Ravenous

by R. W. Clinger

  He pushed away from me and stammered, “I…I’m sorry…I’m sorry for everything, Hatch. All the little dirty lies. All the confusion. Everything. I’m a horrible human being and…I didn’t think I’d ever fall in love with you. Never. I didn’t see that happen. I couldn’t see that happen.

  “Nowhere in my textbooks could such a feat arise. Nothing of the sort. But it did. You picked me up. You fed me. You provided me with care. You…fell in love with me as much as I fell in love with you, and…

  “I fucked up, Hatch. Fucked up badly. Ruined things between us. All of it came tumbling down around me…us. And I knew it was all my fault. Every last lie I told. Every word I told you. All lies. Lies upon lies. A huge wall of them, like bricks on top of each other.

  “I hurt you and didn’t even realize it. You know that. I know that now. Who knew we could get along so well? I didn’t have a clue we could connect like the way we did. I didn’t…”

  My heart warmed, and my temperature rose. I felt my legs give out, but I held my ground. Confusion had turned into reality as I listened to his spiel. Emotional bliss surfaced on every pore of my body. Lightness occurred, which told me I had more than liked him. I had missed him, and, yes, I had fallen in love with him at some point in the mysteriousness and strangeness of our romance. I loved him. Loved him. Love.

  “Quiet,” I told him. “Be quiet and kiss me. Kiss me now. Before it’s too late, of course. Before I call the police on you and have you removed from my life forever.”

  “You wouldn’t?” he asked, smiling, knowing I was joking with him.

  “I will.” I nodded. “Don’t push me.”

  But he did push me, into the narrow and wooden banister that led upstairs to the master and spare bedrooms. He pushed me hard against the upright wood, locking his lips to mine, sealing them together, forcing himself upon me; just the way I wanted him to, of course.

  * * * *

  He pulled me upstairs, one step after the next, and eventually pushed me into the room where I had slept with him numerous times. The room started to spin in circles as he tossed me to the bed, my back splayed over the wrinkled comforter and mismanaged, decorative pillows. Then he started ripping clothes off my body, hungry for me. He became ravenous atop me, burying his face against my chest, between my legs, and pulling my clothes away with his teeth, one piece at a time.

  “More,” I called out to him, half laughing at his game. “Don’t treat me nice. I won’t mind.”

  Clothes compiled on the floor: my socks, jeans, and oversized jersey. He ripped and clawed at the cotton T-shirt, yanked it off my torso, and dropped it to the floor. His lips met my chest, discovering both nipples, rigid abs, navel, and then the rim of my snow-colored boxer-briefs. Teeth met the elastic rim of the briefs, and he tugged them down, inch by inch, sniffing my private parts like some kind of animal, ready to ravage my flesh, feeding on me with his natural instincts at work.

  Once the underwear were on the floor with my other clothes, he sniffed my erection, gave it a hearty lick from its base to its smooth cap, sniffed my droopy balls, and looked up at me in a devilish grin.

  “To eat you, or to fuck you…I just don’t know what to do next.”

  He decided rather quickly, stripping out of his own clothes and applying a condom and lube to his erection. In a matter of seconds, he separated my legs, lifted my bottom, lodged himself inside me, pushing three…six…eight inches of his throbbing and veined spike between my buttocks, breaking me open, and causing me to grunt his name two times, or even more…confusion.

  Now inside me, he fell over me, meeting his chest with mine. Our mouths collided as he plundered my rear, first providing it with a string of slow hits, then fast and solid ones that caused my toes to curl and my heart to temporarily flat line.

  I shivered underneath him, against him, our bodies connected by bolts and a taut bottom.

  His hits slowed down and became tender waves as we glided together and fell apart.

  “I love you, Kevin. I will always love you,” escaped my mouth as he caused those willful and affectionate movements inside me, grinding his hips forward and letting his solid piece of cock stay harbored for a few seconds.

  He thrust forward once, twice, three times, grinned, groaned, and replied, “Love you back, Mr. Lye. Endless love. Unconditional love.”

  I lay paralyzed beneath him: solid, motionless, numb from the inside out, content.

  He ground inside me again, slowly, sweetly, gently, twisted left and right, stopped, and pressed his weight into me again. He chuckled and implored, “I’m going to make you come without your dick even being touched,” and snapped the length of my erection with his right hand.

  “Jesus.” I moaned beneath him, caught up in his snowy gig, under his weight, enjoying his forceful pulls, pushes, and play with my bottom.

  He kept teasing me: slowly pulling his cock out of me, sliding it back inside, stopping, pushing all of it deep inside my body, stopped again, rotated left, then right, banged into me hard, and gently slid his prick out, doing this over and over, again and again.

  He’s taking his time, I thought. Teasing me. Causing me to feel as if I could jump from one planet to the next, under his relentless touch and care. Bringing our worlds together. As one. The homeless man and his stalker. Us.

  Eventually, after a string of slow and soothing ins and outs to my tight rear, he stopped moving. His joint was buried inside me, motionless. Then he squinted at me, turned a maroon red in his cheeks, and grunted through his teeth, “Coming, Hatch…coming inside…shooting…blowing.”

  He huffed, continuing to ride me, slipping his condom-covered rod inside me, pulling away, continuing his adventure many times until he became empty of his gluey treat.

  “Time to get you off, Hatch. I want to watch you come. What do you say?”

  “I’m game,” I chattered, gritting my teeth, ready to shoot off a load at any second, almost finding the minutes on the bed with him far too erotic, nothing that I felt in control of, his and only his; not that I really cared, of course.

  Riding me slowly, continuing to build sweat between us, feeling his still-erect cock slide in and out of my rump, his left hand found the flag between my legs, and he began to stroke it up and down. Above me, swaying to and fro, pleasuring the both of us, he whispered down to me, “Come for me, Hatch. Show me what you have. Let me enjoy the show.”

  He cranked me off. I remember that now in explicit detail, something I will never forget. One upward thrust and downward pull with his left hand turned into a dozen or more. One. Two. Three. Four. Seven. Nine. Eleven. Twelve.

  “Pump my grip. Raise those hips, Hatch.”

  I listened, lifting my bottom off the bed, enjoying how my dick rolled into his firm grip, fell away, and rolled into it again, feeling pleasured by his friction and mild dirty talk.

  “Come for me now,” he insisted, whispering. “Don’t hold it in. Show me what you have.”

  “I…I…”

  I wanted to tell him I had forgiven him for lying to me, that I trusted him from the first day I had met him on Lincoln Street, that I had missed him, and that he was the only man for me. I wanted to tell him we were meant to be together. Yin and yang. Coupled. I wanted to explain to him nothing could keep us apart from that day forward. Nothing at all. Nothing at all. Nothing at…

  “Now.” I felt a spin of elation take over my insides as white goo erupted from my spike in his hand. The ejaculation spun in three spheres above my stomach and eventually fell to my abs and navel, splattering against my sweat-tainted and sweet-smelling skin.

  Following our explosions, heavy breathing grew between us as our act of lovemaking ended. We huffed together, spent. Kevin fell on top of me like a flower in a heavy rainstorm. Thick sweat from his chest collected against my own. A stench of bittersweet post-sex stirred within the room, coming to life like a witch’s maddening potion. Sticky. We were both sticky and slick with sweat. So much sweat and fresh come and…

&n
bsp; We kissed: bliss discovered, lips touching, heavy breathing.

  I whispered into his ear, “I don’t even know who you really are, Kevin.”

  “You will. I promise you will. Everything about me. This is just the beginning for us.”

  Lovers. We had become lovers. And I believed him. Every word he had whispered. Every one. Happy.

  * * * *

  A new year. January 2. I drove to my favorite coffee shop again, almost daily now. I found myself on Lincoln Street again, this time in search of a caramel macchiato latte at Grounds. Snow blew in circles, freezing Channing and its nearby towns. Three inches of the cold fluff had already covered the land, and another three in the forecast was scheduled to fall by the next day.

  I slowed the Jeep Cherokee down on the corners of Lincoln and Dise, seeing Doctor Kevin Bakerton in the distance. His cardboard sign stated he was homeless:

  Help Me! Anything Will Do. God Bless U.

  The sign looked flimsy in his mitten-covered hands. His face shone a beaming red. I was pretty sure he was chilled to the bone and hungry.

  I pulled up to his shivering body, pressed a button to my left, and the driver’s side window slid down. “Lots of snow, isn’t it?” I said, thumbing through my wallet for a five-dollar bill.

  “I love the snow,” he said, keeping his eyes on me, absorbed, thinking things I couldn’t begin to understand.

  I passed him a crisp five through the open window. “What’s your name, anyway?” Thought I’d ask. Why not? Neither of us had anything to lose by being friendly, right?

  He took the five from me and stuffed it away in his tattered, wool jacket. “Kevin.”

  Was he telling the truth or not? Didn’t really care either way. “I’m Hatchford Lye. My friends call me Hatch. Nice to meet you, Kevin.”

  He raised a mitten-covered hand for a shake. “Good to meet you.”

  I wasn’t above shaking any man’s hand and pushed my right one through the open window.

  The handshake lasted a few seconds.

  He smiled.

  I smiled.

  “You coming home for dinner, Kevin?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Greek tonight. Some white wine.”

  His smile melted the snow around us. “Let me finish things up here.”

  Some asshole behind me in a Mercedes beeped for me to go through the intersection and continue my travels. A handsome, younger man with big hair and two plastic gages in his ears sat behind his expensive steering wheel. His nose was pierced with a diamond. Probably was running late for his drug run or evening affair with his female college professor—something.

  “Gotta run. You take care, Kevin. See you around.”

  He said exactly what I suspected he would: “Love you, Hatch.”

  Off I went.

  I smiled as I drove away, knowing I’d see him at my Cape Cod later that evening. We’d sit and talk about his street gig, upcoming weekend plans to ski in the Poconos with Jay, the Boulder Boys, Michael, and Richard. Kevin and I would open a bottle of white and enjoy most of it, continuing to learn each other. More and more of this was happening on a daily basis. Then, snuggled together under a blanket, naked, we would kiss like the lovers we were and make love, long into the night, ravenous for each other. Our world now. Just the two of us. Paired.

  I didn’t want to have it any other way.

  Never.

  And I was quite sure Kevin didn’t either.

  THE END

  ABOUT R.W. CLINGER

  R.W. Clinger is a resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies. His work includes Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, The Last Pile of Leaves, The Weekender, Cutie Pie Must Die, Frat Brats, Panama Dan, Spoil Me So, The Shower Police, Splash Boys, and several stories with Starbooks Press. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine The Writer’s Post Journal. Visit him online at rwclinger.com.

  ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

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