It wasn’t romance, though he knew better not to expect any. But it wasn’t at all what he had imagined. There was no passion, no buttons torridly unbuttoned, no sheets torn from beds. Everything up to this point had in fact been decidedly banal, for something he’d never done before. With girls it was different, careful and choreographed, like a cat navigating sewer grill, tip-toed. All the moves were planned beforehand, the lines rehearsed so they wouldn’t suspect that he would rather be with a man. Any man. With a man, it would be different.
He found this one on the Internet, a Craigslist booty-call, “no-strings-attached”, with a dirty mouth and bad grammar. The picture in the profile was equally if not more attractive than he was. When the invitation was accepted he was so nervous he wanted to vomit. That morning he had a hard-on for an hour. And now he was on all fours, back arched like a stegosaur, as strange hands gripped and clawed behind him. They didn’t even kiss. It was more like an exercise machine, swaying back and forth on fixed axes. It didn’t even hurt, like he was scared it would. Now he wished it did.
Older youth, shirtless, on hands and knees, expression is inner sadness/outer indifference or boredom, late afternoon ambient light (cool) + warm tungsten
No comments:
Post a Comment