Thursday, Jul. 18, 2002 - 10:08 p.m.
Evanescence

My heart races as he approaches from across the street. So long since I’ve done anything like this. “Hey,” I say, beaming. “Hey,” he says, cautious, evaluative. Small talk informs me he’s just been where I’m headed. I ask if it’s busy down there at the water. It is, I learn: too busy for his liking.

He’s kind of glowing all over the place. “What are you up to?” he asks. I drink in the humongous brown eyes, the short lush dreadlocks topping off that tall slim muscular body. My words are non-committal yet flirtatiously inflected; I bat eyes at him in the moonlight.

Seconds later, I commit. I invite him to my place. “Cool,” he says, eyes brightening. “You got some beer?”

I say I do not drink. “Drugs?” he asks. No.

“So,” he asks, his face creasing up into a confused, good-natured smile, “what do you do?”

“I’d love to show you,” I say.

With that, we walk along together. Introduce ourselves. Let’s call him Thomas. 24, black, recently moved here from another big city in Canada. “A dancer,” he says when I ask his occupation. More sheepishly, Thomas goes on to say he’s currently employed as a courier.

We talk about dancing and couriering; he asks me about myself. He is quietly friendly; I get good vibes off him.

A block or two later, he half-stops, looks at me and, hesitating, asks “You won’t mind if I do drugs before we get at it?”

I hesitate, then say sure. He tells me he’s got some crack on him. I’m taken aback, but I do not take anything back.

We stroll along, and I’m thinking how glad I am that, for once, my place is fairly tidy. I’d done laundry earlier that night; there are no sheets on the bed. I scour my brain for any information whatsoever about crack cocaine and its users; I come up empty. I don’t know fuck-all about this stuff.

We walk by an old apartment building; its hedge huffs at us. “Wait!” I cry. My cry alarms Thomas. “Smell! It’s a cum-tree!” He leans in and takes a whiff; he looks embarrassed as he agrees. I take another deep sniff, followed by a contented sigh. He laughs at me.

“It’s a foreshadowing, eh?” I say. “Shuddup,” he mutters, downright bashful now.

I am getting excited.

Once inside my apartment, Thomas is needy. He needs me to draw the blinds before he lights up his pipe. He needs the insides of a ballpoint pen to pack it. He needs some music. He also accepts my offer of a coke—a can of coke, that is—and then he wonders if I have any porn.

As I grab a coke and some candles from the kitchen, I chat non-stop with him while surreptitiously removing my wallet from my pocket and slipping it into the utensil drawer.

By the time I return to the living room, Thomas has already done his crack. He complains that there’d barely been a hit left in his pipe.

And then he stands up and peels off his blue tee. “As soon as I get some in me, I have to take off my clothes,” he explained.

I think of nothing to say. I plunk down on the couch to watch. He has two silver nipple rings. He has a flabbergasting chest. Oh my god, look at those articulated abs!

Thomas drops his khaki pants and steps out of them. He stands there, in my candlelit living room, in all his glory. I am speechless.

He places a pillow-caseless pillow on the hardwood floor in front of the easy chair. He plops down, spreads out his long taut dancer’s legs, absent-mindedly paws at his fat flaccid cock, and smiles coyly as he says “So, what about that porn?”

I am in some meditative trance or something. I know this because there is nothing that turns me off—not to mention, offends me—more during sex than the request for pornographic supplementarity. I am not turned off; I am not offended; I am spellbound.

I turn the VCR on, picking up with the boys where I last left them. I never once look at the screen after that.

I take my glasses off. This is it. I get down on the floor and slide over to him. He looks into my eyes, deep, then seems shy and averts his gaze to the TV. I sit close enough to feel the heat of his body, but I do not touch, yet. I gawk at him. “What?” he keeps asking, self-conscious. I enjoy his self-consciousness, almost as much as the sight of all those fabulously-articulated muscles.

I place my hand on his thigh. I graze his lazy fat cock with my fingers. The bouquet of bumps on his belly magnetize my hands. “So, this is a six-pack, eh?” I say, squeezing and tracing each hard circle.

“I guess so,” he says, laughing.

“Never got to play with them before,” I say. My hands jump up to his dreadlocks. “Can I touch?” I ask, stroking him there. He okays my request. Lucky me.

And my mouth quivers, and I give into the pull of saliva, and I am leaning over, I am leaning down and into him, bathing that belly in wet kisses. He groans. That groan is all I need to unleash bucketfuls of worship. I flick at his large ringed nipples, I take an exploratory sniff of one armpit, and my tongue mops heavy and aggressive back down the washboard of him to swat that soft full appendage around. It gets fuller, not yet hard. Yet still I gag on it. This is a big boy.

My mouth plugged up with him, I look up. He’s watching the porn. He looks down at me and grins.

“I’m worried about what she’s gonna say,” he says, suddenly. I do not ask who she is. His girlfriend? I ask what he means. Thomas explains that he’d promised that last hit of crack to “her”, that he was on his way over to her place when he stopped off at the cruisy spot, that she’s going to be royally pissed off if he shows up later without any drugs.

He seems genuinely distraught. I let his dick flop out of my mouth, sit up to study his face more closely. A little bit of a goatee thing happening; such large, expressive eyes; swollen and kissable lips, lips I know from this moment I will not be kissing.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” he says. I wait for it. It comes.

“Do you have any money?” he asks. “All I’d need is ten bucks and I could buy her some shit.”

“I don’t,” I lie.

“Oh,” he says. He stares at me, at first gravely, but then that smiley glow comes back. I caress his big thighs, that flat hard tummy. He kind of doesn’t know what I’m up to.

And neither do I. Is this it, then? He’s obviously distracted by this druggie drama that I don’t want to know too much more about. Will he get up and leave? Am I endangering myself, having just refused to spare ten bucks to a coke addict? It doesn’t feel like I’m in danger.

“I wish I had more drugs,” he says then. “It helps get me into it, you know? Like, I’m really inhibited right now. The crack makes that go away.”

I don’t answer. I keep stroking him. I remember his effervescence earlier, as I’d plied him with questions about his aspirations to dance. I think about addictions, how they have waylaid so many of my dreams.

Something unsayably loving breaks open inside me. Lust disappears; I touch him differently. I lie my head on his rock of a chest, encircle him with my arms. He hugs back, holds me close. His big hands grab onto my belly, caressing the chunk of me I’m most unhappy about.

Silence. I stare at him, smiling and serene. His breathing has changed; his eyes are wondering at me, barely looking at the TV at all now.

We go on like that for a long while. Pure bliss. I imagine no more than this will happen; I’ll hold him and cuddle him and then he’ll leave. It would be enough.

But eventually, in a quietly adorable voice, sounding much younger than his years, Thomas asks, “So, aren’t we going to get down ‘n dirty?”

Sure, why not.

I shake off my reverie, suck up that floppy pendulum, and soon have him rock-hard at my throat. And oh my fucking god. If anything, my earlier prediction proves conservative. His moans urge me on; I hack and gag like a maniac.

I give my poor mouth a break, jerking him while I slither my way up into the closest armpit. Oh, that forest of aroma! I snort and lick the narcotics embedded there.

From this vantage point, I glance down at my small hand on his dick. His enormous dick. It remains enormously excited. Rejuvenated, I return to the matter at hand.

And, eventually, as can sometimes happen in the hottest of scenarios, the blowjob becomes tedious. It becomes work. My jaw aches; the strain on my poor gullet takes its toll. His eyes are riveted to the TV screen, as he strokes my hair.

I take frequent breaks, jerking for a while then sucking for a while. He keeps getting harder and harder; his dick spasms as if it won’t be long now. “I’m close,” he says, “Keep sucking.”

I keep sucking. A minute or two later, though, he takes matters into his own hands, raising his butt up off the floor and back into the easy chair as he leans back and pumps his cock.

What a relief.

But what do I do now? Just sit there and watch? That would be fine. I play with his bejewelled nipples some, then take in the whole picture before me.

Ah. There is more of him within reach, now.

I lean my cheek against his thigh, watch the pummel and throb up close. I lean in closer, my out-stretched tongue a trampoline for the bounce of his balls. I can barely see his face up behind the shook black rod. I worm perineal, prodding and sucking my way towards the center of those hard mounds poised so perfectly there. It’s a spot that tastes as good as it looks: the apex of all my travels. I remain there, speaking in tongue, lapping and drooling, saliva cobwebbing down to the floor as his knees buck and he groans, as his globs firework everywhere.

I stay plugged into him there, look up around his sticky gripped cock to smile into his eyes. He giggles. I watch the alabaster ooze down toward me. I veer left to meet it, slurping it up as I hold his gaze. That embarrasses him; he giggles some more. Drunk now, I go for seconds. He pushes my head away, playfully. “Stop it, you!”

I stop.

I return to the couch across from him, offer him a cigarette. We smoke and eye one another in silence. The perspectival shift does little to abate my wonder; he is, quite simply, stunningly beautiful.

Beautiful fucked-up man.

The smokes are smoked. He asks if I can spot him bus fare. I can, and I do. He says he better go. I do not disagree. I watch him dress.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Thank you,” Thomas replies. “I had fun, but you’ve exhausted me.”

Dressed, he walks up to me and opens his arms. I hug him, nuzzling my face in his neck.

“You take care of yourself,” I say.

“I will,” he says.

“Good luck with the dancing,” I say.

And he is gone.

I take my confused, engorged self to bed. Jerking off is both inevitable and cataclysmic.

And then I lie awake for hours, thinking about sex, and addiction, about the evanescent energies that can erupt between bodies: changing us fleetingly, utterly.