Narrativa

Tattoo: two

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:34:49 GMT

I lie on my back on our hastily-made bed, my hips resting on the edge, with lengths of clinical blue medical paper sheets and impermeable plastic underneath me. Bright spots are dancing in my eyes from the lights Jade had set up, aimed directly at my lower stomach. I’m wearing just my Tattoo Pants, the super-comfy faded grey sweatpants that are almost as stained with ink as I am. They’ve seen a lot of ink, blood and needles, and pulling them on always gives me a rush — like a surge of pre-endorphins. I hook one thumb at the waist to nudge them a little lower, giving Jade more room to work with.

Grinning, I toy with the silver ring in my lip and watch Jade check and double check to make sure he has everything he needs, muttering to himself the whole time. “…Autoclave’s run, sealed needles, gun, ink, ink pockets, ink pocket holder, tissues, cold cream, antiseptic spray, water spray, dressing, dressing tape…”

He looks at me, anxiety marring his features, “Have I forgotten anything Dave? Don’t let me fuck this up.”
I smile back up at him, “Gloves? Other than that, I think you’ve got it all.” He jumps about a foot in the air, looking round frantically for the medical gloves. I suppress a grin, “I’ve been shaved, sterilized and stenciled; Jade, relax. We’re all set. You’re awesome, it’s gonna be great.”

He takes a deep breath and sits on the padded stool he set up between my knees, smoothing my skin beneath his hands. “You’re sure it’s where you want it to be? It’s centred okay?”
“Jade, it’s fine. Just get to it already!” My stomach twitches as I try to contain my laughter at his fussing.
“Don’t move! Please Dave; I want this to be perfect.” His wide, worried eyes bore into mine, making me fall for him all over again.
“Jade, however it turns out, it’s gonna be perfect. ‘Cause it was by you. Please, trust me, it’ll be fine.” I reach out to touch his rounded cheeks to share my confidence through our skin-to-skin contact.

Slowly he exhales, and holds up a needle in its sterile packaging. “Sterile needle, unopened,” he waves his gloved hands at me, “sterile latex gloves. I’m opening the sterile needle now.”
“JADE! I think it’s a bit late for us to be worrying about AIDS. Jeeze… Will you get on? I’m dyin’ here…”

He gives me a small grin and takes a deep breath. Carefully, he attaches the cable to his battered second-hand tattoo gun and steps on the switch. The gentle vibrating buzz fills the air, and I melt away from the room, swept away on a wave of images of every single time I’d ever sat in front of a tattooist, every single rush of anticipation flooding back to me. The first time, the next, the last, every artist and every room or tent or van that I’ve sat in, waiting for another permanent mark to cover up my faults and flaws. To restore me.

“Ready?”

I nod distantly, not really connected to what’s happening anymore. I’m shutting my eyes and breathing deeply, waiting for that first bite. His gentle touch on my stomach, followed by that first harsh slice of the needle…

It always amazes me, that the first time the needle swipes across the skin — injecting its ink thousands of times a second — there’s no pain. Not once has that first stroke hurt me in the slightest. The second, the third, the three hundredth, the three thousandth… maybe. But the first just feels soothing and pure. As if it’s letting all the tension and stress pour out of me.

“Love you.” His voice is soft and comes from far away and then my only link to what’s real is his gloved touch on my stomach, stretching the skin taut; and then the warm, welcoming thrill of that first stroke of the needle. It feels so perfect; like coming home to a cosy house in a snowstorm.

There’s a knack to getting tattooed; dealing with that needle puncturing your skin over and over and over for minutes or hours at a time. I know some people who have passed out after barely 60 seconds. Because they tried to hide from the pain: something that’s impossible. The trick is to embrace the pain and accept it. The worst thing you can do it to try to block it out and pretend it’s not there. Your body won’t believe you.

So I shut my eyes and mentally reach out towards the needle and the gentle vibrations flowing through my skin. I wrap my mind around it and visualise those tiny tips of stainless steel forcing their way through the keratin, through the epidermis, embedding themselves into the dermis and pulling their cargos of ink into my skin by capillary action, then retracting back, leaving a tiny deposit of pigment implanted permanently in my body. I try to catch the feeling of just one entry and retreat; then let myself drift into the noise and pulsation and let the heat of it build up, wrapping myself around the discomfort until it teeters on the edge of being painful…

And then he pauses; bringing me back, smoothing over my wounded skin with cold cream and tissue, swiping the blood and excess ink away along with the sting and heat. And I exhale, and inhale and exhale again just before the buzzing starts again and the next line is punctured into me.

Drone and silence, pain and soothing, heat and cool, touch and emptiness… all rolling into the ultimate sensory experience. I don’t know how long it took — I never do. I did know when it was over — even before Jade finally sat back on his heels, whispering, “Dave?” The feel of completion wraps itself around me, and my eyes flicker open to see that he has teeth marks on his lip and sweat in his eyes as he uncouples the machine from the power, anxiously scanning my face for my reaction.

Slowly I reach my hand towards his and feel the smooth, gloved fingers, slightly sticky with ink and my blood, against my own bare ones as a smile curls on my lips. "I'm okay," I say softly, “I’m perfect.”

He leans his head to one side, absently stripping off the soiled gloves and tossing them in the trash, searching my eyes as though trying to find truth in them before a smile of his own finally forms on his face. "You are," he whispers, “but you always have been.”

Still smiling, I shake my head at the flattery even as he crawls up over me and places a warm slow kiss on my lips. "Shush you," he smiles, kissing me again, his chest hard against mine, "you need to learn to take a compliment." Another kiss and I give in, pulling him closer to me, moving my hips to meet his… until his belt buckle grazes the wounded flesh of my lower stomach and I let out an embarrassingly girly yelp as I reflexively curl up, violently pushing him off me. He hits the floor, looking adorably flustered and horrified that he may have hurt me and despite the lingering stabs of pain I giggle at his anxious expression.

“Shit Dave, I’m so sorry… Christ, I’m such a fuckup — are you ok? I can’t believe I just did that…” I listen to his flustered self admonishments with half an ear as I select a dressing from the stack he brought in earlier and carefully clean the clotting blood and ink away from the new tattoo with a sterile wipe. He gets up, still muttering to himself, “I could have really hurt you — I could have ruined the tattoo, I’m such a fucking asshole, you must hate me, I’m so sorry…”

“Jade, shut up and help me with this, okay?” I wave the dressing in his general direction, hoping to distract him from his tirade against himself. “Where’s the tape?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m sorry.” I roll my eyes behind his back as he scrabbles through the junk on our desk and comes up with a roll of sterile dressing tape. “Hold still, lemme put this on you.” Carefully, he places the dressing over my raw skin, and I can feel the warmth from the palms of his hands as he presses the soft material down gently, taping it securely into place.

“Okay, now leave that on for two hours. And then wash it with lukewarm water and apply Tattoo Goo, thinly, three times a day for the next two weeks. No submerging in water for a while and avoid prolonged sun exposure. No picking, touching, scratching… what?” He finally registers the incredulous look on my face, his monologue trailing off mid-sentence. I gesture between the two of us.
“You are telling me how to look after baby tattoos?” He gives me a blank stare.

I spread my arms, inviting him to see the mass of colour and ink covering up all sign of my actual skin tone from shoulder to wrist. “Mr. ‘It-Itches!-I-Can-Always-Have-It-Redone!’ is giving me, Mr. ‘Over-60%-Coverage-And-Not-One-Problem’, aftercare instructions?” I cock my head and glare at him.

He blushes and starts on another set of apologies and regrets. I shut him up with a swipe at his head, before standing up and stretching. “Shush ye, and go fetcheth me a tankard of water!” I point imperiously at the door, acting the Lord and Master.
He nods apologetically and stands to leave; actually making it out the door before turning and glaring at me “Hey wait; what am I, your bitch?”

I giggle and flop back onto the bed, feeling the adrenaline slowly ebbing from my blood. “Yup. Come here and suck me, bitch.” I make “come hither” motions with a finger and arch my back, tossing my head back like a pornstar. He colours bright scarlet and glances nervously around as if someone’s gonna jump out of a cupboard and declare their disgust at us. He’s never quite got over the hiding thing… Incredibly though, he does actually come over and drop to his knees at the foot of our bed. My jolt of surprise is swept away by the sudden rush of blood to my cock. Submissive-Jade is damn hot. Which raises some interesting ideas…

He looks up at me, clear brown eyes peeking out from behind floppy hair, and tugs at my Tattoo Pants. I obligingly raise my hips, wondering if he’ll actually go through with it. His breath is hot on my flushed skin and he rests a hand just under each hipbone, carefully avoiding the new tattoo. There’s a long pause filled with delicious anticipation and just as I’m sure he’s about to back out, the wetness of his mouth surrounds me and I lose myself to his lips and tongue. He may be shy, but he knows just how to make me moan.

I slide my hands down over my skin, twine my fingers with his. For a while I revel in the perfection of it all, he’s so damn good… But I have to stop him or it’ll all end embarrassingly soon. Slowly I start to tug at him, pulling him up my body. His mouth comes off me and the cold air rushes in to replace it, the change of sensation making me inhale sharply. He snakes up me, keeping distance between us in consideration of the fresh tattoo, and kisses the curve of my jaw. I frown at him. “Why are you so fully dressed when I’m so very naked?” I tug at his shirt, wanting his skin against mine.

He smiles and kisses me before pulling his shirt over his head. I’m kissing his stomach, his ribs, his chest, before he’s even got his arms out of the sleeves. I lick a line up to his collarbone as he tosses the shirt somewhere in the direction of the door and throws his head back to let me bite at his throat. My hands fumble at his waist, wrestling with his belt and the fastenings of his jeans, before hastily pushing his pants down, hooking my toes into the fabric and kicking them off him.

His tongue is hot and wet against mine and his damp breath rushes past my cheek in short pants. I wrap a leg around his hip and pull us together — completely forgetting about the wound on my belly. With a yelp I jerk away, rolling onto my back and trying to relax my stomach muscles. Jade sits up, scrambling away from me so he doesn’t hurt me again. He’s full of concern, already apologising profusely; beside himself with remorse.

Hissing a breath out between my teeth, I clamber to my knees and shove him roughly, catching him by surprise so he falls flat on his back. I grab his ankles, pulling him across the bed a foot or so. He lets out a sharp yell and I entangle my fingers with his, using him to stabilise myself as I clamber up to straddle him. Gripping him tightly, I pull his hands up over his head and kiss him.

He doesn’t realise what I’m doing until his wrists are securely fastened to the bedstead by his belt. He stares up at me, confused, maybe even a little scared. “Jade, please, look at me.” I nod down at myself, sat on his thighs.

His eyes widen. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe… I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry Dave, I never meant to hurt you. I won’t do it again. We’ll stop now. I-” I roll my eyes, resisting the urge to shake him.
“Honey, not the tattoo. A little lower than that.” I look down meaningfully and he follows my eyes, taking in how incredibly hard I am, despite the brief stab of pain a moment ago. “And look at you.” He’s in a similar state, though suffering a little from the sudden change in mood.

I lean in and wrap my arms round his shoulders, nuzzling his neck, carefully keeping my stomach away from his body. He turns his head and kisses my neck and earlobe, whispering softly, “I love you. I never want to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”
I pull away, sitting up and glaring at him. “I swear, if you apologise one more time I’m gonna leave you like this.” I bounce a bit on my knees to add weight to the threat.
“Sorry. Uh, I mean… Shit!” He flushes again and shifts under me, testing the bindings. I kinda like him helpless like this.

“Okay, that was the last one. Don’t be sorry. You could never hurt me. Shush now.” I reach down his body, keeping my touch light to tease him but not bothering to hide where I’m heading. He twitches at my touch and I press my lips to his as my fingers wrap around him; my tongue pulses against his in time with my hand’s slow, sure movements. He exhales slowly into my mouth in a silent moan that I mirror, turned on by turning him on.

Carefully, still very aware of the fresh wound on my stomach, I crawl down him, sucking and nipping at his caramel skin as I go. I forego the teasing and wrap my mouth firmly around him, taking him by surprise. His hips jerk up and I snake my hand under his thigh and move it to cup his ass while I press my tongue firmly against him. He bites back a gasp and the muted noise sends a jolt of lust straight to my cock.

I drag myself away with one last long lick and crawl back up his body to kiss his lips once again, reaching out for the lube while my tongue keeps him occupied. I pump a couple of squirts into my palm and snake my hand back between his legs, distracting him by biting at his lip. He squirms beneath me when my fingers begin their soft wet probing between his buttocks. He pulls against the restraints, wiggling his fingers as if that’ll magically release him. I smile at his mock helplessness; we both know he could get out if he wanted to, but the illusion adds a new note that I, for one, am finding incredibly sexy.

I slide slick fingers into him, wiggling and twisting a little to spread the lube around, and then withdraw to coat myself with the last of it. Then carefully, trying to ignore the mild stabs of pain from the wound on my stomach, I push my hips forward and guide myself in. I love watching his face when we do this; his eyes sort of go really wide and then close up while his mouth falls open in a silent yell. He’s so beautiful. And there’s something about knowing that I simply couldn’t be any closer to him that makes it all sweeter.

Usually we make love chest-to-chest, lip-to-lip. As much skin contact as we can manage while we move together in perfect sync with each other. I love being able to kiss him and whisper into his ear and feel our sweat mingle between our bodies. But now the pain from the fresh tattoo forces me to sit up, bringing distance between us to relieve the sting. And though part of me is enjoying the discomfort in some masochistic way, a larger part knows that it’s not worth a messed up tattoo, no matter how sexy Jade looks when he has naughty things whispered into his ear.

Sitting with him tied beneath me feels incredibly dirty and I’m feeling extremely turned on at the control I have from up here. I rock into him harder and faster, enjoying his snatched gasps, the way he’s slowly becoming less quiet as the sensations wash over him. I reach down and stroke him with wet fingers, lube mixing with precome and saliva. He shudders and moans properly, no longer biting back and trying to be quiet. I can feel the blood pulsing in his cock and know that neither of us will last much longer, evidently he’s as turned on by the change in technique as I am…

We move harder, getting more frantic. His head is thrown back and he’s moaning out with each stroke of my hand. I can’t believe how sexy the noises he’s making are. I grip him tightly and watch his body shake as he comes hard into my hand. His body slumps into the bed and he’s panting as he looks up at me from under his hair. Desperately, I reach forward and release his hands, but the shift makes me lose my balance and I fall onto him. The sharp pain from the tattoo adds a high note to the symphony of sensation running through me and I come hard into him, the pleasure completely overriding the pain.

We stay there for a long moment, our frantic hearts and breathing slowly returning to normal, the adrenaline ebbing out of the bloodstream. I lie on my side, Jade behind me; his body pressed against mine from the entwining of our feet to the press of his lips on my neck. Time stretches out and all there is is us. Nothing else matters, nothing else exists.

I feel sleep tugging at us and I whisper softly, “I love you Jade.” There’s no reply. He’s already asleep, but I know that somewhere he heard me from the gentle shift of his body against mine, the tiny tug of his hand on my hip, pulling me closer. His breath warms me and I press one hand to the dressing on my stomach, feeling the ink embedded in me; and let myself fall into soft, comforting dreams, safe in his arms.

Only love could ever tear us apart.

Tattoo: one

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:31:49 GMT

Dawn light is creeping through the gap in the curtains, giving the room a muted silvery glow. I turn over, away from it, silently willing it away, not wanting this night to end. I shift closer to Jade, into the warmth of his smooth bare skin, and smile into the half-light as he sighs in his sleep and holds onto my hand as if anxious that I would ever leave him.

Slowly I raise my head from the pillow to place a kiss on his cheek. A stray lock of my long hair slips off from behind my ear as I press my lips against his face, and I hear him sputter groggily, trying to get my hair out of his nose and mouth without losing any sleep at the same time. I grin, then a quiet, breathy chuckle follows as I pull my hair back with one hand and shift so my chest is tight against his back. I know he’ll enjoy this good morning greeting.

Still with a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth I trail feather-light kisses along his neck and shoulders as my sign of apology of having woken him up. I hear a grunt, a soft moan, then finally a string of mumbled words in his raspy morning voice, ending with a "Tease."

"Silly," I smile and kiss his neck once again. "Silly, silly, silly..." I breathe against his skin before languidly tracing my tongue in a fine line on the back of his neck, stopping only to suck on his skin, and smiling in delight when I feel him shiver and clutch my fingers between his own.

Cold air slowly seeps into my skin when he lazily rolls over to his other side to face me, his feisty lock of blonde hair now lying over his sleepy eyes like a golden sheen under the watery light that has managed to sneak in through the curtains. He blinks once, twice, then opens his mouth to speak, preceded by a waft of his ripe morning breath, "It's too early, don't you think?"

I grin and shake my head, and wait for him to continue. After a moment of silence, I realise he's simply drifted back off to sleep. The swine. Taking a deep breath, I put one hand to his chest and smile when I feel his warmth and the steady, gentle thudding of his heart beneath his ribcage. With my fingertips I trace no tangible patterns on his skin, then finally rub my palm on his stomach in small circular motion. Judging by the way he sighs into my hair, he appreciates the touch, despite the fact he's still asleep.

Carefully so as not to wake him up, I move my head down from the pillow and once again reach his neck with my lips after wetting them with my tongue. I sigh once to warm up his skin a little more and start sucking slowly as I move my hand from his stomach, past his waist and back, and finally to the flawless cheek of his arse. As I stroke and knead the flesh, I hear a whimper coming out of him, and I have to smile because I know I've won. He has to wake up now.

I can tell that his every move is still weighed down by sleep as he places a hand on my shoulder and lets out another whimper when I start kissing his collarbone and nip the thin sheath of his flesh lightly with my teeth. He shudders when I run my hand along his side and tease his already pert nipple with the tips of my fingers.

"Wakey-wakey," I smile and whisper in-between the little kisses I'm continually tracing along his shoulder and chest.

He moans in response, growing gradually more aroused with every touch I place on his skin; and that's about all the cue I needed for my next step. Tilting my head, I suck on the sensitive area just below his jaw line and slowly move my leg to wrap around his, as I press my palm against his back to push his body closer into mine. He sighs and kisses the top of my head, braiding his fingers between the tangled locks of my hair and gives them a gentle tug just to let me know he appreciates the touch.

"No fair," he breathes into my hair, "you always get to play with me like this."

I smile into his skin and pull back to look into his dark honey eyes; "Would you have me stop then?" I ask, smiling, knowing full well what his answer would be.

"Yes," he says in response. I feel my jaw slipping open, at a loss for words as I stare at him and try to work out whether or not he's only joking. His eyes remain unfaltering, and slowly I feel something in my chest sink. But before I could wish for a thunderbolt to come down and strike him in the head, I see his serious gaze melt into the sweet, familiar smile I've always loved, as he pulls me closer and whispers into my neck, "It's my turn to play with you."

I sigh and let my reflexive guard crumble as he flutters kisses along my jaw line as his beautifully strong hands slide down my body, tracing meaningless patterns on my skin. I feel blood rushing to worship where his fingers have touched me and shiver a little with the goosebumps that follow his touch. I feel his lips curl into a smile against my flesh and know that this morning is meant to be perfect.

Excitement slowly mounts beneath my chest as I feel his hand trailing over my skin and down to the curve of my hips. I have to press my head into the pillow and remind myself to breathe when I feel the heat from his lips ghosting over my chest and stomach, as he pushes the bedclothes off us and moves on top of me, rolling me over to my back so that he could straddle me properly.

A slight shiver runs down my spine as Jade presses his hand against my hipbone, achingly close to where I really want him to touch me. With my lower lip between my teeth, I let my eyes slide to a close as I thrust up and against him. I can hear him sigh when I stroke his stomach and chest, tracing over the carefully formed COMMITTED tattoo across his torso with my fingertips. He bends over me and drops kisses randomly along my torso as he slides down, as I arch my back and strive to feel more from him.

I feel his warm, soft lips on my lower stomach, and it draws a long, breathy moan out of my throat. Next comes the familiar feel of the calluses on his fingertips as he strokes the skin and tortures me even further. Then there is nothing. I feel cool air rushing in to fill the space where his warmth was just before. With a groan of disappointment I open my eyes only to find Jade propping himself up with his hands on the bed, looking down at me with a slight frown already pulling at his features. Anxiety once again tugs at my chest as I force a shaky whisper: "What?"

"Something's missing," he responds, still with the thoughtful look on his face. Reflexively my face burns and I try to move my arms to cover my nakedness from him, only to have him tut at me and put them back down to the bed, on each side of my body where he thinks they should belong. "Silly, I'm trying to look at you."

For a moment there's nothing that can be heard but the sound of my own breathing echoing in my ears, slowly but surely followed by my heartbeat, as I study the pensive frown on Jade's face, taking in every little detail and knowing that I will never fail to remember just how perfect he is in every single way, even after he declares his horror over whatever flaw he’s just noticed. Irrational fear makes its arrival with every passing interminable second he stares at me and remains wordless - and I'm about ready to leap up and ask him what the hell he has in his mind when the serious look on his face softens into a smile, and I can't help but to return it. I almost expect him to giggle and tell me that he was just taking the piss and getting me worried just for fun.

"How about a new tattoo?"

"What?" I ask dumbly, trying to adjust to the leap from terminal embarrassment to body art. Jade nods emphatically, his warm fingers trailing down my stomach and circling an area just below my navel. My muscles twitch as my skin fights to get closer to his touch.

"A new tattoo," he repeats. "Here," prodding my flesh sharply with his strong fingers. I raise my head and look down at the area of my body that has so captured his attention. The slight curve of my stomach, framed by hip bones on either side, with a faint trail of hairs leading down to my groin.

"Why there?" I ask him, seeing nothing particularly special about it.

His face melts into that beautiful grin again, "Well, for starters, it's all empty!" He presses the flat of his palm against me, warming my blank white skin, his breath tickling me as he laughs.

I laugh with him, "Fair enough, I guess. What shall I get?"

He pauses, "Uh, I hadn't thought that far yet..."

I grin, "Must've been the mullet talking then."

"Oh that's it!" He says in protest, grabbing his pillow and swiping it at me. In response, I roll off to one side to dodge the attack and manage to grab my own pillow. Laughing, I swing the soft bag of fluff around, aiming for his face... and miss it altogether as I lose my already tenuous balance at the edge of the bed. I hear his laughter as I scrabble wildly at the sheets, and then my view goes upside down as I land in a pile of bedding on the floor with a muffled whump.

I feel laughter tickling the back of my throat, because the scene is rather funny, much to my embarrassment. As I try to sit up and tell myself not to laugh at the same time, the bed lets out a soft creak, and his head appears over the edge of the mattress, face split in two by an impossibly wide grin. "Oh yeah," I grumble, "Davey fell outta bed. Fun-nee."

"You okay?" he asks, managing to sound concerned even though he's still smirking. He offers me a hand in disentangling myself from the knot of linen in which I've managed to lump myself. As I kick the last bit of material from around my ankle, I allow myself an amused grin and crawl back into bed with him, leaving the mess of bedding in a pile on the floor.

"Oogie-Boogie!" I exclaim happily.

Jade gives me a blank stare at first, then it melts into a confused look. He scratches the back of his neck and stares at me some more. "Er, did you hit your head?"

"No, I meant the tattoo! How about Oogie-Boogie? You know, off Nightmare Before Christmas." I bounce excitedly at the idea, making Jade jiggle with the bed's movements.

He frowns just a little, "I thought maybe some text? It would suit the space more." I pause and look down at the area in question once again. Jade's right, the blank space on my skin would look beautiful if it has text connecting one end of the hipbone to the other. I sit leaning against Jade to think it over. He absently trails his fingers through my hair, sorting out all the snags that always magically appear overnight.

"How about The Pumpkin King?" I smile. "I reckon that would look good on my butt," I say as I wrap my arms around his waist and nip at his neck gently.

He lets out the tiniest groan, the vibration buzzing against my lips. I laugh and pull away to look at him, awaiting a response even though I know it won't be an approval to cater my madness for Tim Burton's film. "How about a lyric?" He asks, leaning back in for more.

"Kidnap the Sandy-Claws, chop him into bits!" I sing the little ditty animatedly.

He sighs, "Don't you think you're overdoing the Nightmare theme a little Dave? Besides, you'll scare the kiddies."

"It's not supposed to be scary," I pout. "It's only a film about walking skeletons and corpses, and a big evil fat thing full of worms."

Jade cringes, and I have to suppress a giggle at the sight. He looks so adorable when he's horrified. "How about if you just get something matching with one of mine?" He says finally.

"Deliciously tacky," I reply. "And not like I can peel it off anytime I want, as opposed to ugly matching jumpers any cheesy couple would own."

"Hey!" He says in protest, rolling over to his back and pointing at the tattoo curved across his stomach. "I'm 'committed' to you!"

"I know. You must be so proud." I grin at him cheekily.

"C'mon Dave, get a tattoo for me."

"I am! These things take thought. I don't like rushing out and getting some shit —unlike some people..."

"Hey, I was young and stupid, okay?"

"Aw Jade... you weren't that young."

"Bitch."

"You don't usually complain about me being the bitch..." I cast an innocent glance at him, seeing him colour bright red. It's cute how he can be so forward in bed and so shy about talking about it. Our stereo clicks on, signalling our usual time to get up, breaking into the familiar intro to the very same song that was dripping in the background the night I finally got the balls to tell Jade he wasn't just a friend and bandmate to me.

Jade sways mournfully to the song, mouthing the opening lyrics, When the routine bites hard, and ambitions are low. And the resentment rides high, but emotions won't grow. And we're changing our ways, taking different roads... I crawl over to him and sing the last line with him, our eyes just inches apart: Then love... love will tear us apart, again... Jade grins up at me, sliding his arms around my shoulders to pull me into a heated kiss. I sink into it, shifting to lie next to him without ever breaking the contact between us, my hands sliding over his smooth skin.

I break the kiss softly and rest my head on his chest, examining every inch of skin with my fingertips. I walk my fingers up his arm, heading for his shoulder when I pause for a second, ideas unfurling. Excitedly, I bounce up onto my knees and launch myself over Jade's body to gaze at the design indelibly embedded in his arm.

"What the fuck? Davey! You weigh a ton!" He pushes at me half heartedly, attempting to get me off.

"Keep still! I'm trying to look at you!" I tease, holding his flailing arm still so I can study the design more closely. "Hey!" I let go of the arm and glare at him, "are you calling me fat?"

He smiles sweetly at me, "Not at all. In fact, I'm calling you muscular. Muscle weighs more than fat." I melt into his eyes and have to struggle to turn my attention back to examining the tattoo. He waits until I'm absorbed again before adding, "Though it wouldn't do you much harm to stop eating the fuck out of all those chocolate chip cookies..."

"Stop picking on me!" I swipe at him, trying to contain my laughter and appear hurt and angry. He catches my hand before it reaches him and flips it over to kiss my palm.

"Love you..." he whispers into my skin.

I pull my hand out of his grasp and trace my fingers over his lips. "I know." I tap his arm, directing his attention to the design that had so captured my interest, "Which is why I want this. My new tattoo."

He glances down at the 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' design, "I thought you thought matching tattoos were tacky?"

I grin, "They are! Which is why I'm gonna alter it. Take out the gay flower crap; work with the font a bit."

"Just what is wrong with the gay flower crap?" he demands indignantly. I laugh.

"Nothing at all. When it's on you. It suits you perfectly!"

"Should I feel complimented or offended?"

I pull him closer and kiss him gently, "Complimented of course," another kiss, pulling back from him as he tries to deepen it. "After all, it's not everyone who can carry off such a gay tattoo..."

"Shut up," Jade mumbles as he braids his long fingers in my hair and pulls me down for another kiss.

Contentment floods through my chest as I smile against his mouth and let his tongue lap lazily at my lower lip. A sigh slips past my lips as I feel his hand rubbing the lower part of my stomach, spreading the warmth on my skin as he starts to trail light kisses along my jaw-line and neck.

"Davey," he purrs softly against my skin, "come on. Don't you want to do this for me?"

The bastard.

"I've said yes already," I sigh in pleasure. Just don't stop touching me.

"Good." He smiles, now moving his hand to stroke the small of my back. "Thank you, beautiful," he whispers before placing a kiss on my collarbone, pressing into me and makes me shiver with his heat against my skin.

I manage to pull away somehow, sitting up and grinning at him. “Do you think Scott will be up yet?”

His smile fades, “Scott?”

“Yeah, shall I call him and arrange some studio time?”

“Uh,” he sits up, all contact broken, all the cosy warmth disappearing.

“What’s wrong?” I reach out to grasp his hand, confused by the sudden turn of mood.

“I, uh… It doesn’t matter.” He takes his hand back and stretches, trying to brush off the matter.

I scoot over and wrap my arms around him, laying my head on his shoulder, “Yes it does. Tell your Davey.”

I feel him relax into me, “It’s nothing, really.” He drops a kiss on my temple and smooths out my hair with one hand.

“Tell meeeee,” I whine, rocking slightly, playing the annoying kid.

He smiles, “I thought that I was gonna do it for you…” he trails off, looking away. I stare, confused. “Remember? When I started learning tattooing, you said that I should do one for you when I get good. And… well, I did that shoulder piece for Nick, and he said it was great,” he trails off again. I look up into his gorgeous eyes, wide and clouded by uncertainty. “Hey, it doesn’t matter. I understand. Call Scott, we’ll see if he’s free this afternoon.”

"Jade, no..." I nuzzle at his neck as he sighs and runs his hands up and down my back. Guilt is starting to nag at me, and right now I'm just desperate to make it up to him. "I didn't mean it that way. I just forgot. You know how I am."

"All too well," he gives a smug grin and waggles his eyebrows at me as he places a quick slap across my butt, making me jump slightly.

"That was uncalled for!" I shout as I jump to straddle him across the stomach and poke him mercilessly. He in turn laughs, grabs me by the shoulders and flips me over flat down on the bed. I open my mouth to protest, but Jade has pressed his lips against mine before I could even utter a word. Sighing, I let my eyes slide to a close and melt into his mouth, stroking the back of his neck and winding one arm around his shoulder to hold him close, in some desperate wish that maybe we could meld ourselves together in some way just with this one simple kiss.

Warmth is still tingling my lips even after Jade has pulled away. I feel almost desperate to start it all over again just by seeing Jade before me, eyes sated and brimming with love as he strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. He doesn't have to say a thing; the light smile playing in his features says it all. Gently I reach out with one hand to brush a stray lock of hair out of his wide-set eyes, tracing the tips of my fingers across his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, and finally the soft flesh of his lips. He's so beautiful, it's unreal.

"Screw Scott," I say suddenly, wrapping my arms around Jade's waist. "Do it, Jade. I want you to do it for me."

“No, I don’t want to mess it up.” He looks so scared… it’s so fucking cute.

I kiss his jaw and pull him closer, “Jade, nothing you can do to me will ever be anything less than perfect.”

“But Dave, this is forever; it’s not like you can wash it off when I fuck it up” He pins me with those perfect brown eyes. I kiss him again.

“You’re not gonna fuck it up. You’re a great artist. It’s gonna be perfect. Just like you.”

“Dave I…” I don’t let him finish his protestations, climbing off the bed and moving over to our junk-covered desk, switching on the computer.

“C’mere,” I gesture for him to sit with me. He unfolds gracefully and steps over the mess of bedding to my side.

“What are we doing?” he asks, almost warily.

“Designing my tattoo.” I open up Photoshop and start a new page. Reaching over to the keyboard, I type awkwardly with one finger: ‘Love Will Taer Us Apart’ and hit Enter.

Jade smirks at me, “Yeah, get that tattooed Dave!” pointing at the typo.

“Shut up,” I grumble at him, quickly editing the text, “I’m a fucking singer, not a secretary.” He grins and takes the mouse off me, highlighting the words and increasing the size.

“We need a cool typeface,” he muses, “Something all scripty and curlsome and whoa…”

I smile, “Scripty and curlsome?” He throws me a mock glare, I pretend to cringe and hastily add, “I mean… yeah! Scripty and curlsome! That’s exactly what we need!” He chuckles and carries on trying out different fonts.

“How ‘bout this one?” he asks, leaning back to let me see the screen. He’s chosen Classic Regular, and it is indeed all scripty and curlsome. Just perfect in fact.

“That’s awesome; you’re awesome…” I rest my head on his shoulder and watch him carefully curve the text just a little, before selecting Print. The machine whirrs and clicks as it warms up, before producing the perfect image, black on smooth white, just as it would be on my skin.

He holds it up against me, his beautiful smile gracing his face. He stands and takes my hand, “C’mon gorgeous; let’s set up.”

Tattoo: two

Drumsolo

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:29:20 GMT

Davey was pissed off; and as usual, he wasn’t going to be keeping it all inside. He strode back into the studio after flouncing out earlier to get some tea; took in the sight of three men STILL patiently moving parts of drumkit around, trying to get the ‘perfect’ setup; let out an angry sigh of frustration and stormed out again.

No one really paid much attention, all absorbed in trying THIS snare with THAT tom, and THOSE cymbals, with the mic set at THAT angle, and every other combination they could come up with, all of which sounded fucking identical to Davey; especially when they’d been doing it for nearly six hours. An entire day in the studio and they hadn’t recorded a single beat. What a fucking waste of time.

Bored and irate, he kicked a case on his way out, resulting only in a bruised foot and another reason today fucking sucked. The door slammed behind him, rattling the framed gold and platinum discs on the walls. He reappeared a moment later in the engineer’s booth, glaring out at their apparent inactivity, his muttering muted by the soundproof glass.

Adam scratched his head, as frustrated as anyone with the slow progress. “"How about we change the skins? Something softer, lift the snare out more. Or if we're sticking with those, put some o-rings on? Or just use the steel snare...
“I think we already did that..."
"Lets change skins; I have a good feeling about that."
“Sure, whatever.”

The exchange was made smoothly; fuck knows they’d done this enough times already today, and when Adam tapped out a simple rhythm with some practice sticks they anxiously watched the sound engineer listen to the pickup in his booth. He nodded and gave a thumbs up. “Finally!”

The producers took over, now that the technical stuff had been done. “Okay people, let’s get this rolling. We know what we’re playing?” Adam nodded, not liking the patronising tone but letting it go. “Great. Take a seat then and we’ll try a take.”

Rolling his shoulders and wrists and cracking his knuckles, Adam settled himself on the drumstool and reached for his sticks. The sticks that weren’t there. “Wait!” He called out to the team who were getting ready to record. “Anyone seen my drumsticks?”
“There’s a bunch behind you.” The produced glared at him like he was being stupid on purpose.
“Yeah, but those are 7As. Jazz sticks. I can’t use them, they’re tiny. They’ll break as soon as I get into it.” He trailed off under the simultaneous death-glares of everyone around him. “It’s true! Look!” He picked up a pair and began the intro to one of their new songs. Almost instantly the left stick snapped, a fragment flying rapidly towards one of the producers who just managed to duck in time.

Davey began ranting in the soundproof room. Somewhere in the middle of it someone pressed the button so that Adam could hear him. “…fucking DAY! And you’re not gonna play cos you have the wrong fucking sticks! They’re STICKS! Pieces of fucking wood! What fucking difference will it fucking make! You’re fucking doing it on purpose! If we don’t get SOMETHING recorded today I swear I’m not coming back tomorrow. You can shove your fucking…” the sound was abruptly cut off as people clustered round the nearing-hysterical Davey, trying to calm him down.

“You sure you can’t use them?” The producer asked pleadingly. Adam and his drum tech shook their heads.
“I could like… give it a go. But they’re gonna break.” Adam weighed the tiny jazz sticks in his hand, trying to gauge how much they could take. He lightly ran through the beat at the bridge, then repeated it harder. So far so good. He launched into the opening sequence, still playing a tad lighter than he normally would. Four bars in and the right stick snapped, the tip managing to tap a cymbal mid-flight.

The producer sighed. “Do you have to play so hard?”
“Well… yeah. It’s not gonna sound right unless I hit them fairly hard.”
“Try?” Adam shrugged and picked up a new pair, starting the beat from the beginning again. This time, even with him being more careful, they only got to nine bars before a stick cracked and split, Adam just managing to catch himself before it speared through the drumskin.

“Fuck. Okay. Someone get their ass to a music store and get us a bunch of sticks!” He pointed at the drum tech. “You. Go. NOW. Everyone else: take a break. Thirty minutes.” The already-tense atmosphere in the room noticeably dropped several degrees, most people glaring at Adam.

Davey managed to get away from the people trying to calm him down and burst into the studio, locked into full diva-mode. “What the fuck, Adam?! What kind of FUCKING drummer doesn’t have fucking drumsticks?!” His hair was flying into his face and his eyes gleamed bright with anger.
“Hey! This isn’t my fault! I didn’t expect the studio to be so ill equipped, okay?” Adam threw an angry glance at the studio staff, who shuffled their feet awkwardly.
“You’re a fucking drummer! Fuck! All fucking day wasted and we’ve got fuck-all recorded because the drummer’s being a fucking… argh!” The last was a yell of frustration as Davey tried valiantly to not punch someone.

Adam stood up, letting some of the pathetically slim drumsticks clatter to the floor. Pushing past the people in his way, he grabbed his backpack and strode angrily towards the door, pissed off that he was being blamed for the studio’s mistake. “Where the fuck are you going?!” Davey yelled at his retreating back.
“For a fucking wank. Fuck off.” There was a shocked silence and Adam slammed the door behind him, inwardly pleased with his dramatic exit.

He quickly ducked up a staircase and went up a couple of flights, with the vague idea that they’d look for him on the ground floor or outside before they thought to go upstairs. He found himself in an anonymous corridor filled with empty offices. Perfect. Selecting one at random, Adam let himself in and shut the door quietly behind him, leaning against it. He could feel the blood pulsing through him from the anger and adrenaline in the studio, and the slight buzz of having walked out on them all.

Crossing the room, Adam inspected the office. It was obviously unused; empty besides the basic furniture, and coated in a thin layer of dust. Glancing out of the window, he saw only the normal traffic and pedestrians; no one was out looking for him yet. The memory of them all gearing up to yell at him stirred a fresh wave of anger in him and he clenched his fists tightly. “Bastards.” And Davey! Screeching at him in front of all those people like he was his bitch. He wasn’t going to get away with that one. Even if he HAD looked fucking hot when he was angry, hair skewed and his slim body taut with rage.

Adam found himself circling the desk for a minute or two, his breathing was a little fast, his muscled tensed; he could feel the energy throb through his body, heightening his senses. He shook his arms out and stood still, eyes closed, trying to breathe through it and calm himself down, but adrenaline rushed through him, making his head light and his limbs heavy. He wanted to run or punch something: his pulse was quick, his nerves tingling. He swung the chair over to a spot near the window and sat down to people-watch, as if that would calm him down.

Down on the street Davey was wandering up and down the block, looking around for places Adam could have disappeared to in such a short time. The breeze ruffled his hair and clothes and he was still seething with anger with the absent drummer. Adam grinned to himself, noting how the wind plastered Davey’s shirt to his body, giving a perfect outline of his chest and abs.

He shifted forwards for a better look and jumped as the change in position pinched a certain part of his anatomy between a fold of his jeans and the new jewellery he’d bought for it recently and still wasn’t quite used to wearing. So far he’d managed to keep his piercings to himself, but with the amount of times he’d recently sat down and jumped up again yelping he was going to give the secret away before long.

Annoyed and in pain, he unzipped to rearrange himself, his fingers lingering over the new metal. A two inch by half inch urethral wand was inside him, held in place by the vertical piercing straight through his cock. The apadravya he’d got ten years ago; the wand was new, though he’d worn smaller ones before, slowly stretching his urethra bigger. He’d spent a ridiculous amount of money on it, the flexible wand and surgical steel setting had had to be measured and made specially to fit his anatomy.

Trailing his fingers over his other piercings, collected over the last decade or so Adams’ mind drifted back to the last time he’d visited Lee, his piercer. He’d gone in over a week ago, simultaneously nervous and excited, to pick up his newly-made apadravya’s wand. As usual he’d had the flush of embarrassment dropping his pants in the piercer’s private studio despite the man having seen everything he had years before. And then Lee’s careful, gloved fingers had slid the lubed wand down inside him, and fastened it in place with the apadravya that went straight through the specially drilled hole in the wand.

It had taken all Adam’s will power to stay calm and not actually get aroused on the piercing couch, especially when he’d looked down at the perfect sight of his new jewellery, the silver bead at the tip of his cock, and the six flat beads of the ap and two frenum piercings making a crown round the head. More metal glinted further below. When they say that piercings are addictive, they’re not lying.

As Davey gave up and made his way back into the building, Adam slumped back in his chair, pants still unzipped, wondering just where to go from here, as he did so the pair of jazz sticks in his back pocket dug into his backside. Annoyed, he yanked them out and briefly considered throwing them out the window in front of a passing truck, but decided that that’d give away where he was.

Still wired and fuming, he glared into space and toyed with the sticks, twirling them through his fingers and back. The perfectly-shaped wood felt slightly soothing and reminded him of… something. Dropping one, he held up the other, examining the smooth lacquered surface, the very slim shape. They were so fragile, how was anyone supposed to drum with these? Useless.

Twirling round on the swivel chair, he dropped the stick on the desk with a clatter and put his head in his hands. He was bored already, but had no intention on going back until he had to. He replayed the last few moments of studio-time in his head, smirking with self-satisfaction at his killer exiting line. “For a wank!” Perfect.

With that in mind, the drumstick on the desktop caught his eye again. He picked it up once more, ideas unfurling. Well… it wasn’t like he had anything better to do now, was it? Yanking his jeans up over his ass and half-fastening the zip, Adam retrieved his bag from where he’d dumped it by the door. He sat back down at the desk and rooted through the bag, eventually coming up with a small black leather case.

He paused a second, paranoid he’d heard voices, but it seemed that it was just his overactive imagination; then opened the case to reveal a glistening set of Dittel sounds, a couple of nearly-empty tubes of lube and some antiseptic wipes. He took out the battered tube of KY and opened up a wipe. Glancing at the little drumstick again, he shifted in his seat and meticulously cleaned the surface of the stick, his cock steadily growing firmer in anticipation. Carefully, he unscrewed the bead from the top of the apadravya and teased the barbell out. A couple of firm jerks around the wand and he was hard, and already the wand was looser with precum. Adam bit back a groan and slowly pulled out the wand, revelling in the movement inside his cock. He wiped it off with his fingers and set wand, bar and bead carefully aside before he lost them.

A pause to listen for anyone coming towards him, and then Adam squeezed KY onto his fingers, working it over the head of his cock, building up a bead of it at the tip of his stretched urethra. Picking up one of the little jazz sticks, he twirled it in his fingers before generously applying more lube. Now. Slumping further down in the uncomfortable office chair, Adam held the slick drumstick at the tip of his cock and let it fall through his fingers, sinking into him.

Despite having done this hundreds of times before, albeit with slightly more conventional sounds, Adam gasped as it slid inside. He was supposed to be recording drum tracks with his band and instead he was hiding in an office upstairs, with a drumstick sticking out of his cock. And FUCK it felt good.

He pulled the stick out a little, and let it drop, using gravity and its own weight to enter him again. Now THIS was a good way to use a drumstick. The carved tip pressed against him, nudging at all those nerve endings inside, and then it widened out, filling him up. A moment to add more lube, and then he gently nudged it further down another inch. Fuck. He gripped it and gave it a twist, feeling the wood grain caress him deep inside. Okay, he was gonna have to get himself a stock of these little sticks in the not-so-distant future.

Manipulating the drumstick and jerking himself around it with one hand, Adam reached down to squeeze his balls with the other, toying with his other piercings, completely forgetting to listen for approaching people. Which is why it was so easy for Davey to walk into the office and catch him mid-gasp.

“What the shuddering fuck?!” Davey gaped as Adam desperately tried to cover himself up, not an easy task with six inches of drumstick sticking out of your cock.
“Dave! Get the fuck out!” Adam tried to pull out the stick but it slipped through his lube-slicked fingers and he was all too aware of how much it’d hurt if he moved it too fast and jabbed the inside of his cock with it.
“What the fuck is that? Fuck! Is that a drumstick? No way! What?” Davey gaped at him while he struggled to pull it out and cover himself up, cock showing no signs of deflating despite the mortifying situation he was in.
“Just get the fuck out okay?” Adam finally got the drumstick out and slammed it against the table, half-standing so that he could pull his jeans up.
“Whoa! Fuck, you’re PIERCED? Holy fuck… you’re way pierced…” Davey’s jaw literally dropped, unashamedly gawping at the metal in Adam’s cock and balls.

“Dave! Stop it! Just fuck off!” Adam struggled with his jeans, trying to shove his over-excited cock into them while it tried its best to dance around and wave at the astonished Davey.
“No, wait a sec! Fuck, how many fucking piercings do you have?” Davey reached across the desk as if he was gonna pull Adam’s jeans down for a better look. He tentatively picked up the lube-smeared drumstick, apparently unconcerned that it had recently been inside Adam’s cock. “You got this down…? How the FUCK to you get this down your cock?” He glanced down at his crotch as if he could see through his pants at his, presumably normal-sized, urethra, glanced at Adam’s like he was comparing the two.
“Yes, no! Fuck Dave, will you just piss off and let me… sort myself out.” Adam mumbled the last, realising that saying “let me wank it off” might not be the best thing to say to his supposedly-hetero bandmate.

“No way! This is amazing! Let me see again! Fuck, I thought my PA was special…”
“Fuck no! You want me to show you my cock? What?” Adam would have turned bright red if the blood in his body hadn’t been otherwise engaged.
“No! Well… yeah! Come on, I wanna see. Look, you can see my PA. That’s fair.” Davey fumbled with his belt, actually going to go through with it.
“NO!” Dave, I don’t wanna see your cock, okay? In fact, I’ve already seen enough of your cock with you forgetting to get dressed between your bunk and the toilet on the bus. I have no wish to see your cock again. You are not seeing my cock.” Having finally managed to get himself dressed, Adam sat down firmly at the desk, trying to look authoritative.

“You’re mean.” Davey glanced at the leather case and picked up Adam’s apadravya barbell. “What’re they? What’s this? Oh man! This is body jewellery! Where does it go?”
“Give it back!” Adam was fully aware of the immature whine in his voice and he hated it. “It’s mine! Fucking stop touching it! I don’t know where you’ve been!”
“Ew, yeah, where HAS it been?” Childishly, Davey dropped it onto the desk and Adam snatched it up, wiping it with his fingers as if that would clean it.

Now Davey was inspecting the wand, the slim PTFE length, with steel ring at one end and smooth hole drilled through it; though at least he hadn’t picked that up too; staring at it with interest, with occasional glances at Adam’s crotch, trying to work out what it was. “Okay. I give up. What the fuck is it?”
“It’s none of your business! Leave me alone!” Adam made frantic shooing motions, hysteria turning him into a sixteen year old girl.
Davey grinned evilly. “Adam…” His voice had turned sweet and seductive. Manipulative. “If you don’t tell me what this is and how it works, I’m gonna go downstairs and tell everyone what you were doing up here on your own.”
Adam gaped at him, horror-struck by the thought. “You wouldn’t!”
Davey folded his arms and smiled. “Try me.”
“No way. You wouldn’t do that to me.” Adam shook his head.
“Fine. I’ll see you downstairs then.” Davey turned and made for the door, actually making it out of the room and halfway down the corridor before Adam called him back. He turned, victorious, and practically skipped back into the office.

Adam shut the door firmly behind them. “Okay. This NEVER leaves this room. Okay? Swear to me?”
“I swear, I swear!” Davey was practically bouncing in excitement.
“Swear on… on… MAC. Swear this will never leave the room under any circumstances no matter how much you hate me ever. On pain of never wearing eyeliner ever again.”
Davey stared at him, wide-eyed. “On MAC?”
“Yes, on MAC.”
“Fuck you’re paranoid… Okay. Yes. I swear. Really.”

Adam paused a long moment, trying to steel himself. It’s just the same as if it was Lee. No big deal. Turning his back to Davey, he unbuttoned and lowered the zipper before sitting down on the desk, softening cock, complete with piercings, fully in view.
“Holy fuck that’s awesome.” Davey was no longer teasing, but actually interested, staring at the piercings intently. “How many do you have?”
Adam stared at the ceiling, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. “Apadravya, two offset frenum, three frenums in a ladder, one pubic surface, three scrotal surface, and a guiche. And urethra stretched to zero gauge.” His voice was monotone and distant. Davey didn’t seem to notice.
“Fuck. I feel pathetically vanilla. So which is what?”

Adam shot him a pleading glance. Don’t make me do this… But Davey just stared back, the question still firm. Sighing, Adam began the tour of his cock. “Okay, so under here, between the balls and the ass; that’s a guiche. S’just a little ring, some people hang a weight off it, I don’t really see the point. Then these are scrotal surface piercings. More rings. They feel kinda good when they’re twisted a bit. Shit. I didn’t just say that. Fuck.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Davey smiled reassuringly and Adam tried to remember to breathe.
“Yeah. Okay. So then these ones underneath, here, these are frenums, they’re more surface piercings, but on the shaft of the cock, and they look sorta like a ladder so they’re like called, like… a ladder.” How fucking eloquent… Adam wanted the ground to open up and devour the entire building.

He took a breath. “And then these ones here, they’re also frenums but they’re offset, one on each side, just behind the head, instead of being on the underneath. And then this one right up here, that’s a pubic surface piercing. That’s the clit-tickler.”
“Really? Girls like that?”
“Yeah. Well, they seem to. It’s actually been a while since it was tested.” Adam tried to smile at this but it was just a little too truthful to be funny.
“So where does that stuff go?” Davey picked up the jewellery on the table, examining it closely to work out what it was, still unconcerned that it had recently been stuck in Adam’s cock.
“That’s uh, an apadravya’s wand. Hold on a sec.”

Adam reached for his leather case and took out another of the antiseptic wipes. He reclaimed the jewellery from Davey and carefully cleaned off the bar, bead and wand, making sure he’d swiped at every fraction of the surfaces. “Okay, watch.” Without bothering with the KY — his cock already had enough lube down it — he gently slid it down the urethra until the ring at the end touched his skin, trying not to shiver with the pleasurable sensations it was giving him.

He twisted it to get the drilled hole at the right angle and then began to push the long barbell straight up through the holes pierced in his shaft. There was a brief moment of fumbling as he searched to get the barbell through the wand and find the second hole, and then it was out, a tiny bit of glistening silver, peeking out of the top of his cock. Adam screwed on the flattened bead, checking and double-checking that it was tight and then looked up at Davey’s astounded face.

“Holy fuck, that’s awesome. How the fuck do you fit that thing IN?”
Adam reached for his case of sounds, pointing at the thinner gauges. “You start off small, just a fraction of an inch, with lots of lube, maybe even some Xylocaine. And you just, like… work upwards. It takes months, but you can get it up to half an inch or more quite easy. It feels good, can’t describe it, but trust me, it feels good.
“Awesome. And that stays in there all the time?”
“Yeah, most of the time. I take it out to clean it, and like… for stuff like that.” Adam nodded towards the forgotten drumstick, which was rapidly sticking to the desk with the precum and lube drying around it.

“Oh fuck yeah! A fucking drumstick! Holy fuck man…” Davey shot his friend a truly admiring glance, grinning crazily to himself.
“It’s only a baby drumstick!” Adam coloured bright red, trying to defend himself.
“It’s still a fucking drumstick!” Davey grabbed the chair and sat down, virtually head-to-crotch with Adam. “Okay. So show me.”
“Show you what? You’ve already had more than an eyeful!” Adam stood to get dressed again, having had enough of exposing himself for Davey’s entertainment.
“Whoa, wait! You’re not done yet!” Davey jumped up and physically pushed Adam back down. “I wanna see you do the drumstick thing.”

“Fuck off. No way.” Adam shoved him away and reached down for his jeans.
“Why not? You’ve shown me everything else!” Davey stood firm, hands on hips.
“Because!” Adam fastened his jeans, absolutely incredulous that Davey wasn’t getting it.
Davey pushed him back again. “‘Because’ isn’t an answer and you know it. You’re not leaving until I’ve seen it! What’s the problem?”
“Because…” Adam floundered helplessly for a moment, trying to think how he could say it tactfully. He failed. “Because I’d have to be hard! Okay?” He buckled his belt and turned his attention to inspecting his backpack.
“Well duh. So?” Davey laughed, tilting his chair on its back legs.
“So? So no! Okay? Fuck.” Adam tugged at his hair, trying to remember how this had started.
“It’s not like I’m gonna lend a hand. I just want to see it!” Davey whined slightly, playing Annoying Child, maybe not the best tack to take when asking to see another man’s cock.
“No. Okay? No.” Adam grabbed his case of sounds, shoving into a back pocket and swung his backpack onto his shoulder, heading for the door. Davey jumped up, dodging in front of him and blocking his way. “Dave. Move.” Adam had had enough. He just wanted to record the damn track and go home and away from all these fucking people.
Davey smiled sweetly at him, five foot ten of pure evil. “You leave this room and I tell. Don’t think I wouldn’t.”

There was a long pause as the two men glared at each other; a battle of wills stretching out in a stony silence. Adam lost.

“Fine. Fine. FUCK!” He threw his backpack at the wall and spun round to sit back down on the desk, unzipping his case with one hand and undoing his belt with the other. Anger surged through him at this nightmarish situation forced upon him by his supposed ‘oldest friend’.
Davey was one step away from bouncing with glee. “Where d’you want me?”
Adam sent him a force-ten deathstare. “In a coffin?”
“Don’t be mean.” Davey reclaimed his seat, watching with interest as Adam carefully cleaned the second drumstick and began methodically removing his jewellery once again; trying his utmost not to commit murder with his mare hands.

Gritting his teeth, Adam shut his eyes and took a breath, trying to get himself into a frame of mind where this would be possible. Endless legs in seamed stockings, deep red nails, flawless white skin with gleaming black hair and just a handful of breast peering out above a corset enclosing a tiny slim waist. And a flash of red silk underwear hiding a perfect red rose tattoo and a triangle piercing. Evelyn. Perfect, teasing, tattooed Evelyn. And that glorious week in New York where she’d taught him just how good being pierced could be. He exhaled slowly and twisted the wand inside his cock, signalling to his blood where to flow. He eased it out and back in and out again before removing it entirely and setting it with the barbell on the desk.

Davey stayed mercifully silent as Adam coaxed some life into his cock, aided by his overactive imagination, and — he had to admit — the unusual sensation of a captive audience. He reached for the lube, practised fingers applying it quickly and efficiently to himself and the stick. Another deep breath. Evelyn and her magic fingers. Yes. Acutely aware of Davey’s inquisitive watching, he positioned the drumstick and let it drop through his fingers once again, biting down on a hiss of pleasure.

The watching figure in the chair and the room around him faded into the background as Adam let himself enjoy the job in hand. He teased the drumstick down, it was easier on the second try, and twisted it slowly. Somewhere in the distance he heard Davey let out an astonished gasp as the stick disappeared three inches, four, more. Adam wrapped his hand around his cock and jerked it around the stick, massaging the inside and outside both at once. His other hand dipped down to grasp his balls and then there was nothing but the incredible sensation in his cock and his fingers falling into all the right places with a skill that comes only from practice.

The cascade of feeling escalated; a full sensory overload. His mind whirled as his brain struggled to keep up with the constant flow of signals from his cock, inside his cock, his balls, the piercings, the hard edge of the table pressing into the crease where his ass me this thighs and Davey’s constant, quiet watching, taking it all in.

He suddenly had a rush of déjà vu, his memory sending him back to the first time he’d done this, under the watchful eyes of his then-girlfriend. Her exquisite fingers helping him out when he’d fumbled, overcome by the incredible new feelings happening deep inside his cock. Her smile as he’d begun to lose himself to it, his movements becoming jerky and erratic with each thrust of his hips. And her beautiful ringing laugh when he’d got there, the come forcing itself out past the silver sound and smattering in an arc across her midnight blue sheets.

“Ah, fuck…” Adam hissed through clenched teeth as he came over his hand; suddenly finding himself back in the real world, surrounded by the cold drab office and with Davey’s grinning face just a foot away from his softening cock.

Carefully, he withdrew the drumstick, wiped himself off and replaced his body jewellery again; using the tasks as an excuse to avoid all eye contact with Davey, who was being mercifully quiet. Adam zipped himself back up and put away his lube and sounds. There was a long silence. And then quick footsteps and the sound of doors being opened and closed outside. Smith burst into the room.

“Guys! We’ve been looking all over! We’re all set, lots of fresh new drumsticks and everything. You ready for a take?”
“Sure!” Davey jumped up and stretched, acting like he’d been bored rigid for the last thirty minutes.
Adam followed them out of the room, feeling a little light-headed with the weirdness of what had just happened. They trooped down the stairs to face the horrors of the studio once again.

“So what was so interesting up there?” Smith glanced curiously at Davey as he opened the studio door.
“Not much, Adam was showing me his drumstick technique.”
“Exciting…” Smith drawled, sarcastically.
“You’d be surprised.” Davey threw Adam a discreet wink.

“Adam! We’re all ready for you! Take a seat; let’s get some drum tracks down!”

Two weeks later, Rita methodically vacuumed and dusted her way through the third-floor offices, ready for them to be restocked for the new wave of staff that were going to be moved into them. While most were perfectly bare and desolate, someone had apparently thought it was funny to glue a pair of wooden drumsticks to the desk of office 7.

Musicians. She thought to herself as she wiped off the dried glue residue stuck to the desk. Weirdos, the lot of ‘em.

Decemberunderground

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:26:33 GMT

It’s hardly something that’s spoken of casually. For that would be certain Removal. But nevertheless, we know of it. In that secretive, unsure way people ‘know’ of things that are never talked about. It’s dangerous though, and so subtlety is needed. Some profess total ignorance. Others live dangerously: boasting through veiled hints that they know all about it and would tell you if only you dared ask. Of course… if you did ask you would be astounded at the speed in which they could back-pedal, the paranoia seeping in: are you one of Them, fishing for information? But you would never dare ask: what if the boaster is one of Them, waiting for people to out themselves?

And so we keep the secret; even from ourselves. Because if we even dare to think through the possibilities that it might bring us, we tempt fate to take our dreams before we’ve even dreamt them. They will come through the door one night and then there’ll be nothing left of the dreamer but the whispered mutterings of his peers. No. Better to keep it to oneself. Particularly these days; when any one of your colleagues, friends, even family, could be one of Them. Any one of us could be being Watched. But we know. And we wait. For that day, when the time is right.

I pass the Entrance every day on my way to work. At least… I believe it to be the Entrance. Obviously no one’s exactly pointed it out to me; in fact... I don’t know where I got the notion from. But it feels right to me and though my instincts have not always proved reliable, I have nothing else to rely on. This is the place I know I would head to, if ever it came to that point. One part of me prays that it never happens; another prays that it comes quickly. I cannot continue like this.

My job is… nothing special. I’m a Sub-Editor for one of the major newspapers. I suppose to you that sounds like a good job, but in reality all I do is proof-read. I can make no changes beyond fixing typos and poor grammar. I have no input, no opinion. I am a sentient spellchecker. The Writers put together the stories and I will never join them because I have been Watched. Briefly, and I was cleared of all slurs, but it was terrifying enough and the mere fact that it happened makes me ineligible for a job involving any type of imagination. By association, I am much too subversive. Though in my heart I feel I can never be subversive enough.

I would love to say that I am a rebel; a free radical amongst the sheep. One of the ones standing on a soapbox, pleading with the Average Man to admit to himself just what depths our society has sunk to. One who goes down fighting for what he believes in and whose existence is justified if he makes even one woolly follower rethink how he’s living his life. One of the saviours. Unfortunately, I am none of these. I am just another sheep. Worse even, because I know that there is more to life than what they hand out to us, but I just don’t have the guts to crawl out on a limb and claim what I’m sure I’m entitled to. I have lived among the black sheep; I have seen the cruelty of our shepherds. And still I remain lily-white, tinged with coward’s yellow; desperate to become invisible amongst the crowd.

And so, I continue to drive past the house that I imagine contains the Entrance; picking out its tiled roof from three streets back, despite it having nothing at all to distinguish it from any other of the houses in the area. I build up daydreams of what it looks like on the inside, about how the secret society plots revolution deep within futuristic underground tunnels, and about my prominent part in it all, as I drive towards yet another day of correcting the presentation of the mundane stories and half-truths they feed the population daily. And I continue to visualize one day gathering up the courage to go up to the blue front door and claim sanctuary there. All the time knowing that it will never happen, but enjoying the fantasy anyway.

Today, thoughts of my glorious escape despite Them being hot on my heels fill my mind as I step into the office I share with five other Editors and settle at my desk. So involved in the imaginary chase I am, it takes me several minutes to realise that the office is not just respectfully quiet, but deathly quiet; and that the desk to the right of mine has been cleared and the brass plate on our door no longer bears the name Puget. The comprehension sinks in slowly: my colleague Jade has been Removed.

There’s nothing to say. Not that anyone would say anything anyway. We all know what’s happened to him; but to admit it, to talk about it, is to invite trouble. The subject is avoided by avoiding all conversation. All eyes are turned away from the empty workspace. If you pretend hard enough, you can make it go away. Jade no longer exists, never existed. Just like he never existed. I push them both out of my mind and switch on my computer. My hands shake as I open the first of the day’s files. I get on with my work: cutting, pasting, correcting page after page of text from a Writer who obviously — from the content of his work — has a brilliantly imaginative mind when it comes to making up propaganda stories, but who simply cannot grasp the concepts of the correct usage of apostrophes.

That afternoon I feel cold as I drive past the Entrance on my way home. While this morning it seemed full of possibilities and opportunity; now I feel it mocking me. It’s laughing at me, at my inability to take control of my life and seize the moment. It knows that I’ll continue to fool myself into waiting “just one more day…”, lulled on a bed of what-ifs and promises, until I end up Removed. Or worse: until I die, elderly and alone, having never made anything of myself; having never given myself a chance to live.

Sleep refuses to take me as I lie in bed that night after a subdued evening alone. Self-hatred fills me and I glare into the darkness at what a weak-minded, feeble individual I am. All the fantasising in the world wouldn’t change what happened to Jade — and, though it sickens me to admit it, I’m just too pathetically scared to do anything. A small voice reminds me that there’s nothing I could do to change anything anyway. I push it away roughly: that’s not the point. A fleeting memory of Jade, laughing and leaning against my desk, coffee in hand, talking to someone while I try to work flashes past my mind’s eye and I feel a sudden overwhelming sense of loss.

It’s ridiculous. The man was just a colleague. We barely spoke. He was actually quite annoying at times. But that doesn’t justify what’s happened to him. I recall the hushed whisperings of what happens to those who are Removed and I feel slightly sick. Nausea invades my sleep, when it finally arrives, and I spend the night dreaming of the gut-wrenching paranoia of being Watched.

Unfortunately it seems that the dream doesn’t end because it soon becomes apparent, in the next few days and weeks, that my paranoia is not entirely unfounded. Having already been through it once, I know the signs of being Watched and they surround me; though, as always, They are subtle enough to make me doubt myself and wonder if maybe I’m just finally sinking into psychosis. The stress of feeling that they are monitoring every movement I make, just waiting for an excuse to take me away, eats away at me while I desperately try to act as normal as possible at all times. I drive myself crazy, trying to think of what I could have done to have attracted Their attention this time. I’ve been so careful; they can’t have anything against me again!

And so I withdraw into myself. I distance myself from my colleagues and eat lunch alone, eager to avoid any chance of an incriminating conversation. I cancel my magazine and newspaper subscriptions, and refuse to watch TV for fear of accidentally seeing something insurgent. I carefully look the other way as I drive past the Entrance every morning, telling myself that the house is nothing but a house, willing myself to believe that the Entrance does not exist. I can barely sleep, terrified that I’ll say something in a dream and wake up to the Removers dragging me out of bed. Days turn into weeks turn into months and still I feel them Watching me.

Eventually I wind myself up to such a degree that I find myself becoming scared of everything. A strange car parked in the street: is it a surveillance vehicle? An unexpected phonecall: are they trying to set me up somehow? Even goddamn mirrors: are you sure it’s just a mirror? Maybe they’re watching you… The tension begins to make me ill and my work suffers as I grow increasingly sloppy through lack of sleep. Something’s going to snap and I hope to God it’s not me…

There are only two options really: I can stay, and continue being Watched until I either drive myself insane or They finally find that excuse to Remove me. Or I can make a break for it, and risk capture and certain Removal for the chance of finding a better place through the Entrance.

And that’s how I find myself gathering up some clothes and a few other odds and ends and getting into my car in the middle of the night. I drive, shaking in fear, towards the Entrance. My eyes are glued to the mirrors, just waiting for Their cars to come hurtling towards me. Thankfully the roads are fairly clear, and I only have to suffer a few heart-stopping moments of cars driving past me on their way to wherever.

All too soon the house I’ve pinned all my hopes on looms up out of the dark and I wrestle with the gutting fear that maybe it isn’t the Entrance. Maybe it was just another house and I’ve been fooled into believing it’s something special. Maybe I’ll go up to the door and find a whole regiment of Them just waiting to Remove me for even thinking of getting out.

I sit in the car outside that house for an hour or so. Trying to work up the courage to go up to the door. All the time knowing that just being here, outside the house at this time of night, is a Removable offence. Eventually I come to the conclusion that I am damned anyway. Even if I turn and drive back home I cannot explain the miles on my car, or why I was out late at night. I’m dead now anyway. There’s only one option left.

I feel physically sick as I carry my bag up the few metres of path to the faded blue front door of the house I desperately hope truly does contain the Entrance. I stand outside while minutes tick past, eventually raising a fist to knock at the door.

The noise echoes horribly loud in the darkness. There’s a long pause and the fear grows inside me until I’m sure I will pass out. And then a scratching behind the door; and a brief shudder before the handle turns and it opens, just a fraction. One suspicious eye glares out at me. Another, peering from behind. “I seek sanctuary. I wish to enter Decemberunderground.” I don’t know where the words come from but they feel so right. The eyes behind the door stare at me for a long moment. And then the door closes. And I feel my heart stop as I realise that I was wrong. This is not the Entrance. And now I will be reported and Removed. It’s all over for me.

I collapse onto the doorstep, too shocked to cry though I wish I could. My eyes search the darkness for Their cars; I’m sure They’ll come for me soon. Voices mutter behind the door: they’re deciding if they should to call Them. One voice rises indistinctly above the rest and silences them. Footsteps patter around.

The door opens behind me and I curl up into a ball, almost expecting to be kicked off the property. Soft steps come closer and I hear someone catch their breath. Cautiously, I turn towards them, hoping that whoever it is will let me leave peacefully. A dead man’s face stares down at me as his unbearably familiar voice whispers: “Adam Carson. You are very early. But very long awaited. Welcome to the opening of the Decemberunderground.”

I think I did pass out at that moment. I don’t remember entering the house. I have a vague recollection of sitting in a rather small, remarkably normal household kitchen, watching people bustle around, arguing over what to do with me. Someone must have handed me a cup of water because I sip at it while I wait. Apart from the curious glances and occasional suspicious glare, no one attempts to look at or talk to me while they play God with my future.

I try to take in my surroundings without staring too much but I really can’t help it. The place is disappointingly like any other house I’ve seen. No exciting communication systems or racks of weapons. Just a plain working-class house; with normal housey things. The only hint that I’m actually inside the Entrance is in the people. While most are clad in Regulation white and grey shirts and trousers — a few are a flash of colour, wearing styles of clothes I’ve never seen before. Hairstyles differ wildly too: from the standard cuts I’ve seen all my life to incredibly long or spiked up or asymmetric. More incredibly, I see people with brands, tattoos and piercings — I recognise the punishment marks of various crimes from several Corrective Institutes — freely showing without shame. My own tattoo from when I was Investigated burns hotly on my arm, as if it wants me to push back my sleeve and display it at long last. I ignore it.

My attention becomes fixed on David: the man who was Removed eleven years ago — presumably for living a ‘dangerous lifestyle’. That’s the one they usually get people with. And I would have been the lifestyle They considered dangerous. He was taken in the middle of the night with no warning: One day he was there, the next he was gone; he had never existed. The pain of his Removal had burned in me for years — compounded by being unable to talk to anyone about it — until I finally forced myself to give him up and move on. And now here he stands; a decade aged but still the same striking boy who’d stuck by me when no one else dared to. I am terrified. Here’s a ghost of the past come to haunt me once again.

He has filled from a skinny young man blazing with ideals and dreams of a better future; to a slim but powerful adult, still with charisma to burn. He’s also one of the ‘different’ people. His once fluffy shoulder-length hair is now cropped close on the one side, jaw-length on the other. His ears and lip hold metal rings — like the ones mothers threaten disobedient children with. They suit him. He wears skin-tight charcoal-grey trousers and a close-fitting olive green jacket held together with a multitude of zips and buckles. He seems to hold some authority here. As I slowly begin to take in the enormity of what I’ve done, David smoothly ushers people away, sending them out on odd jobs and excuses until it’s just us alone and with a decade of unspoken words stretching out between us. Around us, the house settles back into sleep and silence.

“David…” My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper but I feel that I have to break the stillness somehow.
He glares icily at me. “Davey. My name’s Davey.” His voice is clipped and cold; not a trace of the tender man who’d risked everything for me. Before I can respond he slides gracefully off his perch on the worksurface and strides out of the room without a word. His retreating footsteps echo in my head and I feel a gut-wrenching sense of loss. All these years and he doesn’t even want to talk to me… I rest my head in my hands and try to empty my mind of what I’ve done. I start to wonder if I made the right choice. If I should have stayed and faced up to Them. Maybe I should have done it back then, when it could have made a difference…

Quick steps return to me and Davi— Davey glides back into the room and hands me a pile of clothing. “These should fit.” He slides down the wall to sit on the floor next to me. There’s a pause while he watches me examine my new garments. “You’ve grown up.” It’s a flat statement. I can’t quite make out his tone: serious — though not cold; conversational but not welcoming. I ache for any sign of the lover I used to know.

I turn to face him; I feel uncomfortable at being seated while he’s on the floor: he was always more of a leader. His face is older now, bearing the faint lines and creases that life brings; though he’s still beautiful. “So have you.” I wish I could offer something more but clear thought seems impossible just now. He nods slow agreement.
“Yes. It’s been a long time. Too long.” His eyes crease with his sad smile and I think I see a flicker of… something. Amusement? Perhaps.

“You’ve put me in a very difficult situation.” He sighs heavily and digs his heel into a gap between the floor tiles. “No. I’ve put me in a very difficult situation.” Clear brown eyes gaze at me. “Technically you should still be out there. We cannot just let people in from off the streets. There’d be chaos. But I… I made them let you in. Against all of our policies. And now you’re in there’s no way we can let you back out — unless we deliver you straight to Them, which I… Well, I’ll try not to let it happen but I think I’ve just used up all goodwill owed me by bringing you in here so I don’t know if I can. And for now, for tonight… I have absolutely no idea what to do with you. And I’m not really in a position to ask for favours at the moment. So.” He picks at a loose thread and carefully avoids eye contact, sinking back into his thoughts.

My mind feels like it’s seized up entirely at the mention of being handed over to Them after coming so close… I can think of nothing intelligent to say; so I say nothing and watch his fingers toy with the lace of his shoe while we sit in silence for a long moment. I feel rather sick. Finally he looks up at me again and I can almost see his musings settle into a decision. He pulls himself to his feet and offers me a hand to help me stand. A warm, genuine smile curves his lips for just a moment.

“This way.” He leads me through the house, padding surely through the darkness. I follow closely, reluctant to be far from company in this place. As if sensing my trepidation, Davey reaches back and takes hold of my hand, his thumb tracing over my palm reassuringly; just like he used to. Though it feels a little odd after all this time, I feel very glad of the gesture

“I’m afraid we’re rather overcrowded at the moment.” His hushed voice floats back to me as we move into a narrow corridor. “So you’ll have to stay with me for a little while. If that’s okay?” He glances back at me on the question, his eyes seeking out my consent. “I’m at a bit of a loss with what to do with you…” I nod, filled with relief that he won’t abandon me to strangers — or Them — for tonight, at least.
“It’ll be like old times.” I try to keep the edge of hopefulness out of my words. My imagination overflows with impossible scenarios of us resparking what we once had. I try to ignore it. Strange how I can miss him more now that we’re together again than in all the lonely years we were apart. He smiles but makes no comment, simply making a sharp right turn through a door painted matt black. I follow closely, trying to keep up.

We descend a flight of stairs; the once-white walls stained and bare wooden steps creaking with our weight. We stop outside another black door. Here Davey swipes a card through a reader set unobtrusively into the side of the frame. The door clicks open. Once we’re through it, he firmly pushes it closed. He points at it with his free hand. “Never ever leave that door open.” The vehemence in his voice prompts from me a swift and heartfelt promise of compliance. He smiles and I feel a brief hint of his hand squeezing mine.

The basement of the house must be much bigger than the ground floor. A dim corridor stretches out in front of us: passageways and more indistinguishable black doors opening off on both sides. Down here it all looks freshly painted: the walls pure white, the floor shiny black. The air is cool and it all smells like a mixture of hotel, hospital and high-school. Davey places a finger on his lips, asking for silence; then leads me down the first right, then the third left, through another card-activated door and then another left, another right: twisting and turning until I’m horribly lost. Briefly, I wonder if that was the point.

We stop at a matt black door just like every other I can see down here. I glance around, looking for some kind of landmark to separate this particular door from the others. Davey must have guessed because he points to a tiny black plaque on the top right of the frame. Raised numbers state that this is room 62. With exaggerated movements, he tries to open the door: it won’t budge. He melodramatically mimes surprise; then with a flourish, swipes his card through the reader hidden in the frame. Now the door gently clicks open and warm light spills out into the hall as the door clicks open. He bows deeply and murmurs softly, “After you.” I smile at the play-acting — a flash of the boy I used to know — and step into his room.

I realise how cold I’d been when the warmth of the room hits me. It’s fairly large, bigger than the living room in my apartment, and lit by a dozen soft lamps, giving the cream walls a bright, cosy glow, contrasting with the stark feel of the corridors. A laptop is playing unfamiliar music quietly in the background. The space is separated into living and sleeping areas. There’s a desk overflowing with books and paperwork in one corner and a tiny kitchenette area in another. An open door on the left wall shows a glimpse of a bathroom. The whole place has an organised-chaos, lived-in feel.

Davey takes my bundle of clothes off me and dumps them on the bed. “Take a seat. You hungry?” I perch nervously on the edge of the sofa and shake my head. There’s no way I could keep anything down with the tension that’s pulsing through me at the moment. I’m acutely aware that I’m invading his personal space. And there’s only one bed. Will I have to sleep with him? Do I even have a problem with that? I don’t know. I’m not sure about anything anymore.

He busies himself fixing some packet soup, humming along to the music, swearing when he burns a finger on the hot mug. He seems more cheerful in his own surroundings. Dumping his soup and a slice of bread on the coffee table, he curls up in the chair next to me and starts to file his nails. The whole scene is so horribly familiar from our stolen moments a decade ago I feel momentarily floored by the memories and possibilities. “So…” He looks up at me from under those long lashes. “How did you get here?”

I take a deep breath and tell him of when I felt I was being Watched. Letting the words tumble from me to an attentive audience helps to clear some of the weight of the seemingly endless fear I’d lived with for so long. I already feel a little better by the time I get to knocking at the door of the house above me and I run out of words. There’s another gentle pause. I desperately want to ask him about him; to find out what could have happened to a dead man this past decade; to find out who he is now and if he could ever forgive me. But how do I even begin to phrase the questions?

Davey finishes one hand and starts filing the nails on the other. This time his attention is fixed on his hands as he asks softly, “What about Ruth?”
My heart skips a beat at the mention of my wife’s name and I gawp inelegantly at him for a brief moment before pulling myself together. “How do you know about Ruth?”
He breaks into a small, bitter laugh, “Adam, did you think I’d forget all about you? We can find out things; Lord knows that’s practically all we do down here, for all the good it does us…” His words trail off. Suddenly I realise that he’s been down here watching me get on with my life, start a career, even attempt a family; while I simply gave him up and never looked back. Guilt settles coldly in my gut. I can’t bear to meet his eyes.

“Hey…” His hand reaches out for mine and once again his thumb caresses my palm, soothing away my anxiety. “We both did what was right. Leave regrets behind. They won’t help.”
I lace my fingers with his, just like we used to, and frown at his soft smile. “But all I have are dreams and regrets.” His smile fades and I continue hastily, not wanting to bring him down. “But anyway: nothing will happen to Ruth. We officially separated last spring, the marriage is null. So nothing I do will affect her in any way.” Privately I hope that what I’m saying is true. I wouldn’t want Ruth to be hassled by Them, even after all that happened between us.

I glance up and catch the sympathy on his face. “I didn’t know you’d split up. I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “Scarcely your fault. It was all very civil. The whole thing was… civil.” I sigh deeply and try to turn my mind away from that train of thought. “So. How about you? Will I be hearing the patter of tiny feet in the morning?”

He laughs. “Hardly. I don’t think I’m the breeding type. Though… you’ll be hearing the patter of medium-sized feet sometime.” He glances round the room and suddenly I see the clues in the room that I missed the first time round: the two coats hanging by the door, the two plates by the sink, and the eclectic jumble of belongings. I realise that this is a room for two and I feel my heart sink, though I try to tell myself I had no chance anyway. I raise an eyebrow questioningly and he almost blushes. “Yeah, my uh… let’s say ‘roommate’,” a meaningful nod towards the double bed, “is at work. Thankfully. This will be quite hard to explain.” I feel increasingly uncomfortable, beginning to realise the extent of the consequences of my actions.

“I’m sorry.” It’s nowhere near enough, but all I can offer.
“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for. But yes: I’ll have a lot of talking to do tomorrow.”
I glance at my watch “You mean today; it’s long gone three a.m. Sorry; I’ve kept you up so late.”
He laughs. “You haven’t. I’m working six ‘til two in the morning at the moment. I’d nearly finished my shift when you came to our door. You gave me a nice excuse to knock off early. You must be dead on your feet though.”

Now that he’s pointed it out I realise how tired I am. It’s been an incredibly stressful day and my shirt is clinging to my back with fear-induced sweat. Even my eyelashes ache. I try to suppress a yawn. Davey scoots forward in his seat. “Okay. How about you have a shower and get out of Regulation clothes. And I’ll make some phonecalls and see if I can get hold of a bed for you.” He stands gracefully and offers me a hand hauling myself to my feet. I feel my spine crack when I stretch.

“Who’re you gonna wake up on my behalf?” I ask inquisitively, wondering how one goes about getting an extra bed in the dead of night in an underground secret stronghold.
He grins. “No one — we work a shift system round the clock here: there’s no daylight after all. So I’ll be bothering whoever’s working First-rotation in the Storage rooms. It’s no big deal — the problem will be the reason. Can hardly tell them I want it for an unauthorised guest I’ve let in from the aboveground… But it’s okay. I’ll just say I’ve had an argument with Nils and don’t want to sleep with him any more. They should buy it.”

“Nils?” I note the pronoun. “Your, uh… roommate?”
He nods, looking kind of embarrassed. “Yeah, his name is Nils.” He meets my eyes defiantly, as if daring me to make something of it.
“You live together; like, with the one bed and all; just like that? And everyone knows?” I can’t keep the amazement — and maybe jealousy? — out of my voice.
He shrugs. “Of course. It’s not too unusual down here. No one cares.” I gape at him, simply astonished. “Remember that our community is made up of the people They don’t approve of. So yeah, we have a very high percentage of freaks and queers and whatever else. As long as you do your work and don’t harm anyone else: no one gives a shit about how you live your life.” I shake my head in wonder.

“Tell me about Nils?” I’m intensely curious about his relationship. Who has replaced me?
“He’s uh… twenty one. Has like… dark longish hair. He’s fully free; was born here in the underground. He’s training to be a children’s teacher, and he’s working a double shift today so he’ll be back in a few hours. We met a few years back one winter in August. He makes me happy.” He smiles to himself and starts digging through a pile of fresh laundry.

“Winter in August?” I’m confused.
He nods distractedly. “We call our main strongholds by the names of months, I have no idea why — it’s just how it works. December is the one that everyone’s heard of. That’s a couple of hundred miles north of here. It’s like an entire city. But there are others. This is March. We’re pretty big, there are a lot of people, but we’re mostly just living space and rehabilitation. August is the big organisational headquarters, a lot of the fighting force are over there.”
“Doesn’t it get confusing with the real months?”
He shrugs. “Nah, we usually call the months by their numbers. You’ll get used to it.”

There’s a pause while I try to process everything. But my head feels like it’s more full of potato than brain and I just can’t digest it all. Davey hands me a couple of fluffy cream towels and I decide to shower first - think later.

The bathroom is all tiled in white and tiny, but then — I suppose you don’t need much room to shit, shave or shower. I adjust the water to the perfect temperature and stand for a long moment, letting the water just wash over me. Davey’s muffled voice filters through the door, though I can’t interpret a word of what he’s saying.

I take my time, enjoying the familiar motions of a shower after so many new and confusing experiences today. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I borrow a new razor and shave — almost reluctant to leave the security of this little room. Eventually I dig out a T-shirt and some sweatpants from the pile of clothes Davey had given me and pull them on. He got my size just right.

When I step back into the main room, Davey’s gone — though the floorspace is now almost entirely taken up with a mattress, dressed in fresh white bedlinen. Strange how a makeshift bed on the floor of someone else’s room can be so incredibly inviting. I gather my few belongings into a neat pile, not wanting to cause more of a nuisance than I already have, and sit on my temporary bed, resisting the urge to crawl under the sheets and escape into my dreams, at least until Davey returns. It feels wrong to just waltz in here and act as if it’s my home. Particularly after all the trouble I’ve caused him. I muse over how I can make it up to him; sliding into my thoughts…

When I wake the room is pitch black and someone’s just fallen onto my legs. A startled yell and string of confused swearing bring me fully awake and I scramble to sit up, though my legs are apparently tied together with my sheet. I wrestle free just as all the lights come on and I struggle to my knees. Davey rushes past me, wearing just sleep-shorts, and grabs the newcomer, already garbling out reassurances and explanations. I groggily look up at the two of them, curious about Nils, but it’s Davey who makes my jaw drop.

I’ve already seen people here with Corrective Institute tattoos, but the sheer number of tattoos on Davey is mind-blowing. Both arms are completely covered; there are many down his legs; and his back is totally covered with huge tattooed wings. In the mirror behind Nils I see the reflection of his chest, sternum, ribs, stomach... all permanently marked. I recognise a lot of the symbols, those from the more famous Institutes, or for the more common ‘crimes’ — though many more I’ve never seen before. The designs ripple under his skin as he speaks rapidly with a very agitated Nils. I can’t comprehend the hours of pain they must have cost him. Not to mention how many times he must have been arrested to get that many Marks put on him. How could he have survived so many Corrections?

“Adam!” Davey waves his arms in front of my face and I realise I’ve been staring.
“Sorry, what?” I try to recall what they were saying. Nils is watching me impassively. He’s one of the more normal people I’ve seen so far. His hair is longer that most, but he wears clothes that are close to Regulation and he probably wouldn’t attract too much attention in a state college. He’s also astoundingly pretty. I can’t read his expression at all and I’m not sure how to react. I feel very exposed: in sleep clothes and in bed on the floor.
Davey wraps and arm round the boy’s shoulders and hugs him to him. “This is Nils.” I swallow sticky saliva and nod, giving a goofy wave.
Nils’ mouth twitches into a smile and he waves back, just as awkwardly. “Hey. Nice to meet you.”
“Thanks. Uh... sorry for the intrusion and stuff.” I find myself stammering a bit. What do I say to my ex-lover’s boyfriend? Davey switches off the main lights, leaving just one or two little lamps glowing warmly. He starts to make more soup.
Nils shrugs and yawns deeply. “It’s okay. Sorry, I just wanna go to bed. I’m not built for fourteen-hour shifts at work…” He strips off his jacket and hangs it up. “I’ll be more sociable when I’m not asleep on my feet.” Yawning again, he disappears into the bathroom.

I look over at Davey, and find myself still slightly enthralled by his tattoos. “That could have gone better…”
He shrugs. “Had to happen somehow. Could have been worse.”
I sigh. “He hates me.”
Davey snorts. “No he doesn’t. He’s just tired.”
I shake my head. “No, he hates me. I’d hate me if I was him.”
“Good thing you’re not him then.” He grins and brings the mug of soup over, setting it on the bedside table and climbing back into bed. I roll my eyes at him and stare at his skin again.
“Did they hurt?”
He inspects his arms as if he’d never seen them before. “Every second. Every one.”
I shiver, remembering the searing pain of mine; the thought of having it done so many times, over all that skin...

After a while, I lay back down; the brief moment of excitement seems to have just underlined how tired I am. I find myself watching the plain white ceiling until Davey turns out the lights once more. Then the distant sound of the shower becomes the only thing in the room and it trickles through my brain, turning into the soundtrack to my racing imagination. Slowly the drumming of water turns into the soft murmur of voices and my thoughts swirl through all that’s happened today, and all the years I’ve lived, all at once. Minute after minute ticks past as I try to get my mind to shut up and let me fall into the full sleep my body is begging for. I slowly sink deeper.

“Is he asleep?” The voice is just on the edge of hearing and filters into my dream.
“I dunno. I think so.” A soft rustle. “You okay?”
“I’m always okay with you.” A kiss in the darkness that sparks all my fantasies to life. My drowsy mind focuses in on Davey: here, so close to me once again, and still so terribly beautiful. A montage of memories of night after night with him fills my thoughts. Now that he’s so close to me I want him more than ever and the frustration claws at me. Their kisses take over my dreams. With the skill of a true fantasist, Nils is effortlessly tuned out and now it’s my lips on his; my arms around him; my back he’s stroking with those perfect hands.

Their bed creaks softly with their change of position and I shift with them: rolling onto my back, my mind filling in the details of Davey’s hands on my skin and his tongue joining mine. Their breathing quickens and covers the sound of my own. Davey’s first moan flows through me, making my heart pound against my chest, feeling like his fingers kneading my flesh, pulsing with every breath. Nils vocalises my silent reply and I chew at my lip, visualising Davey’s mouth cutting off that sound at the source.

And now everything is Davey. The weight of the blankets covering me is his body; the pillow under my head is his arm round my neck in a tender embrace. My hand is his hand as it trails down my body, smoothing over the heated flesh, working its way under the waistband of my pants. Davey lets out a muted breath and my mind creates visions of what I’m doing to him to cause it. The sound of our kisses ripples through the room again; his mouth on my lips, my jaw, my neck. He reaches my chest and licks a line down to my waist. Nils fills in the moans I make on my behalf and Davey shushes him softly, eliciting a cascade of recollections of all the times he’d begged me to be quiet, years ago.

I bite my lip and try to be quiet as I help Davey wrap one elegant hand round me, gathering my wetness to ease the movement of his hand down my length and up once more. The bed shivers with their movement and again, Nils vocalises my feelings in an almost silent gasp. My thumb is now Davey’s tongue, gently tracing over the tip, rippling down the underside and lapping at the base. His warm mouth envelopes me and grips me tight, adding just the right pressure in just the right places. He’s always been incredibly good at that.

My movements match pace with their hushed gasps and the tiny squeaks of the springs. My hand, in lieu of Davey’s mouth, grips tighter; speeding up. My nails substitute for his teeth and my mouth falls open when he moves down my entire length and presses his tongue against me. Nils fills in my groans as Davey swirls his tongue over me one final time before the heat rushes through me and pulses into his hand. Their quick breathing screens mine.

Davey crawls back up my body and kisses me softly. A quiet “I love you” sounds loud in the darkness. I respond with another kiss; carefully cleaning his hand of all trace of me with my tongue. As our hearts begin to slow their rapid beating, a warm glow settles over us and while Davey and Nils float off into sleep, I lie wide awake on my mattress, appalled at what I’ve just done.

I couldn’t endure living with Them. But can I survive the Decemberunderground?

Cold

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:23:55 GMT

Dawn sunlight sparkled blue-white off the pristine blanket of snow covering every horizontal surface for miles. Everything was sharp and bright, made clean by last night’s downfall. Trying not to break the perfect silence, Davey carefully shut the door behind him, dislodging a light dusting of snow from the roof that settled in a gentle layer on his hair and eyelashes, giving him a look reminiscent of icing sugar on a chocolate brownie.

Stepping carefully, he took one last look back at the house; and disappeared into the mist.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Adam woke, as always, just before the alarm went off. Still clouded by sleep, he pulled the covers up against the morning chill and watched the clock tick its way towards officially announcing the morning. “Wake up baby…” he cleared his throat, his voice husky from the night, “…nearly up-time.” When the familiar words drew no acknowledging grunt he reached out to give his other half a nudge and finally realised what was wrong with this morning. Davey’s side of the bed was cold. He was gone.

Now fully awake, he threw back the bedclothes and crawled to his knees as if examining the vacant space would make it untrue. The cool sheets gave no clues for Davey’s absence. But the hot pink note neatly pinned to the pillow looked promising.

Fingers clumsy with the remnants of sleep, Adam managed to stab himself while removing the slip of paper. He sucked the injured finger distractedly and unfolded the note.

“Wake up baby. It’s up-time.”

Confused, but relieved that this was only a game; Adam dragged on yesterday’s jeans and padded out of the room to hunt for Davey. The upstairs seemed clear so he started down the stairs, listening out for the stifled giggle that would undoubtedly give the game away as soon as he was near.

The living room was as silent and empty as it had been when they’d left it last night. But the kitchen held a new hint, hot pink and taped to the back door.

“Come to me.”

A glance through the window showed no shivering Davey, pleased with the joke, only a clear set of footprints leading out into the garden. Adam whipped round and grabbed his boots from the hall, wriggling his feet into them and tugging a jacket on over his bare torso. He hurried outside, placing his booted feet into Davey’s delicate prints as he followed the trail up to the end of the garden and into the fence.

Stopping, Adam stared at the tracks. They definitely led straight to the six-foot wooden fence and stopped. Confused, he jumped up to look over. The prints continued on the other side. Taking a breath and a firm grip on the top of the fence, Adam jumped and hauled himself over, dropping gracelessly on the other side with only a few minor scratches and splinters. He leaned against the fence to catch his breath and stumbled as the panels gave way, swinging back to reveal a man-sized opening.

Cursing his hastiness — he should have realised that Davey would never have scrambled over a fence — Adam straightened up and noticed the next hot pink clue wedged between fencepost and panel.

“Run to me.”

Turning, he saw that the prints were indeed much wider and messier, running-prints in fact. Laughing at the how elaborate this was getting, Adam took off up the road, chasing the promise of Davey.

The tracks led him to a stone hut and another pink note, this one set inside the window.

“Knock-Knock”

Taking the hint, Adam knocked twice and paused, listening. There was a brief scuffle from inside and then silence. He knocked again and cautiously opened the door and stepped inside.

It was dark, the small window offering little light, and sparsely furnished with basics; a small gas cooker, mildewing rug and a battered table with two chairs. There was a vague smell of cold and damp and a remarkable absence of Davey.

However there was one more hot pink note, on a door to the left of the window.

“Do and be done with me.”

A smile creased Adam’s face and he knocked softly on the door. It swung open under his touch to reveal a tiny room completely filled with a candlelit double bed covered in luxurious silk sheets, sweet-smelling rose petals, and a very naked Davey.

“I thought you’d never get here.”
Adam latched the door behind him and stepped closer. “This is incredible.”
“You like it?” Davey stretched out, pointing his toes and arching his back.
“I love it.”

Davey grinned as he rolled onto his knees and crawled over to the edge of the bed, reaching out to grab Adam’s jacket. “So why aren’t you naked?”
Adam allowed himself to be pulled until he was chest-to-chest with Davey who curved his head to nip at his jawline. “I can’t remember. Help me.”
“Help you get naked?” Davey ran his nails down Adam’s back and burrowed his fingers under the waistband of his jeans. He pressed his lips to Adam’s and opened up a lingering French kiss that ended with gasp for both of them.

“Mmmn, yeah. I think naked would be good.” Adam shrugged out of his jacket and kicked off his shoes, stumbling in his haste.
Davey stifled a giggle. “Why Mr Carson, won’t you get cold?”
Adam paused and struck a manly pose that was rather ruined by him having his jeans round his knees. “For you baby, I’d gladly get cold.”

He crawled onto the bed and settled close to him, toe-to-toe, hip-to-hip, chest-to-chest. He wrapped an arm around Davey’s waist and pressed his palm flat against the small of his back. “Davey…” His voice was barely a whisper, just the suggestion of words. “I love you.”
He felt Davey’s lips curve into a smile in the crook of his neck. “I know. And I’d die for you.”
A hand traced down his side, floating over his hip and settling lightly on his thigh. Adam wrapped his leg around Davey’s, holding their bodies tightly together. “I’d prefer you to live for me.” His hand drifted down Davey’s stomach and ghosted over his cock.

Davey’s body rippled in response, the physical accompaniment to the moan that fell from his lips. Adam shifted his grip and stroked more firmly, entranced by the changes in Davey, his faster breathing, the flushed skin, racing heart. He was beautiful like this. No, he was beautiful at all times, but like this… like this he was exquisite.

Adam rolled Davey onto his back, one hand still firmly and fluidly stroking at his cock, the other twining fingers with Davey’s while he laid kisses over his jawline, his neck, his chest…

“No no no!” Davey moaned, half heartedly trying to bat Adam away from himself. “This was supposed to be about you. You getting everything you want. Stopstop.” He tried to sit up but was pushed back down.
“Shush you, I’m concentrating.”
“But… but…” Davey’s protests came to a sudden stop as Adam took him into his mouth. “Fuck…” His back arched and he clawed at the expensive sheets. His hips bucked up and he wrapped his legs round Adam’s torso, completely lost in the warm wet heat.

Adam came up for air, nibbling at the crease of Davey’s thigh, and using the abundant pre-come and saliva to slick up a couple of fingers. “You okay?”
“Bastard. Let me do something for you.” Davey’s breathing was quick, his body flushed and hot and he was clinging tightly to the sheets.
“Okay. Moan for me.” Adam slid slippery fingers into Davey, twisting and scissoring as he did so.

Davey writhed, caught between the double pleasures Adam’s fingers and his mouth. He was biting his lip but couldn’t contain the gasp that hissed out between his teeth. “Okay, no. Fuck.” Reaching down, he grabbed a handful of Adam’s hair and savagely tugged him off his cock.
“Ow! Bitch!” Adam yelped but Davey cut him off with a deep, probing kiss, wrapping his arms round his body and clawing at his skin with his nails.
“Shut up. I want you to enjoy this.” He kissed Adam again, trying to take control despite being spread-eagled on his back.
“I intend to.”

Davey felt fingers between his thighs and started to protest again before he realised that Adam was guiding himself in. A long slow push and he was there, moving gently at first, but gaining force. Now both voices cried out softly at the waves of pleasure flowing through them. The rhythm built up to a crescendo, Davey calling out in counterpoint to Adam’s muted grunts and then the final spiral of pleasure where every movement made the body jerk in pleasure which made the body jerk in pleasure which made…

Afterwards, panting, slippery with sweat and no longer in the slightest bit cold, they kissed deeply and traced meaningless patterns on smooth planes of skin.
Outside, cars rumbled past at intermittent intervals, adding texture to the silence that was broken only by a simultaneously whispered “I love you.”

Perfect

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:21:53 GMT

He lay still, with his face pressed into the floorboards. You knew he must be able to hear you moving about in the next room but he didn’t turn to look. He knew you wouldn’t like that. You came back to him, stepping softly as if someone might overhear. You stood over him, feet just touching the outsides of his thighs. He lay still, waiting for you.

You dropped to your knees over him, hearing the dull oomph as the air was forced out of his lungs. You shushed him with a trail of your cool fingers down his spine. He waited, silent. You felt the tingle of shared anticipation and smiled to yourself, forcing yourself to linger, to make him enjoy the suspense a little longer.

You reached forward and pushed your fingers deep into his hair, gently sliding your other hand under his jaw and tilting his head into a more comfortable position. His dark eyes looked silently up at you, his lips held in a faint smile, a smudge of dust from the floor on the side of his nose. You brushed it off, wanting him perfect. Needing him to be perfect.

You moved off him reluctantly and reached into your bag for tonight’s playthings. Three black velvet scarves; their soft matt texture contrasting violently with the gleaming brightness of the silver handcuffs. You glanced over at him as you drew them out, half pleased and half annoyed that he kept his composure, kept his expression perfectly blank.

You ran your hands over his smooth body, savouring the feeling. You held him at his hip and shoulder and rolled him over towards you, onto his back. He was lax, allowing you to do whatever you wanted, a blank slate, a wet dream come true. You teased his legs with the edge of the scarves, trailing them down to his feet. You looped the first round his right ankle and knotted it lightly to the radiator pipe. Repeating this with his left foot, securing it to the other pipe, spreading his legs out at an uncomfortable ninety degrees.

You settled yourself once more, sitting on his hips, looking down at him. Perfect. You leaned forward, resting your hands on his shoulders for support. He let his head roll back and stared up at the ceiling, submitted to your teasing, his body here for you and only you. You traced a finger round his hairline and down his temple to his chin; taking in the textures — the harsh roughness of his jaw and the impossible softness of his lips.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, lifting his torso into you, skin sliding over skin; his eyelashes against your cheek. “Mine,” you whisper, “all mine…” His eyes looked up at you, anticipation mixed with total helplessness; symptoms of the forced trust that he needed to give you. One last chance… “Do you want this? Do you want me to stop?” He lay still in your embrace, his lack of response telling you to continue.

You kissed him; his soft lips cool under yours. His mouth yielded to your tongue, you entered his mouth, taking what you wanted, not allowing him to respond. He was heavy in your arms, relaxing into the kiss and you moved down with him, lying together in the dust and dirt of the floor. Glory and grime merging tonight.

Reluctantly you left him, removing your mouth from his. You sat up and reached for your bag. A small dark blue tub found your hands and you ran your fingers over its familiar surface as you brought it out. You took the lid off and surrounded your fingers in its contents. You thought you could feel his motionless body respond to the anticipation even as he lay unmoving beneath you.

Parting his legs still further with the heel of your hand, you slid smooth, slick fingers along his inner thighs, making a soft wet pathway to his buttocks. You pushed into him, up to the second joint, enjoying the gentle resistance he gave you. He looked idly towards the closed door, eyes unseeing as he revelled in your touch, savouring every fraction of your fingers deep inside him.

You scissored one last time and pulled your wet fingers out of him, tracing gently down his thighs. You watched him, perfection personified, as you coated your fingers again and wrapped your hand round the base of your cock, pulling gently up to the tip, feeling every faultless point of contact, making yourself just as slick as you had made him.

You leaned forward, resting your arms on his chest as you reached to kiss his neck and collarbone. He exhaled gently in anticipation of your movements and your cock twitched in response, brushing against his thighs. You slid a hand down his torso, between his legs, guiding yourself into him slowly, careful not to hurt him. You pushed steadily against him, feeling his muscles slowly yield to your invasion.

You slowed your entry when the head of your cock had entered, wanting him to enjoy it, to not be too forced. You didn’t want to damage him. Gently, you pushed in again, in rhythmic pulses, moving in a little each time; feeling him surround you completely. He shifted as you pulled out and eased back; you could feel every exquisite curve of his insides wrapped around you, gripping you just right. You kissed him briefly and pushed in hard; his walls caressed your tip, making your hips buck. Perfect. You had known it would be, but even anticipation couldn’t compare with this.

He rocked with you as you wrapped your arms round his shoulders and held him close, skin on skin, mouth on mouth. You turned and nestled your head in the turn of his neck as you came closer; your strokes into him becoming deeper and more rapid. Your increased breathing warmed his ear and you felt each pull of his muscles around you, making you need more, needing a release.

Your nails dug into the skin of his shoulders and back as you rode out the orgasm together, a sensation too intense, too perfect. Your breath came hot and fast as you slowed your movements to sweet touches and gently pulled out of him. You kissed him carefully, not wanting to spoil the moment with sickly sweetness. He remained, perfectly still and silent, relaxing into the afterglow as you lined your body next to him, twined your fingers with his and slid slowly into sleep.

You are lying on the floor in a dirty room; dust is swirled around in obscene pattern, marking what you’ve done. A man’s naked body lies next to you. He’s very still, with a yellow-grey tinge to his skin that doesn’t seem right. The backs of his arms and legs are discoloured a blotchy red-black. You brush a hand over him and feel that he is cold.

His clammy lifelessness seems to cling to your hand as you jerk your touch away from him. The movement disturbs his body and his head lolls towards you, glassy, unseeing eyes staring straight into yours, gazing accusingly into your soul. “I’m sorry…” you whisper, as if he could hear and understand. “I just wanted you to be mine. All mine…”

You scramble away from him, unable to look away from his lifeless eyes. Your breath catches in your throat, you claw at the floorboards, feeling — but not noticing — the dirt pile up under your nails. “I wanted you!” you tell him, your voice rising and cracking, “I wanted you — I wanted to feel you under ME. I wanted YOU to know how it is to be still and quiet and to have to resist reacting. I just wanted you to feel it. I just wanted you to know. To know what it feels like. Like I do.”

His body rolls backwards, breaking his eye contact with you. You exhale subconsciously and wipe at your face. A movement catches your eye. His hand twitches. You stop breathing, unsure whether to believe your senses. Before you, his body jerks, every muscle spasming. His head rolls back and he opens his mouth. You scream and he turns his head towards you in response. His eyes are bloodshot and blackened and his obscenely red tongue shows between pale grey teeth.

You back towards the wall, as he sits up, and then stands up. He turns to face you and you register the impossible paleness of his chest contrasting with the bruised darkness of his fingers and toes. He comes towards you; his movement is wrong, oily, like he’s no longer bound by the physical abilities of his bones and joints. You crack your head on a shelf and try to push yourself through the wall as he comes to stand right in front of you.

He reaches out a hand towards you. You watch it come nearer, as unwilling to bat it away as you are to let it touch you. It stops barely an inch from your skin and traces an invisible line down your body. The skin on your chest and stomach tries to crawl round to the relative safety of your back. He turns his head slightly to one side and looks at you. His lips curve back into a rictus smile, he lets out a short breath as if he’s laughing.

His hand are on you, working their way over your shoulders and round your back, pulling you into his cold, damp body. He’s taller than you and he arches his head over yours and seizes your mouth in a chilling, soulless kiss. Your mouth opens as you try to scream, but you’re gagged by his slimy tongue between your teeth. You open your mouth wider, trying to avoid all contact with him. He pulls back, and you clamp your mouth shut. He places one chaste kiss n your closed lips, he feels cold and unyielding, an experience as remote from kissing as a kiss is possible to be. He relaxes his hold on you, steps back and smiles again; then drops to the floor.

You stand there for a long moment, watching him, afraid to draw his attention again. He’s between you and the door. There’s no where you can go without moving past him. You slide down to the ground and wait, unable to force yourself to move towards him. Your adrenaline seeps out of your bloodstream and you are pulled unwillingly into sleep.

You jerked awake, shivering violently in the chill that has crept into the room. Your heart was still pounding from the fading memory of your dream. You looked down at him, his clear eyes gazing back up at you. You smiled, leaned down and kissed him gently. “Love you,” you whispered softly and kissed him again.

He lay still, looking up at you with unseeing eyes, his skin clammy, with a yellow-grey tinge, and his lips cold and unresponsive.

Perfect.

Coffee

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:20:11 GMT

The club’s music is still pounding in my head even though we’re a couple of blocks away from it by now; though it may be my heart — pumping obscene quantities of alcohol through my system with every beat. The cool rain mixes with sweat from the heat of the dance floor, sticking my shirt to my back and slicking my palms, making holding the hand of the boy taking me back to his place for ‘coffee’ very difficult.

He’s slightly ahead of me, leading the way, and through my drunken haze I focus in on the way his perfect ass, encased temptingly in tight black jeans, moves with every step he takes. His buttocks sway hypnotically, left… right… left… right… left… Entranced, I lurch forward and make a grab, squeezing firm flesh before he whips round, batting playfully at me. I garble something even I don’t understand and he winds an arm round my neck and reaches up to press his smooth lips against mine, and slide his wet tongue between my teeth.

My fuzzy brain registers raindrops on my eyelashes and the taste of cocktails and cigarettes. Then it directs my hand down to that faultless ass again. He laughs and wriggles away from me, grasping my hands and stepping backwards, pulling me with him. “No, that’s for later! Come on, bedtime.”

“I don’t wanna sleep…” I mumble, distracted by tripping up on my own feet as I try to keep up with him.

He laughs again and stops so that I walk into him. Now it’s his hand on my ass and he tiptoes to whisper into my ear, “Don’t worry, you won’t be doing much sleeping…” I grin broadly, his words sending a jolt to my already rather excited cock, and try to kiss him again, managing only to make his cheek wet with my beer-flavoured saliva because he’s shaking his head and moving away once more.

I stumble after him, frustration mounting by the second. He smirks and dances away, just out of reach. I chase him down the street, our laughter ringing loudly in the still night to the applause of the rain hitting puddles all around us. He dodges left down an alley and I swerve sharply to follow. Broken glass crunches under our feet as we run towards a late-night car park. He stumbles over the low railing encircling the cars and finally I catch him up, wrapping my arms round his waist and lifting him off the ground in triumph.

“Mine!” I yell victoriously and whirl him round. He squeals and elbows me in the gut, making me let him go and stagger back dizzily against someone’s dented sedan, trying to catch my breath.

He leans against me, pressing hot palms against my chest and hot lips to my neck, whispering softly into my ear. “Yours.” His voice lowers. “For tonight, anyway.” My cock twitches again and I dip my head to kiss him, sliding my tongue over his, exploring his body with my hands, slithering them up under his rain-drenched T shirt. He moans into my mouth and then shakes his head, pushing away. “No. Let’s get to my place; it’s just round the corner.”

I ignore him, concentrating on kissing his perfect neck and jawline, and on wiggling my fingers down the back of his much-too-tight jeans. He giggles at my efforts but pulls my hands away, lacing his fingers with mine. “Come on; we can do this once we’re home.”

I pull his arms around my waist and reply between kisses. “We can do it here too. And as we happen to be here right now…”

I feel my way around his damp hip and press my palm into the crotch of his jeans, abandoning all pretence of restraint. He gasps, playacting being scandalised at the suggestion, and steps back from me with a smirk. I follow, and he ends up sandwiched between the hard side of a polished black BMW and the hard side of me, desperate to be in contact with him. “We shouldn’t.” He protests half heartedly, tipping his head back to let me kiss his throat.

I growl into his ear, pressing hard against him. “But doesn’t that make it so much better?” I kiss him savagely before he can reply, and push him until he’s lying back on the glistening wet blackness of the car. He moans theatrically and runs his fingers through his hair, making it halo out around his head, soaking up the water droplets. I tear myself away from the impossible softness of his lips and fumble with his belt and buttons while he wraps long slender legs around my thighs, his hands struggling to find support on the smooth surface of the car.

Finally, I gain access into his jeans and hastily peel them off him, yanking his shoes and socks off so I can get the tight fabric off his feet. Now nearly naked, he props himself up on his hands, legs spread, and watches me wrestle with my own clothes, fighting my way out of them in a frenzied hurry.

Even before I’ve freed myself he grabs me by the shirt and pulls me in for a heated kiss. My feet are entangled in my pants and I lurch forwards, slamming into the car awkwardly. The shock absorbers rock us and his hard cock brushes against mine, bringing a mutual gasp. There’s a moment of perfection with him on his back, thrusting his hips up towards mine, and me lying over him, sliding my tongue over his once more; and both of us lost for a second in the cascade of sensation.

The moment passes and now he’s sat up, encircling my hips with his legs again, pulling me closer. From nowhere he produces a small hot pink packet, one of many given away as part a safe-sex promotion of one kind or other, and waves it at me eloquently. I rip it open, letting the packaging and little booklet on How-Not-To-Get-AIDS flutter to the floor, leaving me with the two condoms and mini sample of lube.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re well prepared.” He grins up at me and makes the Boy Scout salute, using his other hand and his teeth to break into a condom at the same time. I laugh and try to open up the damn near-indestructible sachet which seems only to be getting battered and damp in my rain-washed hands. Frustration builds, particularly when I feel his expert hands gently rolling the protection onto me. All I want is to be inside him and I’m being defeated by a foil-wrapped envelope.

He takes the package and neatly bites it open with a practised flourish. I eagerly reach forward to take it and he bats my hands away, squeezing out a portion of lube and wrapping his hand around me, spreading it on. He empties the packet onto his fingers, lays back and spreads his legs like a whore. Deliberately, he slides lube-coated fingers into himself, all the time gazing up at me from under long, dark lashes.

At that moment, all the blood drained from my brain and thought is given over to my cock. Grasping him by his knees, I pull him closer and jerk my hips forward, making my cock slide up between his thighs. He reaches for me and guides me, throwing his head back with a moan as I push in.

A flash of lightning illuminates us and for a split second I wonder what the fuck I’m doing, shagging a stranger who seems to do this fairly often, against someone’s car, in the rain. And then he tightens his muscles around me and rocks himself on my cock and I give up trying to think about anything and concentrate on taking everything I want from the young, tight body spread out in front of me.

Our breath is quick and gasping and he’s letting out muted moans that sound loud in the darkness. Thunder rolls around us and the rain pours down onto my back and runs between my buttocks, down my legs. He’s stroking himself in time with my thrusts into him and he’s clinging to me to keep his precarious balance on the car.

We’re moving faster, skin slapping against skin, the suspension on the car adding to our rhythm. With a grunt he shifts, tightening the grip of his legs around my waist and forcing me deep into him. He gasps, letting go of me and slamming back against the smooth metal. An ominous beep goes unnoticed by as I grip his hips and thrust deep, bending my knees slightly to get a better angle. He cries out and reaches out for me, pulling himself up by my shirt and kissing me savagely.

“Again. More” He growls into my ear and I oblige, pushing into him hard and fast. Again, he lets out a barely-subdued yell and falls back against the car. There’s another little beep that I hardly notice because all of his muscles seem to contract around me and caress every nerve in my cock all at once as he comes hard into his hand, arching his back, his mouth open wide in a silent scream.

He drops against the car once more and, with one sinister warning beep, the security system starts to announce its protest, alarm blaring, lights flashing. He jumps at the noise and I come into him with a yell that couldn’t possibly be heard over the symphony of wailing from the car alarm, screaming out our passion louder than either of us ever could.

I pant heavily, looking down at the boy beneath me, wet with rain, sweat, lube and cum. Phenomenally sexy. He grins up at me and then we both hear people yelling in the distance. The horror of our situation dawns on me and I scrabble in the floor for our clothes, throwing his jeans at him and rooting round for our shoes. He pulls me in an awkward run a few cars to the left, moving with rather less grace now, and giggles at my distress as I desperately try to climb back into my sodden pants. Coolly, he shakes his jeans right-side-out, wiggles into them and pulls them up over that perfect ass.

The voices draw nearer and we make a run for it — well, a stagger really — back up the alley and up the street, coming to a stop at an elaborate flower-container-thing the planners of this city thought would look nice. At the moment it seems to be growing a healthy crop of cigarette butts, beer cans and candy wrappers. I collapse onto it, much too out of shape for all this exercise. He stands between my legs and kisses me while I catch my breath. “That was fun.”

I grin up at him. “Yeah. We- we gotta do it a- again sometime.” I try to breathe more normally, my head whirling in a haze of alcohol and sex and adrenaline.
He smiles at me and runs his fingers through my hair, tugging slightly. “Maybe.” He steps back a few paces and stretches, his shirt riding up and showing off his perfect abs. “Okay. I have to get home. I’ll see ya.” Turning, he waves bye and starts to walk away.

“Wait!” I scramble to my feet. “Aren’t I coming too?”
He turns but is still stepping backwards as he shrugs. “Why?”
I flounder for a way to keep him. “Well… Can I have your number?”
Again, he shrugs. “Why?” Now a laugh. “We got what we wanted.” He waves once more and walks off into the night

I flop back onto the edge of the oversized flowerpot and watch his ass wiggle long after his footsteps have faded out of earshot. The clock strikes 3am.

Consent

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:16:42 GMT

I turn away from them, sickened that it was happening again. Why doesn’t Alex get it? He’s being used so blatantly. Used? Abused really. It’s not even as if he’s willing. If he had been I might have been able to turn a blind eye to it; but I know that when Taylor is done tonight, and sends Alex back to his own room, Alex will curl up in his bed and cry silently until he finally finds some peace in sleep. Like he does every time Taylor does this to him.

Alex giggles and I turn back despite myself. I wish I hadn’t. He’s kneeling across Taylor’s lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders, all over him like some cheap whore. Which is just about what Taylor sees him as. As I watch, Taylor whispers something to him before pushing him off, standing up and leaving the room. Alex following at his heels obediently. No prizes for guessing what will happen next.

I exchange glances with Nicky who smiles happily at me. “Aren’t they sweet?” he says looking at the door they just exited through as if he could see them through it. I make a noncommittal noise and turn back to the TV.

Sometimes I just can’t get over the naivety Nicky possesses. How can he call the Taylor-and-Alex thing ‘sweet’? He may as well call a slaughterhouse ‘peaceful’. But Nicky has never been able to see the harsher facets of people’s personalities. He’s just so damn nice.

On days like these I usually wait until it’s safe before I go to bed. ‘Safe’ meaning that Taylor’s finished with Alex and I can go into our room without having to lie there and listen to them. As expected, Alex gets kicked out at about 1.15. I leave it for ten minutes before going in, giving it time for everyone to get settled. Taylor is already asleep by the time I’m ready to face him, sprawled out over his bed, snoring gently. Once again, I resist the urge to throttle him on Alex’s behalf; I settle down in my own bed, turning my back to him in a pathetic attempt to forget he exists.

Unfortunately the Sandman doesn’t see fit to visit me tonight and I lie there wide awake for an hour or so before eventually giving up on getting to sleep naturally and getting up in search of some sleeping pills. I wander into our shared sitting room and Alex’s tear stained face looks up at me from a pile of blankets on the floor. “I… uh…” he starts, but I already know why he’s in here.

“Didn’t want to wake Nicky, huh?” I ask, although it’s not really a question. He stares for a moment before nodding and dissolving into more tears. Oh shit. I hate witnessing men crying. It’s much worse than girls crying.

I sit next to him on the floor and put my arm around him in a vague attempt at comfort. He leans into me and takes a deep breath, calming himself. “Shit, it hurts” he whispers, more to himself than to me.

“Why do you let him…?” I ask the question I’ve been dying to ask for as long as this has been happening. He gives a minute shrug and shakes his head.
“He makes me feel… special. For a while. I mean, before… before he… Sometimes he can be really sweet. And after; when he’s nearly asleep and we just lie there all curled up together… it’s nice. I like being with him. I like spending time just with him.”

“So you let him rape you so you can have a few minutes alone with him?” I ask incredulously.
“It’s not rape! I… I don’t mind it. Sometimes it’s nice. Sometimes he… sometimes it can be really good…” he trails off, a note of doubt entering his voice.

“But it wasn’t so good tonight?” I ask softly. I don’t want to upset him any more than he is already, but I have the feeling that this might be the only time I get to talk to him about this. More tears run down his face as he winces at the question.

“Tonight he was… more… rough. I wasn’t expecting it to be like that. Usually he, uh… he prepares… you know. But he didn’t tonight and… it just… hurts.” He blushes deeply and turns his face away from me. “Sorry, I’m sure you don’t want to hear all the dirty details.”
“It’s my fault. I had no right to ask.” I reply, wondering why I had asked.

Alex sniffles quietly. I get up to find him a tissue and a glass of water. When I find them I go back to him and hold out my hand to help him up, he takes it and clambers to his feet awkwardly, trying not to show how much he’s hurting.

“I recommend a very short, very hot bath in salt water and then going to bed – alone – with a couple of painkillers.”
“Oh really? And how exactly do you know this works?” he teases, lightening the mood a little.
“Ah, well; you don’t know everything about me.” I reply, equally lightly.
“Intriguing…” he muses, unashamedly running his eyes over me.

The mood changes once again, becoming uncomfortable as a silence grows awkwardly between us. “Sorry,” he says again, breaking the deadlock. “I didn’t mean… anything… by that. I, uh…”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just leave things there.” I interrupt, saving him from embarrassing himself still further tonight.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He flashes me that heart-stopping smile and turns away slightly. I yawn, finally feeling sleepy.

“Right, it’s now; 2.30am and I’m going to grab six hours of blessed unconsciousness before the madness begins all over again tomorrow. Or, today, in fact.” I stretch up, hearing bones crack. Alex grimaces at the noise.
“Eww, how can you do that?” he whines. I smile and roll my shoulders, producing another round of cracking bones. Alex shudders. “Ugh, I’m leaving. Hot bath with salt you say? Hey, it can hardly make it worse…” I smile with him and start towards the door.

He speaks just as the door closes, “Adam? You… you won’t tell anyone about, well, about this; will you? I don’t want to get Nicky involved, and Taylor… Taylor wouldn’t like it if he thought I was compl… if he thought…”
“Why don’t you break it off?” I ask, a little abruptly. He pauses, a brief flicker of confusion showing in his eyes.

“But I don’t want to.” he answers, finally. “It’s the only way I get to spend time with him. And I need to be with him. I just… I can’t explain it. I just feel so… complete, when we’re lying together, just dozing. It’s just so… perfect…”

“And when it’s not just being with him, how about when he’s not so sweet, Alex? What about times like tonight? It’s not right, you can’t tell me you like that. I know you don’t. Why do you let him do that to you?”
“Because I want to! Because that’s how he is. And because a few minutes spent holding him when he’s asleep is worth letting him… is worth whatever else he wants.” Alex stumbled over the last few words. I stare at him, trying to get over what he had just said.

“You deserve someone better” I say quietly.
“I don’t want someone else. I just want him, whatever the price.” He seems to be trying to convince himself just as much as me, but maybe that’s just my idealism. I recall how we got into this argument. “I won’t tell anyone” I say, “But Alex, you can talk to me, okay?”
He nods, “Okay. Thanks. Just… thanks.”
“Anytime” I answer.

I watch him make his way awkwardly back to his room, and turn to go back to mine, where Taylor is curled up in a knot of blankets, completely oblivious to how miserably confused he’s making Alex.

Devotion

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:06:33 GMT

You pick up the simply framed picture again, fingerprint stained and battered at the corners but so treasured. You sit on your bed and stare at it even though barely any light has fought its way past the heavy curtains. You trace the unseen features, memory showing you the curved lips, rounded nose and sparkling eyes. I watch you exhale, and fall back, the bed embracing you as you lie there, the picture held loosely in your left hand, down by your hip.

You stay that way for a long time.

The light has finally given up trying to find you when your silent contemplation is interrupted by three soft taps at the door. You sit up and shove the picture under your pillow, smoothing your hair back and looking expectantly at the door. It opens a little, and he asks nervously: “Hello?”

“Hey, yeah, come on in.” you reply, trying to be cheerful but I can feel the tension tearing through you.

He pushes the door and stands framed in the entrance, the hall light providing atmospheric ambiance. You say nothing, waiting for him to explain his presence. He shifts uncomfortably, tugging his shirt straight. “You okay?”
“Sure, and you?” Rigidly polite, not encouraging him to stay but neither pushing him away.
“Yeah, I’m fine. The last few people are leaving now, I wondered where you–” he’s interrupted by the front door slamming closed downstairs. Both of you exhale and grin as you visibly relax.

“Hey,” you say again, your tone entirely different. He steps towards you, and you stand to meet him, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“Missed you,” he says softly, and you sit back down, bringing him with you.
“Don’t talk,” you shush him with a finger to his lips, which he kisses gently before taking hold of your hands. You slide down, letting his hands wander over your body, under your clothes.

The clink of framing glass pushed to its limit goes unnoticed by both of you.

Later, when you’re both gone, I slide back into your room and uncover the forgotten picture. My face smiles back at me, happy and healthy as I was in life. The dates of my birth and death etched in the frame on either side of that single word: Devotion.

Hawking

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:02:53 GMT

I pull up to the farm two minutes early; I’m greeted at the door by a couple of the older stock – almost past their usefulness. Briefly I wonder what will happen to them when they’re released. Will they fall on their feet, or crash blindly into the unknown, as I did? No time to dwell on the past; I greet Blade warmly and make appropriate small talk. He takes my fee and I’m shown to a small room, where my usual choice is already waiting.

The kid is just perfect. Perfect shoulder-length blond hair; perfect golden-brown eyes and perfect, honey-toned skin. Absolutely faultless. He seems a little nervous, but I can hardly blame him; I was always nervous too. I give him a warm smile, trying to put him at ease. A tiny grin is offered in return before he lowers his eyes to the floor again. Even his innate submissiveness is perfect.

We wait in companionable silence for the stockholder to return with confirmation – or denial – of the acceptability of my money. I sigh and stretch out in the battered armchair, bored with the wait. Hawking has so much more etiquette than its sister-profession; but the stock is well worth the extra few minutes.

The kid jumps to his feet as Blade returns, standing politely to attention as I’m told what I already knew: my money is fine, the kid must be left unmarked by the time he’s back and he must be back within twenty-four hours. It’s all so familiar to me that I can practically recite the speech along with him. Obviously I don’t. It wouldn’t do my reputation any good at all to offend even the lowliest link in this delicate and widespread web of associates.

On the way back to my apartment I realise that I still don’t know his name, “Toby,” he whispers, with a sad smile. I wonder if it’s his true name or his working name, but I’m not so coarse as to ask. My apartment is messy, but messy so that I know exactly where everything is, not chaotic messy. Besides, he must be used to it by now. I sit him in my living room and make tea – my own recipe – for us both. He’s tense, afraid of what I have planned for him. I remember that feeling; fear of the unknown is the greatest fear of all.

After a while he begins to relax, more comfortable in my company – or maybe it’s my tea taking effect. I watch him stifle a yawn and glance at me, unsure if I would take offence at that. A few minutes later I stand up and take the mugs back into the kitchen. He watches me, alert again now that something is happening. I wish he wasn’t so tense, it will only make things more difficult for both of us; but I can empathise with his wariness; I would have been wary of me too.

I take his hand and lead him through to my room, where the incense and candles I’d lit before I left had burnt out long ago. The room is warm and cosy though, and still smelling slightly of sandalwood. I sit on my bed and have him stand in front of me, between my feet. He’s verging on being scared now, and I’m annoyed by his fear; I don’t like my money to be spent on someone too afraid to take any enjoyment out of it.

I take his shirt off him, and am greeted by Blade’s insignia showing clearly on his chest. Usually Blade’s more discreet with the placement of his tattoos, especially on stock of this quality, preferring to have them on a foot or in the hairline where they detract from the natural beauty as little as possible. The rose and dagger emblem glares at me accusingly, reminding me that this is hired pleasure, not possessed. Irritated, I tell the boy to remove his remaining clothes and lie face down so I don’t have to look at Blade’s ownership. I go to my bathroom and fetch some essentials, including a small plastic bottle from its hiding place in the wall cavity. Our plaything for the night.

I return to him after deadlocking the front door and shedding my own clothes. My room is dark without the candles, but I know it well enough to navigate the maze of clutter that I’ve accumulated. I feel slightly disappointed when I feel him flinch away from me as my skin touches his in the dark. I had thought he’d be more used to me than this. I pull him close to me in the darkness, turn him over and kiss him. He responds formally, allowing me the freedom to continue whilst not encouraging it.

He lies complacent and still while I explore him blindly, letting my hands see for me. When I’m ready I use baby oil to prepare him, sliding slick fingers inside him. He’s still much too tense, fighting my touch. “Relax,” I murmur, my mind briefly wandering to the Frankie song; he exhales and I feel him try force his muscles to loosen.

Obviously that’s as successful as trying to stop thinking of pink elephants when someone tells you not to think of them.

I give up trying to calm him naturally and resort to more chemical methods. “Smell this,” I tell him, holding the small plastic bottle just beneath his nose.
“What is it?” he asks curiously and takes a big sniff. He coughs and snorts as the powerful solvent is absorbed into his nasal capillaries.
“Isobutyl nitrite, my dear, ay-kay-ay: Poppers. Goes straight to your head doesn’t it?” I smile as I feel his heartbeat increase and watch him get lost in the high that the drug brought. “Don’t worry, it only lasts a minute or two. Enjoy it.”
“Fuck…” he gasps, obviously unused to the experience. While he’s happily distracted I push my fingers into him again, this time finding less resistance as one of the handy side-effects – loosening of the sphincter muscles – kicks in.

Finally confident that further intrusion won’t hurt him, I lift one of his knees to his chest and kiss him again. This time he reacts with more emotion, kissing back, chasing the last of his high as it fades. I push slowly; fully aware that even in this state it won’t be the most comfortable thing for him. His professionalism takes over from his high and he lies submissively as I take him slowly, enjoying how his muscles work against my invasion…

I can feel him looking at me in the dark. I don’t bother opening my eyes; I know that it will be too dark to see anything. I hear him shift position and he comes closer to me, lining up the length of his body against mine. He oh-so-casually slides an arm over my waist and rests his head on my shoulder. It’s very sweet. It annoys me.

The whole point of him being here is so that I don’t have to deal with the emotions sex brings with it. The whole point is so that I can enjoy him without having to be anyone other than who I am. It’s so that I don’t have to make conversation or dress up or act smart. I’ll admit it: it’s so that I can be incredibly, remarkably, exquisitely selfish. And that’s how I want it to be. I’ve dealt with enough emotional outbursts from exes to last a lifetime. Now I’m looking after myself.

It’s ridiculous anyway. Whoever heard of a whore falling for a client? I mean, really… He shifts again and I decide I’ve had enough. “Get up. Get dressed.” I switch the lights on and pull the covers off him to encourage some movement. He looks stricken, absolutely horrified, but I just don’t need his whorish affection tonight. He pulls on his clothes hurriedly, familiar with my impatience.

Soon we’re outside the whorehouse again. I watch him slip in through the side door, obviously not wanting too many people to know he was brought back so soon. I have a sudden, overwhelming feeling of empathy as I recall exactly the same thing happening to me: the shame I felt at being delivered back after just a few hours and the gut-wrenching fear at being questioned about why I was brought back so soon. I shake it off. The past is in the past and cannot be changed; we can only embrace it and hope to learn from it. I refuse to be ashamed by the time I spent as rent.

However that doesn’t mean I wish to let people know about it. I like my private life to remain exactly that. For a moment, I wonder exactly how the band would react if they knew just how I spent my younger teenage years. But no matter. They’ll never find out.

Incomplete

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:58:44 GMT

Today I’m driving up to see her. I flew in late last night and decided that it was better to wait until morning than to risk driving in the dark on the unfamiliar roads. My hire-car is brand new and still reeks of that new-car smell. It has a CD player, so I spend a minute rooting through my bag for something to play.

Now I’m flying down the highway, Alice Cooper’s ‘Poison’ blasting out at me, the windows down and everywhere so fresh and clean and crisp. The roads are good, not too much traffic and my hastily scrawled directions have been accurate so far. Some kids in a hyped-up open-top speed past me; even the driver is headbanging to whatever they have on the stereo. I grin, remembering all the times my friends and I would do exactly that.

As I settle into the drive my thoughts wander, I find myself wondering about the contract, if the deal will get sealed this week or if I’ll have to lean a little harder. I push work out of my mind, now is not the time.

I smoothly overtake a little silver hatchback, its driver reminds me of her. Same straight nose and long dark hair. The atmosphere warms as I daydream about what will happen this week. I’ve been planning it for months. I can’t wait to see her again.

She’s so sweet, and beautiful and perfect. I love her.

I negotiate the twisty lanes leading up to her house, enjoying the car’s smooth control. I flash past the gates, not turning in. I don’t want her to know I’m here just yet. I park the car near the top of a picturesque little hill, out of plain sight.

I dig out my binoculars and long-view camera and settle down to wait for her to come out of her gorgeous house. This time I’m determined to get a picture of her. The week would be incomplete without a memento.

I sit and daydream about the day I’ll meet her, face to face.

Narcissism

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:56:49 GMT

My hair is a mess. I shouldn’t have left it wet last night. Now it’s all tangled and standing out from my head. This will not do. I brush it through, wet it, work setting serum through it, and begin to blow-dry it into order. Everyone in the room has to raise their voice to be heard over the dryer. No matter. My hair is one of the best things about me. But then, there are a lot of good things about me.

Now that it’s dry, my hair lies neat and almost straight, with a little wave at the ends. Perfect. But then, what else would you expect?

Hair: Check

I wait for Mick to finish with the mirror. He finishes messing with his hair and goes to tune his guitar. I twist my hair back out of my face and lay my makeup out in front of me. All in order, all in place. Base first, obviously. But not plastered on, because I’ll only sweat it off. I only use the best foundation. This little bottle cost me $50. But it’s excellent, and why should someone like me be using second-rate products?

A little powder, but only through habit and to set the base. Then the eye-shadow compact. Three shades, colour, define and highlight. Even this is done in a specific order: the socket line, the lid and then up to the brows. Perfection needs precision.

Eyeliner, of course. My little trademark. Eyeliner makes pretty eyes into stunning eyes. And my eyes are truly stunning. A little on the top lid, and then round the lower lid, making sure to define the corners of the eye. I use eyeliner to put some shape into my eyebrows too.

Just a little mascara. I’m not a fan of it, but when you have such beautiful lashes as mine, you can hardly ignore it. Then lips. I use lip-ink mostly, because it just doesn’t come off. And it just looks so good. But then, when do I not look good?

Makeup: Check

I shrug out of the old T-shirt I’m wearing, and pull on a see through top. I like this one; it has a looser weave than most. It’s slashed diagonally from under my right arm to the hem on my left. I can’t remember why I cut it up, but on me, it looks great.

I muse over what to wear with it. Just a white shirt seems like a lack of effort. Finally, I pick up a fishnet shirt – this one a very dark purple – to go over the first. This one has a much larger weave so it doesn’t feel too claustrophobic. Now, with the white shirt left open so you can see both layers underneath, I feel almost properly dressed.

I discard the battered black sweatpants. Comfortable, but not really much style. Although I do wear them well. I hover between leather or my split jeans: leather is more comfortable – and much sexier – but the split looks better at a distance and offers more freedom of movement… Hmmn… I opt for the split jeans. I’m in a dancing mood tonight. I pull on comfortable, worn in shoes, though they look brand new. I glance in the mirror. Gorgeous. As always.

Clothes: Check

I go through my stretching routine. Neck, shoulders, arms; then back – touching my toes – and abs – leaning back to touch the floor. Then legs. I make sure every muscle has been warmed up. Pulling a muscle is so damn annoying. The stretches also give me a chance to check out my muscles. Really, I’m in fantastic shape at the moment.

Stretches: Check

Mick and Liam bought mini-amps today. Little 2-watt things. They’re trying them out as we warm up. Messing with the volume and tone and overdrive. The little amps can sure kick out some noise. We’re all subjected to screeching as Mick finds out they feed back and employs this to create some truly godawful sounds. My drummer taps absently at a table, working to a hideously complex beat of his own.

We run through our own versions of a few favourite tracks, changing keys throughout each so that I can warm up my full range. Mick joins in with backing, we harmonise well. Of course, when he’s singing with me, it can only sound good.

Warm-up: Check

We have five minutes before the show. I stand as I have my mic pack attached to my back pocket, and my earpiece run up under my clothes. I flex forward, checking they gave me enough wire to move fully. All set.

Mic: Check

We turn all unnecessary people out of the dressing room and huddle together for our good luck ritual. Not that the show will be anything less than perfect: I’m the star, it can only be astounding. There’s a tentative tap on the door and we move out, Showtime…

Huddle: Check

We file out to the stage entrance; I grab a last gulp of water before we troop onto the stage. The intro tape is hyping the crowd up and we take our places in the dark. Our lights slam on just as drums and bass begin the intro to our first track. The crowd explodes as I start my vocals. The show is stunning. Of course it is. This is my band, what else would you expect from me?

Clubbing

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:53:47 GMT

Y’know that feeling you get when your whole body is buzzing? When you can feel every note and beat and harmony resonate through you to the marrow? When there’s no longer the music and you; there’s only total exhilaration, the perfect high. When you finally escape all those nagging feelings of responsibility.

I’m there tonight. Completely taken over by the music and the rush of it all. The mass of people all feeling the exact same thing, bound by the same beat. The lights picked out highlights of extravagant makeup or intricate piercings; and acre upon acre of smooth bare flesh. The air is full of booze and sweat and sex and music.

I dance with people I don’t know; hug people I’ve never seen before, just because they’re looking great tonight; buy $20 of shots for strangers – my money is their money, their love is mine. The troubles of the day are drowned in a drink from an anonymous sponsor.

And there, raised above the swarm of hot, sweaty, dancing bodies, I see him. And the endless party stops right then. He doesn’t know it yet but I know we’ll be going home together. And yes: I know how arrogant that sounds, but the truth is brutal. I push my way through the sea of dancers, dodging stiletto heels and lethal elbows; fighting my way towards him.

He glances over and our eyes meet. Yes, every tired, worn out facet of that over-used cliché is true in that moment, a symphony of unspoken communication. I reach up to him as he reaches down and our hands lock in a grasp that no number of drunken, clumsy dancers could break. The noise here is unbearable, for his place is on the centre speaker, the music feeding up through his body, fuelling his dance.

He pulls and I scramble gracelessly to join him, clinging tight to his body – trying to subtly take in all the jealous glances and glares from those not Chosen to join him on the speaker throne. He wraps his arms around me in a perfect embrace and my lips grace his cheek as I yell into his ear: “Sarah’s dumping you. She’s gone off with some fucking tranny-whore.”

He stares at me as the beat pounds my words into his mind until the full horror sinks in. His knees are taken out by some wanker in a lavender feather boa, too much glittery lipgloss and a whole lot of Pills and he loses his balance even as I grab onto him. We both crash to the floor, the seething horde of people magically absent when they would finally be useful as a landing mat.

I stand shakily and pull him to his feet, “C’mon, little bro – let’s go home…” We limp out, the crowds parting to let us through. One last glance back sees his throne already being usurped by another, climbing onto the centre speaker, where the backbeat is your heartbeat and the music speaks to you, one-on-one.

Addicts

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:52:09 GMT

We giggle once more, it’s not actually that funny, but we’re laughing anyway. He knocks a stack of magazines off the table; we stare at the pile of glossy paper for a moment, then collapse into uncontrollable giggles again. He takes a deep breath and I know he’s biting the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stop the hysterical laughing. I pull myself together, sobering up.

“Woah, this stuff is great!” he gasps, still not completely in control of himself.
I nod proudly; “It is; told you I’d get a good deal.”
“Who’d you get it off?” he asks, his breathing almost back to normal.
I tap the side of my nose and wink, “My contacts, my business.” He grins, and turns back to the remains of my delivery, spread out on the table.

“What’s this one?” he’s holding a slim plastic box, the contents rattling a little with the movement. I take it from him and open it up,
“Uhhh… I’m not… Oh! I remember what this is! You’ve gotta try it! It’s so great!”

He flops back onto the sofa, eyes closed, “I don’t think I can take much more in one go.” He grins, and eyes the table again. “Besides, we should save some for later.”

I collapse next to him, “Yeah, you’re probably right. Okay, that’s enough for today.” I gather up the remaining bags and containers, shoving them back into the unremarkable sports bag that we kept behind the TV.

“Y’know,” he fixes me with an adoring gaze, “I haven’t been this happy for years.”
I smirk, “Ah, shut up – it’s the goods talking.”
An inane grin spreads across his face as he closes his eyes once more, “Yeah, who’d have thought that Monty Python DVDs would be so addictive?”

Water

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:47:30 GMT

Kelly bounces up to me, dark eyes shining and hair flying wildly, closely followed by Chris, who is armed with a neon pink water pistol.

“Daaaaaan! Save me!” Kelly squeals, taking cover behind me and peeping out at Chris over my shoulder. I flash a grin at Chris before capturing Kelly in an armlock, holding her still for Chris to squirt her; which he does, a gleeful smile on his face.

“Noooooooo!” Kelly yells and struggles, “I’m melting, I’m melting!” I let go of her as she collapses to the floor making weird bubbling noises.

I prod her with a toe, and laugh: “Don’t be dumb; that’s witches, not bitches.” Kelly swipes at me with a dripping arm, managing only to hit the wall. Chris is giggling hysterically, leaning against the doorframe for support. I help Kelly to her feet, soggy hair dripping water onto the floorboards. Chris’s phone beeps, giving him an excuse to disappear before Kelly realises he’s run out of ammunition.

“I’ll get you yet, Davis!” Kelly yells after his retreating figure. I smirk, the Kelly v Chris Practical Joke War is still going strong, months after Connor bought them both a joke kit for Christmas. Everyone is beginning to regret that gift by now.

Kelly pouts at me, shaking the water from her hair all over me, “Traitor…” she mutters, sticking out his tongue at me.

“Aw, come on Kel – I helped you get him yesterday, with the cheese thing.” I grin again at the image of Chris with cream-cheese all over his pants.

Kelly giggles, “Yeah, that one was good… One of my best I think.” She glances down at herself. “Damn… I need dry clothes.”

I nod, “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” I glance at my watch, “Shit, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to blow up the building, okay?” She nods, gives me a damp hug and wanders off in search of clean clothes. I watch her leave, dripping a trail of water with every step. I wonder just how she’s gonna get back at Chris – not to mention how she’s gonna get back at me…

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:44:49 GMT

Butterfly hair and wet cotton skin
Made of scales that glisten like porcupine wings

Spiral-bound heart; screaming hand in the hall
Honey-toned egg watching chalk on the wall

Windows are midnight and toll-booths are dawn
Tortoises bark when teaspoons are born

Money was laughing when oceans were wet
Hummingbird hides from a saucepan she met

Liquid teeth snarl at the soup on the moon
Summertime ink falls on baby teaspoons

Fairies are mirrors and diamonds have jaws
Chameleon pumpkins have bed-covered paws

Mountains are hollow with daisies of blue
Fingerprints march through a room with a view

Nail polish rusts in a desert of towels
Monkey wrench sniggers at teaspoons that howl

Poppy roads race round branches of white
Ladybird coffee flows upstairs at night

Angelfish walk with the worms overhead
Swans dress in yellow; my teaspoons are dead

Pain

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:39:30 GMT

When you have a pain so large that is drowns out all other thoughts, feelings, emotions.
A pain so persistent that it keeps you awake at night and drowns you during the day.
A pain that threatens to explode your skull open.
While simultaneously pushing in so hard that you feel isolated from the world as if you're watching it on a screen.
A pain that is so constant that the brief relief that drugs bring is a shock to the system, and the price for that relief is too high.
But all the time it is a round pain, a cool pain, one that nags constantly and pushes your awareness out of the world. As if you're living in a bubble....

It pushes in front of your senses, interrupting you as you process thoughts.
Threatening to dissolve your peace of mind into a shadow of what it was.
Slicing up your dreams and wants and needs and always, always, forcing itself to the top of your priorities.
Until the simple effort of trying to focus past the pain exhausts you and you can resist it no more so you succumb to its pressure.

And even in sleep there is no escape, for when you cannot rationalise the pain consciously, your mind tries to give other reasons for the suffering.
And so you dream, all your nightmares come to the surface.
In bright Technicolor and surround sound.
And while your senses are muted by day, in your dreams they go into overdrive –
So you can taste the mud,
And hot blood in your mouth,
And smell the rats that come to nibble at you clothes when you can’t move to get away from them…
So you can hear the gunshot,
And watch the woman’s heart explode,
And feel the warm rain of her blood,
And the dead weight of her body crashing down on you,
Suffocating you with its closeness,
Wrapping itself around you until there is no way to turn, no way to escape it.

And while even in the worst nightmares, you always wake up before you die – before you hit the ground or before the car crashes…
But you cannot – and so every night you experience a death – your own or otherwise.
In too-bright colour and electronically accurate sound, chemically synthesised smells and tastes and all feelings amplified to unnatural levels…
Until you dread night and sleeping, knowing what lies in wait for you behind the false comfort of unconsciousness.

And so to bring yourself out of the bubble that pain puts you into, you cut.
The white-hot shock snaps you back into the world.
It is a reminder that you are still alive, however much it doesn't feel that way, however detached from reality you get.

It is not a relief.
Not an adrenaline rush.
Just a shock that there is worse pain than the pain in your head.
Even if scars heal and disappear in a few weeks and the pain you seek to escape has shadowed you for so long....
But for the brief instant that the cut is new and raw, there is a pain that you can cope with.
Because you know that cuts will heal and that your pain will not.

A kind of therapy.
Being able to watch one kind of pain fade and disappear.
It helps to remember that there was once a time before the pain.
Before the totalitarian effort of trying to reach out from behind it and live began.

But the only relief from the pain that you have found is so damaging that people are shocked and disgusted.
They turn away and change the subject when you ask for help.
And you are asking for help.
And so you must pretend that everything is fine, and carry on smiling and working as if nothing is wrong.
Even though it is becoming hard for you to find what is right.
And you promise to the people that you love the most not to do it again.
Knowing as you say the words that you have just destroyed the only comfort you can get.

And now you are back to the beginning.
And as long as you have no new marks people assume you are fine, but the truth is you couldn’t be worse.
And all the time the pain pounds in the background,
Like a wave on a rock,
Until you realise that no rock can withstand the waves forever
And you begin to wonder when and where the cracks will appear…
And the pain roars constantly,
Like a white-hot light,
Slicing through your mind,
Grinding up your reasons why.
So that every move and every breath and every heartbeat just causes another wave of pain.

Until you don’t want to move, don’t want to breathe, don’t want to be.
Until the thing you want more than anything is for it to stop.
Until you want it more than life itself.
Until you just want to stop completely.
Until there’s no more pain…

* * *

Manners

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:38:17 GMT

“How are you?”
Oh, how we hate that question.
A lie: “I’m good”?
But you were taught it’s wrong to lie.
A brush off: “I’m okay; you?” is always acceptable.
Ah, trusty “okay”…
Forever applied meaninglessly.
Said so much.
Says so little.
But hardly an answer to the question…
The truth?
Ha.
Don’t be absurd.
They don’t want the truth.
The truth is too big and ugly.
They’re not really interested.
They were only being polite.
Why is it so difficult to say “I’m shit. How are you?”?
But no.
There was no need for that!
They were only being polite.
A favourite reply is: “Living”.
Simple. To the point.
They tell me it’s a good thing.
Sometimes I’m not so sure…
But it will do.
Short, truthful, answering the question.
An acceptable answer to an impossible question.
* * *

You

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:37:06 GMT

You watched me while I slept
You held me close when I was lonely
You listened to everything I had to say

You lied to keep me happy
You struggled to keep me safe
You fought to let me be myself each day

You looked after me when I couldn't look after myself
You put up with me when I didn't thank you
You left me when I asked to be alone

You told me I was beautiful - until I almost believed it
You said that you wanted me until I forgot to wonder why
You made me like myself - if only for a moment
*
I slept while you watched
I was lonely when you were close
I never paused to listen to what you had to say

I lied to make you happy
I was safe while you were struggling
I fought myself - and you - each day

I made you look after me because I wanted you near
I never thanked you for fear you'd think you'd done enough
I always asked for you to leave me be
I thought that you were beautiful - and never stopped believing it
I wanted you close and never paused to wonder why
I wanted you to like me - if only for a moment
*
I told you I didn't mind when I did
You didn't care anyway

You lived your life to the full
I cried each time you betrayed me

You left me when I needed you the most
I was whole without you
* * *

New Journal

Fri, 08 Apr 2005 14:20:58 GMT

New Journal

Content to be added within the week

Carrie
xXx