Bliss

by Gordon Phillips

  He had a piece of buttered toast in his hand and was putting marmalade on it.

  “Pretty much. We don’t usually get up early, so it’s more or less always brunch—though Quentin doesn’t—didn’t—like that term.”

  I thought back, and nodded. Quentin had his own ideas about things. I remembered that “lifestyle” was a word he especially hated. “We’re not allowed to have lives anymore,” he once confided to me acidly. “We just have lifestyles! What rubbish!”

  Still, it looked like brunch to me. There were slices of orange, yoghurt, halved and pitted cherries, scrambled eggs with chopped green onion in it. There were also small latkes—potato pancakes—and sour cream. And coffee.

  “Food fit for a king,” I said, smiling at Horst, and couldn’t help adding, “or McQueen.”

  Horst looked at me for a few seconds, and then chuckled.

  “Oh, your last name.”

  The meal was very pleasant, though I couldn’t resist mentioning the lack of bacon. Horst nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I don’t eat bacon—any pork, actually. Neither did Quentin.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s not a religious thing,” he explained. “It’s just—well, pigs are quite bright.”

  I looked at him and nodded. “A moral thing, then. Cool.”

  He nodded back at me, and seemed relieved that I understood.

  When we had finished eating, he refilled our coffee cups.

  “If you want to take that into the living room, or the balcony—”

  When I opened the door to the balcony, a wall of hot, muggy air hit me, and I closed it. We sat down in the living room instead, and I said, “Thank heaven for air conditioning!”

  Horst nodded, but the phrase had twigged something in my mind. I got up and went to the control panel for the air conditioner on the far wall, then turned to Horst.

  “It’s still on internal cycle,” I said. “How does that work?”

  “What?” He got up and came over.

  “Well, it says here: ‘internal cycle,’ which means it doesn’t take in air from outside. Is that right?”

  Horst looked at it, then at me, and finally shrugged. “I guess. It’s Quentin’s place. He chose the settings.”

  “Right. But what I’m wondering is: if the cycle is entirely internal, how does fresh oxygen come in? When I got here on the afternoon I found Quentin, all the windows were closed—at least in his bedroom and the living room. Did he generally keep the windows closed?”

  “Yeah. I guess. He didn’t have any rules exactly, but it was getting warm.”

  I decided to leave the issue, telling myself that no condo was actually air-tight. And maybe there was some intake of outside air, even on the internal recycle setting. The living room window, I noticed, was closed again. I considered asking Horst whether he had closed it, but didn’t. It seemed rather pointless.

  We had our coffee in companionable silence after that. Just being around Horst made my sense of well-being increase. I wondered if he felt the same way about me.

  During relaxation the unconscious mind turns over elements of unsolved problems—as Jung suggested occurred during sleep. Right now, the automatic gears of my mind clicked and produced a thought about something that had been bothering me.

  “Inner sanctum,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You said he called his bedroom his inner sanctum.”

  Horst nodded.

  We looked at each other, then I got up.

  “Come on,” I said. “I want to explore this inner sanctum.”

  We went into Quentin’s bedroom and stood near the window. I looked around, and noticed that Horst was glancing uneasily towards the bed.

  Does that mean anything? I wondered. Culpability, or just imagination?

  “The thing is,” I said, gesturing to the entire room, “there really isn’t much here.”

  Horst looked around, and then nodded.

  “I guess he liked things—well, you saw the rest of the apartment—nice.”

  “Not cluttered, you mean.” I nodded. “Except—it seems, it really seems, like there’s something missing.”

  “Like what?”

  “His personal stuff.”

  I began to walk around the room, examining everything closely. It was very clean, very tidy, and definitely on the minimalist side. I examined the wall surfaces, from the baseboards to the ceiling, while Horst watched me.

  “What are you looking for?” he said at last.

  I came back to the center of the room and turned slowly around on the spot.

  “No,” I said. “No. Nothing.” Then, partly to change the topic—for I knew the workings of my own mind well enough to accept the fact that dwelling on a vague idea was counterproductive—I said, “How would you feel about another hypnosis session?”

  That did it. Horst immediately looked uneasy. I watched his face as he struggled with the issue. Finally, however, he nodded.

  “But you said I’m resisting. What about a pill?” he suggested. “To relax me?”

  I shook my head. “No. That would dull the mind. Make things worse, rather than better.” I looked at him. “What do you do to relax? Other than the obvious?”

  He blushed and we both laughed.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “What about massage?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I sometimes got a massage, at the gym.”

  “Did it help much?”

  “Well, I guess, though it was more for physical whatever—the muscles, after weightlifting, you know.”

  I nodded. “Well, I’m passable as a masseur,” I said. “If you’re willing to give me a chance. Or, I suppose there’s just plain meditation.”

  “Oh, I tried that. I don’t know, it didn’t work for me. I can’t keep my mind still doing that.”

  “Okay. The massage then?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  I was aware, in myself, of the presence of an ulterior motive, but I decided that wasn’t the point. What I wanted was to get more information from the big man, to get deeper inside—

  I caught myself in a flush of embarrassed arousal.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

  He went into his bedroom, while I went to the bathroom where I had seen several bottles of body oil. When I returned, he was lying on the bed under a single sheet that was pulled up to his waist. It was evident through the sheet that he was naked. The sight of this, and especially his bare chest with its magnificent pecs, sent a slight thrill through me, so that I had to caution myself.

  I was about to put the oil on my hands, when I caught his expression as he lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

  “One minute.”

  I left him and returned with a filled shot glass. “Drink this.”

  He lifted himself on one elbow. “What’s that?” He took it. “Vodka? But I thought you said—”

  “Just one. To take the edge off.”

  He looked at me, and downed it.

  “Okay,” I said. “Now, roll over onto your stomach.”

  I got to work. There is something sensuous in massaging someone. It is a way to connect by exploring the person’s physical being, and I have always enjoyed it. I have what my massage instructor called natural talent. Perhaps those two things go together. In a world where people often survive by cutting themselves off from each other, to me, massage represents a chance to commune in a non-judgmental way, physically, life-form to life-form.

  I quickly discovered that massaging Horst was something special. His form was exquisite, not just in shape, but also in texture. He was, I figured, probably in his early twenties, and there is a youthful plasticity about skin at that age, a sense of health that brings pleasure just from contact with it.

  I rubbed oil onto his back, my fingers sliding over his skin, tingling with pleasure. Accompanying this there was an electric current produced by the touch. It was slight but persistent, and it passed into and thr
ough my body, coalescing most intensely, as usual, between my legs.

  At first, I didn’t press into the skin much. I just spread the oil and worked it into the surface, and savoring the warmth of tactile contact. But when I got to the line of muscle that runs from the ball of the shoulder up to the neck, I began to press. This was an area, I could feel, where the big man kept tension. After one or two audible gasps, he groaned quietly and surrendered to the process, seeming to sinking slightly further into the mattress. At the same time, he let out his breath completely, and seemed to relax into a different state.

  All this time I was unavoidably aroused, sporting a hard-on in my pants. But I more or less ignored it. It might be a pleasurable side-effect, but it was, I told myself, rather beside the point of the massage. I reassured myself that I wasn’t doing anything unethical—while another part of myself replied darkly: Yet.

  I massaged his upper torso and arms, and pulled the sheet up so that it lay only across his midsection, and massaged his legs.

  “Okay,” I said when I had done these. “Turn over, please.”

  He did so, and I worked first on his legs again, and then up to his abdomen and chest—which were more problematic. There was something about massaging his chest, pushing my fingers into those pectoral muscles, with their erect nipples, that was just plain erotic. Soon my head was swimming in an obscene wash of sexual pleasure.

  It wasn’t easy, but I did manage to keep my focus on the job at hand—even when Horst slowly, and with deliberate casualness, brought both his hands to rest over his groin in an attempt to hide a rising tent in the sheets.

  I was barely able to think coherently, so I removed my hands and sat back.

  “Okay,” I said. “How’s that? Relaxed?”

  Horst murmured in the affirmative, while a slow, benign smile spread on his lips. This was so distracting, that I had another struggle to keep my focus on the job at hand—he was just so kissable!

  I bit my lip, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. When I had recovered, I held up my forefinger in front of his eyes, and began to move it slowly, from side to side.

  “Please watch the finger,” I said, speaking in the slow monotone of hypnotists. “Watch. Watch. Watch.”

  When he was under, his face blank, his eyes closed, I got to my feet and stretched, deliberately facing away from him.

  Okay, I told myself, turning off the light and reseating myself. The room was now cast in gloom, the only light coming through the closed curtains. Time to get to work.

  The negative emotions, due to painful memories, came so quickly this time, I was taken aback. I climbed onto the bed and took him gently into my arms. But he groaned and, muttering something, turned away from me. I didn’t let go, and held him from behind, so that we lay together, spoon fashion.

  I stroked him as before, and felt the arousal come upon me again. I also happened to brush his cock with my hand—and discovered that he was hard as a rock.

  Okay, I thought, taken aback. What to do now? I knew what I wanted to do, but that was merely my libido talking, and it was unethical. I let go of him, laid back, and thought carefully. Finally, I got up, had a shower, and dressed. Then I went back into Horst’s bedroom, and brought him out of hypnosis.

  He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked at me.

  “Uh, did you get anything?”

  I shook my head. “Something came up.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  “Oh!” He looked away, his expression sheepish, which bothered me a little. I put a hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s not a problem, exactly,” I told him. “But there is the question of ethics.”

  “Oh. Okay. What?”

  “Well, my impression is that a way to open up your memory—to get past the resistance—is to penetrate you.”

  Horst looked puzzled, and then suddenly reddened.

  My own face was burning now too, but I had to continue, for the sake of the case. I looked him straight in the eye, my hand still on his shoulder, and struggled with myself. I knew what I wanted his permission for, but as things were, it wasn’t that easy. And the truth of that was that my feelings were involved.

  I shook my head and said, “Why don’t we have a chat in the living room?”

  * * * *

  When we were both seated in the living room, with fresh coffees, broaching the topic was still not easy.

  “Is there a problem?” Horst asked at last.

  I nodded. “I’m trying to figure out how to begin.”

  Horst stared at me, then gave a sudden bark of laughter.

  “What?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “It’s just something Quentin used to say, when someone had trouble like that.”

  “And what was that?”

  “He said—let me see. He said, ‘Start at the beginning, continue to the end, then stop.’ It was a quote, he said. Something about the King of Hearts.”

  I chuckled and nodded. “It’s from Alice in Wonderland. That was one of Quentin’s favorite books.” I sighed and nodded. Okay, I told myself, follow Quentin’s advice, man! It’s the least you can do.

  I studied Horst, and felt the flutter in my stomach again. He was just so beautiful, inside and out. I didn’t want to hurt him.

  “Okay,” I said, and cleared my throat. “It’s like this. There are patterns in people’s psyches. I’ve studied that, and my guess is that with you it is about surrender—I mean, that’s the truth in you that you’ve closed off.”

  I waited for a response, but Horst just looked at me. I started again.

  “Closed off means resistance. Ordinarily, I would propose challenging your resistance, psychologically or physically. My sense is that it is the physical that would work with you.”

  “Okay,” he said, speaking slowly and cautiously. “So—?”

  “Well, there is—this is just my impression—a strong sexual component to your resistance. So, a physical challenge to that would be—well, to put it bluntly—” I paused, still unable to say the words.

  Horst blinked. “You mean fuck me?”

  I nodded, my face burning now. Horst regarded me, his mild face more beautiful than ever as a slow smile emerged. He reached out and took hold of my hand.

  “That’s what I was hoping for ever since the day I met you,” he said quietly.

  “Oh!”

  There followed a prolonged silence, during which Horst continued to hold my hand in his, which helped me keep a sense of contact with my feelings.

  “The thing is—” I began, and then had to clear my throat again. “The thing is, while sex is, for gay men, pretty much just a lot of fun—and most people treat it as such—”

  “I don’t,” Horst interjected.

  I looked at him and nodded. “I have to say, I’m not surprised.”

  “But if it’s in the interest of finding out about Quentin—”

  “No!” My tone surprised both of us, and I shrank back afterwards. “Sorry,” I said quietly, clenching my jaw. It’s now or never, I told myself.

  “The thing is—” I began again, at which Horst smiled a bit indulgently. “The thing is—it’s not that simple for me.”

  Horst blinked, his eyelashes causing more fluttering in my stomach.

  “It’s because—” I had to lower my gaze to continue. “Because I have feelings for you.”

  “Oh.” Horst murmured. He studied me, then, getting to his feet, pulled me gently into his arms. It was bliss as he held me, comforting my fears and doubts, about what I had almost done, about professional ethics and conflict of interest—everything.

  It struck me then that, for all his non-intellectual nature, Horst had a kind of quiet solidity that was not just attractive, but therapeutic for me, as well as being another facet of the beauty of the man.

  It was several minutes later that he released me. We looked at each other. Then he took my hand and led me back into his bedroom. There, he kissed me, a gentle, lingering kiss. He u
ndressed and climbed into bed, and looked at me with just the hint of a smile on his lips.

  “So?” he said.

  So, I hypnotized him, and massaged his muscles with oil. Then I had him lie on his side, facing away from me. I was naked and hard—as was he. And, with a quiet little squeak of hesitation and helplessness, unable to stop myself, I wrapped my fingers around the thick warmth of his cock shaft.

  He groaned and thrust forward with his hips. With one finger I felt the tip, and flushed at the slickness there. I shivered with my own sexual need, and he pushed back, pressing his ass against my own hard cock.

  Again, he murmured, a troubled, plaintive noise.

  Okay, I told myself. This is for him. My cock now pressed between his ass cheeks, and he pressed back against me. I hesitated perhaps a dozen heartbeats, and then, my hands shaking, I reached down, my face burning, and slicked up my cock. Despite his consent, and even his apparent interest, I wanted to place rather than push. I removed my hand, so that the fleshy knob of my cock head was pressing the inner curve of his ass cheek.

  I did nothing further, and he was still for half a minute. But then he seemed to sense my hesitation, and, shifting his position, pushed back again—so that my slick cock head slid between his cheeks, found his sphincter, and pushed inside.

  We both groaned at the same time, me with pleasure, him with a mixture of satisfaction and pain. But he didn’t pull away. He only waited for the pain of initial entry to pass. Then he pushed, slowly but inexorably, back and further back, so that my cock slid slowly, inch by inch, inside of him.

  He pushed back until I was buried inside him to the hilt. After that we were both still for some time. I had to force myself to focus, to think despite the mind-blowing erotic pleasure.

  “Horst,” I said quietly. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” he murmured. I opened my mouth to speak, but had to indulge in a slight thrust first, and after the wash of ecstasy that hit me as a result, I began.

  “Now,” I said. “You are completely safe. I am with you. Feel me inside you. I am here. Nothing can harm or hurt you. Do you understand?”

  He murmured agreement and pushed back against me, driving me just a little deeper inside him, and producing more maddeningly pleasurable sensations.