Date: Thu, 03 Feb 2005 23:56:10 +0000
From: Graham Collett <graham_cro_uk@hotmail.com>
Subject: Forbidden

The events and characters in the following story are entirely fictional. Any
resemblance to actual events or persons is purely coincidental.

* * *

My story is brief, though not inconsequential to me. Sigmund Freud might
have surmised that I constructed my dream through subconscious observation.
But I have always thought that Freud sounds so much like fraud. Besides
which, I have never met anyone with an Oedipus complex, although there are
certainly plenty of motherf**kers in the world. Trust me, I work with most
of them.

The dream involved my best friend having sex with my boyfriend; regular
fodder for Jerry Springer and agony aunts, I think you'll agree, but
probably uncommon to most sentient beings with an IQ of over 50. So the
dream was lucid, but a dream is a dream right? It's some absurd work of
metaphysics, conjured up from the abstract allusions of the subconscious.
Well, it was, until I confronted my boyfriend, Joe with my unholy vision. At
first he shifted nervously on the sofa, trying to phrase a response. Perhaps
I caught him off-guard as he stuttered something unintelligible and
floundered for words.

Vivid dreams have a haunting quality about them. I was at work when an image
of Joe fucking my best friend, Tony, invaded my thoughts like some unwelcome
interloper. Joe was slamming my friend like a jackhammer, pulling it out to
the glistening tip then ramming it back home. Tony was clinging to the bed
sheets in closed-eyed delirium, sweating like a stuffed pig and jerking
madly in some blind frenzy of forbidden pleasure.

The day I heard Joe's confession taught me to trust in my dreams. It taught
me to give credence to the intangible and offer cynicism to the logical. It
taught me to trust in my intuition as Joe appeased his conscience by
imparting his intimate confessional.

Joe is black, African by origin. He is about 40 but struts around as if he's
god's gift to women. His physique is lithe and muscular. His baggy clothes
conceal a taut athletic frame and he sports a surprisingly large appendage.
He was circumcised and has stabbed plenty of girl-meat over the years. He
has even got a couple of girls pregnant, but he is scanty on detail about
this. He is certainly experienced in servicing them and I don't doubt his
ability to satisfy. Besides, he doesn't need references. I can testify to
his sexual veracity. A smile seems to have fleetingly passed over my lips.

I have often wondered what he sees in me. After all, I am not even his
preferred gender. I am just some creative type who regales him with poetry
and happens not to get jealous about his dalliances with girls. I suppose
that I understand that his attentions will inevitably be divided. Provided
that the other party was a girl, it did not seem to be conflict of interests
to me somehow. I was just his special guy who tolerated that certain
loveable roguishness. Besides, sexuality is more fluid in Africa. People
tend not to attach labels to the direction that that their desire leads
them. They lack the western fixation to categorise sexuality into neat
little boxes.

I diverge. I will attempt to unravel the spool of events and retrace time
back through its dark labyrinthine corridors. I will attempt to confront
this demon of betrayal. My friend is called Tony. When events took place he
had nowhere to live, so I allowed him an indefinite stay in my London flat.
We've known one another since school, which amounts to 25 years. We've
shared loss, heartache, and put the world to rights on numerous occasions. I
would say that he is scholarly; he attended Oxford University. He has also
studied many of the mystic teachings of Hinduism. He has often lectured me
about the importance of transcending the ego and overcoming the more base
instincts within myself (ironic laugh). I would have even described him as a
mentor; a platonic friend who bestowed wisdom and learning.

That morning, I left the flat for work. Tony looked at me with his big brown
doey eyes.
"Have a good day, Graham," he grinned.
"Thanks." As usual, I did not relish the idea of 8 hours with certain
homophobic work colleagues. Joe was lying on the bed in his shorts, his mind
assuredly on pussy. Tony reclined on the sofa, looking furtively though the
bedroom door over a herbal tea and a rice cake. He had no intention of
wasting time.
"Hey Joe, d'you want a coffee?"
"Huh?" Joe was still recovering from the previous night of excess.
"Coffee. I can make some toast for you too if want?" Joe was roused slightly
from his stupor.
"Okay, that would be nice." He intoned, afraid to open his eyes and unleash
a blinding flood of daylight. The breakfast was soon forthcoming. Tony
lounged next to Joe on the bed, kicking his feet out from the edge like some
coy debutante. He eyed him demurely as Joe ate with considerable relish.
"Is that okay for you Joe?"
"Hmm... nice" Joe folded the remaining piece of toast into his eager maw.
"Would you like a massage, Joe?" Joe felt hesitant, but then dismissed the
idea that there was some hidden agenda to the offer.
"Okay."

Tony had studied Shiatsu massage for years. He knew all there was to know
about 'meridians' and 'pressure points'. He was well versed in which buttons
to press. He had even advertised in gay circles as a masseuse. His stories
of offering optional extras to clientele had amused me on numerous
occasions. Joe turned over, sinking his face into the pillow. Expert hands
kneaded and caressed his back. Joe was grateful for the attention. He was
still dazed from the drinking spree the previous night. I have no doubt that
he wished that they were my hands easing away his knots and tensions,
however, he felt a certain inexorable stirring.
"I can do your chest too if you want?" Tony purred, trying to sound
incidental.
"Okay."

Tony gazed in awe as he applied his hands to the compact muscles of Joe's
chest. He shifted his knees, bestriding him, hungry eyes flitting over the
large twitching outline in Joe's shorts. He removed his shirt, revealing a
rather scrawny torso, working his hands over the temporary object of his
desire. As he felt Joe's prick pressing into his thighs, he began to work
the ridge of his butt over it. Perhaps, he may have pondered the ethical
connotations of his actions, but it seems unlikely. After trawling the
Internet for some years, experience had taught him not to miss the
opportunity of a discreet ad-hoc fuck. With his short, skinny body, blotchy
skin and flat batty, he did not have the luxury of choice. Any hard,
cylindrical object was eligible. To this day, I still ponder the
disappearance of the large candles that I used to own.

I would like to think that Tony considered our 25 year friendship as he
yanked off Joe's shorts and pushed his undergarments to his knees. But as
his bare buttocks toyed with Joe's impressive shaft, it seems more likely
that his mind was occupied with more basal urges. Tony began to jerk off his
large ill-gotten prize, looking it over with delight. It was a good 9 inches
and thick. Around the impressive edifice was a dense matt of pubes trailing
of to the undulating foothills of large bulbous balls. Tony knew only too
well that his quarry had a high libido. I had informed him of Joe's sexual
marathon some years ago, when he had serviced three girls in one day while
in Nigeria. Perhaps that is part of his allure; a beguiling aura of
masculine sexual potency.

Tony was consumed with a rabid lust as he continued to work the prick with
expert hands, guiding it greedily to his insatiable butt. Despite its
dimensions, it was quickly embedded with one swift downward thrust, sending
Tony into hysteria of frenzied lust. He tossed himself maniacally as he rode
the rearing beast at full gallop. Panting, sweating and looking skyward in
gratitude as Joe's rigid manhood rammed deeper into his well-explored
arsehole. There was no need to look at Joe, or savour a kiss. No need to
touch his athletic body. There was only one sun burning in his universe, a
furnace that was being stoked in his loins and illuminating his being with
the power of atomic fusion. As Tony ascended towards greater bliss in his
rapacious loins, the world outside paled into a dark occlusion. Past lives,
friendships, eclipsed by the incandescent flame of wanton desire. Sensation
and baseness had woven its spell of moral waywardness and the great guru no
longer practised what he preached. He was wallowing in the mire of
debauchery and joyous in his enslavement to lust.

As Tony drove Joe's organ ever deeper, the rising tide of orgasm overtook
him. Joe grabbed his thighs anxious to discharge his own frustration into
the loose-moralled slut who had 'given it up' at the first available
opportunity. Tony had no thought of what was attached to the prick as he
shot his load over Joe's hairy chest, marvelling at the exquisite torment
that escaped his being in long ecstatic squirts.

Joe continued to thrust upwards, escalating his own selfish bliss that had
no regard for form or type. This was just an easy fuck; somewhere to pour
frustration without utterances of 'I love you'. Joe slam-dunked his shot
into the ring like a pro. He groaned as his load sprayed up into the piece
of nubile flesh that had given him release.

Tony grinned and climbed of him, his mind already preoccupied with thoughts
of other guys. He threw a towel over Joe as if casting aside yet another
transient encounter.

I returned to the flat late that evening. I was feeling quite down about
another day in the company of bigots. I planted a kiss on Joe's lips with a
sense of awkwardness in front of Tony. Tony sat at his laptop, dredging the
Internet for more casual liaisons and smiling at a web cam. Still, I
thought, that was just his way. He is just having fun. At that time I still
mistakenly believed in his integrity as a person.

I guess I should have trusted in my dream. I remember that Tony had already
mentioned that 'Joe is a handsome man' before the event, but I assumed that
thought and deed were separated by ethics. With hindsight, my sense of
betrayal is compounded by that remark, because it suggests there was
forethought to his actions. Maybe this is why I cannot forgive. I no longer
see either of them. Perhaps, reader, you might consider me to be judgmental.
But as our three separate lives diverge, I realise one thing; I need trust
as much as I need love. I need to believe that friends and lovers consider
some things to be forbidden.

Graham Collett copyright 2004