Nick held the burden of his weight with his legs and moved his ass up and down. The cock slid in and out of it with ease; its rigidity, coupled with thirty minutes of ass-play, assured easy penetration. Nick was grateful they assumed this position. Facing the man’s feet, all he would have to do was bounce. There would be no need to present an orgiastic façade. He was free to roll his eyes, yawn, or stare, as he was, at Stephen Walker’s “Table for One.”

The print hung on the wall opposite the bed and presents a deceptively simple scene of a man seated at a table for two. The man is positioned with his back to the viewer and faces a wraithlike doppelganger, who is fractionally and transparently represented from the torso up. The play of color and chiaroscuro is ironic. The presence of light illuminates one side of the fully bodied man, who is rendered in grayscale, and the presence of shadow predominates the wraith, who is rendered in flesh tones. The division of light implies one is the negative of the other, and the spectral double suggests the projection of a dream lover or the residue of a lost one. The print moved Nick in ways he could not express, and he deliberately positioned it so it would be the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing at night.

Unable to articulate the caption hanging on the tip of his tongue, Nick dropped his eyes to his semi-flaccid cock. Something was wrong; he was too distracted to come. He looked over his shoulder at the man beneath him. Seeing his face, Nick remembered how attractive the man was and thought him even more attractive wearing the pained sexual expression he wore now. The pained look told Nick the man was tired. They had been fucking for nearly three hours, and Nick hoped he would not object to a break: “Is it okay if we crash for now and finish this later?”

With one more upward thrust, which was held for several seconds, the man responded: “Sure. I’m pretty beat.”

Pulling himself free, Nick sat on the edge of the bed as the man slid between the sheets and said more to himself than to Nick: “It’ll be a monster cum—with all this build up.”

“Yeah,” replied Nick. A change in breathing told him the man was already asleep. Tracing his profile, Nick found him increasingly attractive as the innocence of sleep suffused his countenance. Nick thought: I’ll have to ask for his name.

Walking quietly to the bathroom, Nick waited to turn the light on until he gently closed the door. He opened the faucet as he glimpsed himself in the mirrored cabinet over the sink. Returning his own gaze, Nick spat, and the spray of saliva splattered over his reflection.

“I see you everywhere but here,” he mumbled.

Flattening his palm against the mirror, he pressed with increasing pressure until the mirror cracked. Pressing harder, the crack spread as glimmering shards rained into the basin and swirled down the drain. He pressed the mirror until a line of blood streamed out from beneath his palm and ran down the mirror.

He turned his hand and examined the cut. A dagger like shard pierced his skin deep enough to cause bleeding but not enough to keep him bleeding. Watching the blood drip, his heart pounded as he pulled the piece free and sliced his wrist open. Blood oozed instantly and formed into beads before falling and swirling into the drain water with a murky rose color.

Nick raised his eyes to the mirror. It reflected his face in a gross caricature of panic, like a funhouse mirror. He refused to acknowledge what he recognized in the kaleidoscope of mirror, saliva, and blood and retreated behind closed eyelids:

I see you in every pair of eyes and lips, every hand and foot, and in every set of fingers and toes. I see you in every curve of every pec, hip, and ass, and in every asshole, cock, and set of balls, and I feel you in every alley, rest room, rest area, backroom, and bed. Monday—I pressed my lips to his, but I was pressing them to yours, and when I sucked his tongue into my mouth, it was your tongue I was sucking, and when I tasted his salty lips, it was you I was tasting. Tuesday—I pushed his cock to the back of my throat until his bush grazed my lips and I gagged, but it was you I was sucking; it was you I was choking on. Wednesday—I shoved my cock between his lips, grabbed the back of his head, and fucked his mouth. Unable to swallow, he drooled as I shoved my head to the back of his throat, and as I wrapped my fingers in his hair, it was your hair I was holding—it was you drooling over my shaft. Thursday—I buried my face in his ass and probed with my tongue. I flicked his asshole open, but it was your asshole I was opening, and as I explored him, it was you I was seeking. Friday—I sat on his face, and as his tongue bored into me, I rode it until I burned, and as I laced his chest with cum, it was you boring into me, and it was your chest I was lacing. Saturday—I grabbed him by the knees and folded him in half, and as his ass rose before me, I plunged into him, but it was you I was entering, and as his satiny flesh wrapped over my cock, it was you I was fucking. Tonight—

A shattering sounded as the mirror fell from its frame. Opening his eyes, Nick saw the basin water was now a dark red. Within seconds, there was a knock followed by a concerned voice at the door: “Is everything all right?”

Relieved the man did not open the door, Nick eliminated further threat by managing a quick and calm response: “Yes, I’m fine. I just broke the mirror. I’ll be right out.”

“Okay. Don’t take too long.”

Nick knew what that meant; the trick was ready for his monster cum. He plunged his hand beneath the running water. It burned at his wrist like an acid, and the burning forced him to withdraw his hand. Fishing through the vanity, he retrieved a tube of quick glue, gauze, and an ankle wrap. Sealing the slit as best he could with the glue, he wrapped it tightly with the gauze and wrap. Turning off the running water, he surveyed the scene and assured himself it looked like an accident—nothing more. He evidenced this interpretation by pulling a can of shaving cream from the medicine cabinet and laying it amidst the fallen shards of mirror. He thought, if asked, he would explain he was not paying attention while returning the can to the medicine cabinet and failed to realize the cabinet door was closed.

By the time Nick crawled onto the bed, the man was already hard. He assumed his position and centered his asshole over the erect cock, which prompted an immediate upward thrust. As the cock entered him, his senses calibrated to something less than panic, and he no longer wanted to die. A drop of blood seeped from the bandage. Its warmth trickled over Nick’s palm as he rotated his hips and fixed his eyes on the print: Every naked body reminds me of you.

 

© 2004 Decker - Contributor's Bio