Dean points to the guy and says to me: Is he a bottom, do you think? And I’m like: You know what, I’ll go and check and get back to you.
So I follow the guy into the darkroom. He’s tall, my height, but slimmer and with a hairier chest. He has one of those nice long smooth backs. A runner’s back. I stand against the wall, closer to the entrance where bits of light still filter in, so you can tell who’s looking at whom. I wait till he comes closer, till he stands in front of me and touches my chest, his hands moving up and down my body, eventually feeling for my cock, feeling his way into the gap in my towel, touching my cock.
I put my hand on his arse, pull him to me, gently press my fingers into his arse-cheek, press my cock against him. Then he turns around. Turns so that his arse is against my cock and grinds himself against me. It’s all done very slowly, quietly, but there’s an intensity that foreshadows what is to come. I start to lift his towel up but he helps me, hoists it up to his waist so that his arse is exposed. I touch his arse and move towards is hole, just one finger at first, teasing it, teasing it the way I’d teased the Filipino guy’s arse earlier, circling the rim, gently probing.
And he pushes back against me so that my finger slides in, my index finger, smoothly into a hole that is covered with soft long hairs. I can feel the hairs. It’s a hairy arse, nicely hairy, thick hair, and soft, and the hole is soft, too, so I put my thumb in, gently, and we’re dancing or something, we have a kind of groove going, moving backwards and forwards, and although a couple of guys touch him and touch my dick – men like to touch a dick that fucks – it’s really just me and him, this guy who is, as I will say to Dean much later on, more of a bottom than he could even imagine.
We move deeper into the darkroom, taking small steps, me against his back, my finger still touching his hole. We’re in the corner close to the radiator now. It’s warm. It’s the end of summer in London but it’s cold already. But now, in here, I’m sweating, even though I’m not working as hard as I did earlier with the Filipino guy…
“Are you saying it’s hard work fucking me?” he’d said.
“No, baby,” I said. “I said I’m working hard, not that it’s hard work. I’m working hard to make you happy.”
To which we’d laughed. Both of us smiling a lot while we fucked.
But now we’re in the dark, this guy and me, this guy who I’ve discovered is very much a bottom. Two fingers. Three fingers. And he leans over, supports himself with one hand on the radiator while I put four fingers inside him. He is open and moaning. Breathing measured breaths, his arse so soft inside, soft like I like it, open and welcoming and cunt-like, like I remember a cunt to be, beautiful and wet and soft, especially when the other person is letting go and there is no resistance, just complete openness. And all the while I whisper to him, leaning over his back with my fingers inside him: That’s it. Stay open like that. Keep your hole open for me.
I ease my fingers out of him and put on a condom and my cock slides into him with such fluency. He is facing the audience, and I am behind him facing the audience and they can see me fuck, they can see my chest over his back and me pushing slowly and forcefully into him. A couple of guys are standing there and jerking off, just watching us and playing with their cocks, and nobody approaches us anymore, like they can see it’s just the two of us, that this is a private moment. I bend down so that I can hug his chest with one hand, and feel the slimness of his body, the skin tight against muscle and bone, and the hairs thick on his chest and down the middle of his stomach into a thick bush at the base of a long and curved cock. In the dark we are one, connected, combined, joined, my cock inside his arse, his cock inside my fist and my other hand feeling the side of his body, my mouth on his shoulder blades, his skin against my lips.
When I feel my cock going soft I go back to playing with his hole with my fingers, two, three, four, and I know he will take more. My legs are tired and I sit on the bench in the darkroom and he keeps his back to me and presses down against my fingers, all five fingers inside him, that feeling that they will go in, that if I keep pressing upwards and he keeps pushing down, my fist will be inside him. We are at the stage where his arse is still not entirely open, not ready to go up to my wrist, but we are close to that. His sphincter – is that what it’s called, the rim – is as hard as bone, pressing against my wrist, and it’s starting to hurt. The openness of others is a spiritual experience, being inside someone so deeply, the generosity and desperation of that kind of openness and that kind of need to be so deep, literally deep inside someone.
And we still don’t know each other’s names. We still haven’t spoken. We still haven’t exchanged professions and boroughs and the years we’ve been in this city.
Later, when I ask him “Tu fais quoi?” (He’s French) he says: “Je travaille. Paie le taxes. Comme tout le monde.”
Interesting he is not, but we’ve been through something intense and personal and it’s like that’s enough to feel a kind of closeness. It all happened over about an hour, us taking a break every 10 minutes or so, kissing, showering, washing my hand and cock. Neither of us came. It wasn’t that kind of sex. It was head sex, and still very much about the body, but there was a point where I wanted that kind of intensity and closeness over time, something earned and deep and complex, not just a feeling that is created, a situation that is created all within the span of an hour, maybe even less. And still, it was beautiful.
The orgasm was someone else’s. A black guy who I’d made out with earlier in the evening, also my height, with a nice firm body and a lovely long and very straight cock, the kind that hangs down well. We stood facing each other in the darkroom, feeling each other, kissing, me playing with his cock, him playing with my nipples.
“I want to come,” he says.
“What?” I say. “Like just come and go?”
“Yes,” he says.
“You mean you want to use me?” I say.
“Yes,” he says.
And so I keep jerking him off, his cock slick with lube and spit and getting harder in my hands until his breathing becomes heavier, more staccato, and he comes.
“I feel used,” I say, and we laugh.
“What’s your name?” he says.
We are whispering, still whispering against each other’s cheeks.
“Gabriel,” I say, and we laugh. “I’ve been sent to you. And yours?”
We laugh, mildly hysterical, because we know what’s coming.
“Is it Jacob?” I say.
“It is,” he says.
“At least you know your Bible,” I say.
“Have we met before?” he says.
“What? Like in another life?” I say.
“I think we have,” he says.
“And were we happy?” I say.