“Scenes Of The Flesh” is Included in Skin & Ink

It was a late Monday evening when Reverend Terrence Shires found himself stirred from a not-so-deep sleep. His young husband Frankie had entered their bedroom, peeled off his lycra pants, and quietly attempted to join the English Reverend in their marriage bed without waking him. Terry sighed, and tried to ignore the stench of cigarette smoke.

Though Reverend Terry had been bald for nearly two decades now, 50 seemed to be the magic number for turning the remaining hair on his head and body white. The tightly-cropped blond on the sides of his head was turning gray, as was his goatee. And like a forest fire raging out of control, his thick, blond chest hair was turning white. Starting with the fur on his pecs, it now rapidly moved south. His pubic hair was still dark blond, but for how long? And when sunning nude, his tanned skin only accentuated the changes he was powerless to stop.

Frankie, by contrast, was the quintessential American twink Terry had always fantasized about possessing. Though 33, Frankie usually passed for 23, as 16 years of very hard living had virtually ignored his appearance. His body was muscled, lean, and virtually hairless. Terry loved running his fingers through his thick brown hair, and caressing skin that reminded him of cream. This nearly flawless skin had made Frankie a lot of money in the recent past.

Frankie was a connoisseur of furry older men, even as Terry loved them young and smooth. Initially, their sex life had been an astounding experience for them both. Frankie had found his daddy, and the Reverend had acquired his American Trophy Stud. At the time, Terry was happily prepared to put up with whatever that entailed.

But Frankie had grown increasingly distant since their formal Scottish wedding nearly two years ago, in the spring of 2053. Nowadays, Frankie resisted intercourse. And the times that he did throw his husband a bone, so to speak, usually involved little effort and even less passion. He mechanically assumed his position: ass in the air, face in the pillows.

Two years later, enduring Frankie’s late nights and increasingly wild excesses, Terry would rationalize his husband’s questionable behavior by saying that it was normal for a red-blooded young man to behave thusly.

Young gay men will be young gay men, after all.

Terry watched the lover who had completely passed out. What Frankie lacked in passion, he more than made up for in beauty. The scene before Terry wasn’t exactly dynamic, but it almost didn’t matter. Frankie was a virtually flawless specimen. His skin was almost unnaturally smooth, and it was draped over muscles sculpted as if from marble.

Just look at those lats. I could never tire of them.

Reverend Terry gazed at the exquisitely muscled curves in the young American that lie before him. He wondered if his careless young husband had been displaying all night as he consumed whatever drugs he’d managed to find.

Most likely, yes.

Rarely au naturale these days, it seemed young people everywhere were obsessed with the latest fad known as “displaying”. “Displaying” was a pasttime associated with the new tattooing technology, which allowed moving images to show on the skins of people tattooed with a liquid-crystal solution. This liquid-crystal solution allowed images to be beamed via satellite, or through a personal computing device. Drug-saturated parties and orgies could be wildly bizarre, with participants brightly colored with moving, psychedelic images. And for the younger generation, the more bizarre, the better!

Or so thought the Reverend.

Terry’s first memory of Frankie was during his second trip to America, at a bathhouse in Atlanta. His future husband had his back to him, and was receiving an energetic blowjob. What caught Terry’s attention, initially, wasn’t Frankie’s physique or the sex act itself. What caught his attention was a commercial advertising KY Genital Paste, as it played out on Frankie’s naked back, complete with the smiling faces of media darlings Tippi Dresden and Dane Marquez.

Later, Terry learned that Frankie generated most of his income by selling his posterior as advertising space. Corporate satellites tracked his IdentiChip wherever he went and beamed images for the appropriate demographic. His IdentiChip detected the amount of clothing he wore, and records of this information were beamed back to the satellite via the IdentiChip. The less Frankie wore, the more credit he generated, so he spent nearly all his time at the gym, or at the baths. He submitted to weekly physical inspections. Weight gain would reduce the value of his advertising space, so the more in shape he was, the more credit he earned.

So Terry watched the commercial for KY Genital Paste, and saw that Frankie wasn’t even using any. “I was fresh out.” Frankie had said, after having unprotected sex with seven anonymous strangers. Genital paste was supposed to be a perfect prevention for all STD’s, and had saved nearly an entire generation from the Next Big Bug. Since The Paste could prevent disease so easily, Terry assumed this made things too easy for the younger generation.

And if things are too easy, where’s the drama?

That night at the bathhouse, Frankie had neither condoms, nor the specific KY product he was advertising. But the Reverend’s first mission of mercy was to provide his heathen boy with a fresh tube. And lubricate him with it.

It was love at first sight, or more accurately, love at first glob. And after their evening at the bathhouse together, Terry had fallen in love. Soon Terry made arrangements to leave his flat in London and move to Atlanta, where he was offered a much larger sum of money at a much larger Presbyterian church. But being a single pastor just wouldn’t do for all the Southern Belles who tried offering their own sons (gay or straight) to him as marriage prospects.

So Terry stayed with Frankie through blood tests, bankruptcy, and even to the end of his skin-advertisement contracts with Proctor & Gamble and others. Eventually there came an end to Frankie’s many ordeals, which culminated in Frankie accepting Terry’s proposal of marriage.

Marriage didn’t cramp Frankie’s style very much, except that now he had to occasionally disengage from the Gay Collective Hive Mind and appear as the Perfect Preacher’s Husband. Soft-spoken and innocent-looking, Frankie could get away with murder. This allowed the congregation to believe that he was wholesome, religious, and wholly faithful to his husband.

Only Terry (and dozens of Frankie’s weekly tricks) knew the ugly truth.

The meet & greets after church were a highlight for the Reverend, because the man he loved was obligated to appear loving and devoted, at least for a few minutes. And during those few minutes, Terry could pretend.

The previous Sunday, Frankie had stood behind his Reverend husband as they greeted churchgoers leaving the sanctuary. Frankie unexpectedly grabbed Terry’s muscled glutes, leaving Reverend Terry Shires noticeably hard through his black robe. Before Terry could conceal his shame, an aging widow, and one of the pillars of the church, walked forward. She wheeled her paraplegic son, who was obviously shocked, his eyes like saucers. Fortunately, the old woman herself seemed not to notice.

Such moments of affection and playfulness were few and far between. Terry spent most of his lonely days and nights longing for real love while reading theological treatises. He came to accept that since his husband was for display only, Jesus would have to remain his primary outlet for True Love.

Jesus, You’re still my bloke.

Terry stared at Frankie’s back, lit up by bright moonlight pouring in through the windows. As he prayed to Jesus, the irony of what happened next was not lost. For between Frankie’s pristine shoulder blades emerged the face of The Lord Jesus Christ Himself. The Reverend nearly jumped out of bed when he saw the apparition. There was his Lord; complete with halo, uplifted countenance, and the obligatory crown of thorns. A small trickle of blood ran down the holy face. All of this appearing on his lover’s back.

My God.

For all his purported belief in miracles, an actual miracle seemed impossible to accept. But then, the seeming miracle became clear for what it was: some stray satellite transmission mistakenly picked up by his husband’s IdentiChip, and displayed in his liquid crystal tattoo.

Terry watched as the face of Christ looked up, as if to His Father. Then, as the Holy Apparition looked downward, letters began to appear. Gothic letters, which spelled out “W.W.J.D.?”

Terry unconsciously whispered, “What Would Jesus Do?” as the letters appeared. Then he frowned. “What in bloody hell is this?”

The text faded, and was replaced by a plainer text which spelled out, “What would Jesus do with a servant as fuckable as you?”

Terry gasped in surprise as these letters, in turn, faded. The Holy Visage then looked forward, providing the disturbing illusion that He Himself was gazing into the eyes of the Reverend. The crown of thorns then slid into a jaunty tilt before Christ smiled, and winked.

This scene also faded, and exactly three minutes later the entire loop repeated itself.

Terry’s jaw was slack. He didn’t know whether to be angry or sad; to be flattered or outraged that someone had been able to make this happen. Scenarios played out in his mind. He wondered if Frankie had sold his back as advertising space again. This seemed unlikely, since they were quite comfortable these days. Frankie had plenty of money for drugs.

The next morning came and went, and Terry never quite got around to telling Frankie what had transpired. This made him feel somewhat guilty, but he recovered quickly from it. His curiosity had completely taken him over.

Terry couldn’t wait for Frankie to be in bed with him again. He spent the day worrying that Frankie might catch the images in a mirror. He didn’t want Frankie solving this mystery before he did. The Reverend had always loved a good mystery.

Late Tuesday evening, like clockwork, Frankie staggered in and passed out moments after hitting the sheets. Terry was already awake, of course, and when Frankie started snoring he switched on the light by the bedstand. Nearly twenty minutes went by with no display, and Reverend Shires wondered if last night’s apparition had been a solitary incident which would forever remain unsolved.

But just as he thought this, a scene from Michelangelo’s “Last Judgment” started to appear, displaying itself from Frankie’s neck down to his thighs. The fiery pits of an animated Hell rose up above his smooth buttocks, and calligraphic text appeared, which read:

“Would Jesus strike me down for lusting over a married man of the cloth?”

When the text faded, animated sinners fell from the left hand of God into the fiery pits below. In this case, the fiery pits burned on Frankie’s buttocks, and the sinners literally fell into his crack, and out of sight. The visual effect was completely unexpected, and Terry had to stifle a belly laugh which shook the bed.

Frankie was roused from his slumber. “Why do you have the light on?” he asked groggily.

“Sorry, Lovey. I couldn’t sleep,” said Terry, immediately clicking off the light. The image had started to loop, so he assumed the messages were done for the evening. Terry laid his arm over his husband, and smiled. Soon they both dreamed.

The next day, the Reverend was on a mission, and found himself wandering into the more seedy areas of town. He found a tattoo parlor on Ponce de Leon Avenue which was only mildly intimidating, and went inside. A tattooed man at the counter rolled himself a joint.

“Pardon me. I was wondering if you could help me,” said Terry, extending his sizable hand. “My name is Terry, and I have a dilemma.”

“Oh my. A dilemma.” said the man in a mock English accent. “What might that be?” At this, the faux-British ended, and a thick midwestern accent began. “I’m Joe. What’s your problem?”

Joe was covered in ink, and Terry couldn’t always tell which tattoos were traditional, and which were the new liquid crystal type. A third eye glowed on his brow, alternating between rose, amber, and yellow. Joe’s real eyes below were simply red.

“Joe. I need information about liquid crystal tattoos.”

“Whatcha wanna know?” asked Joe, re-lighting his joint.

“Well, what I’m wondering what sort of risks are involved in the process.”

“No health risks, or so they say. But I can tell you from experience they’re much more painful to get, if that’s your problem.”

“Actually, I’m wondering how safe they are from signal interception.”

“Ahhhhh. Now that’s another ball of wax!” said the man, visibly stoned. But this topic of conversation clearly interested him. “So someone’s hacked into your tattoo, eh?”

“No, not mine. A friend of mine. And I really need to find out who’s doing it.”

“Well, if your friend’s IdentiChip wasn’t modified for secure tattoo transmissions (and who’s gonna pay to have that done?) then he’s a sitting duck to any hacker with an agenda, and a personal computing device on GPS.”

“What is GPS?” asked Terry.

“What century are you in?” asked Joe. “GPS stands for Global Positioning Satellite. If they want, they can track every move your friend makes, trace every contour of his body, and display anything they want on him. Or at least wherever he’s tattooed with the liquid crystal.” At this, Joe put down his joint, and looked at Terry who trying to understand.

“Some of these hackers are good, man, and resourceful. Most of them will never be traced. They’ve got new gadgets these days which scan you to get your IdentiChip codes.”

Terry, unable to comprehend much detail about technology, thanked the tattooed man, and decided he should try and piece the puzzle together himself.

He came up with the following conclusions:

1. The message was from someone who knew he was a minister. (Possibly a member of his own congregation?)
2. His house was most likely under surveillance.
3. He and Frankie were most likely under surveillance.
4. Frankie would eventually discover the messages, if Terry didn’t first.

Wednesday evening came, and Frankie was home early from the bars, feeling like he wanted a piece of legally-wedded ass. He was unusually forceful. Terry, face in the pillow, soon found himself being entered from behind. On any other day, he would have been overjoyed for Frankie to initiate intercourse. But as Frankie pounded him, Terry rested on his elbows and wondered what new messages might be in store. He could hardly wait to see. The Reverend put all his energy into the act, writhing and tightening his sphincter in the hopes that Frankie would ejaculate quickly. Then, pass out quickly.

“C’mon boy, gimme your load!” gasped Terry.

“You want it, furry daddy?” asked Frankie.

“Give it to me! Now!”

Frankie performed as commanded, and with a loud moan he came inside Terry’s ass. Frankie then quickly pulled out, and flopped down on his back.

Terry turned himself over and saw Frankie lying on his back. That would not do.

“Frankie Baby, let me turn you over.”

“I’m good like this,” said Frankie, eyes closed in post-coital exhaustion.

Terry felt a sharp twinge of panic. He suppressed it, but he needed to check for new messages! Covered in lubricant and semen, Frankie was sound asleep within minutes. Terry waited until Frankie rolled over into his customary sleeping position and began snoring.

Terry only had to wait three minutes before a new message began writing itself out on Frankie’s back, in marquee fashion. Text scrolled from armpit to armpit.

“I have never seen a more beautiful man than you, Reverend. I would run my fingers through your chest hair, I would knead your muscles, I would lick you clean with my tongue. To see you undressed would be like seeing God Himself.”

Terry’s cock began to harden, as it unsheathed itself from his foreskin. He wanted to reach out and touch the letters; to grasp the words that suggested he was still desirable, even at 50. He knew he appealed to some, but it was hard for him to know why since he was never attracted to men who looked like him. And Frankie’s recent ambivalence to sex had only compounded this problem. He brushed fingertips against the skin that displayed the repeating words.

“Why so fascinated with my back lately, Reverend?” spoke the voice. It was Frankie, who was apparently roused from sleep.

“It’s a beautiful back, Love.” said Terry, not missing a beat.

“I know what’s going on.” said Frankie.

“What’s that, Love?” asked Terry, nervously.

“We didn’t finish you off, did we?”

“Umm... no, we didn’t. But that’s OK. I know you’re tired.”

“No. Go ahead.” said Frankie, who arched his back and thrust his hips a few inches further up in the air.

I don’t need your pity, thought Terry. Wait. Maybe I do.

Terry positioned himself over his prone husband, and inserted his large uncut cock into his lover’s rectum. As he moved in and out of Frankie, Terry fantasized about who might be beaming the messages. He almost didn’t care what they looked like. He only knew he longed for someone who would go to such lengths.

Just to tell me I am still desirable.

In minutes, Terry reached a feverish intensity, thrusting himself forcefully into his young husband while a new message began writing itself out.

“Noon tomorrow. At the Midtown YMCA. Be there. BE NAKED. You won’t see me, but I am going to see you.” The text was in bold red lettering, and when it finished the display, it melted down into Frankie’s crack, where Terry was busy pounding furiously. Terry cried out, and shot a load like he had never ejaculated before. Frankie was now wide awake, and sore.

Thursday morning, Terry called the church office and told his secretary he wasn’t feeling himself, and wouldn’t be in.

He’d kept an erection all morning, waiting for noon to come. He drove himself to the YMCA in Midtown, and by noon the Reverend Terry Shires locked up his clothes and was stripped naked. He was ready, like never before, to be seen.

Knowing his admirer could be anywhere, Terry had difficulty keeping down his erection. Terry was naked in the Men’s Pool (as were most of the other men), and naked in the saunas. He walked around the locker area nude, and never once covered himself with his towel.

Terry felt beautiful, and his blatant exhibitionism charged the entire locker room with eroticism. Men touched each other openly, apparently unafraid of being ejected from the premises of the Young Men’s Christian Association. And the sheer volume of beautiful men present was overwhelming to Terry, and maddening.

And any one of you could be my stalker. Which one are you?

Everyone watched the handsome Reverend display himself, and Terry’s mind raced with the many possibilities. He relished the experience of being watched. He spent three hours parading every inch of his powerfully muscled body, until he thought he might pass out from heat exhaustion.

His frustration intolerable, Terry found a shower stall where he could watch a young boy soaping himself up. The boy’s liquid crystal tattoo displayed a butterfly on his neck, wings flapping. It flew up and down his neck in a loop. The nineteen year-old boy played with his penis as he lathered. Terry stroked his cock as he watched the young man, finally spilling a load all over the wet tile floor. The boy watched Terry closely, as the married minister washed semen out of his pubic hair.

With the thrill gone temporarily, Terry wondered if he hadn’t just made a grievous mistake, not to mention a complete fool of himself.

But by nightfall, the Reverend was in heat again, waiting anxiously for his husband’s return.

The hours passed slowly, and Frankie didn’t come home until 4:30 am. Terry had nearly fallen asleep. But like clockwork, nearly twenty minutes after Frankie had started snoring, another display began.

Coming into focus on Frankie’s back was a video feed of naked men walking around. Terry was intrigued, and thought the setting looked familiar. Soon he was watching himself.

The edited video playing on Frankie’s tattoo was of him walking around nude at the Midtown YMCA. The final video clip was a younger boy watching Terry masturbate in the shower, and climaxing on himself. All angles apparently shot from the ceiling.

Terry gasped. He had become the unwitting porn star! He was angry, but more aroused than he ever had been. He was scared, yet rock hard at the same time. Terry found that watching himself cavorting nude wasn’t such an unpleasant sight after all.

You’ve still got it, old boy.

After the video feed ended, text appeared.

“Thank you, Reverend. There’s no way to express how edifying it was seeing you like this. I can’t wait to see you in the flesh again.”

The tattoo display started to loop. Terry was dumbfounded.

Friday night, Terry’s mystery stalker beamed more clips of Thursday afternoon’s nude display onto Terry’s sleeping husband. After the montage of images, more text came. After the text came, the Reverend came.

“Well, that’s all the hacking I need to do for awhile. Thank you, Reverend, for your cooperation. I’d thank Frankie as well, but I don’t think that would be very appropriate, do you? I’ll see you in the flesh once again this Sunday.”

Saturday night, Frankie didn’t come home from partying. But Terry wasn’t the least bit concerned. He could only feel sorrow that the adventure seemed to be over.

When Sunday morning came, Terry’s utter distraction showed through every moment of the service. Flubbing his words on the hymns and stammering through a recycled sermon, he wondered if his admirer really was present in the congregation. He scanned the crowd.

After the service, Terry still had no real clues as to the identity of his admirer. But then Frankie came in looking disheveled, there only to satisfy the requirements of his wifely duty to stand alongside his husband at the after-service meet & greet.

Terry glared at Frankie. He whispered through his teeth, “You look like shit, and you smell like an ashtray! Go home. We’ll discuss this later!”

Frankie rolled his eyes, and pranced out of the sanctuary.

Terry couldn’t process the congregation out the door fast enough. But it seemed there were more pitiful specimens of humanity than ever, each trying desperately to curry his favor. A young man wanted to discuss theology, asking if Terry was infralapsarian or supralapsarian. Another woman wanted Terry to convince her Jewish husband to accept Christ. The widow dawdled with her paraplegic son for a seeming eternity, as did three obvious alcoholics, as did the overweight middle-aged spinsters who regularly (and hopelessly) threw themselves at him.

Last in line was a young boy who looked vaguely familiar. When the boy turned his neck, Terry looked down, and saw a familiar butterfly tattoo.

The boy stuck out his hand, smiled, and said, “So what’s going on after the service, Reverend?” He grinned confidently.

The boy then proceeded to walk back into the sanctuary, towards the church offices. The Reverend felt a surge of adrenaline, and followed him.

His stalker had found him.

The nineteen year-old eyed the minister as he went into the nearest men’s bathroom. Terry caught up and grabbed his arm, saying, “I’ve got a better place.”

Terry locked the door of his study, before the two feverishly locked lips. The boy ripped two buttons off of Terry’s best black robe, and Terry nearly ripped the boy’s pants open, trying to get them down.

“So you liked what you saw the other day, did you?” said Terry, before putting the boy’s extremely rigid cock into his salivating mouth.

“Oh yeah! You’re one of the hottest daddies I’ve seen in ages!”

Terry tasted pre-come and said, “I was amazed by how... thorough your surveillance was.”

“Well, I know a great daddy when I see one. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. But then, everybody was watching you”

“I shot the biggest load on myself watching you shower.” said Terry as he ran his hairy, muscled hands up and down the boy’s smooth legs. “But I had no idea you were my stalker.”

“Oh, I can stalk with the best of ‘em,” said the boy, looking down, “particularly if my prey is really worth catching. And when I found out you were a minister, I knew I had to have you.”

“How did you find out I was a minister?”

“Some guy told me at the gym, said he’d seen you preach.”

“Who told you that, and when?”

“I dunno. Some guy in the whirlpool told me.”

Terry stopped thinking long enough to turn the boy over, and insert his uncut cock into the boy’s tight asshole. The boy gasped, but took every inch.

Terry rammed the boy while he watched the butterfly flapping its wings on the boy’s neck.

“I’m gonna come,” said the boy who was stroking his dick while getting pounded from behind. He ejaculated all over the hardwood floor of Terry’s study.

“I must say,” said Terry, who was close to climax, “that I’ve never imagined a more ingenious way to stalk someone. You could have gotten us into a lot of trouble if my partner had found out.”

“Why?” gasped the boy, who felt he would split in two. “Does your lover work out at the same gym? Was he there?”

“No,” said Terry, who climaxed, filling the boy’s cavity with his semen. He fell over on the boy, rubbing sweat on the boy’s back. “I’m talking about the tattoo. How did you know when to beam your messages to his tattoo?”

“Beam messages? Tattoo?” said the boy, quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

Terry looked up and noticed the butterfly display had gone, replaced with a familiar illustration of Christ. A single tear slid down the Holy Face.

That afternoon, Craig Parsons reviewed video feeds of Reverend Shires for the 35th time. He felt like crying since the Reverend had all but dismissed him this morning, yet again. He wished he could have been the young man with the butterfly tattoo. But he cherished the images his dead father’s military surveillance bugs had brought to him.

An upcoming operation to restore the nerves in his spine would either be successful, or not. But Craig envisioned a day when his legs worked, and imagined himself as muscular, healthy, and desirable. Perhaps then the Reverend might notice him. Perhaps not.

Until then, he would love him from afar.

 

© 2005 John Fink - Contributor's Bio

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