He shrugs. “What did you call it?”
“La Traviata.”
“Hmm.”
“Yeah, it’s about this dame that’s got TB and a courtesan in Paris.” I pull out a cigarette and light it. “Her name’s Violetta and she meets this fella named Alfredo. And so she gives up her whole life for this square and they go live in a country house. And then Alfredo’s dad can’t mind his own business and gets Violetta to leave his son, saying she’s embarrassing the family and shit. So she goes back to the courtesan thing, and she’s like all getting sicker from the TB, and Alfredo goes to a party that she’s at and throws money at her to embarrass her. Then finally, the dad’s like ‘Oops, I guess I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sending my son to tell you he’s sorry’ and she ends up dying in Alfredo’s arms.”
I look over to see that Paul has inched closer to me while I was babbling. He looks completely fascinated. “And that’s it?”
“Yep.” I take a drag.
“That’s really sad.”
Then the wheel slows to a stop with our bucket seat at the tippy-top. I lean over the rail, and take another drag, gazing out at the downtown lights. “Yeah, but she wasn’t alone at least.”
“No, but still. She died after all of that.”
“It’s Victorian. Everybody dies in those things.” I look over at him.
He gets thoughtful, his expression considering. He looks at the bucket seat in front of us and then turns his head to look behind us. As he does so, I feel his fingers on my thigh, shy. Careful.
I can only manage about a second of restraint before I bring down one of my hands and put mine over his. I keep my gaze forward, toward the downtown lights as I feel his hand turn, fingers curling, rubbing against my palm in lazy strokes. Blood rushes to my dick, and I take a long drag and exhale. I thread my fingers through his, clutching his hand, and I squeeze. I hear his swift intake of breath.
I lose track of the time. All there is, is his hand in mine, fingers rubbing, squeezing, the warmth of it, then he wraps his fingers around my thumb and does a suggestive move that makes sweat breakout on my forehead. Every thought disappears from my mind except for ones about him and that hand of his. Next thing I know, we’re down on the ground and exiting the bucket seat.
As soon as we’re out, I light another cigarette, and turn to see him walking up behind me, hands in his pockets as if nothing just happened.
We stand there for a minute. It’s completely dark out now and there’s still a healthy crowd. I look around for an area with no lights and few people. I scan and scan. Until I see one.
Paul shuffles his feet. “I heard the Everly Brothers were supposed to be h —”
I grab his arm and pull him along. I toss my cigarette and take him over to an area where there’s just generators and then a dark field with some trees beyond that. I get him up against a maple, hidden away from all the lights and people, a secret place, a dark place. I lean over him, placing one hand on the tree beside his head.
He looks up at me, his breath quick, mouth open. I bring up my other hand, thumb stroking his bottom lip, feeling the soft, warm puffs of his breaths on my fingertip. I cradle his jaw and run my thumb over his cheek. It’s not a matter of if, but a matter of how. And he’s completely sober right now.
“I need you to say you want me to,” I whisper to him.
He takes off his glasses, putting them in his shirt pocket. “I want you to. Please.”
He looks at me with such longing, and I feel like something in what he just said is so familiar, but I’m done stalling, so I lean in. I lean over him and press my lips against his.
I do it slow at first, soft, easy. But then he tilts his head and opens his mouth, inviting. I dip my tongue in and find his, making us both groan at the same time. He tastes faintly of the beer from earlier and his breath is hot on my cheek. I feel his hands slide up over my shoulders and around my neck, and I deepen the kiss, exploring, brushing his tongue with mine in long strokes. And it’s like nothing else. Really. I can’t think of another kiss like this, and soon all other kisses I’ve ever had just vanish from existence from the intensity of this one.
He makes a sound in his throat, like a soft groan, and I slip my hand around his neck, rubbing, and slide my fingers into his hair. He pulls me right up against him, and I feel the bulge in his pants as sure as he can feel mine. He pulls away and begins kissing along my jaw, my neck, resting his lips at the base of my throat, breathing deep. A pause.
I wonder if he can feel the thud of my pulse or hear the scramble like radio static in my head. I feel dazed, like a signal that’s been knocked off the air.
I run my fingers through his hair, and he pulls away, pulls back, and looks up at me. Those mossy-green eyes are hooded and dreamy. He looks different without his glasses. My fingers rub the marks on either side of his nose. His not-so-shy hand slides down my stomach to my fly. His fingers glide over the zipper and the bulge of my cock.
I inhale sharply. “We should go.”
“Go where?”
“My place.”
He puts his glasses back on, and we have to go back out into the lights and people, but there’s fewer of them now, and we find my bike and get on. And it’s all just a blur. The whole thing. I might as well have blacked out and lost my memory. Except for this time on the bike he puts his arms around me, so close his crotch is up against my ass, and I don’t even care what the people in the cars think that pass us, because his hard dick is rutting right up against me all the way back, and I want it so bad. And, finally, we’re through the door, and I close it, and I turn to him, thinking we’re both so horned up we should just go to my bedroom. But he’s just standing there, hands back in his pockets, looking down. It’s like before. As if nothing’s just happened.
I step in front of him, tilt his chin up to meet my eyes just to see what I might see. I wonder if my suggestion to come back here scared him. But it’s not fear I see. It’s this earnestness, this transparency I’m not used to seeing in others. And certainly not in the mirror.
