September 13, 2006
Fiction
The Next You
The first time I remember, you are a slim young Korean-American guy. You have a scar that pulls gently at the corner of your mouth, and you smile a lot. You are a friend of the bride and I am a friend of the groom. We are lying on the sloping grass behind the big tent with all the champagne in it. You are resting, looking up at the sky, with your hands clasped behind your head. Your shirt has pulled up, showing your belly, and I roll over and kiss you there, as low as I dare. There are people around but I do not mind shocking them a little. Your belly is warm and smooth as my cheek, and I brush my face against the soft little hairs that mark the beginning. Then somehow we are both rolled over on our sides, with you behind me, holding me. You are gay, but you never fuck in the ass, I just know this and it makes me want to hold you down and tease your asshole. But your hand is sliding around my cock, and your other hand is finding my asshole, and you are gently stroking and pressing. I am trapped in my clothes and in your hands, and I can only gasp. I am breathing too hard to beg, but I want everything, and I know I will get it. Circled in your strong arms, I can feel how much you want me to come. Now you are getting your finger dirty inside me, just one slow dry knuckle. You hum into my ear to say is this OK, and I grunt through my teeth to say yes. I need just a little more, and then I do it, I come in my rented pants and make a wonderful big grass stain.
Then there is something about an aquarium in a Spanish-speaking country, but you are not there and the rest of it is gone.
Then I am alone on a small stage under bright lights, in front of a mike stand, just the two of us. There are a few people moving around out there in the dark, but they are not important. The mike stand is you, I know, you standing on the polished blond wood. I reach out and tap the microphone gently, and hear the reassuring heartbeat that means you are on. I love you but I am not sure how to touch you. I curl my hand around the middle of your straight black shaft, and it feels warm and rough. I kneel down on your base and lean forward, resting my lips against you. Nobody ever cleans a mike stand, so you smell of metal, grit, and frustrated fingerprints. I kiss you harder, grabbing you with both hands above my head and rubbing my crotch into you. You rock back and forth for a moment, and I hear a faint electric hum. I look up to your strong, jutting head, and I see the dust dancing in the brilliant air before the light blinds me. Do you have a mouth, do you have sensitive nipples? I have to close my eyes on the tears and the burning spots of light, and shove myself against you. Doing it again, I begin to hear the whine of your feedback, and joyfully I keep going. I know my balls will hurt tomorrow, because I am not as hard as you.
Then I am kneeling on the faded carpet of your hotel room. The carpet’s bold, curling pattern is softened by the tracks of thousands of visitors, and I can almost hear them whispering. Of course you are different now. Lying back on the bed, you are my horizon, your soft puffy legs and your cunt. You would never say cunt, you would say down there, or oh my goodness. You subscribe to Vogue but wear the same beautiful clothes every year. You smoked and cursed and read scandalous novels in your day, but since your second husband died and you took over the business, you are dry. As I lean my elbows on the bed, the springs creak like your voice. Your cunt is a dried flower framed in thin gray hair, that I have to kiss slowly, several times. I steal a glance up your body, and see your eyes tight shut, and your trembling hands stroking your face and shoulders, with the tiny silver wristwatch you never take off. I slide my hands blindly up to your belly and breasts so we can caress you together, and it turns out you are not dry. Slowly I dig my mouth deeper into you, and hear you saying oh my oh my oh my oh my. Oh my cunt, I listen for you to cry.
And then you change again.
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likes cats, Islamic art, and walking around Oakland, California. Further details at hewwolff.org.
