Message-ID: <031302Z07081994@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.motss
From: an59239@anon.penet.fi (Peter Peter Pumkin Eater)
X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.motss
Organization: Anonymous contact service
Reply-To: an59239@anon.penet.fi
Date: Sun,  7 Aug 1994 03:07:44 UTC
Subject: story: the brothers arrive in time
Lines: 102

This is a work of fiction, and is more of a mood piece than anything else. I 
thought you might like it anyway.
                                   ****

     They arrived in a battered red jeep just as the hours of siesta and sun 
boiled the dust choked streets of the border town. Before the cloud of their 
arrival had settled, they had booked a room in the town's inn, one of those 
nameless, authentic places in a town too small for tourists, where only 
travellers ever reach. Kerouac and Casaday had stayed in this town, in the 
pages of _On the Road_, or at least a town like this. Tangier in the '40's had 
places like this...

                                   ****

     Kiki, the small child of the family who owned the hotel, brought them a 
bottle of Mezcal, cooled by an inadequate refrigerator in the cantina 
downstairs. Already, the room had grown close with the smell of their bodies, 
and the two looked at him with eyes of a color never seen in this village. The 
color of Canadian lakes, high in the mountains that drink the sky in their 
cold, cold depths. As he held out the drink this is what he saw:

     Two anglos, alike enough to be brothers. Both have already stripped off 
their
overshirts, and are wearing ribbed white t-shirts, the kind with the straps for
shoulders, tucked into jeans. The pants of the one on the left are made of 
leather instead of the more commonplace denim. Both wear heavy boots. The pair 
on the right somewhat darker, heavier than those on the left. Their hair is 
thick and curling in the steamy air, not yet plastered to their foreheads, but 
long and thick and luxuriant enough in this heat.

There are posters of bodybuilders glued to the wall by unwholesome means, a 
battered desk and chair, a plywood bedframe and mattress, and a small washbasin
that dispenses undrinkable, tepid water. A window, shuttered, claws of sunlight
raking though it. The air is heavy and still.

Kiki hands the bottle to the one on the left wordlessly, and departs with a
tropically colored piece of money in his hand.

                                  ****
     Piece by piece, they strip out of clothing, glances passing back and forth
like dares. First the undershirts. The boots hit the floor with bawdy thumps. 
The room hotter than anyone should bear. Clothes a misery. Off with the 
jeans--the leather, the denim ones. Some rough modesty keeps their underwear 
around their loins. One wears blaxk briefs, cut high on his legs, with a thick 
waistband; the other wears a pair surprisingly white and clean after the 
journey.

     Still too hot. They are drinking from the bottle, back and forth, to keep 
cool. One sits in the room's only chair, the other on the floor at the base of 
the bed. The one in the chair, bored, curious, begins opening desk drawers. He 
is thinking "too hot, too hot--what else can come off--take my tattoos off to 
get cooler." In a bottom drawer he finds something heavy, pulls it out. A set 
of clippers, heavy like the hand of authority, like the pair your father used 
to use, like the ones they use on Marines, and sheep. White shorts looks at 
black shorts.

                                  ****

     White briefs went first, and his hair dusts the floor. That left on his 
head forms a jet-black cap against the blue, blue of his eyes in his dark, dark
face. He sits in the chair, working on black shorts' head. Black shorts sits on
the floor, his arms resting over the knees of his barber, his head tipped back,
brushing the other's crotch. He can feel a rising shaft beneath the flimsy 
cotton. his mouth is open and his eyes tipped back in a look just short of 
orgasm. White shorts smiles. He feels the eigth of an inch of stubble on the 
back of the others' neck and the sides of his head.

                                  ****

     They have to pause now. The razor has got too hot. Black shorts is 
impatient. His buzz is only half done. A cock's comb of and inch or more of 
length covers the top of his head. White shorts leans over the sink, smoking a 
cigarette, ashing in the narrow drain. The cord of the clippers snakes around
black shorts' ankle. There are hairclippings stuck to his back.

                                  ****

     Black shorts props himself up on the headboard of the bed. He is very 
quiet, so as not to disturb his sleeping companion. The starched sheet rests 
across his lap as he strokes his crew cut head and looks across the room at 
the back of the chair, where the two pairs of briefs are hung together. He 
reaches over and strokes his sleeping companions head and thinks "more alike 
each moment--more alike each day--". The other man awakes. He reaches out, 
pulls himself into a sitting position. He puts his arm arond the first man's 
hard-muscled shoulders. They sit together like that for a long time, stroking 
each other's stubbled heads, huddled against the cold in a too-hot room. Their 
hair is only the most visible reminder of irrevocability.

                                 ****

END

-Peter, 1994

(This story came to me while looking at a series of photographs a friend once 
showed me, from I know not where. I hope you've enjoyed this, despite the lack 
of overt whatever.)
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