The
Snow Squall
The waiting room was quiet, but Nicolau’s
mind was not. He sat by himself oblivious to the room’s
other two inhabitants, two elderly ladies, who sat silently
paging through old magazines. The room was small enough to feel
personal, but the wall of windows opening onto the street made
the room feel more like a fishbowl than a waiting room. This
created a very public feel that seemed out of sync with the
private nature of the space.
Nicolau steadied his hand as he realized it
had been visibly shaking, causing his fingers to tap audibly
against the chair’s armrest. No one else noticed, or if
they did, in keeping with the protocols of a space like this,
they ignored it. Just as Nicolau would have ignored them if
he had the presence of mind to be aware of them, but they undoubtedly
were aware of him. He stood out. Something about him contrasted
oddly with the pale colored walls, the community health posters,
and the bleached blonde wood rack stuffed with safe sex, addiction
intervention, and woman’s health pamphlets. His being
seated in a chair reconciled his presence to the room, but something
in the manner of his dress, demeanor, youthful face, and hair
cut placed him at a remove from it. This contrast was not lost
on the receptionist who turned her head to her computer but
focused her eyes on Nicolau from the little window in the wall
separating the office from the waiting room.
The door separating the two spaces opened,
and a nurse held the door open with her foot as she read the
name off a chart in her hand: “Maria Camara?”
One of the two women stood in response, and
if Nicolau had not been so distracted, he would have noticed
the familiarity of the babushka and the similarity of the old
woman’s headdress and posture to his great aunt, but Nicolau
did not have time for nostalgia and was most concerned with
the here and now.
A gust of wind slammed against the windows
and audibly strained the glass. Everyone in the room turned
to find white out conditions now obliterated the view of the
street.
“As coisas sao mudadas agora.”
Maria uttered before disappearing behind the open door.
Catching the word “changed,” Nicolau
stared into the sudden swirls of snow and remembered how one
moment six months ago led to this moment.
Nicolau pushed his lips over the man’s
cock, and enjoyed it more than usual, for this trick had a trophy
cock. It was long and thick without being monstrously so and
was colored with warm flesh tones. Defying the slightest flaccidity,
the foreskin was pulled tautly like a condom over the rigidity
of the shaft as it rose with unbroken symmetry. Skillfully cut,
the symmetry continued over the circular scar of circumcision,
which introduced a finger wide band of thickened skin that encircled
the shaft. This supple purple hued skin led unyieldingly to
the base of the mushroom shaped head and folded together with
a tight pinch of the frenulum, which made the underside of the
head resemble a ripped abdomen. Nicolau curled his tongue under
the head and danced its tip along the frenulum like a lick of
flame. Folding his upper lip over the head, its spongy firmness
contrasted the feeling of the shaft’s rigidity pressing
against his lower lip, and Nicolau lost himself in the contrast
between the two by tracing it over the taut ridge of flesh and
was too aroused to notice the intensification of the shaft’s
rigidity or the first pulse of contraction but could not fail
to notice their cumulative result as his mouth unexpectedly
filled with the salty bitter warmth of cum. Withdrawing from
the trick’s cock, the cum dribbled from his mouth and
fell to the floor like fast moving snowflakes as he ran terror
stricken to the bathroom.
Reaching the bathroom, Nicolau spit repeatedly
into the sink as the trick yelled his apology from the other
room: “Sorry, you’re just fucking good at that.”
Filling his mouth to capacity with mouthwash,
Nicolau swished it around and wondered if this was doing anything
beyond freshening his breath. As usual, he felt a burning sensation
in various parts of his mouth but also felt an unusual tingling
on his bottom lip. Spitting out the mouthwash, he pulled his
lower lip down and felt a wave of nauseous terror as he looked
in the mirror and discovered a cut.
A strong gust of wind slapped against the widow,
blasting it with a torrent of snowflakes, and brought Nicolau’s
attention back to the creaking panes of glass. Staring into
the mass of swirling snow, he thought something about this squall
felt more intense than the others he had seen, and he struggled
to remember the last one he had experienced: 1988. It was
in 1988. That was so long ago. Could it have been that long
ago? No, it was before then. It had to be before then. 1988
was the year that pamphlet came out, and that was not so long
ago, although it feels a lifetime away.
Staring pensively into the twisting swirls
of snow, Nicolau saw two bodies running through it. Straining
to see them, he thought he glimpsed a snowball darting through
the snowflakes.
The snowball sailed through the air and hit
a teenaged boy in the chest, who retaliated with a snowball
that just caught the shoulder of a shorter boy before he could
fully take cover behind a tree. Finding cover, he released another
shot that hit the taller boy square in the face.
Realizing his inferior aim required another
tactic, the taller boy charged through the rapidly falling snow
with a war cry, prompting the shorter boy to take to flight.
The taller boy gained on him until he was an arm’s reach
away, but before he could grab for a shoulder, the pursued boy
spun around and released a snowball directly into his pursuer’s
face. This allowed him to reach the protective covering of the
house. He jumped on its porch without touching either of the
two steps, and ran to the door. Finding the door locked, he
realized he was now trapped and spun around to face his fate.
Bounding up the stairs behind him, his pursuer
scooped up two handfuls of snow and tossed them over the trapped
boy. The snow covered him before he was tackled to the snow
covered porch floor.
They immediately began wrestling for dominance.
Using his size to his advantage, the taller boy quickly gained
the upper hand and pinned the shorter boy’s shoulder to
the floor. Conceding defeat, the boy stopped resisting. The
victor stood and helped the defeated boy to his feet. Covered
in white, they brushed the snow off themselves and each other.
Inside the house, the boys removed their coat
and gloves. The taller boy pulled his hat from his head and
shook the snow from his blonde hair. Pulling the hat from his
friend’s head, he ran his fingers through the his dark
brown hair until the last trace of snow was removed and with
it the permission for his touch. Hesitantly, withdrawing his
hand, he looked into the shorter boy’s eyes and found
they were already locked on his. Both boys stood motionless
as a gust of wind pressed against the door and drifted snow
over the impression their wrestling bodies made in the snow.
Something grew between them until the shorter boy placed his
hand on the blonde’s shoulder and used it for support
as he kicked off his boots. The taller boy smiled as he pulled
the scarf from his friend’s shoulder and waited to reciprocate.
Like a scene from a daring new Norman Rockwell,
the two shivering boys knelt before the fireplace and rubbed
their cold hands in front of the flames. Their socks and jeans
were still wet with snow. Having worn sweaters, their turtlenecks
were dry. The fire’s heat slowly permeated their wet clothing
and the clammy skin beneath. They sat quietly waiting for the
fire to warm them until the blonde boy stopped rubbing his hands
and playfully snaked one under the other boy’s turtleneck.
His skin recoiled from the icy hand, but his body leaned into
the touch that pressed seamlessly beyond playfulness into exploration.
Gliding over his flat stomach, the depression of his navel,
and along the smooth ridge of his hairless breastplate, the
blonde’s fingers searched over his skin until finding
a nipple. The circling icy fingertips brought the nipple to
erection and the boy to a moan. The two boys locked eyes. Unable
to maintain the intense reciprocal gaze of desire but too blissfully
heady to stop, they pressed their mouths together and communicated
with silent yet active tongues. Lip to lip, they entwined legs
and undulated slowly until a burning sensation urged them to
quicken their thrusting hips.
The fire crackled with the vitality of sap
as the blonde boy pulled the brunette’s jeans and boxers
from his body, leaving him only in white socks and a white turtleneck.
Standing, he slid his own jeans and boxers from the length of
his body. The overwhelming physical intimacy precluded further
revelation of flesh, and he left his black socks and turtleneck
on. Staring at the erect cock of the boy laying at his feet,
his own cock hovered just before the boy’s face. The fire
glowed over their warming bodies as each intuitively pressed
into the other with parted lips, not stopping until their lips
folded over each other’s cocks, and their bodies spooned
in a sixty-nine position. Bucking heads silhouetted by flames
moved with varyingly rhythm, and the sucked while sucking position
rapidly brought each boy to an approaching orgasm.
“Nicolau Cabral?” called the nurse.
Opening his eyes, Nicolau found himself staring
into the swirling snow and remembering the taste of cum.
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