him by the knees and folded him in half, and as his ass rose
before me, I plunged my cock into him, but it was you I was
entering, and as his satiny flesh wrapped over my cock, it
was you I was fucking. Tonight—
A shattering sounded as the mirror fell from
its frame. Opening his eyes, Nick found the basin water was
now a dark red. Within seconds, there was a knock followed by
a concerned voice at the door: “Is everything all right?”
Relieved the man did not open the door, Nick
eliminated further threat by managing a quick and calm response:
“Yes, I’m fine. I just broke the mirror. I’ll
be right out.”
“Okay. Don’t take too long.”
Nick knew what that meant; the trick was ready
for his monster cum. He plunged his hand beneath the running
water. It burned at his wrist like an acid, and the burning
forced him to withdraw his hand. Fishing through the vanity,
he retrieved a tube of quick glue, gauze, and an ankle wrap.
Sealing the slit as best he could with the glue, he wrapped
it tightly with the gauze and wrap. Turning off the running
water, he surveyed the scene and assured himself it looked like
an accident—nothing more. He evidenced this interpretation
by pulling a can of shaving cream from the medicine cabinet
and laying it amidst the fallen shards of mirror. He thought,
if asked, he would simply say he was not paying attention while
returning the can to the medicine cabinet and failed to realize
the cabinet door was closed.
By the time Nick crawled onto the bed, the
man was already hard. He assumed his previous position and centered
his asshole over the erect cock, which prompted an upward thrust,
and as the cock entered him, his senses calibrated to something
less than panic, and he no longer wanted to die. He fixed his
eyes on the print and rotated his hips as he wrote its caption: Every naked body reminds me of you.