You Smell of Sex when You Wake

You and I dance at a dinner party at The Peggy (Guggenheim) as though we have always danced together. That we are both men means nothing to anyone except us. The lighting makes this Sargent's Venice, verging on the abstract, and your coloring is brilliant against formal clothes. I notice a Frenchman watching us closely.

He is confident, comfortable with himself, more elegant than handsome. From time to time, he touches his lower lip absently with beautiful hands. Hunger energizes his attention, but I can't tell which of us he wants, and I don't think the answer is important.

At our table, I am seated beside my old friend Elizabeth, a writer with a more refined eroticism than my own and a fondness for latex gloves. She is intentionally striking in black velvet cut so low I can almost see her nipples from certain angles. Planned, of course, and executed with style. We talk about writing, men, dreams. She engages me, but I'm covertly fretting about having lost a good cuff link.

I'm also watching, with delight, an electric conversation between you and Elizabeth's lover, Clark. I want you and Clark to love each other as much (and as differently) as I love each of you. I want you to make love together (though I don't believe he makes love to men). Seeing your faces so nearly touching intoxicates me.

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The only respectable way to release myself is to move, so I invite Elizabeth to dance. She follows with as little thought as I lead. We stride together in wide, satisfied arcs, though the music is too restrained -- I want masks and sweat and bad, smoldering jazz played by men past their prime. I want you. When we return to the table, my missing cuff link rests atop a folded napkin at my place. I look up to see you pressing through the crowd, a perfect French hand at the small of your back.

"No!" I exclaim under my breath, but Elizabeth widens her eyes and offers, "Let him go, what difference does it make?" She's right; I know you'll be back. "Come on," she adds, "Clark and I will walk you to your hotel if you'll get us some better champagne than this." Contented again by motion, we amble through the translucent night. When we stop to buy a bottle, Clark argues with me about who will pay. I win.

The rooms you and I share are on the top floor of La Fenice, that little hotel right behind the opera house. Elizabeth says they're stuffy, so we open the windows to the night air. We're laughing quietly, remembering why we're so fond of each other, when we hear the performers talking as they spill out the stage door. A bass and a tenor begin a playful goodnight to each other as they walk off in different directions. One sings in Italian; the other responds in French as their voices trail further and further away. I send Elizabeth and Clark home, undress, and bathe in the dark.

You smell of sex when you wake me. Your lips are full, wet; your kisses hot, your skin so warm you give off light. I roll onto my back and try to release myself to you, feeling the words stretch across my mind, "let go, let him, let him, let him." You bite my throat; your teeth penetrate our kisses, you grip the muscles in my upper arms, let go, then push hard against my chest, raising yourself above me until your arms are straight. You curl your abdomen and pull your knees up by my sides, try to draw my soul out through my mouth, and lower yourself without flinching onto my upright cock.

"Oh yes," I sigh. And your face says you've arrived home. I can't continue to let go; I have to start taking. I lift up enough to drip saliva onto your cock, which I begin to stroke with my right hand. It's beautiful, smooth, proud. I wet my left hand and start to massage your balls, gently at first, then tugging at the skin. Kissing, licking, biting.

"Turn around so your back is to me," I tell you urgently, "but don't let me come out of you." You use your heels to rotate your body on the axis of my cock. It feels incredible to be so solidly against the base of you, your weight concentrated on my pelvis. Once you've turned , I pull you back onto my chest, staying inside you. I stroke your abdomen, run my fingers up and down the sides of your torso, squeeze your hip bones, taunt your nipples, all the while pumping slowly in and out of your ass.

I take your cock in one hand, your balls in the other, stroking, kneading, caressing and pumping. Your head is just below my chin; you turn your face toward mine. By straining, we can reach each others' mouths. Yes, yes, you are hot, wet, frantically hungry. I lift you up by your hips, then pull you back down to churn my cock into you. You begin to stroke yourself. Our kisses are unending, we breathe in gasps. You're crying out. I keep lifting you, then forcing you down hard onto me. You're calling, "oh god, oh god." Your whole body is trembling. I lift you with my pelvis so that both our backs are arched.

"Yes, let me! Yes. Yes!" Your body breaks into spasms, jerks, twitches. I wrap my arms around your chest and hold you as close to me as I can until they subside.

I roll us over so that you're on your stomach, and I'm on top of you. Biting hard into your neck, I pull out, slowly and turn you onto your back. There are tears in your eyes. I hold your gaze. I put your feet firmly against my chest as I mount you, pushing your knees against your chest to give me maximum access to your ass. I enter you again all the way to the base of my cock, holding your eyes.

"You are so beautiful," I whisper. I have never been this deep inside you, never felt you this open, this willing. Long strokes, rolling my hips when I'm farthest in you, pulling you as hard to me as I can. Touching your face, finding you behind your eyes, whispering to you, holding you, cumming inside you, cumming, cumming. Inside you...over you...surrounding you...close to you...close again...close.

I unfold you, stretch your limbs, run my fingertips along them, along your torso, turn you onto your side and spoon myself behind you. You are motionless as I pull the covers over us and kiss the marks I've left on your neck with all the gentleness I know. The last thing I feel is you taking my hand between both of yours and pressing it to your heart.

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