Once again I sleep fitfully, and at some point in the night awaken and sense an empty bed. I panic momentarily, but then, squinting, eventually make out his form, standing by the window, curtains drawn back, in a cloud of smoke.
The light from the street softly illuminates my path. I lay gentle hands on his back, and kiss the top of his shoulder overwhelmed with an array of feelings: wonder, disbelief, admiration, a not small sense of pride. But mostly I feel, to a frightening degree, a sort of violence of love. Which scares the bleeding shit out of me. This is Curt Wild, my muse, my confidante and friend, but also a man who has now completely obliterated me sexually. I know a dividing line when I see one.
Which is all well and good as the Americans say, but absolutely, positively none of this means … he feels one iota the same.
He takes a drag and passes it back to me, eyes looking drawn, which is worrying, or might it be that he is simply knackered? Despite the fact that I don't smoke, I accept it, pull on it, and pass it back, a tad nervous, wanting to speak, not wanting to. His eyes drift absently over the street.
I run a hand tentatively down his arm.
"You okay?"
He takes another drag, and exhales.
"Ya, just couldn't sleep." His voice is soft and worn.
I plant my chin on his shoulder and pretend to watch the flickering street lamps, eyes turned instead, watching him.
It strikes me that he really does possess the most glorious ragged beauty, in fact at this point I'm pretty well convinced he is the pinnacle of male beauty. He looks amazing, fit, younger than his 25 years and I momentarily imagine him as a boy. And then I remember. The bright, inquisitive child, the brilliant reckless son, violated and betrayed by his brother and then, unthinkably, abandoned by his family to a state mental institution where he would endure more than a year of barbaric shock treatment.
Absolutely incredible. I see the skinny, terrified boy struggling and fighting as he is forcibly strapped down, the rubber bit jammed between his teeth, the awful journey down the hall to the room with the bright lights.
I run a hand down over my stomach which has twisted up into tight, cramped knots. Then it occurs to me: I have known of these same stories for several weeks now, and they have never previously caused me physical pain.
Bloody hell, I am in love.
He takes another drag, inhales it deep, protrudes his lower lip, and blows the smoke straight upward without tilting his head. How can even this be so bloody sexy?
"Brian."
I'm watching the smoke trail out of his mouth, mesmerized.
"Hmm?"
"This whole," his index finger makes a circle in the air. "this whole fucked up trip, this, like, make believe world surrounding you …"
He turns to face me.
"The freaks and leeches and hangers on and all that shit- I've seen it before." He looks off. "Shit, I'm even a part of it, now."
He is, I realize.
"It's completely and utterly fucked. You know that, don't you."
More a statement than a question.
"If by 'fucked', you mean disorienting and … surreal and … probably exceptionally unhealthy, then yes, it's completely bloody fucked. But … I'm a businessman."
His face pinches. He looks me square in the eye.
"Brian, you're an artist! Jerry is a fucking businessman! You can't have forgotten that!"
A click goes off in my head – why has no one said this to me before! – he's right! And I'm suddenly terribly annoyed with him for it.
"You seriously need to step away and get some perspective. Believe me, I know."
"So what are you saying. Retire? I'm not going back to playing bloody tea rooms."
"No, no -you don't have to. I mean," big sigh, long drag on the cig, blows it out. "What you need is to get away from the fucking circus for a while – if only maybe temporarily; clear your head." Another long drag.
"I'm dead serious. Or … I swear to Christ, you'll end up like me."
I'm stunned. "Curt, you're bloody fucking brilliant!"
He laughs bitterly. "Ya! I'm a genius- I forgot!"
"You're the reason I turned my whole career around! You inspired me- I absolutely wanted to be you! You're the reason I'm a star!"
He's smiling, stubbing out his cig. "No, I think Jerry the businessmancan be blamed for that."
"Fuck off. I'm being completely honest."
He looks at me.
"Curt, I swear to you, you're still my inspiration." I sigh. "You're the only real thing I know."
He takes my hands and looks me dead in the eye.
"Then … why don't we get the fuck outta here?"
I blink. "What are you talking about?"
"Just go! You and me. Away. Someplace."
My heart leaps. I want to jump into his arms, throw my legs round his waist and kiss him madly. I want to live with him in a trailer in Detroit, killing possum with a shotgun, but the small voice won't be squelched.
Commerce. Business. Lawyers.
My words tumble out.
"But, … the contract. The record starts in 2 weeks."
"So we'll go away for 2 weeks! Or … 3! Show 'em who's the star!"
The wheels begin spinning.
We're watching each other's faces.
The edges of my mouth slowly begin moving. They won't stop. His sly grin reflects back at mine.
As I hang up the phone from making the arrangements he's pulling me hurriedly along.
"We smell like a slaughterhouse. We have to clean up or they won't let us on the plane."
"This is an old house, Curt, with a tiny loo. It's not exactly a 2-person shower."
He grins wickedly. "That's okay."
I grin with him, turn on the water and roll the door shut. We kiss softly and giggle under the warm spray, but agree that there isn't time for anything other than a genuine cleanup.
We soap and lather and shampoo each other and it's absolutely glorious, running my hands through that magnificent head of thick, full, soft, sandy hair … and down over that broad, smooth, perfectly bumpy back, not to mention the sight of the foam running over that exceedingly scrumptious bottom …
He returns the favor and all is well until we each turn round to wash the front. One look from those weighty lids and I'm drawn in, drowning in a deep mutual kiss, and soft, soapy, stroking.
I pull away momentarily and look down at the gentle motion of our hands. I whisper.
"You do possess the prettiest cock."
He laughs.
"Thanks. It's never been called that before, I can tell you."
He joins me in looking down. He whispers.
"See, you've embarrassed it. It's blushing."
I raise my eyes.
"Curt."
"Mmm?"
"We shouldn't. We'll miss the plane."
He meets my gaze and presses me back against the tile, causing my hands to spring free.
"No we won't."
His grip tightens and the pace escalates to a blur, to the point where I'm incapable of keeping my eyes open or my mouth shut. I gasp and fumble and reach blindly for him and he stops dead. My eyes fly open in time to see him upending a bottle of Mandy's baby shampoo and drizzling it all over our cocks and hands, before tossing the bottle over the shower door. We mash our mouthes together in renewed excitement and resume rapid, mutual stroking.
We are each very hard, very quick- our bodies may be at the point of near-collapse from sleep deprivation and physical strain, but our cocks can see for miles. Eyes lowered, lips parted, we pant and lean against each other like boxers in the final round, too weary to hold up our own weight.
At once, his breathing changes. I turn and quickly press him back into the tile. He tilts his head slightly upward and shuts his lids. I pull away from his reach, bending and stroking him firmly with two hands, eyes alternating between above, and below.
Above: a sight of extraordinary beauty: Neck and chest flushed and softly heaving from hoarse, rhythmic breaths which match the pace of my hands. That stupendous head of wet hair, with strands and stringy bits plastered to him, those parted lips, moist and tense, that lovely, deeply furrowed brow.
Below: is enough to make a boy lose his fucking mind: He has blossomed into a deep, rich red, crowned by that beautiful rounded, swollen purple tip. I'm salivating over the thought of all that warm blood coursing through him and concentrating itself in this one extraordinarily sensitive, nerve-packed area.
I lean into his neck and whisper throatily.
"I'm gonna make you come."
He moans out loud and, exactly at the moment that I fall to my knees to take him by mouth, jittery as I am about the prospect, for reasons that will be explained at a later date, he cries out and spurts a split second too early, directly into my face.
I'm stunned, beside myself thrilled, and not sure what to do. In my excitement I lean forward and move to take him anyway, soap, foamy shampoo and all, but he pulls me up at the last second, mashing his lips into my mine, licking and sucking and kissing excitedly at the product of his own orgasm, even as he pants and gasps in response to it.
"You're incredible," he whispers, as he gently cradles my cock in both hands, before gripping firm and strong for a dozen or more lightning fast strokes.
Almost immediately the upward surge resumes- I'm propelled, hurtled forward at a swirling, dizzying pace by magical, unseen forces, up, up the great mountain to a strange place free of rational thought or sketchy details. I'm keenly aware of the the soles of my feet on the cool tub floor, the ridge of my left shoulder blade digging into the grout, the tiny, microscopic fibers inside my eyelids, the orbits of light in my inner ray of spectrum.
Oh my … oh god … oh no … okay … get your head out of the fucking clouds, boy, for here It comes.
My breath slows, my lids flutter involuntarily, and the magnificent, slippery motion will not cease.
He's standing in my face, watching as he wills me there, purposely, deliberately … up, up … to the ceiling, to the sky, inside out and knotted to bits and floating free and … moving … moving … ohgod …
Somewhere far off in my mind I hear the curiously pained sound squeezing through the hollow of my throat, glancing off the tiles … my skull rocks backward and …WOOSHH! The flood crests and nearly upends me- I momentarily lose my balance but he's there to still me with a single sweet kiss.
Several moments later, panting, flushed, weak, I manage to pry open a lid. His face is wedded to my neck, arms gently round my back. I feel extraordinarily calm and safe, overwhelmed with sheer, unabashed love for this man cradling me, holding me to him.
He pulls away, slightly. His eyes are remarkably clear and bright and beautiful. His smile is warm and giving. My heart skips several beats.
"Wow. Fucking intense. I could feel it rippling through your whole body."
My voice is tiny.
"Yes. Incredibly … strong."
"Far out. I wonder why."
I want to blurt it to him- the truth … that it's because of him, that it's because I'm madly, hopelessly in love … I want to tell him it's because everything's changed. Every remaining bridge has been burned in these last few weeks, in these last few hours. The air, the scent of things, the taste, all have changed, so why shouldn't feelings? Sensations? The chemical makeup of the blood in my veins?
I want to, but instead, I lie. Through my teeth.
"I don't know."
He takes my hand. He whispers. He grins.
"We'll have plenty of time to figure it out." He kisses me quick. "Let's go catch that flight."