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Evening drops. Thomas finds Bertrand, the handsome knight, in a grove of trees. Thomas kneels, asking to be allowed to follow him. Bertrand agrees and requests Thomas's help removing his heavy armor. They are soon both naked, and spend the night making love. At dawn, thugs come after Bertrand. He will not leave Thomas, and after engaging in hand-to-hand combat is killed. Thomas is lashed to the body of his beloved knight. Bound to a tree in the grove, both are burned.
Before succumbing, Thomas hears dead Bertrand's voice, they will never be separated, but will return to help others, no matter how impossible. A thousand years later, handsome Tommy Angelo finds himself still looking for men at the edge, giving them sexual satisfaction and strength, hoping that he will gain the "favor" necessary to be reunited with Bert, his lover from another life. In 21st century gay Manhattan, with its own "barons, " Tommy comes across powerful Allan Hubris. Tommy fights Hubris's schemes, while giving himself to an array of adventurous men, who are also looking for that ultimate union and release.
Angel Lust combines the mystical atmosphere we see in Ann Rice's classics of dark eroticism withBrass's more open, full-throttle gay sexuality. It will be a grabbed-off-the-shelves read from a master of gay literary erotica and story telling.
For a moment, the dead of the night just stopped. Silent. Tense. The laughter jammed back into my throat. It was decision time that second, know what I mean? I looked at him, then turned around. Then looked back at him. He still had that funny, funky, unshaved, hunky-goofy, what's-next, "I don't get it" look on his face. I looked at his wide shoulders, his strong neck, the tar-black wavy hair, his eyes so deep and inky they glittered. I got a bit shaken. (Do I laugh; throw up some beer; or just show him what I want?) A storm began to whip up around us, as the sky belched up clouds like a load of wet laundry soaked in charcoal. After leaving Casa Julio—a couple of neons and 25-watt light bulbs, smelling of boiled hot dogs, beer, and pee on the Brooklyn waterfront—we had pushed out into Niko's beat up yellow Mustang. Niko Stamos was drunk from beer and a line of schnapps I had bought him.
"Where you wanna go?" he asked. The ripped back seat was decorated with McDonald's wrappers, cracked little plastic ketchups, dirty newspapers, and Happy Meal toys. I didn't hesitate when I told him his house.
"Skata—shit!" He shook his head. "It's too late."
I told him we'd be quiet and he smiled, and I grabbed his crotch, something I had not done before. We pretended to be even drunker than we were; always good. He unzipped his jeans and his cock flopped out. It was half hard and dark and silky and I touched the fat swelling head as it emerged from the soft pod of his foreskin. He was juicy with precum. I started to really shake. Iwanted to suck him right there. He laughed to knock a hole in the car's quiet. "Fun," he said. "This is gonna be fun." It began to rain and for a moment all we were was the dirty inside of his car that smelled of motor lube oil, Mickey D's ketchup, and him, that wild dick-and-ass, guy-smell gushing straight out of him.
Uncontrollable sex, sure, it can be inevitable. Why fight it? You want your mouth where you want your mouth: It was happening. Lightning flashed like a slice of mirror over the black East River—a wriggling snake now swallowing all of New York. I was happy. The snake could have it, this city without any eyes that only looked at you.
I had him. I pulled his jeans and white undershorts down—hard to do since he was behind the wheel—and he let me. The rain unleashed itself outside: coming down in climactic sheets and falls. He got up slightly and I squeezed in under his funky bare ass and started to suck at his balls, getting his own savage, distinct, young working man's asshole smell in my nostrils-it shot straight down into my lungs, until there was nothing left of me but that smell and his balls, soft and furry with black hairs slick from his sweat and the salt left over from early morning piss stains. I squeezed around more and licked the whole fat length of his dick. The entire sweet tube of it. "That's real nice, man," he said. "Nice. We done started this magic and I'm readin' it!"
He rubbed his hands through my springy dark blond hair. It was short, with about a two-inch brush cut on top, so dark and thick that sometimes at night it appeared like glowing steel, cool, metallic, pricked with light. I could feel his big fingers raking their way through it, then he lowered them down towards my mouth and jerked himself while I managed to suck him and still lick several of his stained salty fingers, wrapped around his cock like a school of Mediterranean sea horses.
"I can't last like this," he said and told me to stop. Satisfied for a minute, I got back up and he left his warm meat flopping out, while he started the car. He put it into reverse then turned it around in the small lot next to the bar. Debris all around, left over after a too-late banquet of the human mess: more McDonald's crap, cut-up tires, car fenders, rusting oil barrels, soggy bits of old magazines, the color shredded like fallen confetti. Everything. Then more rain. More lightning. Suddenly I could see his face—totally now, nothing to hide—in the lightning's quicksilver strobe: some deep pits from kidhood acne, the large, handsome Greek nose (I wanted to genly suck that, too), his lips, softly chiseled, fine and warm. We pushed out of the tight lot. Brooklyn started to roll behind us in the rain, saying good-bye to us in an eerie quiet, except for a few Land Rovers loaded with stadium-boom stereos. YO MUTHA IS A MUTHA-FUKKER, EAT THAT KILL THAT EAT THAT blasted away in the distance, reverbing into itself, echo into echo, finally disappearing beyond the last lingering rim of my hearing.
The final whisper of this roar started to sound strangely holy as it rolled back with the storm into some distant, long ago speck of me (which was, see, where I was going: I can't stop, I'm afraid . . . the story of who I am) and we rode across the old steel Kosciusko Bridge in the slashing rain into Queens, where he lived; into Astoria, a Greek city-state out of the Peloponnisos. Store signs in Greek. Bakeries, cafes. Stores gated up on Broadway, then over to Thirtieth Avenue, more of the same. Then off to a side street of little houses like tin soldiers on guard, painted in Greek colors. Pink, orange, green, red. I could see this even in the darkness. It was close to two in the morning. Way too late; things were just happening.
"We'll be there in a minute," he said. "I better buckle myself up again before we get out." I told him I wished he could just walk out like that, buck naked. "Not in Astoria," he said. Then he looked at me and asked, "How'd you know this about me?"
"What d'you mean?" I asked, all dumb blond.
"You know? About me. Skata! I can't even talk about it. I was kinda lost. I was gonna kill myself once, you know?" His face dropped. "How'd you know?" I just looked at him. "You got some kinda funny brain in your head, like you knew me already? But you didn't . . . did you?"
"It's okay," I said. "Don't worry. You don't have to know everything. Right?" He smiled at me. It was a smile with a kind of dumb smart in it. A bit of that genius wordless (worldless?) people have when they know they don't have to talk anymore, even when all the smart people keep on yakking. "Besides," I said. "Like you told me, you got people to take care of. I understand that, taking care. But sometimes we all feel like we're on the edge, don't we, just looking down?"
"When there's nothing down there?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Man, am I drunk. How'd I ever do this fuckin' drive?"
I smiled. "I wouldn't let anything bad happen." Then I added (seriously): "Niko, I knew you the first moment I looked at you."
"Je-zus, Tommy! You're a buddy. You're younger than me, but you know a lot." He grinned. His face looked silly, positively, greedily silly with this soft vulnerable animal warmth in it: a sad, lost beauty . . . from way out, past anything you ever see in the "sell-it-buy-it" world. I wanted to eat him right there. Just suck his sweet lips till they . . . "You ever do crack?" he asked me.
"No," I said, dropping back to earth. "You?"
"Yeah. I dunnit. I'm not proud of it, but it can be real good shit. I wish I could go out some place, and do crack with you."
"'Cause then you forget about everything but sex. You could suck a wolf on crack."
"It sounds"—I wanted to say, too far out. Farther out than even I came from. Of course that was impossible. I—I didn't need drugs. I was the drug . More potent, more mysterious even than this night, turning too quick into morning. Sometimes I had to forget some of it, just to appear normal. "Sounds nutty."
He nodded his head. "I was lucky. I ain't got hooked. I got friends who're hooked. Nice guys. Their lives become skata. Sad shit. Some in jail. A few dead." He stopped the car and his mouth hit mine. He belched right into my throat, then apologized. "Hurts talking about it," he explained. Then started the car again.
"Why'd they get into it?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "You know." I guess I did.
We found his street. Nice residential homes, all sleeping soundly under glowing yellow street lights. The rain had stopped. He parked the car. Put himself completely back together in his jeans. "It's all work," he said. "And your family. And nobody knows you. Just a couple of your buddies. And they don't know you none either. But they do. Or they think they do. Know what I mean?"
I nodded my head, and we got out the car, and he locked it, and we headed up the stairs to his house. He put his forefinger to my lips. We'd be very quiet. He lived with his parent—-they had the front bedroom—and his son who was three. He had told me about him. "Joy of my life. Why else go on?" I agreed. He worked in a factory that made upholstered daybeds. Roll out sofa-sleepers. It was the world to him, the men he worked with, from every country. They all had a story: it was like being on a boat, except the boat never went anywhere.
We took our shoes off on the mustard-colored nylon carpet in the hallway. The house was immaculate. It smelled of pine cleaner and lemon oil and cloves, with a whiff of garlic, rosemary, and mint. There was something, I didn't know—maybe medieval about it. Certainly not of this time; I was in heaven. Bingo! The cock works, especially when you don't ask it questions.
I glanced at the pictures on the walls: cracked family photos from the old country, newer ones of holiday gatherings. Pictures of little girls. Little boys. Always separate. A faint light in the big aqua Formica kitchen burned all night; another dim night-light, from the hall bath across from his parents' closed bedroom, did the same thing.
We held our breath on tiptoe. He motioned for me to follow him down the narrow hall into a side room. Its door had been closed, but left slightly ajar. He opened it carefully. "Paul," he whispered to me. The little boy was sleeping in a kid's cot, with just a blue sheet and a thin blanket over him. On a plastic side table a small lamp glowed, its shade a brightly painted circus parade. The dark shadows of a lion, two elephants, and a trio of cha-cha bears on hind legs loomed across the room, cast by this single dreamy eye of light.
I felt suddenly guilty; a bit of an intruder. The boy's room was so still and peaceful, after blowing full-scale out from Casa Julio. I looked around at his toys and kid things, while the circus eye guarded him watchfully. Little outfits, games, stuffed bears, and fluffy beanie creatures. "He likes animals," Niko explained, a smile flushing his face. It was a different smile: possessive, settled, but still in awe. The boy was beautiful, soft, carved out of innocence and darkly handsome, a lick of mustache already blooming above his tiny plum lips. He was fast asleep.
" Niko whispered. "Lemme show you how Greek papas sometimes kiss their little boys." Caught up in the quiet, I looked on as Niko carefully picked up the little boy and held him to him. "See," he said. Then slowly he retracted Paul's tiny white undershorts and briefly kissed the swelling tip of the boy's penis. It was small and pale, like a frosted glass Christmas tree ornament, ending in a rosy furled tip. I began to tremble: this was something so completely medieval and real; I just did not expect it right there. He kissed it again, then handed Paul, still in the distant land of tiny circuses, to me. "You want t' kiss?"
All I could hear was the sleeping child's breath, the clean soft hollowness of it, and then Niko, breathing, next to me. "It's okay," Niko said. "Just kiss. Don't suck, just kiss it. It's like a ritual; it's secret."
I put my lips to the little dick. I could feel it getting harder, as Paul's sleeping hand went down to it. I knew children did that; they're always masturbating, till they hear that it's wrong. Then their hands get slapped, and they're sent off to confession. "He can do that," Niko whispered. "I let him play with himself all he wants. Jesus, I do."
I smiled dumbly, then briefly licked the shining tip of the child's penis, allowing its pink sweet saltiness to scurry up my tongue. It tickled like little air bubbles. A rush of swishing nerve endings (kind of like soft little brooms sweeping down my gut) chased through me. Then with Niko nodding knowingly at me, I took the whole, sleepy little thing lusciously into my mouth, to feel it getting very hard there.
All my guilt evaporated; I knew it. Surely, this could only be like the furry, wise bumblebee sucking . . . gentle nectars out from the waiting throats of flowers. A pale morning glory or miniature white calla lily, all sugar-soft, came to mind. "Man," Niko said. "You gonna suck my little boy's dick?" He smiled benignly. "Why not? It's the same, right? Sex, kids; it begins there."
I took the boy's thing from my mouth, then kissed Niko on the cheek. He laughed quietly, and I began to suck the child again, until I, too, became of the same young flesh as this flower's heart; and soon the boy's sweet little member and my own wet mouth became quietly one, as Niko watched, a hard-on obviously growing in his jeans. All of this I knew was in Paul's deep sleep; or perhaps I could say . . . in mine.
His flesh had become my own; and we were now both curled around one thing. One marker on the vast flowing fields of Time, although I could not say this marker's given name.
Did I know it? Did it have one—what is it, this marker's name? Does it (or he, is the marker a "he") have a name?
I could not say, but only knew that we were now curled around the same flowering thing, gathered in a pulling of Time. An immense pulling as mysterious and revealing as the furled tip of the boy's silken foreskin, opening in the darkness of my mouth . . . within that glowing, circus-watched room.
I gave the boy back to Niko, who drew his briefs back up and gently put him back into his bed. "He's gonna have nice dreams," Niko Stamos whispered, smiling. "No nightmares. No monsters. None of that Star Wars shit. I can tell. I can see it." He closed his eyes, and I wondered what he was thinking: always the unknowable question, even for beings like us. Then he kissed the little boy and put him back into his bed, and we tiptoed out.
His own room was further down at the end of the hall. It had always been his, he said, after he closed the door and we quickly dropped both our jackets on the bare floor. After his wife Angela had left him with the kid and he moved back in with his parents, he took back his room. His mother was happy. She thought Angela was only a whore, a putana, as they say all over the Mediterranean; real skata, shit.
There was no light in the room, except for a streetlight outside behind the drawn window shade. Niko lay down on the narrow bed, not much bigger than Paul's, and pulled me to him. His fat tongue went into my ear and he said, "My father used to kiss me like I kissed Paul. I ain't supposed to know. Some think the boys just forget. But it's tradition, they been doing it in Greece since Socrates and the old dudes. It's why us Hellenes are so smart—we're hell of a smart guys, you know? 'Cause the daddies kiss the little dicks of their boys."
He took off his T-shirt. He had the muscular body of a young gladiator; bulked-up forearms and biceps. Beautiful chest sprinkled with sugar-sweet black silky hair that glittered like spun glass even in the dark. The hair got very thick between his two small pointed nipples. They were like little coffee beans, but soft and ready for my mouth. I reached over and kissed them. I could feel Niko's cock mushrooming under his tight jeans.
"Yeah, baby," he whispered softly. "You sure know what you're doin'." I thought I was going to cream right there. "Wanna cigarette?" he asked.
I told him no, but he lit one anyway and smoked it for a moment and then unlaced his work boots. He shucked them off and then bent over and took his socks off. I leaned over, unbuckled his belt and lowered his jeans. They came off next.
Now all he wore were his clean white Jockey shorts, making a kind of bluish, silver glow in the dark with his cock bulging under the silver-white cotton. I ran my hand over the big bulge. His tight hairy stomach trembled. He wanted it: I knew. Me. And just the two of us together, in this moment of intense isolated desire.
Suddenly I could really smell his body. Whiffs of motor oil, olive oil, some mild still fresh-smelling bathroom soap (Ivory? Lux?); then the more intense scents of his rough feet and hairy hands. Then his hair, with an "herbal" shampoo; even some kind of barbershoppy hair tonic. And finally his own basic smell: sweat, skin, the whole sexy, raw man. "So how come you picked me?" he asked, taking another drag from the cig. "Hey!" he interrupted himself. "Why don't you get naked yourself?"
I started to strip off my T-shirt, and he grabbed it and pulled it off me. "You're so blond!" he noticed. "You remind me of a girl I knew once. She had hair just like you. But it came out of a bottle. Ya know?"—he paused, then said—"I'm drunk enough to wanna lick you, too."
He pulled me to him, then brought his mouth to my chest. I was hard in my jeans, and he fondled it, then unzipped me and pulled my dick out. I did not wear underwear. My dick was not as long as his, but fat. I am cut. "I don't suck boys," he announced seriously. "But right now, Tommy, I could suck you!"
I unbuckled my jeans and lowered them, while he lowered his head to my crotch and licked the soft, swelling mushrooming head of my cock. I was getting very hot. He started to dribble saliva all over me, and used some of it to jerk me with. I had to hold back to keep from exploding in his mouth. I drew away from him for a minute and then took off my sneakers, socks, and jeans. It felt nice to be totally buck naked there with him. I pulled off his Jockeys. We lay for a while just holding on to each other's dicks and kissing. I thought I was going to start creaming all over the air, all over myself, even in myself. You must know how that is, right?
"You wanna answer my question?" he asked.
"Why you picked on me? One day I got out and there's you, and we end up eatin' a hot dog in front of the factory, with you lookin' at me. So what happened?" He paused, then looked directly into my eyes. I knew he could see very little there. But I was looking into his, and all I could see was want and hope . . . with desire, nakedly trailing behind them.
"Chance," I lied. "Accident." I kissed him with my mouth open, getting my tongue deep down into his mouth.
"Wow, can you kiss!" I nodded my head. "You're wrong. It ain't no accident. You'd been following me. But why? You thought I was . . ." He paused again, then said it: "Gay?"
"I didn't think anything really. I just knew," I paused, then said: "that we'd mean something to each other. Get it?" He nodded his handsome head. "It's attraction, that's all. It could happen anyplace." I knew I was lying, but then I stopped lying: "I also thought." I stopped, not sure I could say this. Sometimes words were harder than sex. Anyway, why not say it? "I thought, Niko, you were sad. Like you were calling out something to me. Understand?"
"Sad?" He looked seriously at me. I had gotten to him.
"Yeah. Sad. There was something sad, I could feel it." My face was now at his. "You were missing something. I saw that."
"Yeah. So I wanted to do something for you."
"Yeah," he sighed. "I am sad. You knew. Boy!" His eyes filled with tears. "My wife went off with another guy. We had an arranged marriage, like they do in Greece, I was so lonely in it. I think we never really liked each other. It didn't work. At least I got Paul. I was happy when I fucked her and she got big and we got the little boy. I'd never been so happy. I guess I was only playin' at something, 'cause I wasn't cut out to be a husband. I knew that. But I was scared, you don't know how much that bothers me."
"Scared of what?"
"Bein' just a malaka. That's Greek for a jerk-off, a guy who can't get it up when he needs it. When you been fed one line all your life, and you fuck that up—and I was sure I did, no matter what people said—it was like eatin' skata for a year. After we broke up, my parents insisted I keep the kid. 'Sure! Let her be a putana,' Mama said. 'We get Paul.' But that didn't make me feel a lot better, even if he was what I really wanted."
I looked at him, watching the words flow softly out of his mouth, without judging any of them. The flow stopped. He hesitated, then said: "This is crazy, but . . . I don't believe in homosexuality."
"What do you mean?"
"It's just not something I believe in. I believe in Christ Almighty, the family, the home, but homosexuality just don't seem real to me. This gay business, once you get outta bed, just blows away. You're just two guys then, strangers on the street again. Know what I mean? It ain't real to me."
I nodded my head. I did understand, and didn't want words like "gay" or "homosexuality," or any words at all, to get between us. Certainly not then, not when what I felt was beyond most words. And was, certainly, beyond those words.
It's funny the way a word like homosexuality, so "scientific," precise, as if it actually described anything that human beings ever really did—or felt—could get in the way of so much. No wonder the stupid fundamentalists liked to throw it at you and then watch people skitter away, like it was a bomb. The oldest bomb.
The word came out of him like a road block: an indictment. It made no sense to me. I guess it was the old sin crap. Did man invent sin, or God? And if God did, then why was sin, which came from Him (or It) such a bugaboo? At least this sin, the "gay" one, was; though it's always been around (and around and around), believe me.
But he was right. I'd picked him: I had roamed over to him. And now with everything standing between us disappearing, I wanted no road blocks, but only one road . . . right there. "Do you believe in angels?" I asked.
Angels? You mean like nice guys with wings?"
"Sometimes angels can be nice. But not always. Some angels are demons, too. Some do the bad work, as well as the good."
"Then what are they?"
"Spirits. Part of the spiritual nature of the world. It has that, you know, a spiritual nature as well as a physical one."
"You're losing me, man."
"Okay, let me put it like this. Angels are like warmth when you're cold. You start to rub your hands together; you seek warmth naturally, sometimes without even knowing it. But the truth is, we have no more heat or warmth than anyone else."
"We? Are you saying you're—"
I shook my head quickly; why let that out? I did not want to spook him before I got to the good parts—like sucking his dick. Not that that was the only thing I wanted; there were other things, I admit it. Still, why was I being such a . . . I think he said the word was malakas? I couldn't tell him the truth. No way. It's part of angelhood: you don't let it out, at least casually. "No. I didn't mean to say that. I mean, anyway, don't worry about it. It's—"
"Oh, I see." He nodded his head. "So, maybe, I just sought you out, even without knowing it. Is that what you're sayin'? And this angel stuff, it's like you're talkin' in symbols. Right?" He stopped, then shook his head. "Man, symbols or not, that stuff is freakin' me." He smiled and shook his head. "I dunno if I'm ready for it."
I kissed him again. I liked the way his mouth tasted, kind of spearminty and tobaccoey; salty and young. Some men just have a taste that drives you crazy. This one did. "Forget it," I said. "What I meant to say is that some people know about you, even before you know they know. You don't have to say anything. It all travels between us."
He smiled. "I like that. I just don't want people to think I'm a pousti, a cocksucker. It bothers 'em."
"But you really . . . do like to suck cock, don't you?"
He hesitated. I knew I had caught him in a lie, but sometimes we find the truth unbearably heavy, until we find some personal way to lift it. His dark eyes closed; then he opened them. "I like to do a lotta things," he slowly admitted. "Anyway, I don't judge books by their covers."
He did not say anything else after that. He lifted me up and kneeled over me and put my dick into his mouth. He was good at licking and sucking me, at caressing my balls and softly playing with my ass. He ran his fingers into it, and parted my cheeks. I got real hard and then maneuvered him down onto the bed, so that I was fucking his mouth for a while; then we switched around and I sucked him for a while and was happy. Happiness is not something people can take away from you that fast: it's just there.
Then we started going at it together, sixty-nining with one another, doing it at once. I stroked the soles of his feet while I sucked him, and sometimes took his cock out of my mouth and sucked on his toes that were dark and hairy and nicely made. He liked that a lot. He had my whole cock down into his throat and was playing me with all the skill he had at this. Then suddenly, he drew away from me and we pulled out. "You knew I was sad?" he asked. "Like I was missing something? Lookin' for it? Or maybe what we're talking about is not a 'it' but a 'him.' Is that what you mean?"
"You're right. I been so lonely, I feel like a hungry dog."
The words fell out of him. Suddenly he started crying for real, as if a huge emotional force he had been hammering down had started to push its way back up, all the way through him. It was uncontrollable, natural, and beautiful; like his beautiful sweet schlong—a real New York word for a big dick: a little peter just never makes it as a schlong—that went limp while he cried. It got hard again as I kissed the tears off his cheeks. It was a pure, real hard-on that comes from closeness itself, when the naked, physical part of the brain opens itself up to tenderness.
Maybe it was just too late at night. He was drunk and his feelings were coming out too quickly: he had ripped the mask finally off his face and I got to see him whole; beautiful; truly amazing to me. We couldn't stop kissing one another, and I began to dissolve into him as I knew I would.
It was a moment beginning in overwhelming sexual lust, that somehow turned another bend in that river of Life that pours through you. You're never sure where that river begins, and you end; and for that moment, I disappeared completely while I explored his whole body, every part of it, like some vast, virgin territory that went all the way back through Time itself. I explored it as that territory circled and then returned to me; there, in that little dark room that had been his since childhood.
Soft slow music started to play inside us; bells, strings, off in the distance, making a circle vibrating around us. Until the music joined us together and our breathing became one breathing and we had our cocks back in one another's mouth, and we were making music that way, too.
Sometimes together; and sometimes separately. Sometimes him over me, pushing his dick into me, with me gratefully accepting it. And sometimes the other way. He was getting close, I knew—ready to release any second—I wanted his semen, that liquid life force of his, all over, on my chest, face, in my face, in my mouth. All over. To taste it, run it over my tongue and lick it, and wash it down with my own saliva. I wanted it. The music. The him part. The smell, the life of him made liquid.
But I also wanted this to last and not be over. I kept freezing us both from climaxing, using techniques of my body as well as my mind: walking over the fields of Heaven; squeezing my dick on its head, pulling at my balls, counting distant markers on those fields that revealed Time, shining at me. Ten, fifty, a hundred, a thousand. A million. Years, breath, your own life . . . now you're soft again.
You're in a cloud, a garden, walking with him. I knew he was getting softer, then pulling back, then getting harder again. I'd come back to him. To this Greek gladiator with his beautiful body, his chest wet with coal-black hair, his cock warm then hot and so very nice—that all I wanted to do was get it back into my mouth. But before I could do that, he said: "Man, you know I'm not into getting fucked, but—"
"But what?" I asked. We were now sitting up, legs locked around each other.
"I like a finger up my butt. My wife used to do it sometimes, if I got her in the right mood."
I was in the right mood. I used some lubricating lotion by the bed and a little spit and stuck my index finger up him. He squirmed a bit, then I used the index and the middle. "Slow," he warned. "Just real slow and nice."
I did that, and he began to go all gooey and loose on me, his cock getting even harder, so hard and hot that I knew he was not going to last more than a minute like this. I pulled out of his ass, and then gently squeezed the head of his dick. "You know about that?" he asked.
I nodded, and then as he came down I sucked him a bit more, just along the shaft, finally licking the fat dark head that was juicy with precum. I liked the taste of it. It reminded me of salty wine or maybe rainwater. Yes, right then I remembered that: it came to me as a vision. Distant, distinct. Not really a memory, but an image. Going out in those stony fields, almost a thousand years ago—and watching little crooked rows of root vegetables . . . as the sky opened up, and I saw myself at an early age, as I once was.
He started to pet and stroke me on my stomach, chest, and shoulders. We could not stop touching one another and I liked that. I released myself to him, to that warm, intense, touching experience. And I started feeling this glowing, weightless, definitely familiar sensation in my back.
I was levitating. Without Niko knowing it, or even seeing it. I was slowly rising up from the bed even though, physically, I was still in it. I could see him now completely: I was floating directly over him. He smiled.
His face was close, yet distant as some moon . . . he had that celestial, innocent smile that I wanted to recapture, to hold from another time. My presence above him intensified. I became a ball of sexual energy, my hands roaming over the dark terrain of his compact muscular body. I stroked his soft testicles, warming them in their supple sack with my palms and fingers. I gently lifted his cock up. I was floating over him, even though he was not aware of it: he could not see this. How could he? But, then, would he ever know what I was?
I was floating face down, in a shimmer of heated energy above him, my mouth holding his stiff cock, so warm and throbbing that it <font color="#FF00FF" size="4">glowed like a firefly's belly in the lightless room. I could feel that soft cool glow on my face; it didn't burn; its reflection trembled on the bed sheet, a slight buzz of light hovering there. I stopped sucking him and held his thick organ, and looked into his eyes. Dark as they were, jet black, they were glowing like two placid distant moons, reflected in a midnight lake.
He closed his eyes. Then he reached up for me and started to stroke my dick. I let him have it, to hold and keep it in his hand, as I came down to him, sucking him more, playing with the tension and heat in him, feeling the contractions and spasms of his body as they rippled through him. Through his strong thighs, his chest, his balls, legs, and cock. I was controlling him now, and knew it. I pushed the two first fingers of my left hand up his ass.
Before the tiny tender mouth of his prostate, I wiggled them playfully: his dick twitched and vibrated. With my other hand, I kneaded and then released his balls, keeping them where I wanted them . . . drifting with me, along that warm, fluid coast of desire that I was exploring with him.
We were swimming there; sometimes floating; sometimes only pulling each other by the legs, shoulders, or sexual parts. But mostly skimming along the brink of orgasm, his, mine; then, in that vast darkness of the coast . . . the door to his room cracked open.
The light was blinding. There was Paul.
The little boy was walking without a thing on, naked, towards us. I saw him in the dark, with his tiny, hairless cock hard, playing with himself, even while I was sucking Niko's fat dick. He crawled into the bed with us. Niko reached up for him, hugged him, and then took the little boy's penis in his mouth. He began sucking him, and I knew that something even wilder and stranger than I knew myself to be, had happened.
It was now completely dark as Niko stroked me and sucked the boy . . . or someone who was the boy; was it really Paul? I was no longer sure, only sure that I felt much younger then than I had ever recognized myself to be. As if I, too, were Paul's age and I, too, was down there, with my lips all over him; but he was there, somehow, and we were all passing through those muddy, dark, tangled roots of sex: warm, flowing, alive with tiny beads of oily light; milky, pulsing, spermatogenic, whipping around us. We were brushing through all this; along this unchartable, deeply pocketed coast of desire that seemed so strange and yet (how can I say it) . . . familiar?
We were slick, newly born, covered in these primal roots. Back. Back . . . as the child and I mutually satisfied one another, wrapping our hands around thighs, until the water and flesh between us dissolved, and I knew I had returned farther: to the womb, to the very belly of my birth, as Niko's hot jet shot into my mouth-exploding in me and on me, in great, eye-filling star bursts of cosmic spurts.
Wowww!" Niko said. "Ain't never had sex like that with nobody. Boy or girl." He was still wrapped around me. We were both naked and we must have dozed off for a moment. I looked around.
"Where's the little boy?" I asked.
"What boy?" He looked at me shocked. "What're you talkin' about?"
"Paul? He's asleep. He better be. He ain't in here. Gee—did you? Don't tell me; did you see him?"
"No. He just sleeps through the night."
"While I was sucking you, did you see him?"
Niko smiled. "No way. That is real malakas, but—"
"There was this moment when I felt like I was about three years old. Funny. All tiny and light."
I nodded my head. "I brought you back," I told him. "To being that young. I was having sex with you at—well, that age."
"How'd you do that? Man, this is nuts!"
"I can't explain, Niko. Don't ask me any more, okay?"
"Man, you're crazier than crack. I ain't even sure I wanna get you on that shit!"
I smiled and said: "I don't think you're going to have to worry about that." I got up and told him I should get out of there. He shrugged, and asked me why. "My folks are cool," he told me. "They never talk about anything they don't want t' know about.
I told him I thought that was helpful.
"It's the Hellene way; not American, but Greek." He smiled. "Why don't you stay here, unless you gotta go someplace else?"
I did, there was someplace I needed to go back to. But for the moment, I wanted to stay there. We snuggled, face to face, on the narrow bed with one of my hands on his firm hairy butt and the other on his resting cock. I felt strangely home free now: I had found him. I couldn't explain it, and he would never know what that meant to me. It was like something he could not talk to his parents about. I had to hold it all inside me.
We settled into a kind of mutual relaxation. He whispered a few things to me. Mostly, I remember, "Don't worry. I'm gonna take care of you, really"; then a short while later I fell asleep with my face cooled by the soft black hairs on his chest. Some got into my mouth and brushed my eyelids. It made no difference. I didn't want to think about anything else; there was a big road ahead and behind me, but who wants to think about that? I slept there in Niko Stamos's arms for an hour or two, the dark pasture of hair on his forearms around me; then I woke up while he slept.
Something had pushed me out of sleep. I was no longer in control of myself; I thought I had been, but what was the use? These things were bigger than I could be. There's only Fate; I knew that.
I got out of the bed and sank down on my knees on the wooden floor. The cold crawled through me, but I could not get back into bed with Niko. I knew that. He was who I thought he was; but I could not at that moment return to his bed.
I became frightened. No matter who I was—or what—no matter how long I had spent walking carefully through the blowing fields of Time, there were still things I could not control. Had I transgressed? Had I gone against the will of my lord, the one knight to whom I had pledged fealty and my submission?
"My lord," I said quietly, "I know I cannot control my lust for this beautiful Greek man. I have missed him so much," then I realized that my lord would know this. He knew the whole story, but did he still disapprove, back where he is, almost a thousand years later?
I would have to seek the answer. I would have to go back and join myself, Tommy Angelo, to what I had been before: if only to witness it, as I had to. For I can go back, I can watch, I can be told, and I can tell; but do as I will, I cannot change what must be or has been. That is the eternal Law of Angels; and of our travel, I swear, over Time's mysterious bridge. Believe me, it humbles us, too.
"My lord," I sobbed, finally giving vent to how unworthy I felt. "Were not angels once clothed in lust, as well as in love?"
Then I prayed softly: "Bertrand, my lord, remember me. I am drawn to this troubled man as I was drawn to him before. For his sake, I have come to shed peace on him, for I know that he wanders and wanders, as I do, too. And, also, that he is looking for me, as I was for him. But only you , Bertrand, can make me whole again with myself. Amen."
I looked up at Niko's face now sleeping soundly, but turned towards me. He seemed at such peace. He had returned to his own handsome innocence there in the land of dreams, where angels are real, if you know how to dream of them. But my own peace? Where was that? Despite going through the silent gates of death, I could not control my own unquenchable desire. I, Thomas, was Desire.
Just as I could not control my own unquenchable desire to know myself.
This desire would be the life and the death of me over and over again. Tears suddenly flowed from my eyes. I remembered then a prayer that I had brought with me from so many years back. Another life? We all have them. We know it. It is the truth. The truth behind the thin veil on which we exist: the veil of violence, greed, and vanity. But at some moment, this veil will be ripped apart by Existence: by the reality of Truth.
Then all those lies and untruths will be shredded, only to be made whole again in the vast material of the human soul. I began the prayer, and then, as far as my own soul was concerned, I disappeared once I had finished the last word.
lord, my knight, I prayed.
My sheltering angel,
take me once more by your side,
kiss me with your wine-sweet lips,
spread your strong hands over me ITL
and bring me calm and peace.
Take me across the woods of Time
that can never hold us apart
and let me lie atop your chest,
surrounded by your loving arms.
Posted December 30, 2012
If you are looking for another "grind-'em-out porn book," stay away from Angel Lust: it's not that kind of book. It is a real alternative universe book, and Brass creates not simply another world here, but a belief system and cosmology—the idea that gay men are put on this earth for a noble purpose. That is really the message of all of Brass's books, and in Angel Lust he takes the message home. It has rivetingly beautiful passages in it, that remind me of the best of Dickens, and some exquisite images of characters from the Middle Ages to the dark ages of the 1990s, when New York was first being invaded by the Yuppies who destroyed the basis for real life in the city. From Brooklyn hotties who don't categorize anyone by "orientation," to knights in the Middle Ages, Brass has it all. I hope you'll check it out, too.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.