We drive back to the motel in the torrential rain.
He sits behind me on the bike, his strong arms around my waist. At one point he rests his head on my shoulder.
We're both soaked by the time we get there.
I bring out two beers from the mini-fridge, it hums, noisily, in the corner of the room. Seedy doesn't even start to cover it. The carpet is sticky, the decor straight from a 1984 porn flick.
He goes into the bathroom, he's soaked to the skin.
I'm suppin' on the first beer, his bottle is open, but still untouched, on the cheap formica table.
He comes out of the bathroom, I can hear the shower running.
Naked.
Unashamed.
Beautiful.
I look him up and down.
How dare I.
How dare I bring this exquisite creature into this flithy shit hole?
He meets my eyes.
He sure as hell knows what he looks like. All those hours in the gym. On the trapeze.
And the effect he has on me.
I'm so hard, I'm aching.
Aching for him.
See, we can talk and talk and talk.
But sometimes it's not enough.
My mind starts savaging itself, like a wounded animal chewing its own leg off.
I'm at my most dangerous then.
But he's not scared of me.
Even when he damn well should be.
He comes and crouches down before me.
Shit. I fuckin' stink. Sweat. Blood. Death.
He meets my eyes.
He'd blow me, even stinkin' as I do.
But I won't ask him to.
He's fastidious as a fuckin' cat. Hates dirt.
I reach out and tangle my hand in his unruly, damp hair.
Hand under his chin. His golden eyes on my face.
He takes my hand, kisses my palm.
"Shower. You smell vile."
I smile. I can't help myself.
Despite the rain, there must be twenty five whores between here and the corner of the block, male, female, everything in between. For twenty bucks, I could have any one them in here with me.
Instead I have this guy.
My friend. My best friend.
Not the only guy I've ever fucked, but the only guy I've ever...
The shower has has time to warm up, to just about tepid.
He soaps me up, strong, firm strokes. Confident. Calm.
Then he's on his knees before me.
And I'm...
I'm ashamed.
Oh, I'm hard as a rock and thrusting into his warm, willing mouth.
But I'm ashamed, I don't deserve this. Don't deserve him.
I'm a murderer. A sinner.
And, despite what he looks like, he's a fuckin' angel. A goddamn saint.
This is what love looks like.
And I don't deserve it. Him.
Except, he seems to think I do.
I come in his mouth and he swallows it, just like that cheap, twenty buck whore.
He moves up me, curls around me, kisses me. I can taste my cum in his mouth.
I hold him to me, the strength of all those beautiful muscles. This beautiful soul.
He doesn't believe me. Us.
Too many people have run away screamin'. Or chased after him with a flaming torches and pitchforks. No, literally.
No matter how often we tell him that he's priceless, he never quite gets it.
He thinks were just bein' "nice".
Ah, darlin' you'll never understand what you mean to me. Us.
We lie on the hard, lumpy bed, on threadbare sheets (no fuckin' way are we lyin' on the stained and dirty counterpane) and I run my hands over that soft, damp fur. I move my mouth across the hard muscles of his chest, kiss my way down washboard abs. He squirms, ticklish and sensitised.
You lovely, lovely man.
I take his long, slender cock deep in my throat, he clutches the sheets, mewing with pleasure, determined not to wake the neighbouring rooms, Elf's not very good at 'quiet'. I bring him off by grasping the base of his tail. Works ever time.
I'd like to fuck him, but we've no lube. Oh well.
"Beers gettin' warm" The rickety table is on the other side of the room.
"I am not walking on this carpet with clean feet. It's sticky.
Sigh. Did I mention he can be a precious little queen, when he puts his mind to it?
So I go fetch the beers, while the rain hammers on the glass, cold and hard.
But in my arms is someone warm and soft.
Someone who can do what no whore can do, at any price.
Someone who can bring me peace and can make me whole again.