The music from the jukebox seems to
drift lazily around in the air, the crooning sigh of pain in the
song makes me close my eyes and I allow myself the luxury of just
one more moment of memory. Just a moment, before I open them again
on a sigh, I've spent far too much time in my memories the past few
days, that much is certain. Time to move on.
Still, it aches just a bit as I resolutely push aside the mental
shimmer of my life a decade ago. A decade, God, it seems like
yesterday. I finger the small pin still in my hands, then finally
force myself to stand up and move on. I set the still half-full beer
bottle on the table, pocket the pin, and without another moment of
hesitation, or of looking back, I walk out the door.
"I do remember you, you know."
I whirl around at those softly spoken words, heart pounding. There,
off to the side, a handful of paces from the door of the bar. I
could only see the faint outline of a body, illuminated from the
glow of the tip of a cigarette, but there is no mistaking the voice.
"I thought I was imagining it at first, a dream from some fucked up
trip," Curt continues, tipping his head slightly to the side, "But I
was wrong, I do remember you."
I say nothing, let him draw his own conclusions. Something close to
fear running was through me and for just a moment it is ten years
ago and I am an uncertain young man standing before a legend, a god,
nerves thrumming with excitement.
For a long moment no words were spoken. The cigarette glows brightly
as Curt takes a long drag. "After that concert," he said abruptly,
exhaling smoke in a languid breath, "On the roof." He smiles, that
familiar razor-edged grin, at the surprise that I know is in my
eyes. "I told you I remembered." The smile dims, "So why are you
looking for me now?" Softly, that velvety tone that I remember oh so
well and I shiver involuntarily.
"I...I told you, I was doing a story and I..." I stammer out but my
tongue feels like it is coated with glue. For all that I'd managed
to say in the bar, words won't come to me now.
"Bullshit." But there is no anger in the word, it falls from those
thin lips as gently as an endearment. He drops the cigarette, steps
on the butt, extinguishing it, and I hear the faint crunch of gravel
as Curt takes a step closer to me. And another.
"Is that why you were waiting for me out here?" I finally manage to
blurt out, "To tell me that you remember me?"
Curt halts, and even in the dim light he looks surprised. Then he
grins, shaking his head. "No. I just didn't want to try to pick you
up in a bar full of people. -I- don't give a shit what they think,"
he said, jerking his head towards the door, "But you might."
I blink. Curt Wild was waiting for me, Arthur Stuart, to try and
pick me up? Me? It was like a bad cliché, a sense of déjà vu. "Why?"
Another step closer and now Curt is close enough for me to see those
eyes, those far too expressive eyes that speak of a kind of pain and
loss that I can only dream of. As if I'd ever want to. And now those
eyes are on me, studying me pensively.
"I'm not sure," Curt's hand came up, lightly touching my face in a
mirror of another time, "I've already relived too many memories
tonight. Maybe," and that voice catches, and with my eyes locked on
Curt's, I can see the vulnerability that I had long ago realized
always lay just beneath the surface of Curt's brash demeanor. "Maybe
I want to relive another one, one that doesn't hurt as much," Curt
snorts softly, "I don't have that many, not enough anyway." No
bitterness, just a sort of sad honesty.
The feather-light stroke of a thumb across my lips sends a spike of
remembered arousal through me. And as I stand there, looking at him,
that fog of glamour lifts from my eyes and I see someone else,
someone who isn't a legend or a god, just a man, who looks tired and
worn, as if he's had a long, trying day. A man who is trying to get
into my pants.
With a sense of unreality I watch him lean closer, his eyes
flickering from mine to study my lips before he captures them with
his own, softly, persuasively, and Curt Wild is kissing me not ten
steps from the door of the bar, in the middle of the sidewalk. And I
let him.
I let his tongue slide past my parted lips, he tastes like tobacco
and beer and something else, something that belongs just to him and
I recognize it, like a souvenir that I've held in the back of my
mind.
Closer, and I let my hands push under his jacket, feel lithe muscles
through his thin shirt and he pulls back on a gasp, studying me
again with those eyes, no sadness now, just heat, smoldering in the
depths.
"Come on." He grabs my hand and pulls me along
with him, walking around the side of the building and, somewhat
startled at this abrupt change, I follow. There was a taxi there,
waiting, and I halt, pulling back. Curt stops, flashing me a
questioning glance.
"So sure I'd say yes?" I ask, arching an eyebrow at him. Might as
well make this a little bit of a challenge, rather than throw
myself, panting and drooling, at his feet.
Again that smile, sharp as a cutting edge. "No. But I hoped. Didn't
want to take the chance that if I did get you, I wouldn't have a way
to take you anywhere. Tempting as it is, I'm not going to push you
against an alley wall and have at it."
That mental image, combined with the memory of a wall that he had
pushed me against, shove anymore thoughts of teasing out of my mind.
Without another word, I get in the taxi.
"Beginning to think you weren't comin' back." With a rustle of paper
the cabby set aside the newspaper he's been reading as Curt settles
himself next to me. "Where to?"
Curt says nothing, and after a moment's hesitation, I give the cabby
my address. What the hell, maybe I'll do better on my own turf.
I do believe that taxi ride was the longest fifteen minutes of my
life. Curt never touches me while we sit there; maybe he can feel
how self-conscious I am under the interested stare of a bored cabby.
But then again, he doesn't have to, his eyes do it for him, eyes
that drift over me like nimble fingers.
They stroke their way down my face, my lips, lower, down the length
of my body like an exotic caress, until I am practically squirming
from the heat that is banked in that gaze. He smiles at my
discomfort, his crooked little grin that is imprinted into my
retinas like a flashburn, his tongue appearing briefly to lightly
run along his teeth.
And I am dimly surprised that I don't go up in smoke.
The rest went by in a haze that continued to cloud my mind as the
taxi stops in front of my apartment building, Curt pays the cabby
and we walk silently up the stairs to my apartment, not touching. I
fumble with my keys, struggling to unlock the door. Curt still
doesn't say anything, I wonder if he thinks I'm nervous. The idea is
laughable; it isn't nerves that are making me tremble. And I found
out a moment later that he knew that as well.
We barely made it through the door. The second
it creaks open he is on me, pushing me against the wall while his
mouth devours mine and he kicks the door shut. And this time I give
as good as I get, our teeth click painfully once, but neither of us
care, we are both caught up in it then, something is driving both of
us, though I suspect that they are different things. And at this
particular moment, I don't care.
That other time, so many years ago, seems almost surreal to me, like
it is someone else's memory and I have been allowed a glimpse.
Later, I almost managed to convince myself that it hadn't happened,
buried that memory with all the others, under a layer of
respectability.
There is no questioning that this is real.
Curt walks me backwards through the sparsely furnished living room,
and I go, awkwardly, stumbling a bit but he holds me up, tightly
against him. It is a small apartment and finding the bedroom is not
all that difficult, even as preoccupied as we are. We stagger into
the room, falling to the floor in a tangle of clothes and with some
effort I manage to tug off Curt's jacket, the leather creaking in
protest of my roughness and I ignore it. It doesn't matter and if I
am rough, Curt is more so, stripping off my clothes, heedless of the
purr of ripping seams.
This is not like the memory, not tenderness and a need to touch
someone, this is a kind of lust and I give myself over to it. It is
far past the point of stopping and I wouldn't have even if I could.
I want to drown in this, in this man who is now fighting to tug off
my jeans without removing my boots first, who obviously doesn't want
to stop kissing me long enough to do battle with the laces.
I am the one who finally pulls back, panting and struggling for
breath. For a moment I don't think he is going to let me go, that
he'll simply hold me down and take what he wants, but he does,
breathing heavily, the slow burn in his eyes fanning to a blaze and
he watches me with an fierce expression, one of hunger. I quickly
remove my boots before he changes his mind about letting me go.
I hardly kick the second one off before I am captured again, pushed
against the hard floor by Curt's weight. An arm around my waist
abruptly lifts me, pushing me towards the bed and I scoot backwards,
helping as best I can without letting go. My lips are bruised from
the urgency of our kisses but I don't care, I relish the pain that
tells me this was real.
Curt half-drags me over to the bed and we never make it onto the
mattress, collapse instead next to it. Curt's hands push my jeans
completely off before sliding back up to my cock, fondling almost
roughly and I gasp, fighting back the immediate urge to come with
every ounce of willpower that I still possess.
His hand slides lower, cupping my balls briefly and then lower
still, fingers probing the dark crevice of my arse, pressing at the
entrance of my body, not asking, taking. I find myself quickly
turned around, on my knees and resting on my arms against the bed.
The sound of a drawer opening and the crinkle of foil tells me that
he has found the stash of condoms in my nightstand and I am still
aware enough to be grateful he's thought of it, I certainly hadn't.
He spoons up behind me, his knees on either side of mine, and rests
his chin on my shoulder, perfectly still and I imprint this moment
into my memory. The warmth of his chest against my back, the soft
tickle of his hair against my neck, the scrape of his unshaven face
against my shoulder.
"Make a wish," he whispers, softly, his lips brushing my ear.
And then any thought still in my mind is wiped clean at the blunt
pressure against my anus as Curt pushes his cock inside me. I hiss
at his abrupt entry, my breath escaping from between my teeth. That
burning pain, the sensation of being stretched, filled past the
point of comfort, yes, this is like that other time on the roof when
we'd had nothing more for lubricant than saliva and pre-cum, and I
want it just as much now as I did then. I push back against him,
feel his hands shift down to my hips as he forces his cock deeper.
"God, you're so tight," the words are muffled as he buries his face
into my shoulder, a faint shudder going through him. He pauses,
resting against me, his hands shifting downward to my cock which
hasn't softened a damn bit, despite the faint discomfort of being
penetrated I am still painfully hard and I feel Curt smile against
my shoulder. He pulls back just as his hand circles my cock,
squeezing the shaft and I inhale sharply, quivering.
He presses back inside me, his thumb rubbing the head of my cock,
smearing the pre-cum that leaks from the straining tip and all I can
do is bury my face in my arms and let him fuck me. He is in complete
control of this, whether we are here or on a roof or anywhere. One
hand on my hip, holding me still as he thrusts inside me, the other
pumping my cock in time with those lunges, coming faster now, his
breath heavy against my ear as he thrusts into my arse with some
force, his hand squeezing my cock harder.
Gasping, rocking backwards, trying to push that hardness within me
deeper still, my thoughts swirling into my memory and I almost don't
know where I am, if I open my eyes will I see the city, my bedroom,
a spaceship floating above us, anything seems possible. And in
another moment it doesn't matter, Curt presses his face against my
neck, stifling an outcry as he thrusts into me hard, once, twice,
and comes in uneven bursts that I can feel within. His hand jerks up
hard on my cock and the world fades briefly as I tip over the edge
into my own orgasm, spurting my seed over Curt's fingers.
We kneel there for what feels like hours, Curt's entire weight
pushing me against the mattress, until stiffening muscles force us
to move. I wince as Curt pulls out of me and I turn around in time
to see him frown at the faint traces of blood on the condom.
"Sorry, I didn't mean..." I cut him off with a shake of my head.
"It's all right, you didn't, really." And I
meant it. I ache a bit but it is a soreness that I won't mind
keeping for a little while.
He smiles and now there is tenderness, a touch of warmth to that
gaze that isn't entirely from lust. Shifting, he sat back, nearly
falling as his legs are still trapped by his jeans. I notice with
not just a touch of amusement that he is still wearing his boots.
He slides out of his jeans and boots in one fairly smooth movement,
flopping onto his back on the floor and stretches. I can hear joints
popping and he lets out a satisfied groan before rolling to his feet
and walking somewhat unsteadily over to the loo.
I indulge in a stretch of my own, shifting off the floor that is
getting way too hard on my knees and settle onto the bed, I nearly
moan at the pleasure of those cool sheets on my back. I must have
drifted off because I don't remember seeing Curt come back from the
bathroom.
I do remember waking up much later in the night, to the feel of a
hot mouth surrounding my cock, sucking hard and I come before I am
more than half-awake. Curt pulls back at the last second, his hand
finishing what his mouth began as he slithers back up my body and
kisses me and I taste myself on his lips as I come so hard I am sure
I'll burst a blood vessel.
Curt settles against me, I can feel his cock hard against my stomach
but I can't seem to raise enough energy to return the favor. It
turns out that I don't have to, he just rubs himself against me
while I hold him sleepily. I stay awake long enough to hear him
gasp, tense against me and to feel the warm wetness spurt on my
stomach before I drift back off.
The alarm clock wakes me up, blaring its
annoying chime and I slap it off, returning to the warm comfort of
the blankets, before I remember. I sit up slowly, knowing before I
even look around that I am alone. The aches of my body, my muscles
sore from last night's 'activities', can't compete with the ache I
feel in my chest, and I sigh, rubbing my chest in an effort to ease
that ache.
I start to get up, to do what I'd intended to do last night and move
on when I see the note on the nightstand, scrawled on a scrap of
paper in surprisingly neat script:
Thanks for the memories, all of them.
See you around,
Curt
Next to it is Oscar Wilde's pin. I pick up the pin, study it again
as I had last night. Still holding it I glance back at the note.
Thanks for the memory indeed. I only wish I could return the thanks.
I set the pin back on the nightstand, later I would pin it on the
collar of my coat and every time I put it on and my hand brushed it,
I would smile and remember. Not living in the past doesn't mean I
have to leave it totally behind.
I stand up then and take a shower, scrubbing away sweat and
soreness. A kind of freedom, he'd said. And for the first time in a
very long time, I believe it.
-finis--
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