Apr 15, 2017

We need a room --- This is heaven --- teaser (24)

We've finished the second draft of This Is Heaven, finally. And now we have to hurry up, teaser-wise, otherwise we'll never see the end of the tunnel. This fragment is from Chapter 27. John and Taylor will have "full sex," as John put it, and Alex will put in a cameo appearance. Since this is a teaser, it's just the beginning of the chapter. Enjoy:

We’re walking to the Atlantic Sands Hotel, which, as you know, is not far. We’re quiet now. That’s fairly typical with a new trick on the way to the venue, you’re either quiet or you talk a lot. It happened barely a week ago under very different circumstances on the way to Godehart’s place, where it ended in an in-flagrante masterclass of Wagnerian proportions. Let’s see what we’re in for this time.

The walk takes us along North Surf Avenue, low dunes to left, occasional multistory condos to the right, all stylized as beach holiday homes gaping at the sea. The structures would be pretty if they weren’t too large—-comely porches transposed into five story balconies—-the proportions don’t work, not for me. The bay-windows are prettier than the Sands Hotel, though, which jumps right out of a LEGO box. Giant neon letters on the roof mirror its name. I point at the letters (just to make sure). Taylor nods. We enter through a back door and arrive in the lobby from the wrong side, none of the reception people has seen us coming.

The way we look, drained by the heat, shabbily clad (me), untidily clad (Taylor), in sneakers, shorts, T-shirts, we may not even own a motorized conveyance, let alone money, they could easily turn us away. Too late. An assistant manager has made eye contact (‘What are you doing here?’).

“We need a room,” I say. She’s more tactful that Luke, the receptionist, in that she doesn’t lower her gaze; she’s casting it at the entrance where it rests for two seconds (‘has she decided to ignore us?’), but then returns it to me. Squeaky footfalls break the silence, somebody has a hand on my shoulder, in passing, and—it’s Alex, in full alpha-mode.

“I have an urgent appointment with The Professor Bienpensant,” he says, “replacing Mr. John Fletcher of Monroeville, Georgia.” The receptionist couldn’t care less—-a place like this hosts five hundred sex acts per day—-but Alex is simply too beautiful not to evoke second guesses and wistful smiles. The receptionist keeps her libido in check, however, and asks: “You know the room number?” And yes, Alex knows the room number and disappears squeakily in the direction of the stair well, ignoring the convenient elevator nearby.


A place like this hosts 500 sex acts per day

We were lucky that Alex showed up so soon, because—-would he have arrived only two minutes later, he would have witnessed the humiliating scene of an impoverished assistant professor of French brandishing exhausted credit cards which are then, one by one, put down by the booking system of the Atlantic Sands Corporation. I skip a few details—-Taylor saves the day with his own credit card. Nobody asks about our age. We use the elevator.

The room is in the same wing as Juliette’s (and Barbette’s I guess). The view is the same as well; we could see Africa if the world weren’t round. We bolt the door. We stare at the room: the king-sized bed, closet, balcony window, mini-desk along the wall under the TV. Above the bed—the washed-up scriptwriter must have done this—-hangs a framed poster of the White Star Line about the maiden voyage of the Titanic.

Why is it different this time? Is there anything beyond sheer sex holding us back? I mean, John, please, be realistic, how many emotional punts have you placed inside a week, more than you’ve placed during the rest of your life, practically. And now Taylor? All this while Alex is viciously banging the Bienpensant downstairs? Or upstairs?

I turn my ears to the left wall, the right wall, the ceiling, the floor. We’re both listening now. This is a thin-walled structure from the ‘70s, we’ve discussed this earlier. It resonates with clanking elevators, children’s shrieks, flushing lavatories, banging doors, passing footfalls on the gallery outside. There’s connubial disagreement upstairs, and a connubial agreement downstairs, something beating against the wall, a bedhead, presumably.

“Let’s have a shower,” Taylor says.

Good idea. We undress. Shorts, drawers, shirts, they don’t drop on the floor but—under Taylor’s attentive eye—are folded away on the luggage tray next to the desk. Half-boners come into view. Taylor looks at my thing and affects a coughing laugh. His junk has been treated to a fairly thorough bikini wax since yesterday, all pubic hair is gone. It’s quite okay, his body, nothing too small or too large, the slender features of a belated twink—-not much in the way of definition, of course, very white, the body, not much beach time apparently for this enterprising nerd who has put his spectacles away and squints at the world like somebody just waking up. He isn’t Hollywood material, but even-featured enough to run for office or have full sex with impoverished assistant professors of French. His red hair is very thick and unruly—-his strongest point, his hair, physically.

There was this folklore out there, dating back to the frustrated days of Sigmund Freud possibly, when everybody needed to loosen up with Jack Kerouac’s dick up his ass. Taylor should make a good test case. If I weren’t so shy, or self-conscious, I would possibly say it. Or I would take my dinger and wave it at him, like this French actor who’s played in several gay-liberation movies in the days when undressing was the principle part of sex (Gérard Dépardieu). Come on, John, be a man. “With more chutzpa,” I say, “I’d take my dinger and wave it at you.”

He laughs, then takes his dinger and waves it at me. Do I deserve this? How far will this go?

I grab my thing and affect an unconvincing undulation. Taylor coughs another laugh and disappears into the bathroom. I get another glimpse of Africa before I follow. This is an old-style hotel bathroom, the shower inside the bathtub. Taylor has stepped into the tub and turned the water on—-which is too cold, and then too hot, and so on. There’s a lot of pressure, fortunately, the water is gushing. Should we enter a wet embrace? Where’s the shampoo? Two samples of hotel-branded soap idle on the wash basin table. Soap, right, soap will do it. I exit the tub, unwrap both bars, step back into the tub, and hand one to him. “We both need a good rub,” I say (which is true).

Truth is a universal lubricant. So I begin to lather the body of my newest lover, first where he needs it, the back, shoulders, arm pits, neck, pecks, torso, and then where he needs it more, between his legs. I proceed in all innocence, despite his erection. He reciprocates in all innocence, despite my erection, our arms tangled up in crossing, each fondling the other’s junk for sanitary purposes. Did I ever do this before? Not with Alex.

‘Anything I forgot?’ (I think) while working the rest of the soap into Taylor’s ass. Taylor has turned his back to me, water dripping off his cheeky butts. He seems to like the lathering, widening his stance, stooping a bit to let me inside. Soap suds slide along wet skins. Water on skin is always sexy, we should do this more often. We embrace. Dicks connect like crossing daggers. I grab both dingers, press them together. “Try,” I say and hand them to him. He joins both dicks with both hands. “One hand,” I say. “Feel it?”

“What?” he asks.

“Touching both kin in one go, one is yours, one is mine, sensing yours in two ways, mine in a different way, this hilarious sense confusion.” He tries, he strokes. “Yeah,” he says. We make more eye contact. We couldn’t be harder. We kiss a soapy kiss. Yak. We spit. We agree.

We exit the tub. The unbranded towels are second-rate (“I’m a faceless towel, no need to pinch me”), it doesn’t matter, I rub him dry, he rubs me dry. We proceed to the bed. I remove the cover. We make eye-contact again, embrace again, kiss a formal French kiss that doesn’t feel right. “Lie down,” I say. He sits, reclines athwart the bed. “Turn around,” I say, “I have an idea.” He doesn’t ask, arranges himself prone on the bed. “We’ve showered, right?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

I have another good look at him, the curves of his back, the line of beauty there, the silty hue of his skin, the streaks of wet hair on his neck. I touch myself, it feels just great. “Where are you,” he asks. “I’m here,” I say—-I’m on my knees already. He spreads his legs.

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