And like that he's in the room. I leap up, positively mortified. How long was he standing there ? !

"Tony," I snap, red-faced, "what the –!"

"You fucking little prick tease," he growls, reaching for my prep-dildo, Aloysius.

Oh no. Oh no. I won't survive this.

With my last ounce of dignity, I turn quickly away, but my resolve, and my voice, are a wispy field of daisies. "I told you to wait-"

And then it's over, that mouth a soft, masterful vice grip, and I'm being shoved, bent backward over the sink ... and it's like a dream, like something I've never allowed myself even to imagine, being mauled so feverishly by Tony ... but quickly it's awkward, painful, even, seeing as my hand, and Aloysius are both getting squished ... but then ...

Quickly, before I realize it, I'm lifted, by the hips, and ... holy fucking shit ... all but tossed onto the bloody counter; my knees bent and stretched wide ... and quickly he moves between, mashing me, mouth first, right into the giant bloody wall mirror ... out of the corner in which I spy the pale outline of that long, lean form, pitched determinedly towards what it wants.

And before I have time to process it ... he's reaching, between us, and for a second I think he's going for my cock which has sprung up hard and tight, but no ... it's lower, that he wants ... and I look into that face as he looks down, staring at this thing protruding from my body ... and here we are ... two boys, opposites, it seemed at one time, whom fate and freakish circumstances have made best mates, whom a weekend has made yes, lovers, whom raging lust has crammed headlong into a bloody wall ... and my god, those dark lips have gone pale as the rest of him, the full, lower one dragging backward as it's dug into by a tooth ... those blue pools reflecting like a mirror, literally turned on ...

He takes hold of it, the nether reaches of Aloysius, and speaks softly.

"This is so fucking perverted."

I gulp. Is this more dirty talk, or is he actually disapproving ?

"It's even got balls," he snorts, fiddling with them.

"I like balls," I snap, mildly indignant.

He stops, "I know you do," he says, gently cups their real life, nearby counterpart.

I squirm. I gulp down a pocket of air. I lick my drying lips.

"I do, too," he offers.

Okay. Fuck. Holy FUCK. He continues, oblivious, as if we're having a normal conversation.

"At some point, I have the feeling I'm gonna wanna put these in my mouth," he has the nerve to deadpan, eying and caressing the quivering sac. "I won't know what in hell I'm doing, but I'm pretty sure that's coming."

And my brain freezes – cannot accept, how could it ? - that Tony would say such a thing to me, and so it presumes that we are the middle of an all-out wank-fest of a fantasy, a majorly spliffed-up hallucination ... either that or this hotel, this loo, somehow exists within an otherworldly sphere, some sort of all-powerful, hypnotic sensual gay forcefield, where the Erotic and the Miraculous collide with the Perversely Wicked, on their way to the Great Orgasmic Impossible.

I look at him. Through the hazy fog of disbelief, arousal, confusion and sheer glee, Tony comes into focus.

"But I think that can wait, can't it ?" he says. "You like balls, Max, but I think you like cock better."

And it's all in slow, dreamy motion, a boy being turned round in place ... the insertion slipping from him, unnoticed, forgotten, to the floor ... the two watching each other in the mirror, each as nervous, as madly turned on, as the other ... and it's like a physical caress, the steamy intensity of their mutual gaze, behind which, nothing is hidden.

He wraps me tight, in his arms from behind ... and there it is against my back, in glorious full colour tangibleness, the firm, warm, agitated flesh.

"I'm nervous as fuck," he says suddenly, kissing the side of my neck.

"Me, too," I admit, cupping his face in my hand.

He nibbles on my lobe. I'm some place far off in the stratosphere.

"You know what ?" he asks.

"Mmhwhat ?"

"I sort of can't believe I ever got hard for anyone else."

Okay ... even in a weekend of magic and mayhem, here is Tony, without realizing, and despite the subject matter, managing to say what is maybe the most romantic thing I will ever hear.

Before I can dissolve into a swooning, pansyboy puddle, I take, and carefully lay open his palm, into which I deposit a small tube and smaller square envelope. I meet his gaze in the mirror, and whisper.

"Fuck me."

.

Nervousness is about the brain, an organ which has famously failed me. Blinding, craving need, however, is purely about the cock. And, as it happens, that part of me works just fine.

Mouth dry, and with trembling hands, I manage to slip the condom over the swelling and lather myself in goo, noting the thinnest sliver separating us. How incredible, these last moments of my virginity; these last moments before his body opens, and accepts mine.

After two awkward, embarrassing attempts, during which I somehow miss – slipping upright between his cheeks - I mark the target with a finger, which makes him gasp and jump in place, and then guide the gooey tip, nudging at first, and then simply ... press ... at long fucking bloody last ... inward.

And ... I mean,

what

a

moment.

To have looked forward to the act for what feels like a bloody goddam lifetime- to have fought and wrestled as badly with it as I have, daydreamed and pleaded with the gods and cursed them for their abandonment, to have, in abject despair, all but abandoned the body part, myself – impossible task, that, as the sick bastards have seen to it that impotent males must still touch themselves daily in order to piss ... only to suddenly find yourself in the middle of the organ's very purpose in life, it's reason for being – to encase itself in the middle of another human being, (even if you never imagined that being as male) ... is something so monumental as to represent the significant, magnificent dividing line of your life. That pathetic creature over there, was me, before; this, is me, now. I've joined the human race, I speak it's language, and I'm never going back.

But it's deeper, even, than that. What we are doing, Maxxie and I, is about blood; enzymes and DNA and churning gastric acids, genetics; history and pre-fucking-history. This is light and energy and instinct and soul. This is the act of becoming alive.

I move, lovingly coaxed to do so, and he moves with me. We are a single unit connected in time and space, and I can't quite grasp that what I'm feeling is him, from the inside. Can't quite grasp the intensity of the sensation that it is to be housed, encased in complete, contented warmth, all needs met, as if nothing else mattered but this place where we're joined, this perfect passage that loves you and wants you and holds tight to you ... and yet at the same time, you find that a part of you is also slightly fearful to surrender yourself to these mysterious and slightly scary depths.

I open my eyes. His meet mine in the mirror. The blue in them is rich, world's deep, alive. It's almost surreal, how completely he's with me inside of this perfect bubble ... mouth parted in an indelicate "O", jolting and rocking with every thrust, in the literal midst of this inexplicable but absolutely brilliant and necessary act of one body absorbing another ... and it's so good I can't quite grasp it ... Can't believe that people would dare demean it, for it's possibly the most fantastic thing that ever was, to be this close, this intimate with another being ... to move, to drive yourself by the most primal of all instincts, relentlessly IN-IN-IN, reaching each time for the furthest, deepest point ... and it's so exquisitely fine that somewhere along the way your brain give up, checks out ... and with that last filter gone, you are but one thing: A creature of sense, without any ability to know which is turning you on more: the feel and rhythm of two gliding, melded bodies; the taste and scent of naked, salted flesh; the rough, raw noises you are pulling from each other; or the sight in the mirror of the whole thing: an unspeakably beautiful animal-boy, one hand flat against the mirror to steady himself, the other white knuckling the sink as he is mercilessly fucked – shredded – wasted – laid into in withering fashion, so hard that his hips are jumping, over and over, off the counter as you bang him headlong into the next century.

.

In the middle of this assault, this no, pulverization, when I've lost all ability to reason or think, and cannot accept, even with the evidence in the mirror, that that really is Tony behind me, he chooses to lean forward, slide a hand up into my hair, and as if I'm not generally finished enough as a human being, growls into my ear ...

"You filthy fucking slut."

I let out a helpless, gurgling shriek.

"You perverted cocksucking faggot ..."

"Yes !" I plead, except for the third word, which is merely a statement of fact, not exactly sure what it is I'm so gleeful to agree with.

And then he switches gears and simply makes a general observation:

"Ramming it up your sweet ..." (slam) ..."tight ..." (slam) "fuck hole."

"Mhhghh !" I wheeze.

And then his voice changes. I glance quickly in the mirror to see Tony's red, sodden face, and watch as the hand in my hair grips and yanks, jerking my head backward as he tells me in normal, if spent tones:

"I used to be a top, y'know."

? ! ? ! ? ! ? USED to be ? ! ? ! ? ! ?

And then, as if it isn't all delicious enough, I both feel and see his free hand encircle and begin steady pulling on my cock, and as he speaks further, I lose all hope:

"Fucking nasty little pricktease cockwhore SLUT."

And with that, I'm gone; the tingle springing up from my toes, ricocheting through my nervous system and finally bursting out me so hard I see stars.

.

He falls limp like a wet, pink ragdoll, wheezing for his life, and as incredible a thing as it is to watch and as much as a part of me wants to stop and marvel at what it is that's just happened; what I, alone, have just caused ... something in me needs instead to keep going, to in fact, pound him not only through it, but past it, hurtling now deeper and faster, balls slapping, driven by utter madness towards the nearing, gathering storm, this thing that I fear might just kill me ... and so I dig ruthlessly in, bruising and then piercing the flesh-barrier to grip each hip bone, encircling and biting and then severing his left ear, fucking a deep hole clean through to the other side of his body ... somewhere during which my blood heats up and thins, quicker to fly through my veins like a runaway train ...

And I'm a little bit afraid, for my lower half teeters and flutters and shakes like never before ... a sensation winds through me that I don't recognize ... holds ... holds ... and then shatters, ripping free ... causing me to scream inside his larynx, and collapse forward.

It's several minutes before I know where in hell I am and what the fuck just mother ... fucking ... happened.

I force open my eyes, and in the mirror I can see they are still within my head, that my body hasn't melded with Maxxie's, after all. See ? There is my face, planted up next to his, our two mouthes swung open, taking in air as we struggle to make our way back from planet Good Fuck.

I have no idea what to do. How do you come down from such a thing ? How can you walk around like a normal person – eat, shit, make conversation – without it showing on your face, that a tidal wave has just swallowed you whole ? That you've come so hard and so thoroughly that it's rewired your brain ? Or perhaps, short-circuited it ?

Things can't every really be the same now, can they ?

And how about the knowledge that this was available to you all along – that you could've had this a thousand times over by now, to the point where you maybe took it for granted or were even in the privileged, ridiculously spoiled position of actually growing bored ... had you just gotten your motherfucking shit together sooner.

Slowly, eventually, the corners of his mouth turn up. He runs a hand up my temple, into my hair.

"You know what I'm thinking ?" he pant-whispers.

It takes me a minute to answer.

"No," I say, clearing my parched throat. "Don't ask me to think – all done, there."

He laughs.

"I'm thinking of like ... a medical experiment, where they join us up like this, permanently."

I chuckle hoarsely, as much as my battered lungs will allow.

"Siamese twins."

"Yes," he nods. "Brunette and blonde."

I kiss his ear. (Yup, still intact.)

"But then you'd have to carry me round on your back."

"No. You'll just walk really close behind me."

We laugh wearily.

"Or you'll stand on my feet."

"Or maybe they'll give us roller blades."

"No, a big skateboard."

"A sexual skateboard."

I shut my eyes and settle my face into the warmth of his neck, into a perfect, silent, sleepy, love-buzz head space.

"You were amazing, Tone," he finally whispers, rousing me from my contented state. My eyes creep open and he speaks to their reflection. "I'm not kidding. Absolutely fucking amazing."

I smile – I have no way to gauge it – too soon. I know that I feel like I maybe sorta lost it; got majorly carried away, like I became somebody else. Or maybe, the me I used to be.

He grins.

"Only problem being, I might have trouble walking."

We chuckle.

"So you have to tell me," he continues. "Suspense is a killer. How was it ?"

"Um ..." I answer lazily, but my brains dies right there.

He laughs.

"That good ?"

I smile.

"Yes."

"Unspeakably so."

"Ya, no, it was ... just ... fucking … ahhh," I take in and let out a big breath. "What can I say ? Even given everything we've done, I still didn't know the human body was capable of such incredibly intense sensations. Almost too much to like, withstand."

"But in a good way," he offers.

"Ya, ya. Really fucking good." I kiss his ear. "I never knew your arse was such a goldmine."

He gasps in mock outrage.

"But why wouldn't I have ?" I say, hands caressing his chest, lips sliding to his shoulder. "Look at this body. Christ. You're so fucking hot, and fit, and perfect. Hopefully you'll let me mine for gold a lot."

He shrieks out a huge laugh.

"I guess I just didn't know anything could top what I've already felt."

.

"Top," I say. "Yes, top might be the operative word here."

"Hmm ?"

I lay a hand over the one at my waist.

"I think you've maybe just discovered that you were born to top, Tone."

He shrugs. He says nothing for a minute.

"It was just … it felt good. I couldn't sorta control it."

"You were brilliant." I raise my hand to cup his face and purr. "Total natural – complete monstrous animal – positively glorious. The rough stuff, especially."

"Hmm ?" he murmurs. "Rough stuff ?"

I whisper.

"When you yanked on my hair, Tone, and then all the shit you said."

He runs his nose through my hair and neck, giving me a great sniff, before responding.

"Baby, what are you on about ?"

Dear god, if he only knew what that little word did to me !

"Come on, Tone. You picked me up and threw me at the mirror ! You called me a faggot and a slut ! Or have you forgotten already ?"

He looks at me in the mirror, incredulous.

"What ? !"

"You did !" I laugh.

He blinks a moment.

"Seriously ?"

"Yes !" I shriek. "Do you really not remember ?"

He looks off, thinking, processing this, and finally chuckles in disbelief.

"Jesus … fuck, I mean, ya ... I guess ... I guess I did. I sort of have this vague recollection, but ..."

I shift, and his by now softened cock slips free. We are two separate and distinct individuals, again. Sigh.

We turn to face each other.

"You really are too incredible for words," I tell him.

He grins shyly.

"I fucking love you to pieces."

My heart springs up and flutters about in my chest.

"I love you too, my angel."

He jerks his head back in surprise.

"Your what ?"

I shrug.

"Sorry. Couldn't hold back any longer." I grin, echoing his own explanation: "Been on the tip of my tongue for hours."

He searches my eyes.

"Seriously ?"

"Yes, Tony !" I laugh. "It's lovely, isn't it ? Our own private pet names. I've always wanted that."

"But that one doesn't fit. I'm not exactly an angel. I'm more of an arsehole, actually."

"Stop it, Tone. You're not."

"But just look at my choice of language when we do it," he grins, "Totally horridly offensive and like, completely politically incorrect."

I reach, tug on the end of his condom, which easily slips free, and toss it into the bin next to us.

"Yes, thank god; and boiling motherfucking hot. It's the second time you did that, by the way – the dirty talk."

"Fuck; really ? ? Jesus christ. Why don't I remember this ?"

I place a hand on his chest, and caress a jutting nipple.

"You're the best possible kind of lover, that's why."

He grins crooked.

"I thought you didn't like that word."

"Shut up."

"'Old sleazy queens', remember ?"

"Shut UP. When discussing sexual performance, it's entirely appropriate."

"Oh ?" he says, cocking a teasing eyebrow. "So angels are good sexual performers, are they ?"

"Of course. Particularly when they get lost inside of it to that degree," I tell him, walking my fingers up his chest and grinning sly, "when they actually manage to make me feel like a virgin ..."

He shakes his head.

"Sorry, I can flutter my wings and say a million prayers but nothing's gonna bring that back."

"Fuck off !" I snap, mock indignant, turning away, but he grabs my shoulders and turns me back.

"Oh baby, I'm kidding !" He kisses me quick. "If I could make you a virgin again, I would, just so we could lose our virginity together."

"Awww !"

We laugh. We kiss lazily. It's positively glorious. I want it to go forever, til we die, but exhaustion and breathlessness have other ideas.

"So it was good for you, then ?" I grin. Then stop. "Seriously, I mean."

"Seriously ? Truthfully ?"

"Yes, of course, ya twat."

"Well … no," he deadpans. "If I'm entirely honest. No, actually. Not really."

I stop dead. But … didn't he just say ... Did I … did I somehow misinterpret everything ?

He takes my hand.

"Wrong word."

"Wrong word ?" I ask, still slightly taken aback.

"Ya. It wasn't 'good', Max. Not even close," he grins. "It was absolutely fucking miraculous."

Author's note:

Thanks for your patience in waiting for this chapter and not giving up on the story. I haven't, it's just that life has been encroaching. Also, I'm not only preparing to be laid off from my job in a few months, but preparing at the same time to go to Paris for the first time ever, in mid-September, to help a sibling celebrate a milestone birthday. (Sometimes, even as disaster looms, one must sieze life by the testicles.)

Bits of inspiration for this chapter can be found in the flawless UK version of the series Queer As Folk, the flawed but brilliant HBO mini series Angels In America, and the mini series based on the Evelyn Waugh novel Brideshead Revisited.

PS. All reviewers will be blessed with health and riches, and ultimately inherit the earth.