1: Anata no Subete o Naritai
There he is again.
He's always there, every night. In every dirty livehouse we play in, there he is, wearing more or less the same clothes. I've memorized his wardrobe: a ragged black shirt that probably used to have sleeves, white-splotched black jeans, faded blue jeans, a black turtleneck, a thin dark green shirt, a crisp white wing-collared button-down and a leather vest with metal rings that he wears when he wants someone to take him home. (It almost always works.)
He's Japanese. No other race has eyes that wanton or lips that sweet...narrow, black-black eyes and lovely reddish lips with a saucy notch in the middle and a sexy curl up at both ends. His lashes are the longest I've ever seen, his skin always white and clean-looking no matter how sweaty he gets from dancing. Sometimes when we play he closes his eyes and sticks the tip of his tongue out against that tiny notch in his lower lip and dances like someone's fucking him standing up.
What'd it be like to fuck him standing up?
Is that even possible?
Off the dance floor he's kinda clumsy. Bumps into people, trips over stray wires, always bobs his fluffy black head and apologizes with this cute wide-eyed look on his face.
Kinda obvious I've been keeping my eye on him, huh?
I don't know his name.
I'm scared to ask him.
So I call him Tripper.
* * *
I know what his day job is, if you could call it that. He's a whore. Yep, boy-slut. I see him around: on street curbs in the really stinky parts of the neighborhood, under bridges, the usual places. I know he knows I see him, because he always looks away and blushes. He's ashamed of what he does. He hates to know I watch him. So I act like he's not there and find somewhere else to park.
He's really pretty, isn't he? Makes me so hot to see him, dolled up in his dancing vest and tight black jeans, or in the slut-wear I see him in on the streets, his pretty little Jappy ass swaying hesitantly in invitation. I really want him.
Wanna fuck him till we're both ready to pass out. Wanna snuggle in the afterglow till the sun comes up, then cook him breakfast and read corny old jokebooks aloud to him over my plate, till he falls off his chair laughing. Then wanna take him again on the kitchen floor.
He loves being fucked, I can tell. But I can also tell he hates his job. He never meets my eye when he's in street gear. I think if I tried to sleep with him, if any of our band did, he'd die of shame.
* * *
Tripper adores us. Well, collectively, I mean the band. Our name is September First. Anyway, we play mostly fast heavy stuff, bordering on Goth, and the only thing that saves us from being just another noise band is our lead singer Gabriel. He sings like his namesake, I swear. Amazing voice: deepish tenor, moving toward baritone, just a teeny bit raspy but he can smooth it out till it sounds like alcoholic honey, makes you dizzy and buzzed just listening to it. We're all convinced that someday some big-name guy is gonna discover him, make him dump us and go mainstream. But Gabe swears that'll never happen.
Anyway, like I said, Tripper adores us. When he's not dancing he's staring at us, especially Gabe, with this totally enraptured look on his face. I love going guitar solo because then he turns that intense stare on me and it's as if he's begging me with those eyes, begging me to love him or fuck him or take him to heaven. And God, do I want to.
I think I kinda overdo the solos sometimes, actually. The only thing that keeps the band from strangling me after the show for ego-tripping, is the fact that they all know about this little thing I have for Tripper.
You know, this little thing.
Okay, not so little.
Tripper...well, I...I kind of.. .really, really...like Tripper. I mean *like* like him. I mean, he's so...and I, I get kind of...really...um, *fizzy* and high whenever I see him, unless it's a bad day and seeing him makes me wanna cry, or scream, or bang my head on the wall or something...it's like...
Our bassist, Julian, says "Max, you're a lovesick drooling puppy. Get over it."
Like that, I guess.
* * *
I can't even talk to him. I always tell myself I'll go up and talk to him after the show, but I'm always scared shitless. What the hell am I gonna say to him?
"Oh, hey, you're here again." Duh.
"So, you really like our songs, huh?" Lame, not to mention I sound like I'm bragging.
"Say, you're wearing that cute turtleneck; I really like seeing you in that. In fact, I like seeing you in any of your outfits, even the slutty ones. In fact, I'd love to see you in nothing at all..." Oh, Max, you moron; you're hopeless.
Shit, someone's just come up to him at the bar again. He usually drinks there before we play. If he's drinking a lot, it means someone else is buying; if he's chugging a lot of water or Mountain Dew to wash down his alcohol, it means he's on his own budget.
The guy's smooth-talking Tripper, and he smiles his polite little Japanese smile and nods, but I know he's not going to go off before we finish our set. Gives me a nice warm feeling inside, knowing Tripper likes us that much, to sacrifice a little of his work time just to listen to us play.
Guy is in a leather getup worn by most newbies in this livehouse. He's sweating like a pig. Looks like a complete asshole, but that could just be my bias. Not bad-looking--nice brownish-red hair in a floppy mess, broad across the shoulders, and pretty tall--but I don't like the way he's draping himself all over Tripper.
Not at all.
* * *
When I found out what Tripper did for a living, I didn't know what I wanted to do. Did I want to buy him off? Did I want to rescue the poor boy from his enslavement? Did I just want to leave him alone?
I saw him on a street corner, dressed in a very slutty little velvet scrap of a shirt and jeans so torn they were just a bunch of threads and rags that barely suggested the shape of jeans. You could see his legs through them: slender and white. The skin looked creamy enough to eat.
A car slowed to a halt next to him, and he leaned over and gave the sexiest little smile. The corners of that delicious mouth curved slowly upwards and then I saw his lips frame the words "blowjob, mister?"
I was shocked. He'd seemed so shy when he was dancing in the livehouse. Even when he was getting guys to pick him up, it just seemed as if he did it out of ordinary loneliness, or more probably horniness. I never thought he did it for money.
Okay, now I sound like a self-righteous asshole. The fact is, I think Tripper is too damn good for that job. Too good for the filthy streets he has to work every day, too good for the kidfucker sleaze who usually swallow his cute pouty little-boy act. Too good even for the livehouses and bars where we play.
Far too good for me. But at least I'd be better than those customers of his. Than that life. I just haven't gotten round to talking to him about it yet.
I've never talked to him about *anything*. I just watch him, and play, and hope he can somehow sense I'm playing to *him*. I've never had the nerve to just go up to him and say hi. Kinda funny, really; *he's* the one supposed to be in awe of us.
* * *
Look at him dancing. He's really hot when he's dancing.
That other guy knows it too; he's trying to get in close, maybe cop a feel. Tripper doesn't seem to care, or even notice; he's in a world of his own when he dances. I think it's his only escape.
Leather Guy's hands are sliding down his hips now, and he moans and does a little snaky kind of wiggle. I hope nobody notices I'm playing with a boner.
After the song, however, Tripper abruptly comes up to the stage, leaving Leather Guy standing alone in a thinning crowd.
"Excuse me. Excuse me."
Is he talking to...? Yes! He's talking to me!
"Can you...uh..." I've never seen him blush before. He looks so cute. He blushes all the way down to his collar. I kneel down on the stage to get a little closer; if I put out my hand I could feel his heat, find out if his skin's as soft as it looks. The rest of my band's watching us. They better not be grinning, or anything stupid like that.
"Can you play 'Salvation/Damnation', please. Um..."
His voice is beautiful. Trembly and maple-syrup-golden sweet. I want to kiss that throat. Want to slide my tongue between those beautiful lips. He has a tiny accent that makes his l's sound almost like r's, and that's beautiful too.
"It's my favorite. Thank you." As if he were making a speech. He withdraws into the noisy crowd again, looking away before I can answer him, or even smile at him. There goes my chance.
Well, fuck it. "Salvation/Damnation" he wants, "Salvation/Damnation" he's going to get. Never mind what the rest of the crowd wants. I signal the band, and for once Julian doesn't even grin stupidly at me before laying the first stroke on his bass. Tobey, our drummer, follows it up with the beat, and Gabe puts his lips to the mike.
//Who needs heaven
When your lips are this close to mine
It's kinda boring up there anyway
Who needs immortality
When we can freeze this moment in time
Take me down to forever...//
Tripper dances. Leather Guy forgotten, the whole restaurant dissolving, all the other sweaty bodies fading into the background...he dances. Forgets his usual klutziness and dances like a ballerina in freefall. I play to him even though he can't see me. He's lost. And so am I.
* * *
I knew I loved him the first time we played that song.
It was a brand new song, original; Gabe and Tobey had just finished ironing out the wrinkles in the tune that morning. By this time Tripper was already a regular at our performances. This particular night we were playing for a set of rich kids that wanted some proper "Gothy" music at their Halloween party. I know, it was demeaning, but we always need money. We like money. Money is our friend. So we took the job.
And he crashed it! The gorgeous little sneak crashed the Halloween debutante parade. He just climbed over the wall, like a scruffy little alley cat, and came in and danced. In his leather vest with the rings, and his ratty black jeans. And nobody noticed. Except us, of course, and we never said anything.
When we'd played enough Joy Division and Sisters of Mercy covers we figured we might as well try the new song. The rich kids liked it okay, but Tripper's eyes got huge when he heard the first notes. He sort of sidled and bumbled his way to the foot of the stage, and then he just stood there, not moving, just staring up at us with shining eyes.
We all really like that song. It's a little story about an angel that falls for a demon. And we were really gratified when Tripper looked at us that way. But when Gabe sang the chorus, that boy gave us a real surprise.
//Drag me down
I don't care what I lose
Let me stay with you
Take my wings, I won't need them anymore
Take me into the flames
And I'll feed you my soul
Make me a fallen angel...//
Tripper began to cry. Tears started pouring from his pretty eyes like his heart was breaking. He began to sob, but he sank his teeth into his own wrist to stop himself, closed his eyes, and swayed, the tears still streaming down his face as we played.
I realized then that I didn't just want to fuck him. I didn't just want his body. I wanted *him*, his tears and his thoughts and his past and his future. His heart and soul. His real name.
The rich kids were all dancing, so no one noticed him standing by the stage crying his little heart out. After the song he just slipped away, looking really embarrassed. I think he went off to finish his crying somewhere. I still wish I'd followed him, even though it would've meant losing the money. But I didn't.
And now I never know what to say to him.
* * *
Turns out Leather Guy doesn't want to pay the price Tripper's asking. Makes a bit of a scene, and then leaves...not only Tripper, but the bill for the drinks they were both drinking. What an asshole.
So there's the poor boy, looking lost and betrayed, clutching the check helplessly. Obviously he doesn't have the money to pay.
I turn toward the rest of the band, who are beginning to pack up.
I've only opened my mouth when Tobey, dismantling his drum kit, says "No."
"But--"
"NO."
"Oh, c'mon," says Julian. He unplugs the bass. "We could at least put in a little to help Max. That kid's our biggest fan."
Tobey shakes his head. "I know. But we hardly have enough money as it is. Besides, he got himself into that mess. It's his problem."
Sometimes Tobey is a total prick.
"And I'm not just being a prick either, Lover Boy. You got a hard-on for that kid, you pay for him."
"I'll help," says Gabe, smiling. He gives me a ten.
"Thanks, Gabe."
Julian passes me a five. Grumbling, Tobey gives in and hands me another, muttering "You owe me, jerk." I grin thanks at him.
The bartender's face is starting to darken when I come up. "Oh, hey, there you are."
Tripper turns wide, surprised eyes on me, as does the bartender. I give them both a big fake grin and clap a hand on Tripper's shoulder. It's still warm from dancing, although not so sweat-damp anymore.
"You silly boy, drinking over your budget again. Just 'cause you're finally legal." The bill is thirty-four dollars. Along with the others' money, that's about all I have. I hand it over, still making up stuff. "Kids these days, huh?"
The guy takes my money. What does he care what the story is? It isn't even much of a story.
But Tripper looks mortified, his eyes like black holes in his white face. "I, I am so sorry--"he stammers. My heart stalls and starts up again at twice the pace, but I just shrug and assure him it's no problem. He reddens, not meeting my eye, mumbles his thanks, already backing away.
"Hey, don't go yet." God, I sound like a high school jock. "You can hang out with us for a while," I add, trying not to sound hopeful. "We're going over to Gabe's place to smoke and watch videos. Wanna come?"
His eyes light up at Gabe's name, but then he ducks his head again and shakes it. "No. No, thank you. Thank you very much--I am so very sorry. I will pay back your money."
"Please don't go yet." I reach out a hand to him. "What's your name?"
Tripper pauses. He looks up, into my eyes, for the first time. God, he's gorgeous; his hair all messed up, his skin still a little shiny with sweat, his eyes huge, his lips sweeter than ever. He looks so small...and soft...and kissable...
His gaze slides past me, to where the rest of the band is. Gabe and Julian are watching us. Gabe smiles a bit, and waves.
Tripper's pretty porcelain face suddenly crumples with pain and maybe shame. He turns and runs out the door, nearly falling on his face in his hurry to get out.
Everybody in the livehouse is staring. I ignore them all and make my way back to the others, my body buzzing, two thoughts spinning round and round in my head:
I finally talked to Tripper.
And I think he's in love with Gabe.
2: Ore no Kokoro ga...(My Heart Is...)
Where is he?!
He's not...
"Max?" Julian's scanning the bar too. The band before us starts their second song. I have to start getting my stuff ready but I'm too worried. "He's not here."
"I *know*." Where is he? Why isn't he here? He's never been late before....
There's a soft hissing sound behind me as Tobey tests his cymbals. He looks at me sideways through narrow brown eyes. "Ants got in your pants?" he asks me sweetly. I give him the finger.
Gabe's going over the songs carefully, sitting on a badly scratched plastic stool deep in the wings, his eyes intent on the notes. He and Tobey are the only ones who actually learned music in school, so they do most of the songwriting and we just chip in.
His lips are moving, but I can't hear him over the noise of the other band. How can he read in there? How can he hear himself with all this shit going on?
Once in a while he closes his eyes and nods to the music in his head. Now that I think about it, his looks don't match his voice. He should have long blond or dark hair, like Eddie Vedder or Van Halen. He should look more...I don't know. More like the lead singer of a rock band. Gabe has, instead, short chestnut hair cut in a messy, tousled boy-band way, like Nick Carter in the early days of the Backstreet "okay, we're all gay" Boys. And green eyes shaped sort of like cats' eyes: a little bigger than usual in guys, tilted a bit downward towards the nose, deep-set. And he has a surfer kind of body, except with not as many muscles. Lead singers should be more, well, pretty. Or manly. Gabe isn't either of those things.
I suddenly realize what I'm doing. I'm trying to see Gabe through Tripper's eyes. If I can figure out what Tripper sees in Gabe, maybe I can find out what he likes. Maybe I can figure him out.
Which reminds me. I sneak back up to the edge of the wings again, peek out. No pretty Japanese boy.
Goddammit, where IS he?
* * *
First set done. He still hasn't shown up.
"Maybe he's late," offers Julian tentatively. He's starting to look worried too. Even Gabe has a tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows.
"He's never been late before," I snap, grabbing my water bottle as one of the bar staff hands it to me. The girl gives me a "well, excuse *me*, Mr. Rock Star" look and leaves. Well, how the hell am I supposed to act normal when our only fan doesn't *show* for the first time in our whole tiny fucking career???
Tobey rolls his eyes and gulps his beer at the same time. His special trick. "Jesus, Max! You think the boy isn't off doing something *else* for a change? People have lives, you know. Jobs. Night school, how should I know? Drink your water and get your ass up there, and this time try not to play like you have frostbite."
But as I push angrily past him, I see his eyes flicker toward the door. The big fake...he's worried too.
Jobs. Is Tripper...is someone...Somehow the thought hurts even more than it used to. I watch that boy all the time. I *love* him. And people he doesn't even know get more from him than I do.
No time to think about that now; I have a show to do. Never let it be said I wasn't there for the band.
* * *
Sometimes it seems like me and the rest of the band have been with each other forever.
Julian and I went to the same high school. I'd lived in New York all my life; he was a black-haired, soft-spoken country boy up from South Carolina. I brought my Gibson to school one day; he came up to me, asked to try it out, and we hit it off pretty well from there. We were both quiet types, neither too outstanding or too weird. So we hung out just mostly with each other, although I wouldn't really call it "friendship". Mostly we watched TV, or tinkered with the guitar. He bought a bass soon after that, and we'd jam sometimes, just covers. Any songs we tried to write mostly sucked, although I flatter myself, we were pretty good otherwise.
Then, a few months before grad, we saw the flyer. It said AUDITIONS, and it had a date and a place, and that was all we needed to know. We went and met a guy built like a trucker with a college accent on his swearwords, and an unassuming young man with "California" in big signs all over him. Tobey and Gabe were in NYU then...still are, actually, although Tobey's graduating this year.
And that, as they say, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Julian and I went from being classmates to bandmates, to roommates, to, finally, friends. I found out he's a pretty good friend, once I started talking. Knows when to nod and be sympathetic, and when to kick my ass when I'm whining.
Tobey's an okay guy. He's really smart, even though he looks like one of those guys who work in construction and make rude comments to women who pass by. I mean, you know what they say about drummers? Tobey completely defies that. But sometimes I think he took special classes in Being An Asshole 101, or How To Annoy Your Friends In 10 Easy Lessons. Don't let it fool you; he's a big softy under there. Somewhere.
And then there's Gabe. You know Gabe.
And me? Well, I play guitar, and I like boys. And that's really all there is to say about me.
* * *
That's it. We're done. Time to pack up and go home, and still no sign of my boy.
And then I catch a flash of color outside, by the stage exit. I drop my guitar---my faithful Gibson, I love that guitar, but I *drop* it--and run, dodging amps, leaping over wires in my hurry to get outside.
He jumps when I throw the door open, and then he turns and runs.
I know I should let him go. I *can't*. I know it was my fault that he's not showing his face tonight. But I've let him run off too many times, and I'll be fucking *damned* if I let him get away again.
I don't care if he's in love with Gabe. I want to make friends anyway. He just seems so lonely. Maybe if he got a new set of friends (I don't even know if he has any) he'd be happier. Maybe he and Gabe could even end up together. That thought kind of hurts, but I think it hurts a lot less than the thought of him all alone, sucking off pedophiles for a living, always uncertain and unhappy.
So I chase him down the parking lot and grab him by the arm; the momentum spins him around to face me. He lets out this little scream, and it feels like it could cut right through my chest. Who's grabbed at him before, to make him so afraid? Or is he just scared of *me*?
"I'm sorry," I gasp, letting go of his skinny wrist. The skin was cool, but just for a second I'd felt his pulse under my finger. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just didn't want you to go." My ears are so hot I think they might just fall off. Wouldn't that be embarrassing.
God, why am I doing this? Is he listening? Please don't let him run away. I love this boy. I don't know him yet, but I love him.
"You don't have to hide from us. We missed you during the set. We always see you dancing, or something. It just doesn't feel normal, playing when you're not there."
His eyes widen a little, so black and deep. Insert cliche of depth here; I could say something like I could fall forever into his eyes. But I can't say anything, even something lame.
"R...really?" he whispers, his accent making the word sound like "reeri?"
"Yeah." A flash of inspiration hits. "Gabe was wondering where you were." Evil of me, but it's more than worth it just to see his face light up like that. I've got him now. Just a little more persuasion....
"Please. Come and have dinner and hang out with us. You don't have to make conversation if you don't want to; Tobey and I usually talk enough for everybody. C'mon. Please?"
He hesitates, and then says shyly, "Okay," a deep blush staining his cheeks. He casts his black lashes downward very demurely, and then makes me a little bow from the waist. "Thank you very much."
There he goes again! Prostitutes don't blush, and his manners are way too good for someone who grew up on the street. Tripper is *well-bred*. So why is he selling himself to furtive old men in town cars?
I can find that out later. I have all the time in the world. Right now I only need to ask the easy questions.
"So, what *is* your name, anyway? I didn't catch it the other night."
Blush again. "Hisamu."
My problem with Japanese names is that I don't really hear them as words, but as sounds. Tripper's name sounds like silk sliding off metal. He has to repeat it twice before I get it right.
"Shisenu?"
"*Hi*sa*mu*."
"Cheesumu?"
He laughs! I can't believe it, Tripper's actually laughing. Sometimes it's great to be an idiot.
"Hi - sa - mu," he enunciates clearly, still laughing softly. I get it more or less right this time, although I can't say the "hi" or the "u" like he does.
"Very good," he says, and gives me a lovely smile.
I float happily back to the stage entrance with him, only to find the rest of the band clustered in the doorway watching us. Both Tripper and I turn a brilliant red.
Gabe is smiling like a benevolent god, which just makes Tripper go redder when I introduce them. (His name is beautiful, but I still want to call him Tripper, in my head where he can't hear.) Julian is grinning, and he shakes Tripper's hand, which startles the boy. And Tobey is smirking all over his big smartass face.
Do I even care?
* * *
Burger King for dinner. Tripper insists on paying for himself. When I open my mouth, he gives me a small, quiet look. Not fierce, or stubborn, not any kind of don't-mess-with-me look. Just a gentle smile, a tiny one that somehow reminds me I don't know the least thing about him, so it wouldn't do to cross his lines before I even know what they are.
I jam my wallet back in my pocket.
He's quiet for the whole meal, but I know he's watching all of us, drinking us in like his bottomless Coke. His pretty eyes follow each of us in turn as he munches silently, but I see them darting back to Gabe a lot. Then to me: he knows I'm watching him stare at Gabe.
When he watches us, there's a kind of wistful look on his little face, like a street kid looking into a toy shop window on Christmas. Tobey winds up a great joke that takes six minutes to build up, and we all explode in laughter. And Tripper smiles, not at the joke (he doesn't seem to understand it) but at *us*, at his idols. And it's a very sad smile.
This was a mistake. He never wanted to come.
I'm as pigheaded as the next guy when I want to be, though. And I want to spend more time with him. I waited months for this chance; no way am I letting it go now. So I push it. As we leave the burger place I take him aside, just beside the exit, and ask him if he feels up to a night of hanging out with us.
He doesn't. Looks for a minute like I just asked him to have sex with me. I don't see what's wrong about hanging out with the band. I mean, he wanted to meet us, didn't he? He showed up every night for our shows and never left till we were done. Even when we sucked he loved us. So...he should be happy, right? Why is he so fucking scared of us?
I don't want him to go yet. I'll do anything.
"Gabe wanted me to ask you, " I say desperately. "He..."
The look on his beautiful face stops me. "Please don't lie, Max," he says softly. He lingers on the "x" in my name, breaking it up into its component syllables. Mak-ku-su.
"I--I'm not, I..."
A slender, pale hand reaches forward and captures mine. Suddenly I can't breathe. This is better than anything I ever dreamed of. Well, not better than everything I imagined, but definitely better than anything I expected. He's making the first move this time. His hand is petal-soft...and warm...and so comfy curled up in my fingers...
"You are the one who wants me to stay," he informs me gently.
My knees feel...gone. "I..." Ah, to hell with it all. "Yeah. I...I do."
"Why?" he asks, almost wonderingly. He tilts his head a bit to one side to gaze up at me, like a small elegant bird.
The hand curled in mine seems to lend me confidence. "Because...I've been watching you. Since you first showed up to listen to us. And you seemed so...sweet..." God, I'm blushing so hard I think my face is going to evaporate. I want to tell him about the time he cried, but I don't think he wants to talk about that just yet. "And I just, well, I always look for you, and I think," I swallow before going on in a rush, "I think I love you."
For a moment it's like his eyes aren't human eyes at all. They turn into these two little black pits of terrible sadness. I didn't expect that. I've never seen that kind of look in anyone's eyes before. Where the hell did a kid so young get so much grief? And what did I say to bring it all back?
But the look is gone again, and there's only the quiet little do-you-really-know-me smile. "Will you come home with me?" he asks softly.
Will I...? Am I dreaming? Is Tripper asking *me* to come home with *him*?
"W-what about Gabe?" I stammer.
Another small smile, this one a little bitter. "He does not like boys."
He knows this from a few hours of hanging out with Gabe? Well, it's true Gabe isn't gay. He's not so much into girls as most guys our age, either. Gabe is the rare breed of guy who still believes in stuff like "true love" and the "One". But I personally thought that Tripper could change anybody's mind. I was actually kind of hoping I could convince Gabe somehow, kind of nudge him Tripper's way. But now...
But now Tripper's asking *me* to go home with him. To his actual *place*.
"And you are very nice," he adds wistfully. "And," in a whisper, "and I am very lonely...."
Ah, God. That does it. I have to. I pull a little on his hand, and he comes closer, and lifts his face, and...
...and it's everything I ever dreamed of, his beautiful, lush lips on mine, tasting a bit like charbroiled burger and ketchup but who cares, who the hell cares? His arms slide round my neck and I press him gently against the wall, his tongue slipping expertly into my mouth, his body molding itself to mine, moving against me in all the right places. I've never been kissed like this--he knows exactly what to do. But even if he didn't know a thing, just the fact that it's *him* kissing me now, my beautiful Tripper...that'd be enough.
My dreams are starting to come true.
3: Shoji Ga Kusatteiru (Rotten Screens)
I've never been rich. I grew up in a small neighborhood in one of the upstate areas of New York, and while our house wasn't a hovel, it wasn't any kind of mansion either.
Neither is my apartment. It's small: barely fits me and Julian, even though it's pretty accomodating. And it's a little dirty, as befits a bachelor's pad, and sometimes the hot water cuts out. But it's livable, and even pretty comfortable.
Which is why I feel so uneasy when Tripper takes me to his place. It's an old, run-down house in the slums. I don't know why it's still standing. It's set deep into a street, practically covered on one side by a seven-story building that's gray where it's supposed to be white, and a small and dirty, but normal-looking, house on the other side. Tripper's place is at the end of a tiny alley, so it's less exposed to the street.
But there's no denying it...the place is a hellhole. A *huge* hellhole, which somehow makes it worse. It's an enormous, unfinished house that looks like the contractors (and the owner, for that matter) ran out of money halfway through building. And this decaying dream of a horror writer is where my small, shy Tripper lives.
All alone.
Rats skitter past as Tripper leads me up to the steps. Yes, the front door actually has *steps* going up to it, rough concrete steps that were probably meant to be encased in marble. It looks like it would have been a really classy house. Now it's just a shell.
The wall beside the door, if you can believe it, is *gone*. There's nothing but a trellis-like lattice separating Tripper from imminent robbery or rape. Behind the crisscrossed wood is set up a Japanese folding screen, the type made of wood and paper. But both are old, the paper squares torn, the wood rotten and splintery.
Tripper pauses before the door and pushes it open. It doesn't have a lock...or a doorknob, either. Just a hole where the knob should be.
Then he turns to me and bows. "Please forgive the disgraceful state of my home." His face is tortured.
"Hey," I say gently. "You don't have to bring me here if you don't want to. We could go somewhere else..."
"I have no where else," he says softly, pronouncing 'nowhere' like two separate words as if for emphasis. "I have no money."
I shouldn't have let him pay for his dinner. But something in his eyes is telling me that now is not a good time to mention this. "My apartment?" I suggest. "Julian isn't going to be there until tomorrow, he's going off with the guys..." I trail off, seeing his face fall at the mention of Julian. Is he that ashamed of himself, that he doesn't want any of the band to know he's sleeping with me?
We go inside, my heart seething with questions and secret frustration. Everything Tripper's done so far has been totally contradictory. He wants Gabe, but he picks me. He's ashamed of what he does, but he looks like he enjoys it (of course, that could just be a show). He hates his place, but he brings me here, to a dirty, empty old house that even a dog wouldn't....
Holy shit.
The house is *not* empty. There are threadbare Persian rugs everywhere, couches and lush armchairs with stuffing leaking from torn upholstery, spotted and age-stained cushions strewn all over the floor, and even a few bean bags covered with duct tape. Off to one side are a few more old screens walling off a small section. Through gaps between the screens I can see what look like giant plastic trash bins, but clean, and a metal pan like you see European housewives in period films using for laundry. A single lightbulb hangs naked by a few wires from the ceiling, casting a dingy glow over everything.
But the big centerpiece, set against the back wall, the focus of the whole big hollowed-out room that used to be a house, is the enormous bed. It's a king-size opium bed--you know, the kind that are a whole room all by themselves: closed in, with shelves and posts and everything. And it's just made of an old pullout bed with plywood, steel pipes, Formica coated tabletops, and several sheets of corrugated iron added on. It's even got curtains: old plastic shower curtains, but it's got *curtains*. It's a piece of junk. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I look from the bed to Tripper and back again. "Y-you...."
"I made it myself," he says. "It is not a whole piece. I had nothing to hold it together except the wire at the top. And it is so ugly, but I had no bed and I liked beds like that and I had to stay off the floor, because of rats and co..." He trails off, turning a mortified red.
"Are you crazy? It's fucking gorgeous. I've never seen a bed that cool."
He blinks and stares at me, then at his bed, then at me. "I...I," he says, and then doesn't say anything because by then my tongue is in his mouth.
We fall onto the couch, which makes a big creaking noise because it's probably never been treated like that before. I kiss Tripper and he kisses back, our bodies tangling, sticky from sweat and fastfood grease. His tongue slides around mine like a snake in heat, and I groan into his mouth and push him deep into the couch--
--and break away, because I thought for a minute that I just heard something like a sob. But Tripper gives no sign, his black eyes gazing calmly at me as I stare back at him, panting. He's so beautiful. And he's mine now.
His eyes slide away from mine. "May I take a bath first?" he asks quietly. As if he's not really expecting a yes.
"Huh? Oh--" I scramble off him, and he gets up uncertainly. "Shit, I forgot! I'm sorry--you must think I'm really gross."
He smiles. "No. I am used...." he shuts up then, offers no explanation, goes on to the "bathroom" and pulls the screens shut. I sit back down on the couch, my knees weak.
I bet he was going to say he was used to it. And suddenly things aren't special anymore.
How many guys did he bring back here? How many guys admired his great artwork of a bed, or just pushed him into it without taking a second look, or followed his tempting ass between the curtains? How many kissed him in that same wrecked couch? How many of them were cleaner than I am right now, or dirtier?
Tripper's not really mine. One night doesn't make me special. What was I expecting? That I could just sweep into his life like a big hero and make things all better? I would be his angel, and he'd be eternally grateful and love me forever, was that it?
Well, I know I can forget that. Quite a few guys must have deluded themselves this way over this boy. It's easy to do; I mean, it was for me. It's not like those Julia Roberts whore-with-a-heart-of-gold stories. Tripper can't tell his true love by kissing because a real prostitute doesn't have that luxury. A picky whore is one who doesn't make any money. So he kisses *everybody*, makes them all feel special. And he's doing that for me because I was an idiot and practically threw myself at him, and because he couldn't have Gabe.
I am so stupid.
He brought me here to sleep with me, and he's probably embarrassed about the whole money thing, so I should just leave it on the pillow right now and let myself out.
But it was so nice...I mean, just for a while...to be...to think that maybe it would all work out. To think I could be happy, make *him* happy. To think my dreams were going to...my dreams...my Tripper...it all just felt so good for a while...to love him and--I won't cry, I *can't*, not here--
And I don't, not really. Just a burning in my eyes, and a few wet spots on my jeans, and it's over. Like the last few drops being wrung out of an old rag. And when I wipe my eyes, there's no sign that tears were ever there.
I sit still for a while before I realize I can hear the sound of water splashing. But I don't even want to look any more; it'd just be another cheap thrill. I don't want to know Tripper that way until he lets me see more than his body and tantalizing little glimpses of his mind. I don't want sex. I'm not that kind of guy at all, and if all Tripper's willing to let me have is sex, I will get up and walk away and never come back.
A large and final splash, a long moment of silence, and a pale figure slips between the screens.
Tripper is naked, his wet black hair straggling around his face, his freshly-toweled skin glowing deep cream in the dim yellow light. He moves toward me with none of the klutziness he had in the bars or at dinner; he is languid and purposeful and full of a slow grace. And he is not the least bit ashamed.
My throat feels like it's imploded.
Who the hell am I kidding? I will take Tripper any way I can get him. If he's only willing to have sex, I will fuck him all he wants. If he doesn't want to give me even that, I will watch him blissfully and achingly from a distance. I will play for him at our shows. I will dream about him every night. I kinda hoped he'd love me, but I don't really care any more. I'll do whatever he wants. I'd rather be chained to Tripper than free.
He kneels on the old rug in front of me, his trembling, not-quite-erect sex swaying between his slender thighs. "Would you like to bathe too?" he asks me. "I could lend you clothes."
I know his whole wardrobe. And he's offering to lend *me* stuff? It's almost funny. I take off my backpack--I'd almost forgotten it was there--and hold it up stupidly, indicating I have my own clothes.
His voice slips down a little, so it hums in my bones. "Would you like me to give you a bath?"
I stare at him, at Tripper in slut-mode. All of a sudden it's like he was never ashamed. The clumsy, shy boy is gone, and in the place of the boy I love is this strange animal with hot eyes who makes my cock strain at my jeans like something alive. And I realize that I love this creature too.
Tripper leans forward and takes my still-open mouth, licking and nibbling at my lips, his tongue sliding over the inside of my cheek. His hair drips into my eyes.
I come down off the sofa and take him in my arms. I can feel his young cock writhe as he rubs his hips against me, and it's as if my own recognizes it and twitches in response. I want to push him down, fuck him right now. But the freshness of his skin against the griminess of my own makes me feel a bit disgusted with myself.
"C'mon," I mutter, standing up.
* * *
This is the way Japanese bathe. Shower first, or more traditionally scrub yourself all over, then rinse everything off--dirt, soap, whatever--and only then do you get to soak in the hot tub. This way tub water can stay clean for days.
In this house Tripper does it differently. You sit on a stool in the empty pan and do the wash-scrub thing. When you're done you take the water out back and use it to flush the toilet. And you can forget about the soak, because there's just not enough water.
In my case it's Tripper that's doing the scrubbing. The body's mine. That's about the extent of my participation. Whenever I try to protest, or take the soap, he runs a slippery hand along some crucial bit of me, which always shuts me up pretty quickly.
God, it feels good sitting here, his clever fingers working through my hair or over my body. I watch him working on me, his pretty face calm and betraying no clue as to what he's thinking. The screens make a slanting pattern of shadow and yellow light across his naked body.
This is all I ever wanted. This is more than I ever dreamed of.
So why do I feel like I'm a guest at a hotel? He's acting like my bellboy, except that I'm pretty sure the bellboy doesn't bathe you. Except maybe at the kind of hotel out in the Middle East which is illegal and where you have to be really rich to get in. But that's not a bellboy, that's a...
A slave.
A sex slave.
I look at him. He blinks back at me. I take the pitcher out of his hands and put it back on the lid of the water can. "Can we stop now?" I ask quietly.
The look in his eyes is more resigned than anything else, and that hurts. I want to tell him that I'm not like everybody else, that I love him, that I can make his life better because I love him. But what can I say that he hasn't heard before?
He leans forward to kiss me again. His warm tongue slides into my mouth, and I let him straddle my lap. The water sloshes softly in the pan as he wraps his slender legs round my waist.
Something--the wind, probably--forces the front door back to knock against the wall. Tripper lets out a sort of shrieking gasp and scrambles off me, frantically searching for something to cover himself with. I'm still a little dazed from our kissing, so it's a nasty shock to me to hear someone else's voice in the house.
"Sammy? Baby, it's rent time. You home yet?"
It's not the wind. It's a guy. And he sounds drunk.
Tripper's already grabbing our clothes from the neatly folded pile he set on top of the lidded water can before my bath. He passes them to me, and hurriedly begins putting on his own. I'm a little surprised to see that he doesn't look all that scared. He was pretty freaked a minute ago.
And then, to my complete horror, he leaves his little bathroom.
"I'm here, Geddon-san."
* * *
He knows this guy? But the guy's drunk! He could do anything...! I run after him, not even bothering to zip up my jeans or pull on my shirt--well, Tripper's shirt, really.
The guy in the doorway is a kind of skinny man with a beer belly and a dirty mop of hair, in a plaid shirt and rumpled slacks. Not the kind of outfit you'd expect to see on someone still awake in this part of town at two a.m. I open my mouth to tell him to get the hell out of the house, but the guy is already opening his arms for Tripper, who actually walks into them, although reluctantly, and allows himself to be pawed and kissed. "I missed you," the man mumbles, his straggling, dirty brown hair mingling with Tripper's smooth black locks.
And Tripper just stands there, just lets a guy who looks old enough to be his father, kiss him and fondle him like a toy, or a sex doll. And he's actually smiling a little!
I feel like I'm going to choke on something.
That's when the guy--I think Tripper called him Geddon--sees me. I expect him to be mad, but he just squints at me and at Tripper. "Oh, I'm sorry," he blusters. "I didn't know you had a...uh..."
Tripper turns and stares at me. For a moment he looks like he doesn't know what to do, then he swallows and says, "This is...Max, Geddon-san."
"New customer, huh?" says Geddon, nodding. Then he gives me a little frown, and looks at Tripper. "You told him the rates, right?"
Tripper's eyes widen, and he blushes painfully as he stammers, "I--I didn't think...."
Geddon sighs, and shakes his head. "C'mon, Sammy. I know you got a soft spot for this guy, or you wouldn't have brought him home. But he's gotta know the rules. No one sleeps with you for free except me. That was the agreement. Otherwise you might run out of money. You can't eat off charity work, baby."
"Yes," says Tripper, lowering his eyes. He looks completely humiliated.
"Now, kid," Geddon says, slinging a possessive arm around Tripper, "Max, wasn't it?"
I swallow my rage. I want to tear his arm off, to push him away from Tripper. But he's bigger than me. And he could hurt Tripper. I really can't do anything, and it drives me crazy. All I can do is stare bloody murder at him, try to skin him alive with my eyes.
"You can't expect preferential treatment here," he goes on. "There are rates, you know. I know Sammy likes you, but he's too soft-hearted for his own good. You have to pay or he doesn't eat."
"I don't see *you* falling over yourself to provide for him," I tell him. God, I'm so mad I can hardly talk straight. Where the fuck does this guy get off lecturing me, when he's selling Tripper like a rack of beef at the market? Fucking hypocritical prick!
Geddon's eyes--it's too dark to tell what color they are--narrow at me. He doesn't look drunk now, except for a strange light in his eyes. "Watch your mouth, boy," he growls. "What the hell do you know? Fancy-ass rich brat. I keep a roof over Sammy's head. I give him a means to pay his own way. You think I can afford to give him what I want to? This is all I can do for him, and it's more than *you'll* ever do. You're all the same--you fuck him and leave. I *love* this boy. I wish I could give him a better life but I can't. You'll never understand that; you were probably born with a whole goddamned mouth full of silver spoons. But it isn't like that down here. Down here on earth we have to *fight*."
His words stick in my chest. I don't know what to say, or even what to think. Tripper is looking away, too embarrassed to lift his face.
"It's forty dollars to stay the night," Geddon says harshly. "You're paying him, not me."
"Oh yeah?" I'm snapped out of my shock by his tone. "And what about the 'rent', then?"
Anger stains his sagging cheeks red. "That's none of your damn business." Tripper looks like he wants to kill himself for shame. I think I can guess what form the rent payment comes in.
"You dirty old son of a bitch."
This time Geddon doesn't rise to it, just looks a little ashamed. But he repeats, stubbornly, "Forty dollars. Let me see it."
I shove it in his face. It's actually a fifty-dollar bill, my money for the whole week, but I don't care anymore. "Take it and get out."
Geddon shakes his head and hands it back to me. "Give it to him when you leave." He looks over at Tripper, who's hunched over as if he wants to fold himself up and disappear. For a minute Geddon looks guilty, and opens his mouth as if he's going to say something. But then he shuts it again, turns, and walks a little unsteadily out the knobless door without another word.
God, what an asshole! Is this the only person who looks after Tripper?
Which reminds me--
When I look around--I hadn't realized I was staring at the door--Tripper's already retreated to the bed. I can see his misty shape, curled in on itself, through the plastic curtains.
Ready for me.
Suddenly the thought isn't arousing at all. I just feel sick, and sad. The thing with Geddon has left me drained, and I stare at Tripper's faded body behind the curtain with a weird achey feeling in my throat. I feel like just another trick, another hard-on with money.
Maybe I am, to the boy on that bed. I wish I had my guitar, so I could play his favorite song, so I could remind him that at some point, on stage at least, I was more.
I'm so fucking tired; sick of these stupid mind games, sick of my body and my mind and the hollow space in my chest all fucking around with me, telling me completely different things. I just want to go home. But maybe I could have one last kiss...just to see if he tastes different now that I've bought him.
I go over to the bed and push back the curtain, and Tripper stares up at me. His face is streaked with tears.
"You're not him," he whispers brokenly. "You're just human."
I look down at him, confused, still angry, not the least bit aroused anymore. He just gazes back with this air of hopelessness and terrible disappointment. As if he was expecting somebody else, somebody who measured up.
"What did you expect me to be?" I ask him quietly, too tired to fight.
He smiles sadly. "Somebody I loved."
That is just the last fucking straw.
Something inside me, the little tight part of my chest that always forms when he's around, squeezes hard, and I'm to worn out to try to stop myself. I start crying like I haven't done since high school.
Real alarm comes into Tripper's wet eyes, but I don't care anymore. I'm tired, and sick of playing his game, Geddon's game, whosever fucking game this is. I just wanted to learn about him. And now I've learned too many things too fast, and I still don't know the important things. Like what he's thinking behind his pretty face. What he wants from me. Why I could make him worship me when I was on stage, and yet let him jerk my strings any way he wants when I'm finally with him.
And the most important question.
"Why don't you love *me*?" I ask him, sobbing, as he pulls me down gently into his soft pale arms. "What's wrong with me? Am I that bad?"
He strokes my hair soothingly, as if I were a fretful pet. "No, Max. You are beautiful."
"I just want to stay with you," I wail softly into his neck. God, I'm falling apart. Good thing Geddon isn't still here. "Please."
"Sleep," he tells me, and I realize he's still crying, too. "Stay and sleep. Stay with me."
He begins to hum, a sort of lullaby that sounds familiar, as we sink into the stained pillows. I'm so tired the humming actually works. I'm sliding into sleep when I realize, fuzzily, that he's humming "Salvation/ Damnation".
//Drag me down
I don't care what I lose
Let me stay with you
Take my wings, I won't need them anymore
Take me into the flames
And I'll feed you my soul
Make me a fallen angel...//
4: Karada Ga Akete
//Take me anywhere but here
I could go down forever
I look into your ocean eyes and suddenly
Hell seems not so far to fall
So go ahead and bring me down
Bring me down to you...//
I was dreaming.
I dreamed Tripper was the one fronting the band instead of Gabe. His voice was nowhere near as amazing, but it was sweet and high and clear, a chorus cherub's voice. I dreamed I leaned over to his mike and sang backup to him. My voice went down and his went up and it was the most beautiful harmony in the world.
And then I dreamed he turned his face to me, and I dreamed that we kissed in front of the band and the whole live house.
I still don't want to wake up. The dream's fading, but I can still feel his rose-soft lips on mine.
It isn't a dream.
I am awake and Tripper is kissing me. Sunlight is streaming in through the shutters and the old screens to flood the place with early-morning light. The place doesn't feel depressing anymore; it feels lovely and melancholy. And Tripper is kissing me.
I put my hands on his face and break the kiss to look at him. He looks puzzled. I just smile and go in for a slightly more intense kiss. And he melts in my mouth.
It's true what Gabe says: everything looks better in the morning.
* * *
I was never the kind of kid who dressed up in pearls and high heels, the kind who told his friend "I'll be the mommy and you can be the daddy." I'm a quiet queer. Is that a bad way to say it? I've always hated the term "queer". It always comes up in books I read meaning a totally different thing from what it means now, and I always get a weird feeling in my stomach when I see it.
I found out I was gay in installments. Little clues. Whenever Julian and I were out together he'd always slide an appreciative eye over passing girls' butts, but I was a little freaked out to realize that my own gaze would be drawn more to the tight cheeks of their boyfriends. I once stopped hanging out with Julian for almost a whole month because I caught myself watching the shadows his eyelashes made on his cheeks as he played.
During those weeks I conducted a scientific survey. We were taking chemistry at the time, which I liked, believe it or not....Anyway, the first thing they teach you in any science course is the scientific method. Make an observation of a pattern, form a hypothesis, test it through experimentation, and come to a conclusion based on the results of the experiment.
I didn't have any other way to find out at the time. What would you have done if you thought you might be gay? So I got to work.
I went across the railroad tracks, to the red-light districts. First week I tried girls: not the ugly ones who suck you off for a few bucks but the pretty ones, the ones in bars who weasel a few drinks and a hotel room out of you as well as a good ride. I got a discount by telling them I was trying to find out whether I was gay or not. They laughed, but they lowered their prices.
Still, I spent the better part of my allowance, and I had to endure instant noodles and cafeteria food for a while. Not very comfortable.
Then I tried boys. And it was like something in me had opened up.
I soon found out I liked them pretty and small. Some were quiet and some weren't. But all of them made me feel little explosions in my belly when they smiled at me, or touched me, or kissed me. I realized that I liked to be top as often as possible, and that the more time I spent with boys, the less I felt for girls. Finally I had decided, or at least recognized my preference. I was definitely gay.
I also realized that if I still wanted to be friends with Julian, I had better explain my absence from the friendship before I lost it. He was looking pretty hurt in the first week, then mad, then, after a while, acted like he didn't care. By this time I'd lost the small attraction I'd been feeling for him. I guess being sensible and thinking things out actually works.
When I finally caught up with him at his locker, though, he heard me out and accepted my apology. The best thing about Julian is that he's always nice enough to hear you out. He was definitely surprised to find out I was gay, but he laughed when I told him how I'd found out for sure.
"That's just like you, Max," he said. "You always like to be sure. You never just go and do things. You always have to wait until you have no doubts left."
That was true...before Tripper.
* * *
Hey, this bed is actually comfy. Lumpy in parts, but very comfy.
I snuggle in deeper with Tripper. Surprisingly, he smiles at me. "Ohayo, Max."
"Is that 'good morning'?"
"Yes."
I nuzzle his jaw. "Good morning to you too."
He tightens his arms around me. "Max...about paying...you should not pay. It's not for paying I brought you here."
The pulse in his neck throbs against my ear. I don't want to talk. I want to kiss him, and lick him, and feel him squirming under me. I don't want to feel the way I did last night. I just want to feel warm and happy and clueless like I do now. Like I used to before last night.
I put my mouth where his pulse is, and he makes a kind of sexy little moan. Is everybody hornier in the morning? I know I am.
"You have a really cute accent, you know."
"Eh?"
I run my tongue across his throat. "Don't talk right now, okay? You don't have to tell me yet." Be mine for just a little longer.
"Okay," he says softly.
I run my hand down his thigh and he archs his back and moans again. I spread his legs gently and he's almost as hard as I am. His hands slide down my ribs and up to my back, drawing me in close, and I groan and bend down to suck on his warm live tongue.
One of his hands leaves my skin to scrabble in a shelf a little above us, and I stop to look up. It's a little jar of lube.
"Oh shit--sorry, I forgot--"
"Do you mind?" he asks.
"Isn't it going to hurt if I don't?"
He shrugs, as if this were of no consequence. "Some don't like it because they have to stop. They say it makes them lose...ah..."
"Momentum?"
"I...think so...?" He sounds confused. It irritates me that he doesn't even seem to know when he's being ill-treated.
"The customer is always right, huh?"
He's still not too good at sarcasm, obviously. "Yes."
I don't like the way this is going. He senses my mood and strokes my hip, looking puzzled. "What is it, Max? Are you losing... mo-men-tun too?"
Mo-men-tun? I smile. A *really* cute accent. "Nothing. Let me just put this on."
"I can help." He dips a finger into the Vaseline-like stuff and rubs it in his palms. Slicked fingers slide over my cock.
"OhhhhhmyGOD." This boy is GOOD. And it's so nice not to have to think, or feel anything more than pure sensation. Just for now, I'd rather give up on the other things I wanted last night...and take what I can get.
"It's strawberry flavor," he says, and giggles like a girl.
"Ooooh, you just know how to push my buttons, don't you? Let me have a taste."
He considers this for a second, then leans down and streaks the tip of his tongue across the wet slit of my cock. Before I can cry out he slides his strawberry tongue into my mouth. It's not bad....Lifesaver-ish.
"Mmmm...nice, but not enough. Would you turn over?"
He looks a bit surprised to be asked. Eagerly he rolls onto his belly, his peach-like cheeks tilted expectantly upwards. I take some lube and put the jar safely back up on the shelf. Then I run a finger round the little purplish ring in his ass, staining it red. He makes a fervent "OH!" and wiggles delightfully into the old cushions.
The ring widens with a touch--he really is well trained. I coat him properly inside, enjoying his little squeals and squirmings. For a few moments I distract myself tracing little designs on the backs of his thighs with leftover lube, then I grasp his hips and lower my mouth to his ass.
"AH! Max--!"
My tongue isn't that strong, but his pliant muscles let it in easily. I slide it around, savoring the fake-candy taste, the slippery, trembling walls of his rectum. Tripper is lost, moaning and arching on the bed, and it pleases me to be able to affect him this much.
Now it's my game he's playing. Now I can take control for a little while.
He's trembling all over, gripping the pillows. I take out my tongue and give him a last little kiss right at his asshole. Then I nuzzle behind his left knee and sit up, and gently turn him over.
I'd like to play with him for a while, but I'm seriously aching now and I am not a patient person when I'm aroused. I lean down first and slide my arms around his skinny body, and he wraps his legs round my waist. I arch my back...
...and the first squeeze, the first slide into that heavenly tightness is enough to send my eyes back in my head. My mouth falls open and I can only make a kind of choking ecstatic sound as Tripper tightens his body around me, his arms and legs and...inside...
Ah, God, he's good. Ah, sweet God...
"D...deeper...onegai..." he whispers. His head is flung back and his eyes are closed and his mouth is wide open like mine, but he manages to gasp again, "Please...deeper..."
I sink in deeper and it's like I'm being swallowed alive. One of his heels sets against my tailbone and pushes, driving me in to the root. We begin to rock back and forth, and I bury my head in his neck as he sobs and pulls me in again and again and again.
The release is beyond imagination. It's as if I were being rocked by explosion after explosion until I am swallowed by a white-hot light that burns away my body, my mind, everything, except--
Love.
That deep sucking hole in me that is my love for Tripper is the only thing that doesn't disappear. I can feel the ecstasy draining away with my come, with his come pulsing onto our skin, as our breathing slows to deep, heavy gasps and we sink wearily into each other's arms.
He moves as if to pull away but I tighten my hold around him. I don't want to let go; I don't want to come out of him just yet.
He's so warm, and soft...I've dreamed of holding him, of being inside of him and in his arms, just like this. When I sing, sometimes I close my eyes and think of being in this exact position and singing to him like this, and a special softness comes into my voice. A real quality, is what Julian says.
When I do pull out, Tripper makes a tiny sound of pain. He smiles, though, when I am instantly guilty.
"Don't feel bad, Max. It is perfectly normal."
His soft, slightly lecturing voice...it all seems right, somehow. He leans into my arms, his back against my chest, my body curled protectively around his. This all feels so comfortable, as if we've been doing it for years. The bed is a little sticky, but I don't care, and Tripper doesn't seem to either.
"Is it like this for you all the time?" I ask him, tightening my embrace. "Is this how you usually, um...work?"
He sighs and snuggles into me. "No, not really. I only sometimes show people my home."
I blink. "Really? Only sometimes? So this isn't where you usually..."
"Motel," he says, his short tone a surprise after his usual soft speech. He doesn't seem much inclined to talk about it.
I don't want to let it go just yet, though, any more than I want to let him go. I run my lips over his shoulder. "Then...why me...? Is it because of that person you were talking about last night?"
He nods; turns his face toward the pillow and is silent. But his words from last night hang between us.
*Someone I loved. You're not him...you're just human.*
By now pain is familiar to me. I just wish I didn't have to go through that squeeze in my chest all the time...it's only gotten annoying instead of saddening.
"Why did you say that, Tripper? What's wrong with being human?"
He turns his head to look at me. We stare puzzled at each other for a moment, naked in more ways than one. I feel exposed, unfairly so. I opened my heart to him. And what has he shown me?
His home. His life. Well, some of it. All in all that's really not too bad, especially considering I barely know him. I really have to be more patient. I guess I'm getting greedy.
"Sorry." I kiss the little bumps of his spine, one by one, as far down as I can reach. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
A pleasing warmth spreads under my hands and my mouth. When I look at him, Tripper is blushing from hairline to waist.
"Thank you Max...but...I think I have to tell you now." Sank you Mak-ku-su. Te-ru you. I think I'm even in love with his accent.
He twists his body into my arms, twining our legs together, and strokes my face with a dreamy expression in his eyes. "You look just like him," he murmurs. "The lover I left Japan with."