Madness or Genius - 1. A Good Read

A Good Read
VampireMystic

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In an isolated corner of the library, past the signs “Special Interest Section” and “LGBPTAQQA” (To which someone had tapped a hand lettered explanation in marker “Alphabet Soup” with a rainbow sticker, Subdued light from nearby reading lamps casts a cozy, inviting look over this corner of the library. A young man is sitting on the floor.

He is sitting on his hip, feet curled in front of him. There a rustling whisper as he reaches to turn the page of the paperback book held delicately in one long-fingered hand. As he withdraws his right hand, He tucks a few loose stands of fine shoulder-length hair, black with dark blue highlights, behind his ear. The motion reveals, a piece of matte black metal clipped to his ear. His right ear.

He turns the page, and reads. Then he moves, leaning back against the bookshelf, his legs stretching out in front of him, gray socks sliding smoothly. With one leg bent, the other out more-or-less out straight, his feet settle with burgundy carpet between them.

Shadows and light play across his clothes; Kaki colored pants, heavy with cargo pockets, extra material pooling around the sides of his legs. There is a small metallic rattle, the silver buckle of his brown leather belt glints, resting in his lap. Shadows seem to pool in the gaps, between belt and waistband, waistband and waist. A thick red sweater hangs off his shoulders, Thick and loose it covers him with many fat wrinkles and bulges of fabric, coming down just far enough to cover what the loose clothes might not have.

A pair of rollerblades tied together and tossed over a wingback chair come together with a clack as the heat starts up again. Without showing he noticed the sound, he turns another page.

His face is relaxed, his attention seemingly focused on the book. He smiles barely, not much more than a smirk as he reads. His nostrils flare slightly, the sound somehow accenting his almost-smile. He licks his lips as he turns the page, his tongue very red in the light as it slides over his lips. They glisten with moisture, soft pink.

He shifts slightly against the bookshelf, turning another page. His right hand reaches down to rub at his stomach absently under his sweater with his fingertips. As he lifts his hand out, he lifts sweater and shirt, revealing bare skin with the same light tan as his face and hands. At the same moment, he exhales heavily in a sigh. As his stomach pulls back, he muscles in his abdomen showing with clear lines, only more tan skin shows, with hints of something darker further down.

A deep breath fills his chest again as the sweater falls into place, and another page is finished. This one sticks to its fellows. Unhurried, he brings his thumb to his lips, wetting it with an almost-kiss. The page lifts free of the others, and he reads on.

Another page turned and then a sharp intake of breath, lips parting. He licks his lips, and swallows, his face tinting red. He keeps reading, his lips curling into a small self-conscious smile. The longer he reads, the more he licks his lips, and the redder he gets. He squirms, his feet sliding back and forth on the carpet. Finally, he sighs, the sound blending into a soft, slow chuckle.

He starts thumbing through pages again. But this time… he’s turning back. He draws his feet together, bends his knees, and with one hand pressed to the carpet and the other still holding the book in front of his eyes, he stands. Books rustle behind him, his back jostling them as it slides along the bookshelf.

Still he is reading, his eyes never leave the book. This time, when his hand darts under his sweater, his fingertips drift down, slipping like furtive agents behind his belt buckle, hanging askew like a drunken guard… and they linger as he reads. He licks his lips, breathing in soft, uneven huffs.

A page later he sighs, slowly. His legs quiver, a tremor goes through them. His toes stretch out only to curl, pressing down into the thick carpet, at the same moment his eyes drift half closed. His thumbnail hooks a page loose and deftly he turns it, his index finger moving to the cleft of the book to smooth it. Still he reads, as his hand slips deeper. The palm of his hand pressing against his stomach and his sweeter with every breath he takes.

He turns more pages, reading more slowly, something has drawn his attention… elsewhere. He huffs softly, biting at his bottom lip. His knees bend, letting his body slip lower against the shelf. His head starts to slip back, his arm raises a few moments later to bring the words back to him, His arm, which had held the book so steady, trembles a little now.

Slowly, over the next few pages, his other hand moves again. The waistband of his pants pulls tight against his sides. The whole of his hand now gone from sight; its secret mission all the more important now. He bites his lip again, but too slow to keep a quiet high-pitched whimper from escaping.

The sweater begins to rise and fall, the motion all the more obvious through the wrinkles and folds. It stops a moment, as he tries to hold his breath, but just as abruptly his breath comes out all at once, as low, quiet groan.

His eyes drift closed, he pants, trying to take longer breathes… trying to be quiet.

He MUST be quiet. His struggle to contain himself makes that visible in his face somehow. But… he doesn't stop. Almost matching the rise and fall of his sweeter, but not quiet, the fabric of his pants grows taught, and relaxes, and again. His eyes open, heavy and heated, he finishes the page

When he tries to turn the page next, his hand shakes so badly he almost drops the book. He stares at the book a long few moments. He sighs, and slowly stills. His whole body is quivering a little now, as if it was trying to continue. His other hand emerges, and slowly he reaches up, fingers quivering.

He turns the page.

It takes him a long moment before he can hold the book steady in just one hand again. His breathing comes in shuddering soft exhales, and fast gulping inhales. His right arm presses across his stomach, and he straightens against the self. His toes press into the carpet, one heel not quite staying down, trembling.

A few more pages, and then his other hand moves. Faster this time, unafraid to enter so-called “forbidden” territory once more.

Almost immediately, his breathing gets shorter. That other rhythm gets faster, his belt creaking softly. His knees bend. He slides down. His head drifts back. This time, the book does not follow it. His arm drifts down, his fingers pressing hard into the pages to keep a hold. As if, even though he is no longer looking at the words, the book is still part of this.

Panting harder now, he stills. He swallows hard to wet his throat. His eyes close, and then squeeze tight. His thighs start to tense, and his back arches, lifting his hips up and outward. He sags back, bumping against the shelf, but hardly a moment passes before he does it again.

Beads of sweat form on his forehead, his neck, his stomach. His fingers slide against the paper. He exhales heavily as they begin to slide down.

Everything moves faster now. The rise and fall of his rhythm blurring.

More groans, more pants, more whimpers escape his pink lips, drying with exertion…

He tries hard to hold them back… holding his breath, bighting his lip, clenching his jaw…

But he can't… He’s too slow, too distracted.

It’s too strong, a quiver in his depths…

Too late to stop now…

There's a soft thud, loud in the stillness of the library… as the book falls to the floor.

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“A Good Read” Written 2-11-2010

Time moves, even if we don’t measure it. Seven years, almost eight, since I wrote this. I’ve held myself to change nothing but formatting for publication. These are my thoughts on this piece:

I have a vague grasp of why I wrote it but not enough to make it interesting. So, I made this at some time for some reason. It was meant to be arousing Read apace with one’s own efforts, a paragraph every few minute, it might succeed as something used as imagery for someone to get to their own “quiver in their depths.”

Heh. Right here, I realize that that a “happy” ending isn’t the only reason the book might fall from his fingers. He is in public. Whether he finishes or not, how might getting caught have changed the story?

What makes it unusual for my writing at the time is the ending. It stops, as abrupt and unexpected as the thud of that book. It leaves the climax to the imagination rather than explicitly set every quiver, spasm and spurt in print.

Reading it again, our exhibitionist looks familiar. Here’s something else:

“They say that nobody goes to libraries any more… Maybe for some people that’s true. But for him, he liked the grandeur of the buildings, the weight of them, the sense of permanence about them. They were temples, place to go and worship the oldest religion in the world, the search for knowledge, wisdom, for truth.”

That tone sounds familiar. This was written at the same time. It was meant as an introduction of sorts, a preface. I was unable to make it work here, but I liked it.

Those looks, that voice, though. You guys think he showed up in 2011 at a nightclub in Chicago? Little rascal needs a boyfriend, I’ll have to work on that…

- VM 12-23-2017