Date: Thu, 11 May 2006 16:45:09 -0400
From: A. Cheshire Cat <kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com>
Subject: Seriously

Seriously
A. Cheshire Catt
write me (and I love smutty pics): kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com
Two Weeks in May 2006

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Seriously
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It was weekend of constant drug-use, dancing, and daring garrish grins;
finishing it off at my place with friends and acid.

Like, Sundays are totally my busiest day right. Having gone out Thursday
night to the Lotus Lounge, and worked all day Friday, Friday night is a
house party at the usual place, mine, and everyone's laughing and
hysterical about themselves because they're just ridiculously fucked up.
Saturday is the day of rest, in the afternoon, with the sun shining in
the living room bathing the slumbering fools on the sofas and in the
chairs with their bared feet raised in the air as glorious icons of the
dance, their bodies throbbing after copious amounts of joints and a few
futile lines of speed, it's all snoring and subtle twitches. Then there's
the blitz of Saturday Night, the bars and the sketch parties, the blur of
the people in the streets, downtown buzzing with students and sharks,
tourists and urban cowboys, car horns honking, sirens blasting, beats
roaring out of windows, fashions and fabulousness, the flash of cameras
and the splash of cash from machines. Then the After-Hours, as the night
drags by and the streets empty out, the thrill having ebbed, the plastic
bags twirl in twilight breezes, pigeons waken, and in dark cavernous
spaces in barely noticeable corners of downtown, the finest djs and the
most fantastic-elastic dancers spin themselves a web of a Scene, a
hedonism that fades like sunrise into Sunday. The blur of Sunday, the
after-parties, the summer sun, the gorgeous bodies, the music, mmm, the
people all so happy, it is the triumph of our youth, a youth of jubilance
and decadence and scandal and disco and the thrill of being blasted in
broad daylight. After all that time, after the days and days of it,
Sunday night, as things cool down, the weekenders take pause to reflect
on their artistry: the whole bunch of us left over from the way the
weekend started, littered throughout the Party House playing round after
round of Crazy Eight Countdown, smoking pack after pack of cigarettes,
cracking crass jokes, filling otherwise dull sentences with funny
sounding words, like strange characters used because they're added zest,
topics about nothing, drinking water, eating pills, breathing smoke,
cutting lines. Melted, a mass of bodies on the floor and furniture,
that's where this story begins.

Ridiculous. Fantastic. Fabulous. Papaya. Wasps, Orgasms and Lisps.
Violet, Orange, Lavender and Blue. And the favorite, like a bit of
punctuation: Seriously.

There was this one guy who made me laugh all night. He was so funny. His
name's Albert, he's fucking delicious.

He's got the smooth complexion of a virgin but there's something
ridiculously naughty in the emaciated rings around his eyes as he squints
to focus on the cards in his hand. He kept smoking cigarettes even though
he was fucking disgusted with the way his voice sounded, but it was so
funny yo, the way it made him sound like a veteran drag queen. We
imagined getting him all in drag for Halloween, getting him a filter and
really bad make up that smears, a tacky veil or something. He's petite in
size but he's totally ripped. Seriously, he's one of the most gorgeous
kids we got in town, it's great that the gays get to flaunt him. He's
hot. Like his sleeves are usually rolled up almost to the elbow, the
cuffs drawing lurid attention to themselves. His exposed arms, tan and
with barely any hair at all, as tempting as a long shaft one wants to, oh
if only just so gently, stroke by accident, upon stumbling upon occassion
to be so close. Albert's sense of fashion is preposterously on time. His
boyfriend, a relatively handsome young man, works with Holt Renfrew on a
few contracts and there's much hubbub on shopper appreciation night when
they bring them both in, Albert by special request, for the fresh
tailoring, the finishing touches. Imagine the blonde-tipped
cockatoo-tail-feather hair, the flowing feathers of the peacocks with
zeal for detail, the cawwing and clucking of the tailors performing their
magic, tugging on long leather rulers that reach up into the cavities of
so many men's fantasies, bickering about in-seams, waist lines, hems and
pin-cushions. The crystal ornamentation of the chandeliers on the
boutique's ceiling sending their array of affectionate color upon the
startled eyes of the debonair young lad as he's turned upon his pedestal
to behold his new outfit in the most fortunate mirror in the capital.
Such a fortunate bitch. His hat tilted only slightly more for attitude, a
cocky grin, the raising of an eye brow, the pleasant grin.

I've been in the scene long enough that I am seen as some sort of
professional, well-learned in the way of the Scene. When some of the old
girls find young gay boys they see as having any degree of potential, any
spark, they bring them to me. I know them, Those Who Are Important, I
know the paths that lead to the Fun Side. It's tricky, and it often
involves subtle hints outside while we're having cigarettes, but it's the
most glorious experience, being adopted by the Scene. There have been
many nights when I led the prospective Boys along the curb outside any
variety of club and taken them by those two, the Beautiful Couple, as
they smoked with the hot chicks, the few straggling queens, the prim
princess gossips. I would smile as I passed them and the new Boy
would ask who they were and I would tell them their names, perhaps
introduce them if the moment or the circumstance were right, but not
really linger as I am not really of the same essence that they are. I
take the new boys by, to a car say, across the street, and with the
window rolled down a sliver and the music playing just right, while
smoking a cigarette, in the pouring rain, I casually instruct the
rookies, "Now, you can't have those ones, they're the beautiful ones. So
many wish they were them, you'll sleep with dreamers."

I'd met Albert's boyfriend years before, on the dancefloor. He's a
Persian prince with stunning features, an olive skin like the flesh of
mysterious gods of desert tribes, eyes big and dark and glistening like
the ornamental eyes of a golden calf added with the precision of the most
refined artist. Albert's boyfriend's name was Anthony. Anthony smiled
just right and new slightly more people than myself, but really he burned
out fast, snuffed out, disappearing with a season. It was rumored it was
a professional decision. It was rumored that he'd moved to that faraway
realm of gaydom, San Francisco, or maybe it was Toronto, or perhaps it
was even the psych-ward. It wasn't until almost six months after his
absence that his name was mentioned. It was about that time that this
other boy started coming around to the day-clubs and though I'd heard of
Albert, and heard of an Albert in relation to Anthony, I'd never really
seen him before. When I saw him I stopped dancing and looked in awe of
his little body perched against the rail of the bar admiring the dancers
dance. Oh it was a delicous treat. "Who is that?" It was Albert.

I've always been the sort of guy to respect the relationships of others,
you know, nurturing in others' relationships the sense of necessary hope
for a future relationship that I dream I'd like to have some day. When I
learned who he was I didn't go after him or flirt intentionally, and
though intentional flirts never caused anyone trouble, there's always
that unintentional gaze, that freakish flourish that eye lashes do, that
even men can muster in themselves: that finger left a little too long,
that sentence left hanging, the thought unfinished. Okay, I'd flirted
with him, but really I must confess that I was just hoping he'd notice
me, you know, so what if I'm a bit of a climber. I wanted to be smiled
upon by such beauty. Even though I know I'd never be that close to the
niche, that I'd never come across as partial to the inhabitants of the
delicious nest, there is still comfort in being noticed by it. After a
while Anthony started coming back, it was, but of course, without
ceremony. After a while the parties started coming to my place after the
bar on Sunday afternoon, I'd found a great place really within blocks of
the bar the Scene haunted all day Sunday. After a few months there was
definitely a core group of us who hung out at my place. Because of this
my name was starting to go further and further. Eventually, because of
the parties' reputations for being a lot of fun, he spoke to me outside
the bar one sunny spring Sunday. He'd learned my name from a gossip that
he'd interupted with something more pressing, after some time he
introduced me to his boyfriend on one of the few garrish occassions when
Anthony blessed the nasty filthy underground with his refined presence
(that's sarcasm, seriously) and I mean it could have been the drugs that
day but  I could have sworn I saw the moment Albert pointed me out to
him, leaning up to mention it with an air objectivity, you know, "Have
you met him?" You know how it goes, "That guy keeps talking to me, he
says his name is something-or-other, he's really quite nice." Then
Anthony smiled that hedonistic grin, pleasure tooth for tooth. He leaned
down and actually held up his hand to mute the never even remotely
overheard signal to abort socializing with "that one." I could have sworn
I saw it happen, but maybe it didn't, and maybe still I put way too much
meaning into them.

After that spring had passed and the dizzying humidity of an early summer
heatwave started, a few of us headed over to my place early so I could
clean up some dishes and stuff before the rush of people came after the
bar closed. My close friend had met a boy at the bar that she'd really
started to like and she was walking ahead with the keys, she had to use
the washroom or something. Albert was with me. He asked me questions
about how long I'd been living in the city and stuff, the standard
perimeters when getting to know someone. I was shocked to learn this
was just a young kid. You know what I mean, I mean ... Have you ever
looked at someone and thought they were so hot, they're so cool, they're
so unattainable, and then you hear something like their age, or you hear
them talk and they fuck up a work like maniacal by saying maniac-al, and
then you realize they're not perfect, they're nothing exceptional,
they're just like the rest of us, they're just 19 and still learning
stuff, they bleed, they get hungry, they shit? Compared to Anthony, who
was 26, my age, this kid was such a trophy wife. Until that moment he'd
told me his age he'd seemed to have belonged to an even older man, he
belonged in a mansion on a hill looking out the lonely little window in
the attic like a fairy tale Rapunzel. He giggled when he saw my passive
reaction, puffing a cigarette, uninspired. I mean, sure, he was 19 and
could get in the bars, fuck, but he was just 19. He was cool and making
me laugh, and I'd judged him on several occassions and thought he had a
fair amount of respectable traits. He was polite, he was soft-spoken and
a great little dancer. Sure he had a crazy life too. I couldn't help but
detect in his speech a certain quiver. He was sort of being led around
the community bars, displayed for the benefit of Anthony. Oh but he loved
every minute of it, don't get me wrong. Maybe he loved Anthony, sincerely
and everything, but I started to realize at that moment, what he really
loved was not having to deal with the cumbersome issue of sex or the
clamor of the fools trying to court him. "Everyone knows I'm Anthony's,"
he said as we walked up Gigues in the shadow of a church in the evening
sun, "I am not Albert. I'm Anythony's." He was pretty high, he caught
some spit on his lip and wiped it off. Perhaps he thought I'd caught him
commiting some flaw, like none of should ever accidentally spit when we
talk, or perhaps he was proud of he eloquence in that thought, but that's
when we first looked at each other with a certain commonality. We looked
in each other's eyes just a little longer. His eyes were the color of a
deep moss, richly green with sprays of brown.

We jumped off the sidewalk and started to veer to the other side of the
street. There was no traffic, just cars parked and a dog barking far
away. Along this street no two homes are the same but they're never more
than three stories, they're all old and have verandas and pretty
backyards. I passed him my cigarette and we discussed Anthony only
briefly again as we were almost at my place. His boyfriend wasn't
expected home from a business trip till Wednesday. As people are oft to
do when higher than high after days of partying, he jumped with fright at
nothing more than the passing shadow of a gull. When he jumped he
naturally pulled closer to me. I laughed as he rubbed the length of his
body against mine. He turned again to look at me and he smiled at me, you
know what I mean, it was nothing I'd said or done, it was what he'd done
and it was a smile of being glad that he'd done it in front of me. He
looked around but there was no one there. No one saw. Not that it
mattered or anything.

That night the chemicals marinated the souls of the lounging lizards of
disgusting idulgence, smoky-eyed sloths creeping along the edges of a
twilight golden room, hissing sarcasm, spewing random bullshit. Laughing,
thinking they're so beautiful, the madness filled all the rooms of the
large three bedroom home, a turn of the century place. The two guys that
lived with me were straight and reputable and went to all the same
parties I did. One of them was a dealer, the other was affiliated with
several DJs as a promoter. It was a fuckin' prime location for parties,
with a large living room on the south end of the house opening out onto a
rich green lawn with fences draped with ivies and ancient, flowering,
monstrous vines. There were lanters hung in  key corners, torches burning
for a while, wrought iron furniture with fresh linen cushions were
scattered after the evening usage at the end of stone path on a stone
patio. As the light of the day died away, the torches were lit and
then they too were put out, and the seemingly normal people all around
the city simmered to a cool slumber in the summer even though this party
of gypsies still played their cards and waited for another dawn, another
weekend.

After the acid was finished peaking, after the vines had stopped growing
and moving around like serpents at the far end of the lawn, moving
constantly the whole night like a waterfall, my friend and I seperated,
as if a magic removed a sparkling bind between us. I'd dropped the acid
with the girl that had come back from the bar at about the same time I
had. Just the two of us were on acid. People were on everything though. I
mean, I'm friends with several dealers and several dealers know several
more. There was literally everything in that house. I mean, within
reason: G, E, K, acid, mushrooms, blow, speed and, you know of course
there was lots of weed being smoked. No one does crack, no heroin either:
eww. There'd been all sorts of people in the house too, straight and gay
and bi and whatever you can possibly imagine. No one was over the age of
35, no one was younger than 19 (Albert, unknowingly, had been the
youngest there). But no one got hurt, no one was ill, everyone was able
to manage their trips, to dose responsibly, and though most were gone as
it neared midnight, as most had to work the next day. But that's the
thrill of the party that burns into the week itself, there are those that
go to work on Monday morning from this place and come back when they're
done, not having slept in days, not really having eaten that well, and
they do more and stuff, and they hang out and do nothing. Days of parties
turn into weeks this way, weeks into months, months into seasons ... ah,
but I digress.

My friend and I had done acid that night. By midnight of that evening
she'd got all mashy like whipped potatos flung from a wooden spoon to
land on the floor in the corner with her beau. They were curled up on the
pillows by the book case flipping through one of those Phaidon coffee
table books filled with inspiring, random imagery. They'd laugh every
once in a while loud to be heard over the din of some chill beats and the
ruckus of Crazy Eight Countdown as it neared another end. A lot of huffs
and sighs and subtle cheers as good runs were laid out, as the Queen of
Spades was played and someone had to pick up five, as three twos were
played and someone had to pick up six, as a Jack was played and someone
missed a turn. They were playing Crazy Eights with the house rules, Aces
- Runs - but not the Four rule. I hate the Four Rule.

There was a DJ that had spun at the day lounge much earlier in the day,
(DJ)KFB, a great guy with astonishing talent, reviewed in important
chronicles of up-coming stars. He was talking to a young protege about
the business, about the tricks to getting a great gig, it was probably
the last thing that the tired, stoned DJ could have wanted to have done
that night. As I played a pair of sevens I looked across the room to see
the DJ tugging on the peak of his cap as he twirled in the swivel chair
we had set up at the decks. The protege was a bi-guy named Abraham, he
was flipping through the records while the DJ leaned back more and took a
grand haul from Abe's cigarette. I mean, even generally speaking, it's a
tricky business, DJ-ing, and there are times when it actually happens,
people go off to some success in a dreamland Ibiza: the closet avenue to
that dream is the mighty Montreal, just a few hours to the east; it
happens, people go there, and there are those among us, dancers dancing
during those damned drugged Sundays, that rise to to the occassion and
desire to be the DJs, they relish in the thought of the complicated
rhythms, they marvel at the spectacle of a crowd gone wild as they chase
their dream of their very own Ibiza. Justly, there are those who don't
make it, no matter how hard they try, be it a lack of money, connection,
talent, or presence. Scandalously even, there are those who cross paths
with the starved fiends on the path already, not just DJs but the
promoters too, the flyer girls, the bar owners, and they are never
heard from again. Sometimes there are DJs who simply disappear like that
track you may have loved that time you'd heard it, that time you'd heard
it and you had to grab your head because it was so good you thought your
head would explode, but you never heard the name of it,  so good, but
gone then forever, like a protege who struggled and was heard, mentioned
once at a party once somewhere, but alas, never to be heard of again. As
the electronic scene in Ottawa is so small names are everything and the
DJs are untouchable if they come from the time when House Music was just
started. There are those who don't even realize what's happened since it
started, how many bars there's been, how many generations of people have
come and gone, how many drugs have come into fashion and then fallen out
of fashion again. There are so many who don't realize that as long as
they stay at the party they run the risk of becoming nothing more than a
drifting breath of smoke in an otherwise hot-boxed room, every weekend
being the best weekend of their lives forever and ever, every summer
being the best summer ever, summer after summer, until the autumn comes,
until the winter of their own discontent.

The DJ leaned back and laughed his signature cackle. Everyone stopped
what they were doing. Albert was about to play the ace of diamonds but
stopped mid-movement with the sort of precision of a speed-freak and
leaned over to me to ask, "Who is that?" I laughed, he didn't even
recognize the DJ from that afternoon that he'd said he'd loved so much.
It happens. I asked how his night was going. It was the best night ever,
he'd said.

Another reason the DJ doesn't really want to be doing this is because
it's about to chime the witching hour, the work week is about to begin.
It's like Batman lingering in some belfry somewhere in Gotham, late late
some Sunday night, talking to some punky kid from the circus about
acrobatics when really he knows there's a pile of shit in the in-box
at Wayne Industries that's calling his name for tomorrow. The room
mate that is the dealer had taken some girl to his room and it was to be
accepted that store hours were closed. Everyone was well-stocked for the
next couple of hours. The room mate that is the promoter had taken a
bunch of people to a club in Montreal, about eight of them, two cars
anyway, and we weren't to expect them back till tomorrow. I was in charge
of the phone but no one calls at this time. And as the clock chimed it
reminded people who couldn't handle it anymore, having been awake since
they'd awakened on Thursday, the week had come, and there was a crowd
about to leave, and there were some falling to sleep on the furniture,
like martyrs giving up their souls for Christ.

It was becoming quite apparent that it was just going to be only Albert
and I playing the next round. My friend and her lad were going to be off
talking quietly with each other for hours, entirely removed from our
party. Dimming the lights in the room, it was as if the social stars and
constellations that make up the Milky Way of our little community of
After-Hour partiers were fading accordingly to properly coordinated to
form a most interesting insinuation that there might be an affair between
myself and the beautiful boy. I kept looking across the large room across
the barren floor that we sat on to check if my friend noticed me with
Albert but really she didn't and there was no one else left by then.

I shuffled the cards, dealt out eight for each of us and saluted the
commencement of this, our ninth round of Crazy Eight Countdown. We were
playing as close to the open French doors as possible without going
outside. The cards looked very cool to me still, as in there was plenty
of punch left in my acid trip. He'd taken a pill about an hour and a half
before. He was getting high all over again in front of me. Because I'd
found it hard to concentrate on who had the next turn, having been used
to playing with three or four people all night, hel stood a ridiculous
chance of winning. We both knew that. We'd stopped to shuffle the deck,
after having picked them all up when he mentioned a joint that he had
rolled that would be great to smoke. A pungent, balmy breeze blowing so
softly the leaves on the vines barely feigned interest he lit it and took
a break, ceasing the sactity of the game, releasing ourselves from it. We
couldn't even finish it.

We leaned against the door frames then and tried to seem more like we
were staring out at the lawn than simply at each other.

Have you ever seen Clue, the movie based on the board game? There's a
scene near the beginning, once all the illustrious characters have
arrived and they're all dining with the host, Mr. Body. Mr. Body leaves
the room and the paranoid guests all wonder what they're there for. Mrs.
Peacock can't stop talking, she talks about anything and tries to get the
other guests interested but really she's the only one talking and it
shows her level of anxiety more plainly than the subdued Madame White or
the demure Professor Plum or even the gauche Miss Scarlett. I am a Mrs.
Peacock. I talk when I feel uncomfortable or when I sense that the
discomfort is weighted on me. It usually goes terribly once I start
talking. It's called sketchy, right? I mean, I just start talking to fill
the silence.

It was such a beautiful moment too, a late night urban dreamscape,
the hum of distant traffic droning in the background of a garden
parallelled only in John Singer Sargent portraits of rich children
playing with lanterns. Crickets were keeping the beat with the track
playing at that particular moment. Albert talked about fire flies and I
asked him where he was from originally. He told me he was born on a farm
in western Ontario, which like a cultural dead zone I know, which is
something that always amazes me about kids that come from nowhere to this
place, this barely anything-somewhere. They're genetically-dispositioned
to have a certain prestige upon discovery, and they're like finds, you
know, projects in the waiting. Pretty-faced projects for the idly rich
high-tech wave--riders that are dying for ways to invest their money, if
not in a portfolio then on an Adonis.

We smoked, the embers of our cigarettes teasing the darkness, and we
talked about the fire flies that couldn't resist showing themselves. We
talked about country life compared to city life. I wanted so badly to
tell him something, I wanted it to be something about him, something
about the way I saw him, but I gave up with my mouth open, with
adjectives clammered on the tip of my tongue, because as if he's never
been told how darkly the light played with his eyes, as if he's never
been told such simple things. He asked what I was about to say, I faked
it, I told him I couldn't remember, adding a forgetful toss of my arm.
"It's nothing." I was glad he accepted it and turned again to look at the
fire-fly-lit lawn. I told him stories about the farms of my family's
distant connections, farms that I almost never refer to except when
pulling out the heavy artillery to get through an awkward silence. I
could feel the alleviation but it all depended on me, and just like a
refreshing glass of water in a heatwave, I also didn't want to have my
cup run over, I had to stop pouring it out. He didn't seem interested in
farms anymore.

I asked him where he'd met Anthony and he told me something I wasn't
really surprised to hear, they'd met in a bar, one of the typical bars on
a typical night, and though it was said it had been love at first sight,
Albert knew it had really only been love at first sight of the name brand
he'd worn that night. Alas, the more he spoke of Anthony the more was
revealed about the noble boy's true self. Though he calmy patted his hair
down on his head when he took off his cap to fan himself in the sultry
evening, the smell of his sweaty crown escaping, a scent loaded with
cosmetic beautification, there was in him such a Romantic baffoon, like
a  model for a painting about the French Revolution, it was in him, this
spirit, it was what the essence of the trickery in eyes so darkly. Albert
didn't really know he was as beautiful as he was. He knew what he was. He
knew he was Anthony's. He knew old men ogled him and young men creamed
themselves, but he didn't see it, he didn't really feel that important.

Suddenly he felt compelled to tell me about his clothes. It was jeans,
stained in some appropriate way, a simple black polo shirt, collar
flapping, a white long-sleeved thing underneath, his shoes were at the
door, his white socks were stained, and in a pile next to him, and his
hat, tilted for attitude. I drifted off staring at him, watching his
mouth form words like they were kisses moulding scrumptious morsels of
chocolate passion, and when I came back upon the reality of what he was
saying I heard the names of some of the finest coutures of Europe and
America in reference to things he must have. It saddened me, I'm not a
materialist person at all. In fact I harshly judge people who who put so
much emphasis on fashion, as most gay men do in the Scene. Relying, as
they do, on what they wear as oppose to how they wear what they've got.
Anthony was constructing an Albert that was intended to be gazed upon
like an icon of fashion, only to be understood completely with the
knowledge of how much his outfit cost, with eye for logos, with an
appreciation for stitchings, not to mention its connection to television
and Hollywood, as if it were the clothes of the gods he wore. But I
gushed to see his passion ignited by the topic, it was something he knew
if he knew nothing else and the power of his famliarity set him ablaze in
a rant. When he stopped for a haul from his cigarette he hesitated and
thought about something and when the smoked came out it brought with it a
new subject. He talked about Anthony a lot and mentioned how much he
missed him, as if in passing, as if to keep their relationship from being
forgotten, the obligatory mention. I gushed to see someone younger than
myself filling the dutiful shoes of the gay wife, believing that by being
so honorable in this single relationship he was saving himself the fate
of those bald men in bath houses preying on boys in their stupors. I
mean, he was bound to be professionally gay. Even though he had
aspirations and intentions to be some vagabond artist (but never the sort
that gets his fingers dirty), he may not ever have the time to explore
his potential as he's constantly busy being carted around in the flurry
of fabulousness.

He didn't realize yet that there was an invisible force in the city that
steers all the youth who come here. It isn't the indulgence, it isn't the
fabulousness. I told him something then, as we lay sprawled at the door
with summer smells putting soft thoughts in our mind a truth told to me
once when I had come to this place, this Scene.

"There is one last goddess that art never captured and she is such a
powerful being that no one will ever justify her with worship. She is a
dignified femme fatale, a radiant beauty in a perpetual state of flux
with her wardrobe. The weather may change, but she is always ... she is
Always. She sometimes frightens us, sometimes pleases us, she sometimes
leaves us to starve with the rats when the day before we'd feasted with
the kings. Her mastery will never be completely understood, nor her
prowess ever rivalled. Understand Albert, though things seem so certain
and set in the stone your family from far away would have you believe to
be true, there is nothing certain in the grip of this lady-god, for while
she tickles your fancy, twirling in her fingers her long summer heatwave
hair, she sings her anthem like a mother that smokes, 'This too shall
pass, this too shall pass.'"

I asked him what he thought he would be if he hadn't met Anthony that
night. He told me that he'd probably be just some face in the
crowd,  grumbling in the line up at the cafeteria in the community
college from which he'd fail inevitably, he admitted he wasn't very
bright. He believed at that point of failure without having been saved
he'd be barely able keep himself as a young man in the city should, that
he'd fall to wallowing in the misery of being obese and ridiculous.
He confused realism with pessimism, but it was sweet to see him think
himself triumphant.

After the joint was tossed we grabbed a couple of cigarettes and headed
into the damp depth of the lawn, a place shrouded in the mystique of a
chivalrous shiver, draped in the mist of bejewelled cobwebs and dew
drops, in the sinuous vines the cocoons had erupted and birds'
nests were airy beds for day-weary songbirds. The acid was still causing
me to vibrate at a high frequency, to jump at sudden movement and twitch
at the most subtle change in the breeze. He asked me if I was alright, I
told him I was fine. We ended up standing so close to one another, not
even really looking at anything or anyone, no one could see us in the
shadow we'd found there. Now, I knew very well we'd end up having to talk
to one another at some point at some party somewhere. It was bound to
happen. I'd never really thought it would be a moment so drenched in the
effects of drugs. The vine at the back fence poured like a waterfall of
green  billowy leaves, the blooms were all closed up tight for the night,
and we stood just in front of the lush cascade. He pulled himself closer
as if he'd forgotten who I was, forgotten himself, forgotten the clammy
hands of drama. I didn't fight it though, I couldn't fight it. I am a
weak beast. I could smell some sort of high end cologne emitted from his
throbbing throat, the beating of his heart having heated up the spot
where a small stain of the fragrance remained. He was looking at me and
smiling and I was looking at him, rather nervously even though it was
something I'd told so many boys they couldn't have. I suddenly saw
myself gushingly sweep stray strands of his hair to the side as if the
were in the way. His forehead even ... he was entirely desirable. He put
his hand around my side, his hand resting in that soft skin under the
ribs, and pulled himself up by the hip against me. We were pressing
then, taking short nervous breaths in our liberty, heated with a wild
sort of lust.

There was such patience on his part, he did not swoop in powerfully
kissing me, as a child might. He hovered just in front of my face and I
could smell the smoke on his breath, the acrid wash of disco having
lingered there all day. I put a hand on his shoulder, and with a delicate
swipe of tickling fingers, reached above the collar of some Diesel brand
sweater, its sleeves seductively flaunting the arms that made him a
legend. I touched his arm, I grabbed gently his forearm, his skin
touching mine. I pressed my arm around him and took on the obligation of
this kiss. I couldn't wait anymore. His fearful apprehension, his
shortened breath, his wandering eyes, sweaty forehead, his moaning
self-defeat, it was in the palm of my hand. And his lean body, worked to
the physique of a model, tanned and delicate and smelling insufferably
fresh was a brittle bon-bon, a tender treat constructed with the finest
quality ingredients the Dandy Pastry Chef of Lady Cosmopolitan's regime
could muster, it was a scrumptious mouthful: he lips didn't pucker, they
remained still, a tiny pool of his warm breath, no more than a thimbleful
dripped into the cavity above my upper lip. It was such a small, simple
kiss.

He'd left his eyes open to scan mine, it wasn't just a kiss anymore, it
was that we were so close and our bodies produced two halos of heat that
clashed when they touched.

Ahh, but the loss of it, when suddenly he pulled away.

"No."

"I can't."

"Why? You're so . . . "

"Beautiful?"

"No, that's not what it was. You're so . . . "

"What? Tell me what I am."

"Please, stop it. What I am about to say is true and . . . "

"No one must ever know about this."  By this time he felt there was
nothing left he could do, Albert was obviously about to leave. He'd
stepped away from me and the air between us was suddenly cold. I didn't
understand what happened.

I stepped toward him again. I was sure he'd run, he seemed about to jump
off a cliff. There was a tear in his eye and concern on his lips.

I pouted, "Please, give me a chance."

"I can't though, what if people found out?"

"Who would find out? How would they know?"

"They'd know, they always found out. This Scene is sick with Gossip."

"I'm the one that gossips though, you don't need to worry about it. I
won't tell anyone."

He thought about it. "No! I can't do it."

"No." I called out. "Albert, please."

He started walking back toward the house but I actually lunged out at him
and grabbed the arm I'd considered so sarcred moments before.

He stopped and looked at my hand gripping his forearm. He looked up at me
then and had such an angry look on his face.

I was sad at that moment, as he grew angry with me. I sighed quietly,
"Please?"

"Never."

But I couldn't let him go then, not now, he could ruin me, everything
that I had built up over the years was about to be shattered by the
whistling of this pretty boy. All he'd need do is summon the right
people, call out someone's name and relay to them the incident and surely
they'd believe him over me.

I wouldn't let go.

"Let go of me you fool." His soft eyebrows furrowed.

"No."

"What?"

I yanked him back and he fought me for a second but, maybe it was the
drugs, but I was resisting his every attempt to break free. He grabbed my
other arm and I grabbed his side and soon we were wrestling each other
and then suddenly we were on the ground and there was a grass stain on
his elbow and my knees were pushing into the dirt on either side of his
belly. His shirt came up and I saw his abs, he was a strong little guy
and something was telling me that he wasn't really trying. He was, but I
thought he was stronger than that. I lowered my face down and only
managed to smear spit across his cheek. It was hot. He grimaced. Again I
got angry and really pulled up a hork of spit and launched it onto his
mouth, his pretty little mouth.

He spit back, it landed on my shirt.

"Stop it," he grumbled, he fought me harder and harder. Suddenly I was
somehow able to pull him toward me on the ground and I got his arms held
back and I saw his chest and little nipples, dark brown and about the
size of large chocolate chips swelling on top. I licked one and sensed in
his a softening, but the moment I tried for the next one he fought again
and I was suddenly pushed to the side.

He struggled to get up but for some reason I was becoming an animal or
something and I was up so fast. I've never fought before, I've never hit
anyone or been hit, I've never even considered violence as a solution.
But I'd been so close. It was like I could smell glory in him and he was
just about to whip it away from me, I'd never known it before but now
that it was so close I couldn't let it get away.

I was standing between him and the door to the house. My friend was in
there laughing. I could see Albert's eyes veering toward her. I thought
he might call out. He didn't though. We braced ourselves with our legs
and arms out like warriors that have lost their swords over the very
cliff Albert had only moments before looked as though he would leap from.
I reached out and suddenly we were locked an embrace and we were
wrestling like kids. I was aware then that he was trying to get my shirt
off my back so I did the same to him. I grabbed at the tail of his shirt,
as he did mine, and when we pulled away from each other we pulled one
anothers' shirt off and we were topless. Silently, we stood in awe of
what we were doing to each other.

Suddenly I lunged at him and got him to the ground with a thud of the
earth, there was pulling and pushing and then the belts came off, the
pants were lowered and then I was kissing him and he was kissing me, my
tongue was shoved deep into his mouth and I opened my eyes to see his
shut, as he gasped for air and pushed at me to get me off his chest. Then
we were in our underwear. Myself in boxers and his in some tight bikini
style things. I grabbed at his balls and really yanked them. He yelped.
It was the loudest noise we'd made and we stopped at noticing what had
happened. He kneed me then in the balls and I groaned. I think it became
sex then.

I grabbed his face in my hands, there was grass on his cheeks, and he was
looking at me with this really angry fire burning in his features. We
threw each other around and he all of a sudden had me with my legs pinned
up and his throbbing eight incher was weilded, the bikini having merely
been shoved under his ballsack. He laughed at me. He had I reached my
hand around to his ass and found his hole there and fingered it roughly
while he squirmed, but he didn't let me out of this vulnerable position.

"Fuck me Albert!"

"No."

"No?"

"I can't -- don't do this."

I feigned surrender. I relaxed. Just as he showed sign of falling for
trick I flipped him over and in that instant that he was winded on his
back I got my boxers down and my mouth down to his cock. His semen was
oozing out, I could taste his gorgeousness as he squirmed and I couldn't
believe that I had him so close, so inside me. I spit on my hand, a great
big snotty on and slapped it on his hole and then, like an animal again,
on the dewy grass in the shadow by the flowing vine I huddled over him
and got my fat eight inch cock up into his tight hole. He wept a bit when
I thrust it without mercy all the way in. He got upset looking and he
shut his eyes, I didn't take long to start thrusting at him and instantly
we both started sweating. We were all dirty with mud and grass and the
sweat only made it worse. But we smelled so good, like creatures of the
bush, like farm animals. The fire flies flickered all around us.

He was moaning and I jerked his meat while I fucked him with a macabre
rhythm, unrelenting.

He was crying a bit, he was telling me I was hurting him. I kept going
though. I was unstoppable. He was holding onto my arms, gripping them,
trying to hurt me maybe with a pinch, trying to push me away but unable
to finish the action. "Stop."

"I'm not going to stop until you tell me you hate it."

"Ugh, please. I can't do this."

"Tell me you hate it bitch."

"I hate it. I fuckin' hate this."

"No, I mean your life with your boyfriend, tell me it's killing you and
that you want to be with me. Tell me you want to be with me."
"Never."

"Come on bitch, I could fuck you all night muthafucka!"

"No, don't, stop please."
"Tell me you hate him."
"No."

I fucked him hard, we were nearing the fence I was pushing against him so
hard, it was as if the waterfall threatened to crush his head, but it was
only a vine. I leaned down and licked his face shamelessly. He wrenched
away from me and then I started to jerk him.

"No, don't make me cum, please. Anything but that."

"No bitch, I want all your cum, I want to taste you so hot."

I felt his hips trying to shake me but I fucked him and jerked him and
when I felt his anus clenching my thick meat I lowered my head down and
felt his cum, hot and silky, splashing onto my lips and face and got some
in my mouth and I couldn't believe how great it tasted.

But you know how it is, right, when you're a bottom and you've cum and
the guy's still fucking you and it's just not the same. It hurts more or
something, you're just not as into it. That's why I kept fucking him. I
kept it up and thrusted my dick into him without mercy.

I smelled shit and knew that I had just fucked the shit out of him. He
opened his mouth to the heavens in a silent cry. He was truly wishing his
Persian Prince would save him. He wasn't coming. Not any time soon. I
lowered again as my balls slapped against his ass and there was no room
between us, my cock being driven with a relentless lack of mercy further
and further, burrowing even the thick end of my shaft in as much as
possible, putting him at the edge of excruciation. Then even more than
that I started to slide on finger in with it, and when he started to moan
real loud I got down and shoved my tongue in his gaping mouth to keep him
quiet. blanketed in the moan of his sweet pain, with my ear so close to
his mouth, crumpling him in my arms, I could hear him whispering
something. Something like a name, and for a moment there I could have
sworn I heard him say mine.

That made me cum.

I pulled my cock out of his ass and got up on the back of his legs,
pressing his knees over his shoulders, cumming into his face, all over
his face, degrading him with my load. I threw my face up to the sky and
tightened all the muscles in my back, like a mermaid crashing through the
surface of the water, grunting, mounted on top of him, forcing him to
accept the loads of cream on his face. There was so much cream there too.
It went into his gorgeous hair, onto his hat, all over his perfectly
shaped eyes. It was ridiculous how much of it I shot on him and then when
it was over I lay back and I couldn't believe how the stars burned
brightly and the night sky moaned, like a sea writhing with black
creatures witnessing what had happened.

And as I lay there, slain like a dragon with my own sword in my heart, I
felt everything about me shrinking, as it was with him, subsiding and
passing and clearing and the cascading vine siezed to move and the
silence became like a charcoal painting on silver paper, the sky was like
water, I could swear I saw ripples. I rolled over and saw that he was
already moving around, that the grass was mashed down where it had
happened, I looked the other way. I couldn't move.

He was up by the door, the French doors, his skin all dirty and a bruise
on either elbow. He'd thrown his clothes back on but I think he'd gone
for the cigarettes.

He came back down to me and I lay there, naked, dick wreaking like his
shit, my whole body oozing with the stench of chemical and sweat and
musk, dirty with grass stains and mud. He didn't have shoes on and I
could see everything about his feet as they came across the lawn at me. I
was so out of it, the acid was crazy hard at this time. I was so sketched
out, you know. I'd just raped the beautiful boy and now he had the upper
hand, he approached me. He tossed a cigarette at my face, he lit his own
in the same movement. I can't even remember how it got in mouth, if I
moved to place in my lips I don't know, but suddenly I saw, as if from
inside myself the fire of the lighter lighting the cigarette, my body
seemed to remember how to enhale. I was so upset with myself, with what
I'd let myself become. When he was done lighting his cigarette he just
stood up and lowered his fly and whipped out his dick.

That inspired me to move but he lifted and put his left foot on my chest,
up by my neck to hold me down, pressing me onto the ground. He took out
his balls and everything and just started to piss. His stream shot out
and it hit my crotch, it was hot, I think, it wreaked though. It was a
lot of water, probably a day of disco's worth of water. He let it out all
over me. When he got bored with unleashing it on my cock and balls, up to
my belly he came with it, then onto my chest, my nipples. He sprayed his
own foot with it, he didn't care, he held the cigarette in the corner of
his mouth while he did it too. He was so hot still.

He saw me looking and started pissing all over my face, I turned to the
side to get out of the splash, I shut my eyes as it went right up by my
temple, into my hair, then down on my cheek, the cigarette got a little
wet, not bad though. When he stopped I was still able to draw smoke from
it, through the sopping pissy filter. He shook his shaft and for some
reason I wanted more of it, I reached out and wanted to catch every last
drop on me. But there was none to be had. When he was done with that he
lowered himself on me, straddling my shoulders, I didn't fight him
anymore, he just eased himself onto my chest.

He started jerking off right above my face, he didn't say anything
either, I just watched him jerk himself into an erection. I felt him fart
through his underwear and pants too, from my fucking him, it was hot on
my skin, it was hot no matter which way you looked at it.

He took out my cigarette and pushed his cock at my mouth. He quietly
said, "Suck it, get it wet."

I did my job. It tasted better than it had before. I sucked it loosely,
meaning I let all my saliva collect on in the grooves around the head and
helmut. His pants were getting wet in the piss that cooled on me. I
stunk. He pulled out and put my cigarette back in my mouth after letting
the ash fall degradingly on my neck. He continued jerking himself slowly.
He did this for about five minutes. He just let the orgasm sort of come
out of him, like I mean he came and it went all over my mouth and the
cigarette and shot up the side of my face, but it wasn't like he made it
loud or violent or passionate or anything, he just scrunched up his face,
his eyebrows bent up, and he just thrusted his taut hips on my torso only
so slightly. He wiped the excess on my chin.

When he was down he leaned down and said, "Like that, bitch. Just like
that." I wanted him to kiss me.

He stood up and took the gate out to the side of the lawn when he left
the place. He didn't look back, I barely moved.

Suddenly I heard music from one of the rooms and remembered there was a
party and stuff. I shook myself and got up. I was naked. I grabbed my
clothes and was just dressed in time to see my friend, the girl that had
been partying with the guy the whole time, arrive at the French doors.
She asked where Albert had gone. I told her he'd just gone home, like
nothing had happened, that she'd "just just" missed him. She didn't think
anything had happened. She asked if I wanted to take more, go to the park
that was nearby, and just hang out for a while. I told her I would, to
roll a joint with my stuff and get me a pill, I wanted to have a shower
first.

She reminded me that the people who'd gone out to Montreal were probably
having the times of their lives right now -- best party ever -- kind of
night. I said, "The acid's a bitch eh?"

"Want more?"