by Radclyffe
“How’s it cooking, Chief?” I asked.
“Um…”
“Buy you a drink?”
“Uh, sure,” he said.
He was a doll, in a boyish way, and looked happy enough to have me pressed up against him.
I sent a chippy boy for a drink and introduced myself.
“Sean Weiss,” he said. “You come here…uh…”
“First time picking up?” I asked. “You don’t have to say anything smart. You don’t have to say anything if you’re not in the mood.” I slipped the chippy a deuce to watch out for Titchy’s mooks and sipped my drink while Sean sucked down his like it was going out of style.
“Something smart was never an option,” he said. “If I don’t talk, what do I do?”
“Talk’s overrated.” The chippy was gesturing at me wildly. Titchy’s mooks were prowling nearby. I put my hand on Sean’s knee and he blushed like a Catholic schoolgirl. I kissed him hard and he squealed. I kissed him soft and he moaned.
“Should we…um…the screen…” he murmured.
Figures I wouldn’t have seen the privacy screen. I pulled it shut. We could still be heard but between the canaries, the band, and the general hubbub I didn’t figure that a few moans would make much of a dent.
Sean was hard already, so I worked my hand down his pants and into his underwear. Felt like cotton boxers, comfortable and straightforward.
“I’ve never…um…how do we…”
“Quit yammering. Never helps.”
I kissed him. He moaned like a ten-dollar whore. I got the feeling maybe this wasn’t just his first time here. Sean grabbed his seat and thrust against my hand. He panted out his piece and filled my hand. As he fell back against his cushion I found his handkerchief and cleaned us both off.
“Oh, oh…um…” Sean smiled sleepily. “Do you, uh, should I?”
I unbuttoned my pants and freed my dick. I was half-hard. “Got no complaints, I hope.”
He shook his head and put his hand on my thigh. I threw a cushion on the floor.
“On the floor?”
“You, sure. I’ll stay here,” I said. “You played the flute before?”
Sean’s eyes were round as marbles. He knelt down and rubbed his paws on his thighs.
“My first time in a duet,” he said.
There was something real pleasing about the way his eyes brightened and his cheeks flushed. When you’re a guy in this town, you take what compliments are thrown your way.
Sean wet his lips and I put his hand around the base of my cock. I stiffened in his hand.
“Better?”
He nodded, wide-eyed, and then lowered his face. He closed his eyes and slowly licked along the underside of my cock. I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him a little closer. His breath was warm against my skin as he swirled his tongue around me. Sure, he was a little sloppy and a little fast, but he was enthusiastic and excited. I tipped back my head as he murmured happily and took me into his mouth. He squeaked a little as pre-come squirted into his mouth.
The sound of the club receded as I relaxed back against my cushion. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the feel of his mouth and the little sounds he was making. My other hand found his shoulder and then slipped up into his hair. It was smooth and sleek and gave me no purchase. Sean’s other hand stroked my thigh and then he walked his fingertips into my crotch.
I heard myself groan and I tensed. Sean was new to it, sure, but the boy was a natural. He stroked my balls with his fingertips as the tip of his tongue circled my slit. I felt my balls rise and heard Sean’s little “oomp!” as he realized. The only things going through my mind were the texture of his tongue and the warmth of his mouth. I think my eyes opened. I figure maybe I pulled his hair. I’m sure I grunted something meaningless as I came in his mouth.
We had those quick, few seconds where you aren’t quite sure if you should say “thanks” or “get out.” Then I emptied my drink and headed for the screen.
“Thanks for the fun,” I said, as I pulled it back.
“Maybe another time,” he said.
I waved him off as I went. He was a sweet guy, sure enough, and the world does terrible things to sweet guys. Starting with introducing them to guys like me.
It was getting early, which is like getting late if you’re the kind of cat who wakes at noon and sleeps at dawn. I didn’t see Titchy’s mooks, so I headed for the back door. My luck being what it was, I got halfway there before the cops raided the joint. Most days we’d all put up our hands like good little boys and girls. I had no reputation to ruin, and most that did had the money to make sure they didn’t. That was most days. That particular night three mob goons were shaking down the owner and Stripes Gonzalo was sucking sausage—not an event he wanted discussing on the street. All four of them had heaters and they all used them. The cops fired back and then the whole caboodle went to hell in a handcart. I headed to the basement, me and a good dozen others. There was a hidden door down there, used back when the place was a speakeasy. The trombonist had told me one time the band used it to grab cigarette breaks without any customers grabbing them.
It was crowded in the basement as a couple of bar staff were still fighting with the door.
“Breathless suits you.”
I turned; it was the trombonist, all dolled up in his penguin suit and holding his trombone. I tried to remember his name. It was something foreign. He was dark, strong, and handsome. I remembered his accent; he’d been born in America but his mother tongue still trenched his words now and then. “Javid,” I said. “Been a while.”
“I’ve been touring.”
The door opened and we pushed through, shouldering our way out of the fetid basement into the dark, smoky air beyond.
“You got wheels?” I asked.
“I have feet,” he said, and smiled. He had a smile like sunshine on glass. “Nobody would call you slow to put yourself forward. I’m in a flophouse around the corner. If you’re nice, I’ll let you come with me.”
“I’m always nice.”
He laughed as we walked along the sidewalk; he was carrying his trombone still. If any of the cops swarming around had given us a real look they’d have us bang to rights.
“I saw you hiding from those goons,” he said. “The little skinny one with the hat and the bald one with the limp.”
“A couple of Titchy McGee’s boys,” I said. “He’s sore I wouldn’t pony up some snapshots.”
I followed Javid into the building. It was exactly the sort of place a traveling musician would flop.
Javid shook his head. “Blackmailing Titchy McGee, Goldie? There are easier ways to kill yourself.”
“I don’t play that game. Some broad calling herself Mitchell offered me two hundred to hide out and snap her old man playing pat-a-cake with a dancer. Turned out to be McGee.”
“The dancer?” he asked.
“Funny guy.”
Javid grinned and opened up his room. His clothes were hung up neat but that was it. There was a whole stack of records on the floor, the player was on the bed, and a truckload of skin magazines were on the couch. He put his trombone down in its case and pushed the magazines onto the floor. I nudged the record player with my foot. “Making sweet music?” I asked.
“You keep that up and I’ll hand you over to Titchy myself.” Javid lit a cigarette, sucked down smoke, and let it linger. He blew it out in one long, slow breath. “You want a drink?”
“Only when I’m conscious.”
He had great gams. That was the third thing you noticed about him. The first thing was how beautiful he was, then how dark he was, and finally how long and shapely his legs were.
He poured us both a gin and offered me a cigarette.
“I only smoke after sex,” I said.
“So stash it for an hour,” he said. I did.
We neatened up the couch and sat down. There was darkness coming through the dirty windows and the whisper of traffic was loud when we were quie
t.
“You must need a rest,” he said.
“Say what?”
Javid smirked and sucked his cigarette. “When I was up onstage I could see you. When you’re up on stage you can see what everyone’s doing. You’d like it.”
I kicked off my shoes and took off my jacket. The gin was burning away some of my tension and the warm thigh pressed against me was helping with the rest.
“What’s your point, Javid?”
“I saw the little teddy bear blowing you,” he said. “He’s been sorely missing a playmate for a while. It was good of you to indulge him.”
“Wasn’t any great charity.”
Javid slipped off his shoes. “I’m curious about the Russian you started your evening off with.”
“Mischa.”
“Is that his name?”
“So he said. He could’ve lied, I wasn’t minded to check his drivers’ license.”
Javid’s eyes sparkled as he wriggled out of his jacket. “But then how would you find him again?”
“I’ve no compelling reason to,” I said.
Javid crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “I heard he doesn’t take lovers.”
“No?”
“No, just slaves.” Javid turned to face me and ate me up. “Were you his slave, Goldie?”
“I’m nobody’s slave.” I finished my gin and put down the glass. “He wanted it rough, no problem. But he didn’t want to scratch my back after I scratched his. I don’t much care for that.”
Javid slid closer and unbuttoned my shirt. “Maybe he thinks slaves don’t deserve it. Perhaps you were supposed to beg.”
“I’m nobody’s slave and I don’t beg, not for a pretty face, a stiff drink, or a warm blanket on a cold day.” Javid was real close now and I could smell his hair oil and his aftershave.
“When you say rough,” he said delicately, putting his hand inside my shirt and stroking my gut, “how rough?”
I lay down and pulled him with me, so we were side by side. “How rough a story would get you out of your pants?” I asked.
“A please would do that.”
“Please.”
He took off his pants and threw them on the floor. Mine followed, then the rest of our clothes.
“What position?” Javid asked. His breath was moist against my face.
“This is good.”
He grinned. “The Russian.”
“Facedown. Ass in the air. Being fucked like a jackhammer.”
Javid whistled. “Lucky boy.” He put his hand on my hip as he leaned in to kiss me. His skin was burning. He had fine, dark curls of hair along his forearms and across his chest. As I pulled him closer his hair brushed against my skin. Our dicks nestled together, same size or near as damn it. “Did you ever kiss his sheets?” I asked.
“He made a play, I wasn’t interested.” Javid winked. “I think I hurt his feelings.”
“You didn’t like his manner?”
Javid shrugged all graceful, like a ballet dancer. “No. Too demanding. Too loud. Too grabby. Too much.”
“No argument there.”
“What about the little bear, how did you find him?”
“His name is Sean,” I said. “Not demanding enough. Not loud enough. Not grabby enough.”
Javid laughed. “What a shame.”
We kissed, good and slow. He tasted of gin and breath mints. I wondered when he’d used those, and for who.
“Your pistol must be running hot,” Javid said, stroking my cock.
“It’s good for it.” I was getting hard. I’d say it was quick but that’d be a lie. I’d been fixing for this more or less since I saw him onstage.
“I hope I can keep up,” he said and caught my mouth with his. They fit well. We fit well, like two cogs interlocking. I heard quick breathing but didn’t know if it was him or me. His hands were smaller than mine but his fingers were longer. They played along my arm as we thrust together, hard cocks sliding against each other. My hand was splayed against the small of his back. The jets of his backbone felt like a submerged rock path in a stream. I tried to think about the feel of his skin and the heat of his breath. Anything but how close he was. Javid grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. His body was juddering a little, like the ground right before a quake. I tried to think of baseball or math problems. But we were both close and neither of us was going to last. Javid moaned my name and pulled my trigger. I grunted out my little death as he was splashing his across my thighs.
We lay quiet for a bit, cooling and uncomfortable but not enough to move.
“I hope they don’t charge me to clean the couch,” Javid said.
“Who’s going to clean us?” I asked.
Javid poked my gut with his finger. “Be cheaper to buy new than clean you.”
“Cheaper, sure, but who wants to live cheap?”
Javid sat up and stretched. “Your Russian was too much and your little bear wasn’t enough. What was I?”
“What do you figure?” I asked.
“Just right,” he said with a grin.
Stacia Seaman has edited numerous award-winning titles, and with co-editor Radclyffe won a Lambda Literary Award for Erotic Interludes 2: Stolen Moments. She has essays in Visible: A Femmethology (Homofactus Press, 2009) and Second Person Queer (Arsenal Pulp Press, 2009).
This story is based on “The Little Match Girl.”
Final Escape
Stacia Seaman
It was a bitterly cold night in Detroit. The wind had picked up and the snow started falling as soon as the sun went down. Laima had no plans for New Year’s Eve—all she wanted to do was make some money to buy something to eat, then find a place to stay warm, stay dry. She wore almost everything she owned: T-shirt, sweatshirt, the old woolen navy pea coat she’d found at a thrift shop, faded jeans. Her tattered boots, taped with duct tape, were scant protection against the slick, icy pavement. She paused to tuck her tangled hair, once so thick and lustrous, into her tattered beanie.
The street was deserted, lined with the burnt-out shells of houses—testament to the thousands of residents who’d abandoned the city when its economy collapsed. This area was so different from the suburban neighborhood where Laima had grown up, with its green, tree-lined streets and large cookie-cutter homes, the brand-new American cars in the driveways. It wasn’t safe to go into most of these houses; though they were dark, that didn’t mean they were empty, and the people inside weren’t usually friendly.
Snow was starting to accumulate, on the grass, on the pavement, and the cold had driven everyone indoors. Laima couldn’t see another soul on the street. Alone, hungry, and miserable, she shivered as she continued walking. On a night like this, she wanted coffee with sugar. And maybe some soup or, if they had it tonight, chili. There was a diner a few streets down—it was open twenty-four hours, but perhaps not on New Year’s Eve.
But if she didn’t make some money first, she wouldn’t eat anything. She had put together more kits yesterday, so she had plenty: Baggies, each with a new syringe, a bottle cap, a cotton ball, and an alcohol pad, that she sold for a dollar each to other addicts. If she sold five, she’d have dinner.
Laima bowed her head against the wind and started down a small side street. She took in the boarded-up windows of the houses; usually there were signs of life in at least a couple of them, but not tonight. It was cold, it was dark, and anyone who had a warm place to stay was unlikely to venture out. She knew better than to knock on any doors. On the street people knew her and bought kits from her; on a night like tonight, though, with no one around, they’d think nothing of taking her kits, her stash… She didn’t allow the thought to continue.
With every step she took on the way to the diner, her hopes continued to dim. Not only did she not encounter any other homeless addicts who might buy some works, but she didn’t see anyone who might be a diner patron, someone she’d be able to hit up for a dollar or two. Finally Laima reached the diner. It was silent, deserted, almost eerily dar
k without the garish neon that usually lit up the entire block. A handwritten sign in the door informed her that she’d arrived during the only twenty-four hours of the year the diner was closed, but they would reopen the next day at noon, “a Football Free Zone!”
With tears running down her cheeks, Laima crossed the street, then walked down a ways to where two buildings overlapped, forming a sheltered corner. One of the buildings jutted out just far enough to block the wind, and the sidewalk there was dry and free of snow. She sat, drawing her knees up to her chest, and tried to think of what to do next.
Laima fingered the balloons in her pocket. Nothing in her stomach, nowhere to warm up, no one to talk to. She pulled out one of the balloons, then carefully zipped her pocket closed. Turning her back to the street so nobody could see her, she prepared a dose. She shivered as she pulled her arm out of her coat, but quickly felt the rush of warmth once she’d finished giving herself the injection.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the brick. Her feet were finally warm, as though she were sitting in front of the fireplace in her parents’ living room, wearing thick woolen socks and sitting under the old plaid blanket they kept draped over the back of the sofa. Her cat, Zemi, lay curled on her lap, purring. Laima sank her fingers into Zemi’s thick fur, rubbing her back, scratching behind her ears. That last day before the holiday break, in school, she’d sneaked a look at Emilia during biology class. Emilia had smiled at her, shyly, and it was all Laima could do to keep her hands folded on her desk and not reach across to link her fingers with Emilia’s. She sighed happily and continued to pet Zemi. In the background she heard the preparations for the holiday meal. New Year’s Eve in her family was a joyous occasion—tradition held that the year would continue the way it had started, so everyone wanted to be happy, singing and talking and enjoying each other’s company.
