Cerise angled his hips, slamming against me, touching a spot deep inside that made all my fears dissolve into pure pleasure. I came, surrounded by two Highlanders, with my voice wild and free. The words I uttered were the first moments of Babel, where the single human language splintered into a thousand dizzying tongues.
Cerise cried out too, and then he slumped against me. His hair was soft against mine.
“You might want to let me up now,” Adam squeaked from behind.
The music came to an end. The two men stepped away, leaving me bound and breathless, a heap on the crumbling bridge. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I wriggled in my restraints, but could not get free until Cerise kindly unwrapped me.
“Do all your guests receive such a great reception?” I rubbed my arms until the blood began to fl ow freely once more.
“It’s the latest thing,” Adam replied, picking up his small stereo.
“Nos Ur,” Cerise chimed.
“Plus mature women do something to me,” Adam confessed with a shy smile. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Scots Gaelic is really a beautiful language,” I said dreamily.
“Aye it is,” Adam whispered before he helped me to climb back over the broken portion of the bridge.
“Do you think you could teach me some?”
Adam looked at Cerise before he spoke. “Meet us here tomorrow night, and we’ll see what we can do.” Adam gripped Cerise’s hand in his. He drew him farther into the growing dark.
Ivo
Alana Noel
When my friend Micah was too old for a babysitter his parents hired one anyway to stay overnight with him. Giselle lived in the neighbourhood. His dad knew her dad, something like that. What Micah remembered about Giselle was she had whip-long hair pulled into a tight cord over one shoulder, and she’d painted her fingernails purple, fingernails she dragged across the kitchen counter when they were alone; and she’d ordered him to make her some scrambled eggs. Micah said he felt that drag of nails across his soul, like his electrodes shifted, and he tried to make those eggs perfect. Except he fucked them up or so she said he did. Giselle yelled at him, and the more this chick shouted at him in the kitchen by the stove, the harder his cock got. Micah said he beat off in the bathroom later. He jerked off reliving the heat of Giselle’s breath beating him in the face.
Now we were in a hotel room, Micah and me, and you could say the room was swanky because Ivo had class. The air in the room smelled like fl owers, and the furniture was plush in that upscale hotel kind of way. The bed was huge. A picture window overlooked Portland, a gleam from the Willamette River. Out on the balcony you could smell rain, just the smell though; the sky at the moment was clear and dark like a bruise.
Micah had started on the champagne. He continued looking at me over his shoulder. “What do you think she’s going to ask us to do, dude?”
“You know what she’ll ask us to do.”
“OK, so will you take it up the ass or will I? We should figure
this out.”
I shook my head. No way. “We do whatever she says.” “Yeah, yeah,” Micah said. And then he got back to the champagne.
Three months ago, I answered an ad. Woman seeks beautiful bisexual boy to do what he’s told. Apply with a phone number and photo. When I sent off my photo to a post office box, I didn’t expect a reply.
It was a Wednesday night, and I sat in an apartment I shared with Micah and watched him fast-forward through a porn tape looking for a girl who could squirt come from her cunt. “She ejaculates, man!” Micah was excited.
The cell phone in my jeans pocket vibrated, agitating my boner. I looked at my phone: caller unknown. Meanwhile, Micah couldn’t find the girl with the squirting cunt.
“Fuck, she was here.” His jeans were open, and his cock poked out.
I hit the answer button on my phone. “Yeah?”
“Tyler?”
“Uh-huh. .” My voice trailed off. Feminine voice. Unfamiliar. “Who’s this?”
“Who do you think? Elmore Park, one hour. Bench by the water fountain.”
“OK.”
She clicked off. I looked at Micah.
“I’m about to find her,” he said. I stood from the couch and zipped up. Shit, sweating already, an adrenaline rush, something. I felt dizzy. “Hey, I’ve got to go.”
“What are you talking about? I’m about to find the chick who squirts.”
I dropped my phone in my pocket then went to a mirror and looked at myself.
There was this actor, Jonathan Brandis, big eyes and darkish-blond hair, who did a show about the sea or something, and chicks often said I looked like him, so I figured, Hey, a good thing. Except I heard this guy had gotten depressed about his star falling out of the sky, losing his fame or something, and so he’d killed himself, and I’d imagine a supernova when I thought about this actor guy, a star that burns real bright before it’s gone, and then I got sad about it. Weird feeling.
Behind me in the apartment our TV glowed with an eerie silver-blue light. Micah liked to set a mood. I pushed my hands through my hair then turned my head side to side checking my face in the mirror. Heck in this light, I glowed.
Micah had settled in his chair, cock like a kickstand in his hand. “Look at this chick’s ass. God, I’d like to fuck that ass.” He yanked another second then said, “You ever fuck a chick in the ass, Ty?”
“No. Listen, I’m going now.”
“You suck, dude.”
“I know, see you later.” I waited for him to ask where I was going so I could tell him.
“Fuck,” he said. “I want some pussy!” Micah yanked harder. I went for the door. “Hey!” Micah yelled behind me.
“What?” I looked at him, waited. He’d twisted around in his seat.
“The chick squirts.”
I waved at him then bolted. Later, I’d give him the details.
Outside, the sky was the colour of an old bruise. Sitting inside my car, a Mustang I’d painted and reupholstered in high school, I stared out the windshield and got a case of the chicken shits. What if I bailed? Beat off, Ty; get it out of your system. Get what out of my system? A woman wanted to tell me what to do. And I wanted that. Simple. Like, use me, fuck me up. I figured we’d bring Micah into it eventually. A woman would lift the veil, force me into a full-on gang bang with straight sex, gay sex, all of it. I experienced a jolt to my crotch then almost cried. I leaned my head against the steering wheel then drifted, which I used to do in school.
I had a teacher in a high school, Ms Ryn. She got to me. Ms Ryn used to come up behind my desk while I daydreamed in class then slap her hands together, which made me jump so hard I’d hit my knees on the desk. Sharp pain.
When I’d look at her she wouldn’t smile, but her eyes would look glacial bright. “I want you to stay after school,” she said one day.
I didn’t ask why — for daydreaming, whatever, didn’t matter.
My friends complained. “Bitch.”
I shrugged. “Yeah.” What I didn’t say was, That bitch turns me on.
After school, Ms Ryn gave me a stack of paper and one pencil and then instructed me to write: “I will pay attention in Ms Ryn’s class. I will pay attention in Ms Ryn’s class. I will pay attention in Ms Ryn’s class.” I wrote until my hand cramped, until the callous in my middle finger was indented and I had lead under my fingernails. Maybe the punishment was. . elementary, demeaning? I don’t know; it wasn’t to me. I mean, it was those things, but I had a hard-on the whole time I wrote those sentences.
And Ms Ryn. . she was tall and reed thin, burning red hair, and a few wrinkles around those eyes she’d cast over me like I was. . beneath her.
Oh, fuck, I was.
An hour later, Ms Ryn put her hand on my arm. “Stop.”