Narrative Friends can get really annoying after one AM. At least I thought so as
the conversation moved from Eric’s pathetic love life to Nicole’s crush on one of her English
professors. Dante sat across from me, listening intently as Nicole’s dialogue transmuted itself
into a discussion of lesbian poetics. Dante’s aura shifted as the opportunity to argue queer
discourse settled itself among the low lights and mustard-painted walls that personified this
coffee house called the Poppy Asylum. “That’s what I love about Dr. Stine’s shit,” said Dante.
“When you read about her loving the taste of her cunt on another woman’s lips, you know she’s a
fucking lesbian. You can’t read her and say she’s not a dyke. She’s homosexual and everything she
writes is homosexual. It can’t be denied.” I decided to pick up the conversation, which meant that
I had to turn the focus of it onto me. (I have a bad habit of doing that.) “I was in class
yesterday and we were discussing Ginsberg’s ‘America’ and just as we finished reading the last
line--you know, ‘America, I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel”--this guy behind me had the
nerve to say, “Queer can mean unusual or different, right?’ God, I was so pissed. We had just spent
an hour talking about how one of the poem’s issues was heterosexism and he completely wiped all
that away with one stupid heterosexist statement. I was so fucking pissed. The whole class could
tell I was just about to blow.” “Why is that such a big deal?” said Eric. Unfortunately, Eric was
straight, but he wasn’t the bad kind of heterosexual; he was the good kind, the accepting kind, the
witty/cultured/intelligent kind. However, he had managed to stop the entire flow of the
conversation. We all just looked at him. Even Brandon, who was straight as well, didn’t know what
to say. Nicole was bisexual and living with a man; her jaw slowly dropped despite her split
allegiance. “Eric,” I finally responded, “the guy looked like Dilbert.” * * * Usually, when you
read a text you start at the beginning and read until the end, but life isn’t really that way.
Think about the last time you fucked a boy. You started by removing his clothes, and maybe he
sucked your cock and maybe you sucked his. You put a rubber on and you pushed your cock deep into
his ass, slowly, and he tensed up and seemed to hate it for the first few minutes. Soon, he began
to enjoy it, and you began to pound harder, until the head of your cock tingled and your balls
tightened up. You pulled out quickly and ripped the condom off because that’s what they do in
pornos, and you jacked your cock off until your cum sprayed all over the other guy’s ass. He leaned
back against you and stroked his own cock until cum was dripping down his wrist. You kissed his
neck as he shot even though you didn’t give a shit about him. Think back on that event. Do you
really remember it in that order? You probably don’t. You probably remember random moments that
have become merged and incoherent. * * * Casually bringing his cup to his lips, Eric waited for a
moment before responding, “Well, can’t a person find something within a text that suits his or her
own needs? Aren’t all texts open to interpretation and deconstruction?” It was obvious that Eric
was playing the devil’s advocate, but I went along with his game. “Not if it denies the obvious
origin of the text or its extremely apparent or even obvious theme.” "People are always trying to
suppress the gay voice," said Dante. (The conversation seemed to be moving again.) "They’re still
trying to deny Shakespeare was gay. They take the lines from Sonnet 116, ‘If this be error and upon
me proved, I never writ nor no man ever loved,’ and they try to say he was talking about male
bonding. Bullshit!" I looked at him and smiled. (I really liked him.) He was bursting with energy
and even the fact that most people in this coffee shop were straight didn’t stop him from speaking
up and speaking loudly. As they talked, I slowly played with the ring on my left hand. There wasn’t
a ring there, but I ran my right hand’s fingers over my left ring finger as if there would be
something there. "Well, Shakespeare’s debatable," Nicole said. "It’s not like he ever stood up and
said, ‘I’m a fag,’ or anything. Not like Marlowe." "Okay," Dante said, "Maybe Willie’s debatable,
but not Ginsberg. He belongs to us, and fuck that breeder for trying to take him away. I’m
surprised Alain didn’t stand up right then and there and scream out, ‘I’m being repressed! I’m
being repressed!’" I smiled at him from across the table. Neither of us really cared that we were
sitting in a straight environment, but still, we had remained reserved and respectful throughout
the entire evening. We really had been going out for a month. Being reserved was the natural thing
to do, but that didn’t seem interesting anymore, so I said, "I really want to kiss you right now."
I allowed a dramatic ellipse to pass. "Maybe it’s because of what you said. Maybe it’s because I
love you. Maybe it’s because I know your mouth will taste like chocolate and coffee." * * * Kissing
him for the first time reminds you of chocolate. It’s not that his kiss is like chocolate or like
those candies in the cute silver foil. It’s that when you kiss him for the first time, you think
about chocolate. You don’t taste chocolate, but you think about it. You think about the way it
melts slowly on your tongue and how each time you taste it you feel a strange sensation in your
chest that seems to affect the way you breathe. When you kiss your boyfriend, you feel that way. *
* * They think about the cold walk back to Dante’s place before taking the first step out the door.
The early morning isn’t really cold, especially for October, but they both notice how sharp the
wind feels and how they can both smell the dry odor of dying leaves. "This ..." says Alain, "this
is my favorite time of the year. It’s the moment when the coming of fall makes the wind scare you
like a demon, and the scent of death is carried on a wicked breeze. I love this one moment when I
get that feeling for the first time each year." * * * He kisses you, and you think about the first
time. Not the first time you kissed, but the first time the two of you had sex. You wanted to take
things slow. He wanted to take things slow. He pointed to the fill-length mirror and said, “I want
to hold you while you make love to yourself.” You knelt before the mirror, passively looking at
your erection, protruding toward its own reflection. Dante knelt behind you and pressed his naked
body to your back. You felt his erection pressed firmly against your asscrack, pointing up along
your spine. He kissed your neck, and you watched in the mirror, and his dark bangs caressed your
shoulder. His right hand moved to your wrist, and he guided your own right hand onto your drooling
cock. He looked up into the reflection of your eyes and nibbled at your ears. He whispered, “You’re
so beautiful,” as he guided your hand up and down your rigid shaft. You turned your head slowly and
cupped his lower lip in your mouth, sucking it in to press against your tongue. You stopped and
looked directly into his eyes, breathed softly, “Dante, I could fall in love with you.” “Keep
stroking your cock.” You said, “I still want to take things slow.” He exhaled into your ear, “When
I first kissed you, I thought of chocolate. You made me feel the way I feel when I eat chocolate.”
He bit gently into your neck and you shot onto the hardwood floor. * * * Every time I write stories
like this one, I pay close attention to the way my breathing makes my chest expand and relax. It’s
the same when I get fucked. I can’t help thinking about the way I breathe as some guy’s cock (maybe
Dante’s, maybe yours) slides rapidly along the soft passages inside my body. I think about my teeth
clenching and the burning sensation coming from my ass as you/he pound(s)/ram(s)/piston(s) your/his
powertool into my flesh. It’s not a linear experience. It’s not monologic. It’s a multiple
experience that I can’t even view through one set of eyes. (Every time I write stories like this
one, I pay close attention to the way I feel when I get fucked.) * * * Pull your cock out. Slide
your boxers/Calvins/jock down past your knees. Run your left hand up your stomach, to your chest,
rubbing the fresh cum against your skin before it has even exploded from your cock. With your right
hand, squeeze your cock firmly and watch as a lonely drop of precum emerges from the slit. Let it
slowly pour out and drip down the head of your dick, until it falls onto your thumb. Use it to wet
your cock. Squeeze more fluid out and lick your fingers. Taste the salt. Use your spit to make your
cock more slick. Stroke it slowly as you read, twisting your palm around your own prick’s most
sensitive spot. * * * Alain and Dante fall onto the bed and kiss frantically as they clumsily pull
at each other’s leather jackets. “Wait a minute,” says Alain as he pulls his lips away from Dante’s
gluttonous mouth. “Take your clothes off for me,” he says. “Take them off as if I were paying you
to do it.” “Give me ten bucks.” Alain fumbles into his pocket and pulls out the bill. Dante
snatches it from Alain’s hand and shoves it into his jeans as he stands, leaving Alain stretched
out on the sheets, alone. Dante walks slowly to the chair opposite the bed. With his back to Alain,
he slips his leather biker jacket past his left shoulder and down his arm. He lets it slide past
his other arm as it drifts to the floor. His beige shirt flows like water from his traps, down his
powerful lats, to his slim waist. He turns around, clutches his shirt’s hem, and pulls it past his
tight abs and overworked chest. The shirt hits Alain in the face, and when he pulls it eyes free of
it, Dante is standing by the chair with one boot propped up on the seat. Dante is bent at the waist
as he seductively unties the laces on his left Doc Martin with long pulling strokes. (The image is
in profile. Dante’s abs curl in and his lats drape over his ribs like folded wings.) Dante removes
his left boot and sock, then repeats the action with his right. The scene reminds Alain of a dirty
movie. Dante walks forward as he unsnaps his chrome-and-leather belt. * * * “Reading basic genre is
such a bore,” said Nicole. “Writing it must be practically hell.” “Not really,” said Dante. “I know
hell, and writing genre is nothing like it because at least genre can be disrupted.” I loved
listening to Dante; he always argued everything. Every time someone made a simple statement in his
presence, he would warp their argument into a paradox and disrupt the intention behind their words.
“You can take any genre,” he continued, “and disrupt it simply by following the guidelines of that
genre and including them in a highly disrupted, non-linear narrative. Take Gothic literature. All
you need is some blood, a dark castle, a vault or a tunnel, a hunchbacked servant, a family curse,
and you’re there. How you write it doesn’t matter.” “But, that’s still genre,” Nicole said. “It’s
not any real disruption of language. It’s still familiar. It’s still just a repetition of
pre-existing texts.” “So? The context may be familiar, but the narrative style is different. All
alternative fiction doesn’t need to be meaningless or completely unapproachable.” * * * Alain sits
up on the bed and looks directly into Dante’s crotch as Dante pulls his jeans and underwear down.
Alain licks the head of Dante’s cock a few times until a saltiness sticks to his tongue. He traces
his hands slowly along Dante’s firm ass and pulls him forward until his cock is probing all the way
down Alain’s open throat. Alain pulls himself back several inches until that cock’s head rests on
his tongue. He brings the cock back in, careful to keep his lips tight and pushed forward. When the
cock hits the back of his throat again, he gags a bit. His whole body quakes for a moment and his
tongue vibrates. “I like it when you choke on my cock. It feels good. Do it again.” Dante pulls his
cock almost all the way out and slams it back in. Alain gags at the final moment of the thrust.
(Dante repeats the action.) * * * “Don’t be silly. You can have meaning and still write something
fresh,” Nicole said. “So why must it fit within the confines of a genre? For example, Alain’s
working on a homoerotic piece that’s totally disrupted. I peek over his shoulder while he’s at his
computer and get hard after just a few sentences--and it’s not the sex that does it. It’s the
structure. It’s completely dialogic while still strictly focusing on hot gay sex with lots of cocks
and balls and cum all over the place and men fucking and sucking until they shoot their big wads on
each others’ faces. It’s genre, but it goes beyond its genre because the text is multivoiced and
totally aware of its own existence as well as its own categorization. Alain’s even got this weird
repetition of left and right going in. I think it’s political, maybe Marxist. I don’t know. It
doesn’t really matter because my point is that the shit is genre, but if you read it, you’d want to
fuck Alain the way I want to fuck him right now--not because of the sex, but because of the style.

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”
Everyone remained quiet when he finished and only nodded their heads. I think Nicole wanted to say
more but didn’t. I think it was because Dante was defending me and they didn’t want to cross a
defensive lover. I think I really love Dante for that; I think I really love Nicole, Eric, and
Brandon, too. * * * I really like the way he sucks my cock. He isn’t professional or anything, but
he is sincere. I’m kind of big, and he gags when I push too far. I like that. It feels good and
makes him seem innocent and vulnerable. He’s vulnerable and I think I love him because of that. I
love pounding my cock into him as he struggles to keep me happy. At first, he had a hard time even
getting his mouth around my shaft. It’s not that I’m huge, but I’m bigger than he was used to. He’s
getting better, but it really doesn’t matter. He’s a good cocksucker because he loves to do it; he
really loves to do it. When he sucks my cock, he remembers that it’s part of me and makes love to
it because he loves me, and I can feel the difference. He does another thing too. He always keeps
his lips tight and pushed forward. The firmness feels better. He’s pretty and I like seeing his
full lips around my cock. He did it that way the very first time he sucked me off. He does it
because he knows I’m watching. * * * Get on your knees in front of Alain and frantically pull at
his buckle and the fly of his jeans. Roughly pull his hard cock out and hold/squeeze/stroke it in
your right hand while you feel his tight chest and stomach with your left. Say, “I love your cock,”
and when he replies, “So shut up and suck it,” fall in love. Pull his jeans down a little more to
free his balls, then lick down his shaft to his nuts as the faint taste of sweat makes you just a
little dizzy. When he says, “Keep sucking my cock,” shove him back onto the bed and shout, “Fuck
you! I’m in charge here.” Grab his calves and roll him over onto his stomach. When he tries to
crawl up the bed, away from you, grab him by the back of his pants (notice how smooth the skin of
his ass feels against your clenched fist) and grab his left arm and twist it behind his back,
pinning him to the sheets. Say, “Lift your right foot.” When he doesn’t, push his arm up toward his
shoulder and say, “Lift your foot, you little fucker!” When he does, take off his shoe and his
sock, and run your hand down the top of his foot, down his ankle, to the blonde hair on his shin.
Say, “Now, your left.” Apply a little pressure to his arm to remind him of what will happen if he
doesn’t obey. After you remove that shoe and sock, cup your mouth around his smaller toes and suck
them sadistically, a few at a time. (Notice how he doesn’t squirm, even though you know he wants
to.) * * * “Mind if I come over tonight?” I asked softly. Even I knew what would happen next. “Not
tonight,” Dante answered. “I’m really tired.” We stood outside Poppy Asylum and I noticed how the
night smelled a little different. It was late, and I pushed my hands into my pockets, more from
insecurity than the cold. “What about tomorrow?” I asked. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”
Dante looked down the street. “Oh. Okay.” “Good night, Alain.” He walked away with his head bowed a
bit, and I felt horribly alone, standing in front of the coffee house door. * * * Tell Alain not to
move. Tell him not to try to get away. Release his arm and smile at how passive he is. Pull his
shirt over his head and tear his jeans down his legs, leaving him naked and vulnerable. Look at his
milky and almost hairless butt. (A thin layer of blonde hair glistens on the surface.) Move forward
and press your lips against the skin. Bite a little. Gently force his thighs open and move your
tongue up and down his crack until you lick his sphincter. He loves it. Make him love it more. * *
* “I want you to fuck me.” That’s what you want to say. You would say it, but you know it would
make him stop eating your ass. He keeps pushing his tongue into you, and his hands keep kneading
the muscles of your butt. You don’t want him to stop, but you want him to fuck you. You want his
cock buried so far up you that you feel his pubic hair scratch your ass as his balls slap against
yours. You want to feel his prick pounding your prostate gland. It’s amazing. It’s like an orgasm
that never stops. When he rams his cock into you, you feel your own cock wanting to explode, but it
doesn’t—not yet. The sensation goes on. Sometimes he fucks you so well, so roughly, your cock
sprays cum all over your chest without you even touching it. You love when that happens. Dante’s
such a god; you want him to fuck you right now. * * * Leaning forward, Dante presses his body
firmly against Alain’s back. Dante kisses his neck and the lobes of his ears and whispers, “Do you
want me to fuck you?” Alain shifts his body a little so that Dante’s cock presses against and
almost inside the crack. “I don’t know. Is that what you want?” “Fuck, yes. I want to fuck you so
badly, my balls hurt.” Leaning forward, Dante presses his body firmly against my back. He kisses my
neck and ear lobes and whispers, “Do you want me to fuck you?” It’s such a fucking stupid question.
Of course I do. I shift my body a little so that his cock presses against my crack. His cock pushes
in, touching my butthole, and my stomach twists as if his cock is already inside of me. I do my
best to control my breathing and say, “I don’t know …” It’s such an act. He doesn’t even need to
ask. He says something else, but I barely hear him because by now he’s pushing his cock against me
a little harder without letting it go in, and my timeline shifts as my mind focuses on something in
the future. * * * I hope you’re still stroking your cock. I really want you to get off on this
page. Not too fast, though. I don’t want you to cum yet. You’re not supposed to cum until the
climax. But keep stroking your cock gently and keep the sensations building throughout you body, so
that when the time comes, you’ll be ready to explode. * * * There is a true aesthetic to sex.
There’s an inherent beauty to not only the act itself but to the way it looks from a distance. The
vision of Alain and Dante, lying on the bed, pressed together, is one which captures the viewer’s
libido and sends him into a realm of ecstasy that rivals the nirvana that Dante and Alain
(themselves) experience. It has to do with the way the light shines off the layer of sweat sticking
to their skin. It is in the contour created by the shape of Alain’s well-defined back and ass as it
fits accurately into the groove created by Dante’s torso and hip. The connecting point seems to be
where Alain’s ass forms into the space made by Dante’s pelvis. It is the very center of their
bodies. The pivot, from where their balance and grace is first born. * * * Be careful to wear a
condom every time you have sex. Apply some lube to your cock and roll the condom gently over your
rod. Put a generous amount of lube on your latex-covered prick and stroke it downward to get the
air bubbles out. Put more lube in your hand and wipe it onto and into the other guy’s asshole. Push
your middle finger into the opening of his ass, slowly. Be careful to follow the natural pathway of
his flesh. Loosen his ass up gently, moving your finger in and out, in and out, as if it were your
cock. Run your hand along his balls and cock on occasion to really get him in the mood. Getting him
in the mood is more important than actually loosening up his ass. If he wants it really badly,
he’ll open right up for you. Keep playing with his ass, fucking him lovingly with one/two/three
fingers, until you know he absolutely needs your cock inside him. This is the way he’d want you to
do it. This is the way I’d want you to do it. You should wear a condom every time you fuck because
even though you’re only reading and its not reality, literature can get really dangerous. * * *
Leaning forward, Dante presses his cock/prick/dick against the opening of Alain’s ass/soul, which
Dante can’t see because Alain is lying flat on his stomach. But Dante can feel the flesh opening up
down there as he pushes his prick inside. At that moment, Alain feels cast out into some other
realm even though he tries to hold on with just a single breath. It is a gasp and with it,
everything changes. Alain’s whole existence is focused on the pressure in his bowels. Dante eases
his cock in another inch as Alain chokes on one more gulp of air. (The process is repeated until
Dante is buried into Alain up to his pubes and Alain’s tight muscles begin to relax and reality
reshapes itself into something more familiar.) “Fuck me!” Dante begins to move his cock in and out,
in and out, gently, until the resistance inside Alain’s ass goes away. Alain pushes himself up
until he’s on his knees and his ass is in the air, wide open to Dante’s approach. Dante takes
advantage of this free access and grabs onto Alain’s smooth obliques. Dante
thrusts/rams/shoves/stabs/pierces/plunges/propels his hard cock into Alain’s essence/ass/soul
almost cruelly, yes (cruelly), until a frenzy is reached where both of them forget themselves. “Oh,
yeah! Fuck my ass, Dante!” Dante lifts his right hand and slaps it down against Alain’s rear. Air
gets trapped between the hard-worked skin and tender flesh at the last moment of contact, when
molecules explode outward from the rapidly decreasing space as a wave of force is generated which
thunders in their ears. Alain grunts, and Dante spanks him again. He reaches forward and grabs
Alain’s hair in his left hand, Alain’s shoulder in his right. Dante pulls Alain up to a kneeling
position and forces his head back by his hair. Dante nibbles his neck and ear lobe and whispers, “I
fucking love you.” * * * Everything seemed to slow down a bit, and the conversation became harder
to maintain. Nicole said her good-byes; Eric and Brandon wandered off for a smoke. Dante and I got
up and walked to the door. When we stepped outside, I remember how the air was cold, but it didn’t
bother me because the air smelled crisp, even unique, as the beginning of fall always does. Dante
stopped outside the door and reached into his pocket. “Uhmm, Alain, I have something I’d like you
to have.” “I want only you,” I said. “I only want you and me walking through this cold night while
demon winds carry the stink of death along a wicked breeze.” (He likes it when I talk like that.)
He smiled and pulled his hand out clumsily and fidgeted until a single silver band sparkled from
between his fingers. He extended it toward me and said, “Would you wear this for me?” He took my
left hand and slid the ring onto my wedding finger. “This isn’t like a marriage or anything,” he
said. “It’s more like a promise, if that’s okay.” A basic silver band. An engraving on its surface:
“Dante’s.” I looked up and smiled, and Dante said, “I got one for myself too. It says ‘Alain’s.’”
He handed it to me so that I could put it on him. The ring fit him perfectly, as did mine. “How did
you know my ring size?” I asked. “I paid attention during Pride, when we first met, while you were
trying on all those rings. By the way, are you coming home with me tonight?” I felt really lost for
words, so I simply nodded. Yes. * * * Even the air seems to pound as Dante pumps Alain’s cock with
his right hand as he continues to pump his own cock into Alain’s ass. He holds on to Alain’s hair
with his left hand and whispers again: “I really fucking love you, Alain. Do you love me too?”
“Yeah.” Dante tugs harder on Alain’s hair. “Say it!” “I love you.” Dante tugs again. “Say you
fucking love me!” “I fucking love you!” Dante bites down hard on Alain’s neck as cum begins to fill
his condom. Alain’s cock releases/shoots/gushes his own cum/spunk/jizz in an arc, through the air
and onto the bed. A lot of it pours down Dante’s wrist as he continues to pump the fluid out of
Alain with his tight grip. * * * Did you cum yet? If you haven’t, you should now. I told you to
start stroking your cock a while ago, and now I want you to explode. Stroke your cock faster and
think about fucking Alain’s ass with your rock-hard prick. Or think about fucking me instead. Think
about pounding your cock into my tight ass. Think about making me cum all over my own chest. Shoot
your spunk all over my face/chest/page. I fucking love it when you cum like that. * * * Smoking
seems to be the appropriate thing to do, so Dante places a Marlboro in Alain’s mouth and lights it
with his Zippo. Alain’s vision is still a bit blurry and he is just beginning to recognize the
illuminated shapes in the room. He breathes in the smoke as he thinks about the repetition of texts
and the social construction inherent in this act. Dante interrupts him by taking the cigarette from
his mouth and kissing him, pulling the smoke from within Alain using his own lungs. Alain feels
something like a denouement as Dante takes a hit from the media/Marlboro and breathes the smoke
down Alain’s throat. Dante completes the kiss and whispers, “I love being in your narrative.” 

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