Sep 4, 2015

This is heaven --- real-quick

We're finally back to Part II (we're so happy), and here's just a little in-between fragment, which involves John following his dick one more time. There's a lot of stuff that requires more context but you'll get, I think, the gist. It's about John and this youth, Taylor. They made out twice already, sort-of, once in the bathroom of the green room and once in a trailer on the festival field where they got caught in flagrante by inspector LaStrada. (This is serious fiction, folks, at least in the sense that it's really unrealistic). So they've spent some serious slapstick time in the local jail, and now:

So we’ve been set free, and are now walking past the row of nervous aspen trees lining the Davies Canal, heading north in the direction of Georgia Avenue. We feel a bit experimental, both of us (I guess), so we make conversation that’s not centered on what happens in overheated bathrooms and decrepit trailers between horny males, or whether it’s accidental or providential (what happens there). 

Still, as you might imagine, it’s on my mind whether there’s a follow-up to this, a Taylor-closure, as it were, some full sexual act with this youth played out in some convenient location, like, say, my bedroom---which would be the least convenient location in all of Georgia Beach with Maurice and Ben and everybody else around. Taylor doesn’t know about Maurice and Ben, of course, although he’s possibly assuming that Alex could be a roadblock, the only person who isn’t available as a roadblock at this juncture, sadly. Perhaps we could apply my overcharged credit cards to the reservation roster of the Lupo di Mare, the hotel-restaurant which is more or less around the corner, or consider the Atlantic Sands Hotel, where we would bump into a wisened Juliette who’d figure us out immediately, the way providence (and female instinct) works. 

"The Persian ambassadors," Aubrey Beardsley

So far we’ve (a) been talking about the weather---which is off, somehow, billowing clouds rubbing shoulders with a tired sun and occasional gusts of wind worrying the edgy aspens; (b) recapped our lucky escape from the police department (excerpt:)

John: Your goldfish questions, did you really mean it?
Taylor (pointing at his horn rims): I am a nerd. I really am one. It’s not that I just look like one. Sometimes I even enjoy being one. Not when sitting next to a girl on a bus, having a boner, though.
[...this goes on for a while; we skip it for the time being...]
 We’re about to reach the corner of Canal Street and Georgia Avenue. We would have to turn left here (and then left again) to reach my apartment with its bed chamber and other ingredients of supposed privacy, or turn right in the downtown direction and return to the Surfside Field, supposedly. Another round of green-room sex is out of the question, of course, not to mention trailers and police tape. We’ve somehow painted us into a corner. Where do we go from here?

“Where do we go from here?” I ask (one of my better lines today).
“You go home now?” he replies.

Come to think of it. Why not take him home? In all innocence? There will be Maurice, I’d tell him, and Ben, possibly, the black guy who worked for Luke the first day and who’s staying with me because he’s from out of town, and there would be a cup of coffee perhaps, or other refreshments. Taylor could have a shower (both of us need a shower, urgently, sweat dripping—the trailer, the jail without a/c, etc.), and we all could have an intelligent conversation about rape, playwrights, vampires, dreams, French, SCOTUS, not to mention Enid Blyton. At the kitchen table. There are four chairs. Or on the kitchen table. No.

Okay. Let’s put it this way: “My place is busy at the moment.” (Too direct). “My place or your place.” (Terrible.) “My place is around the corner, but it’s a mess.” (Not ideal, but what can we do.)
“A mess,” he echoes.


“I’ve several people staying with me at the moment.”
“Several people,” he echoes. (Good.)
“It’s like a hotel.”

(He falls silent, watches the traffic.)

What do you make of this, reader? I interpret this as a plain yes. And you know what, my dick, which is never far away, fully agrees. Feeling sixteen again. “There are other hotels, you know.” (I say.)
“I know,” he says.


I’m about to turn to the right (that’s where the hotels are). He isn’t prepared to follow through though, he’s still watching the traffic---and in particular a Toyota Prius with what appears to be a charismatic-looking bad boy at the wheel. The Prius pulls over, the passenger window rolls down. “Your destination?” Alex asks.
“The next cloud bank,” I say (another one of my better lines today).

Are you still there? Then you will like the GREEN EYES. The first part is out now, available as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:

Night Owl Reviews

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