From: lindsay@kingston.ac.uk (John Lindsay)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.erotica
Subject: What's the Chicken?
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Date: 29 Jan 1996 05:36:00 GMT
Organization: rec.arts.erotica immoderation
Lines: 155
Message-ID: <4ehmc0$q1@netaxs.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: unix5.netaxs.com
Keywords: mm mutual
X-Moderator-Review: 10: curious title, elegant story. With some proofreading, IMHO this is publishable.
X-Ava-Review: 10: "When you're lovers in a dangerous time / Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime..." Lovely little piece.
X-Approved-By: handler@sub-rosa.com (Michael Handler)
Originator: grendel@unix5.netaxs.com

Archive-name: whats-chicken

What's the chicken?

I was leaning against the balcony of the roof of the Palacio del Valle
looking across Cienfeugos Bay sipping a mojito when Ivory slipped his arms
around my waist.  I could tell it was Ivory as the arms were thinner than
Richard's, and I could tell it was not Virgil as they were lighter.  He
squeezed me tightly, then slipped a hand into the armhole of my vest and
began to tweak my nipple.  I could feel his cock pressing against my arse
and his other hand joined the other nipple and began to tune me in.

Then a hand ran down the hair on my chest, combing it through his fingers,
down to the top of my shorts, inside and pulled up to my stomach what was
becoming a very uncomfortable erection down the side of my leg.  On the
street below children were playing unconcernedly.  Two boys rode by on a
bicycle, looked up and broke into a broad grin as they saw the four armed
beast.

There was a period while I was still looking at the view and admiring the
sun passing through the clouds and the shapes of the buildings of a hundred
years of booms and busts, of belle epoche grandeur now tattered but
attractive, more so without people, through the trees.  Then there was a
period when his stroking became more insistent and I began to lose interest
in anything except that.

I reached behind to feel his cock, then pulled down his zip and slipped my
in hand .  Thus we stood for some long time.  Squeezing and hugging, his
nose nuzzling my ear and his tongue stroking it.  He wasn't bad for a
straight.

My shorts could easily be slipped down and he could be inside me, a head
shorter so not uncomfortable, but I didn't have a condom and some sense
held.

I wondered whether I could turn round, or if that would break his
concentration and his fantasy.  Then he lifted a hand and began to stroke
my beard, long strokes from my forehead right round to my chin.  As I
turned, he effortlessly slipped his hand round without losing grip or
pulse.  Face to face we fondled one another, noses and cheeks, beard and
chin, faster and slower, tightly, top and bottom.

Actually none of that happened at all: he was sitting talking with the
other two the whole time as I stood looking out over the bay.  Then I
walked over to the other side of the roof and looked out over the town:
more turrets, more baroque, streching right up the Prado.  Ivory came over,
rested his hand on my shoulder and asked me, in French, what I was thinking
of, and I replied, "the whole world".  Then the others joined us and we
walked down stairs to sit on the sea wall

The two hunters had picked us up the previous night, but just after we'd
sorted out our particular and pallidar, a disappointment for them.  None
the less we agreed to meet later than night and did.  It was the 30th
December and the town was at party: the whole town.  We sat on a step and
chatted.  Ivory took me for a walk through the crowd and I had the unusual
sensation of towering above everyone, a good head higher, and much bigger.
I'm accustomed to that glance in any town, face, cock, face; usually with a
wince after the first face and the other two missed out.  Sometimes all
three then a head turns away.   But here is was different: face, cock,
feet.  And now the glances stayed fixed for moments but whether on my cock
or my feet I couldn't tell.  My Cats were the butchest and sexiest thing in
town.

Virgil, the darker, was an electronic engineer with an interest in
computing and some English, Ivory spoke some French.  It took us some time
and many explanations to get across what being gay was, or that was their
game.  In any event they weren't into it.  We parted at midnight agreeing
to meet the following day to corrupt their revolution another stage.
Richard had discovered the marvels of tourist dollars in walking into the
hotel shop past a long queue waiting for the chance to spend a year's
savings on jeans or t-shirts as the prices fell at the end so the targets
could be met.  Thus everyone waiting.  And he'd agreed to take them in,
past the queue.

And so they did, successfully I gathered for when I returned from my walk
the next arrangement was that they would help us with our bags on their
bikes to the hotel to meet the bus back to Havana.  This they did and that
was how we'd come to be on the roof of the Palace, where they'd never been
before, or so they said, sipping mojitos, them holding the shirts they'd
been given to avoid carrying the weight back to Havana.

I'd been so taken by the entusiasm my cats had attracted that I decided a
habit of a lifetime should be broken and a photograph taken: Richard's
camera to capture my Lee vest, elasthern revenge black shorts, beard, chest
and cats!  But it was Richard's idea that it would be better with Ivory
standing next to me, then with his arm around my neck, while I slipped mine
round his waist, began to stroke under his arm and tease his nipple, all of
which produced a wide grin a tight squeeze and our whole bodies molded
together.  Our straight friend was becoming flexible.

Then I reciprocated in clicking for Virgil and Richard.

The three of them went off, I refilled my glass. It was that moment which
produced the dream of heaven without which we cannot live.

Sitting on the sea wall I was wondering whether I could renew the sense by
resting my hand above his trousers on his back, when almost telling what I
was thinking, he put two fingers to his shoulder.  I leaned over and asked
Richard what it meant and he said "Police".  Looking over across the car
park by the front of the hotel, there they were in a car.  We sat, the
three of them talking, me sitting in silence, for a while.  The car started
up, drove out of the hotel, past us, stopped, reversed then that
supercillious flicking of the finger of policemen the world over.  He had a
vicious tight face, moustache, gun, long truncheon which beggered the are
you pleased to see me?

The three got up and walked to them.  I stayed sitting.  I have no Spanish
and therefore could not contribute and I have a bravura insolence to
authority which has landed me in as much trouble as it has got me out of,
so staying clear if possible was the best.

The police looked at the Cubans' documents, talked into their mobile radios
and pushed them into the back of the car, moving over a young woman who was
already there. Were they going to shove us in as well, and take us off?
We'd miss the bus back to Havana, not able to communicate, stuck in a Cuban
prison on no charge, for how long?  On the other side of the island, with
all our documents stuck in the hotel's left luggage.   Not a word to us, no
request for our passports, no explanation, no apology, just drove off.  The
last we saw was the two smiles and Virgil's wave from the back window.  The
thin razorblade road the friends of Dorothy walk, between heaven and hell.

We went back to the hotel and had a coffee.  The bus was now more than an
hour late.  Sitting there the dark gloom began to descend.  Were the boys
going to just have 600 pesos taken off them to be pocketed by the police?
Were they going to be beaten up to confess they'd taken us to a particular?
 Were they going to be beaten up to confess that we'd fucked them?  Were
the police going to come back and arrest us for having stayed in a
particular and eaten the meal of a pallidar, even if it was prepared by the
wife of a senior party official?  Were they going to arrest us for being
mariccones, force us to have tests, find us HIV+ and accuse us of infecting
the boys?  I coughed again.  I've never had a test, I prefer not to know, I
certainly don't want to find out like this.  Or were they just telling them
not to consort with foreign imperialist queers who were just after their
arses and whose dollars were not worth having and in that the Pope and
Paisley would agree (except maybe for the imperial bit), give them a slap
of encouragement and drop them in town?

Then a police car drove into the carpark of the hotel, drew up, and waited.
 No one got out.  Did they know we were in the foyer, could they see us?

Shortly behind it the bus, our baggage loaded and on the way back to
Havana.  The yellow brick road between heaven and hell is one brick wide:
heaven never turns out to be what it might, and hell seldom quite as bad as
one's imagination.

John Lindsay
School of Information Systems
Kingston University
KT1 1 2EE
United Kingdom
url = http://infosys.kingston.ac.uk/Kingston/ISSchool/StaffCV/LINDSAY.html
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