A very queer Nazi Faust

That’s when I see him - brought up short by his cocky stance, one thumb poked in his pocket so four fingers can stroke his packet.

 

 

A bloke’s grin wipes away my nonchalance – some days you get three cherries in a row, a parking space by the cash point, and the restaurant forgets you had wine – other days are better. As I ease closer he melts shorter, grows younger, but retains the dirty-minded worldly-wisdom so rare in the young. And so fucking sexy. He knows just what he wants and won’t hesitate to initiate it, and yet his eagerness to please is blatant in his nodding approval at what he sees. I instinctively know that he wants me to hurt him until it feels like love. His eyes are black, but I turn them sonnet blue. I crop his head a little closer, know his stomach is flat but for the pinch of puppy-fat and smell freshly laundered testosterone – white cotton pants on a boy’s behind – that I can slowly slide down. I know his cock is big enough to cause him pride but small enough for mine to be admired with awe.

With a jerk of his head he suggests a direction away from the watching pack, and I let lust lead my creation up a barely visible crack - a scar in the forest’s hairline, a secret opening that heals behind us, a path that leaves no track. So I lead him in deeper, I lead him in darker, just a little further, and just a little after where I’d choose to stop - beyond the possibility of observation - I lean against a tree, slide a hand inside my jeans, and wait for him to find his knees.

“There’s a shed further in,” he dares me, “if you fancy it.” The fucker’s been here before me, and gone further.

I flick my head and he knows to overtake, pushing hard against me, stepping tall, his arse an invitation into the inner forest, into the darkest meat. I check we’ve no camp followers, and doggy up behind him, into untouched territory, the first to part nature’s puberty, and dance down his cute arse. Up ahead adrenalin is awaiting an adventure in a shed. Up ahead lies a future, a question with no answer, a moral dilemma, trussed up good and proper, and left alive for dead.

Could you murder a man? It sounds so cruel, but study the evidence - there’s not a single fingerprint on my late lover’s heart. He once adored me. Then ripped out my heart for a fuck and a fix. And a fix and a fix and a fix. Darkness is given depth by lances of light, as the galaxy usherettes show teeth to their seats in the pits where our feet stalk the leopard of lust. He pulls a creak open, fear stabs my stomach but spunk drives me on. My eyes deconstruct a shed from sounds and shadows, from a patch of starless sky, from glass underfoot, from the stench of blasphemy, all darkly embraced here in my tempter’s tomb.

A monochrome moment, newsprint of the scene, embedded in a flash, is spliced-in to every eight frames out of every seventy-two. We are nowhere, nowhere anyone could find us, nowhere any scream could sing. My face finds his, as hands sum up our situation. Lips brush flesh as we inhale each other’s must. We unquestioningly know a kiss will quench nothing but our tongues are dance on despite us. A breathless decent digs us in deeper, my fingers nap against his nape and win an extra delicious inch. A groan grows up between us and gives birth to a lingering, anticipatory growl. This is going to be good.

We draw breath, the better to appreciate the starter, and like a waiter offering an ’86 Lafite-Rothschild with the Baron’s own compliments, my companion asks needlessly, “D’you fancy a line?” With the smoothness of a dimmer switch unfurling, cumulus reveals just enough moon to evoke a romantic meed for two. Don’t look it up. It’s a reward, as this is to you. Here, your line. “This is charlie, good stuff too…” I don’t doubt it, when good gets better.

“Take what you want…” I take the curve of his arse with one hand, clutch at a straw with the other, and introduce my snout to the first uncut coke it’s ever met. Fuck me! He holds the fist-sized poke steady, “Other side?” I’ve had one side of my head sanded down and paint-stripper applied, and I am speechless. I blow out astonishment and collect colours as they collide like fireworks inside my eyes.

He grins and disappears from view and by the time he’s back in focus there’s a line along my length that would defeat an entire dinner party in Notting Hill. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” he says, from a position of worship, and Hoovers up half and half before crumbing down with the throat of a whore. Of course in the theatrical presentation this scene is played by puppets - Envy has the smaller part and Greed the larger nose. But back on terra firma we slide through the karma sutra with an enthusiastic versatility for improvisation that would make even Stanislavsky’s eyes water. And in a pause, that’s had to wait off-stage for the applause to die down, his fingers leave my balls and snake a little further round and there, tempt to part a king from his crown. “Lovely arse,” he whispers, and I know he knows I want him. Any resolve I had reserved I happily chase away, as I look in the eyes of a hungry wolf, taste the kiss that Judas missed, feel the fit of a perfect fist - and then he bumps me k! I’m going out now. I may be gone for some time.

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