Mojo - 2. Chapter 2: In a Brunst

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Chapter 2: In a Brunst

The Red Line subway station had been bright, crowded and noisy, but now as me and Assauer walked on the side streets to our West Hollywood motel, the distractions fell away and left us to our own contemplations. The streetlamps were on and pooling light at our feet.

“What about dinner?” I asked at last. “Gordon must be hungry.”

He shrugged, barely glancing up. When we came into a puddle of light again I noticed something. “You all right? You look peakèd – I don’t know, flushed.”

Assauer nervously twisted the ring on his finger, hesitating a moment before feeding me a line. “That old man at the sex club gave me half a pill of something, and I’ve been feelin’ weird since seeing…. Don’t know what we saw.”

I was not sure I believed that. Maybe he was feverish….

“Yeah, I don’t know either,” I told him. “We saw some freaky cult shit, I guess. They looked possessed, and so did the beast for that matter.”

Now Assauer’s naked shoulders brushed against mine in a friendly way; he walked swaying a bit and showing more of his usual animation. “And did you get a look at that emblem over the door?”

“That thing was messed up.”

“Some kind of lion—”

“It had wings, so more like a griffin.”

“Well, whatever – lion or griffin – it had an erection for a head.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, a real ‘dick for brains,’ as these Americans would say.”

“Anyway, it was weird.”

I glanced down to his dark camo trousers; they seemed tighter than ever, especially right in front, if you know what I mean.

“It was very strange, but are you sure you’re feeling all right? You look a bit—”

“I’m fine. Don’t want to talk about it.”

Just then we came to a brightly lit intersection. My tummy rumbled and I got inspired. “There’s that Bangladeshi take-out place up the block. Let’s go get food and bring it back.”

Assauer stopped walking. All of a sudden, a glassy look was over his blue eyes. “Can you go? I’m beat and just wanna head back to the room. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Saying that, he thrust hands in his pockets, and with hunched shoulders, briskly strode in the direction of our motel.

'Talk about weird,’ I thought. ‘But whatever. I’m starving.’

The Bangladeshi place was nice. It was one of our regular spots, and the people are always smiling. Even though I’m six-foot and shaggy-haired, they welcomed me like a brother.

I scanned the items in the warming trays and selected the stews and curries I knew Gordon liked the best. Plus, at the end, I got the special little custards baked in earthenware dishes the size of sake cups. I wanted to see my boy smile – despite how much fuss they made about returning the shallow plates afterwards: “From Bangladesh! Cannot replace….”

I reassured them I would bring their custard saucers back, like we always did, and they let me pay with broad smiles on their faces. As I watched them wrap everything up, and freshly bake our naan, my mind drifted to my boy’s face. Napoleon had referred to him as barely legal. Today he only half suspected the truth of it. The feeling of ‘guilt’ is supposed to pass after the eighteenth birthday, right, which happened to Gordon Sanchez two months ago…but I don’t know. Actually, I’m not sure I feel any remorse at all, because if I had to do it all over again, nothing would change. Well, maybe nothing except going it alone, without my ex in tow.

In any event, it’s been a wild time since, well, since we went ‘on the sheep,’ or is it on the lamb – I get confused. But anyway, that phrase still makes me chuckle, even though our situation has been anything but laughable since skipping out of Aptos eighteen months ago.

As I walked along, feeling the weight and heat of our good-smelling food, anticipation of seeing my boy’s smiling face quickened my step. I may know where we’ve been on this journey, but what will become of us is still up in the air.

I dashed across the street. The shabby aura of the Alta Cienega Motel, with its 1970s style blue lettering on an orange background, came into view. Assauer wanted to stay here, because they keep Jim Morrison’s room as a graffiti-laden memorial to the musician who once lived here – or died here, I don’t know.

Passing under the dead rock icon’s room, along the driveway to where you check in, I saw someone slumped on the bench outside the front office.

I walked up to Gordon in a bit of a panic. “Hon, what’s going on?”

The sexy teen immediately flew up and hugged me. I stroked the top of his wavy, chestnut hair. “Are you trembling…?”

He pushed me back, and I could see he’d been crying. My heartrate accelerated, but in an instant, he smirked, making a sour face.

“You’ve been doing it again,” he stated with disappointment. “I can smell cigarette smoke on you.”

I held his big brown eyes and tried to explain as if a complex thing to a simple child. “Don’t be upset with me. I sometimes have to do it, socially, for work. You’ll understand, and I’m sorry; I’ll shower and gargle right away.”

“Assauer is in the shower right now….”

Why did tears threaten to well as my boy said these seemingly harmless words?

I set the food on the bench and took Gordon by both shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“That ex of yours, he came back to the room looking like Linda Blair from The Exorcist.”

Adrenaline began to pump through my veins. “What did he do?”

“Stay calm, please. Your temper—”

“What. Did. He do?”

“He tried to force himself on me, Kohl.”

I let go of his arms and took a deep, clarifying breath. “Where is he now?”

“Like I told you, in the shower. He said if I was gonna act like an ungrateful little bitch and leave him blue-balled, he’d have to rub one out and relieve himself.”

“Come on,” I said.

I didn’t look back until I had dragged the naked and dripping Assauer from the shower to the center of our room. I briefly noted Gordon standing in the open motel room door, holding our food and looking worried. For half a moment, I thought he seemed frightened of me, but that could not have been the case.

He was scared of this monster, the one under my grip.

“How could you?!”

Assauer wrenched himself free. “What the hell’s your problem?”

“You, Arschloch. You tried to hurt Gordon?”

“No. I—”

“How dare you try to hustle me, you cut-rate fluteplayer. You, whose very breath belies your seedy profession.”

He attempted a shocked routine for a second, but then his slumped posture straightened and he yelled even louder than I had. “Oh, just shut up! You’re so goddamned self-important all the time, a star in your own movie. Just. Shut. Up.”

“So you admit it.”

“Admit what?! Admit that twink of yours fantails his sexy little ass under my nose night and day? Yes! I admit it, but we’re supposed to share and share alike, aren’t we? So what? I tried to get some; learn to let others have a go once in a while.”

“The so what is you’re way out of line. The boy doesn’t like you.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s outta line?! How’s this for out of line: I think you’re a tampon, douchebag and nightpad all rolled into one.”

I raised my fist. “What the hell has come over you, Assauer? You’re the one who left me high and dry at that seminar.”

“Yeah, that’s cuz I’d rather hear glass shattering, or YouTube dream interpreters prattling on, than listen to that self-motivational crap.” He caught his breath, raising his pitch. “And call me a two-bit tart?! You’re the more shameless slut between us, batting your cow-eyes at that idiot scheister, just hoping he’d take us to dinner afterwards.”

“Well, at least I was trying. Gott!”

“Kohl, wake up. That asshole is broke! God knows what his day job is, cuz it’s certainly not ‘celebrity life-coaching.’”

“But regardless of what it is, you’re the one who left me there on my own. He was fucking rapping at me, while you gave your partner the slip.”

“What’d ya think I shoulda done – oh, wise jackass – tell me. Let hunger overtake me, waiting for you to grow a brain?! It’s not my fault you let yourself be caught in the clutches of master rapper Milk Tea, bustin’ mighty-white rhymes on yo’ ass.”

“You still didn’t have to abandon me—”

“What’d you want me to do about it?!”

“I wanted you to act like a friend. What the fuck else.”

“Oh, you make me sick sometimes. A friend? Like the friend who saved you from prison in Germany. That friend not good enough for you? Oh, memory short. Then, how about that time you seduced that rich mobster’s wife in Palm Springs and then begged me to step in because you couldn’t actually do the nasty.”

“You’re bi, aren’t you?! So what’s the big fucking deal? She was blindfolded, wasn’t she?”

“God, you’re so ungrateful!” His eyes briefly fell on Gordon.

“I want you gone,” I said. “We’ve been through a lot together, but it’s over.”

“A lot of shit, you mean. In fact, what are you gonna do without me around to constantly save your pathetic ass?”

“We’ll manage somehow.”

“Manage! Manage like that mess you got into as the mascot of a 49er’s game?!”

“I came out on top, didn’t I?”

“Because of me! That punk cholo tackled you from the third row – leaped over the heads of families to slam you on the field and make his buddies bust up watching the debacle on the big-screen jumbotron.”

“Yeah…” I said smiling; I couldn’t help it. “And then you chased the guy down for me, halfway to the middle of the field.”

Assauer coughed up a brief laugh. “I held him down as 50,000 people cheered you on. You gave that guy two black eyes—”

“…As I pistol whipped him with the costume’s foam rubber guns.”

We stood still for a moment, daring each other.

Then me and Assauer burst into uncontrollable laughter. The memory of the event, and indeed all of the situations we’d gotten ourselves into and out of over the years, proved too much for our anger.

I popped in the bathroom and hooked a finger onto a towel, which I tossed into Assauer’s waiting arms.

As he dried off smiling, I told him calmly: “It was a good run, but let’s divorce amicably.”

He agreed, flinging the wet towel on the back of the desk chair and slipping on a pair of boxers.

Gordon finally entered the room and closed the door behind him.

I got down my ex’s bag and pulled out the roller suitcase we used for storing all our common-stock property, pilfered or borrowed from here or there.

I flung everything out on Assauer’s bed as he dressed. By the time he was done, I’d split our worldly goods, and he nodded assent before stuffing his clothes and pawnable merchandise in his carryall.

It was over; we’d had a good long run, but the cleaner the split the better.

Just as Assauer slipped on his jacket and shouldered his heavy satchel, he glanced significantly at Gordon. His clear blue eyes were glassy again.

I scooped up his car keys, placed them in his palm, and escorted him to the door.

Open and out of it, he gave one last look into the room, and I told him matter-of-factly – before closing and locking the portal – “Tschüss, mein Exfreund. Break a leg out there.”

Satisfied, I went and hugged Gordon possessively. I could feel my heartrate slowly lessening.

I sat us on the bed, my arm draped around his shoulder. “Are you hungry?”

“No, Kohl.”

“Me neither."

It appeared as if my boy wished to say something serious to me. “What is it?” I asked.

His doe-eyes played about my face earnestly. “Are you sure about this divorce?”

“Sure, as in—”

“Sure it’s going to last? Sure as in you are sincere about a goodbye with him this time.”

My brows wrinkled in concentration. “That’s a funny thing to ask.”

“Maybe. But you and your ex have a funny relationship.”

While it was true, and Assauer had come to my rescue on many occasions, including the one that had us coming to the United States in the first place, I was sure of my resolve. “It’s over.”

I bristled with love for this boy, and guided his lips to mine. But when we parted, and I had opened my eyes, I saw a dark cloud had settled over him.

“What is it, Gordon?”

“I just wonder about him having your heavy gold band, the one that you gave him, while all I have is this.” He held up his left hand. On the ring finger was the nickel-plated Pride souvenir I’d bought for him at a San Francisco gift shop. The bezel was set down the center with square-cut, glass rainbow ‘stones.’

He went on, “I know I’m the reason you’re broke, but why should your ex have it and not me…?”

I didn’t have an answer. All I could do was pull him into my lap, rest his ear against my chest and stroke the top of his hair.

It was soft, and as lovely as every other aspect of him. I reassured my boy: “He can’t threaten you without consequences. Assauer crossed a line, and you don’t have to worry about me taking him back again.”

He raised his tender chocolate eyes to mine. “It’s him taking you back that worries me.”

I chuckled, gently rubbing his chest over his tee-shirt. “Gordon Sanchez, my love, that’s the last thing you need to fear.”

He responded by slowly slipping his fingers between my sweatshirt and skin.

The excited breath caught in my throat as I told him, “I’m glad he’s gone at last. Good riddance! He’s been an unwanted chaperone on our full privacy since the beginning.”

“Oh, I’m glad too, Kohl,” he said, brushing his ruby lips against mine. “So much so – Kohl….”

I caught his pleading and filled it with my tongue. My hand went to the back of his head and drove his moaning sighs fully into my mouth.

His hands began to tenderly push and pull at the flesh of my chest, teasing my hardening nipples as he went.

I lifted his shirt off, and struggled out of my jacket. He helped me slough it off my shoulders, and instantly drew my sweatshirt over my head.

His tongue was at my chest – flicking my left tit – while his hands worked my zipper.

I closed my eyes, kicked my hands back on the bed, and let him take me out.

Carefully, because he was a good and very experienced boy, he worked my stiff cock free of the fabric and brought my nuts with it.

His nimble fingers felt incredible as he pressed them down into the metal bite of the zipper, and then cupped them up and out.

In half a second, his mouth was toying at the tip of my dick, making it flare to full attention.

He excited it, like only he knew how to do, and caused me to kneel upright on the bed.

I dug my fingers in his hair and gripped with force into the furrows of his scalp.

He let me throat-fuck him – sinking my shaft all the way to the balls within his moist and silken mouth.

A bit of a gag later, I lessened pressure on his skull, and he sent waves of incredible pleasure through me. Up and down my spine, and out to toes, fingertips and even hair follicles standing upright from individual mounds of goose bumps – tremors of sensation rippled through me as he applied the first pressure and sucked my dick.

He was so good at it, it was almost unreal, and through the hazy fog of my indistinct pleasure, a keen notion of why I was sometimes so jealous of this boy’s affections came into focus. Who wouldn’t fall in love with him if he was this blessed in the arts of knowing how to pleasure a man.

I opened my eyes and drew him up to a kiss, thinking, ‘But, he’s mine; all mine.’

I grabbed on – having him stand with me – as I undid my jeans and kicked my shoes and pants off.

I pulled down his chinos and jockey shorts then and latched onto his fully erect dick. No time for that; I abruptly ended our kissing by disengaging, flipping him around and making him kneel on the bed.

In another second, I was pummeling his sweet boy-hole with my tongue and lips and relishing the feel of Gordon’s hands on my head, insistently drawing me deeper and deeper.

I spread his ass cheeks, and went to town, eventually driving all participation out of the boy – his hands flopping exhausted and lifeless on the bedspread by his heels.

It was then that I stood, spit into my palm and slathered up my cockhead. My other hand was busy working some of the dribble I’d left at his portal deep inside.

I straddled up to him, knocking his feet farther apart, and placed my flaring dick at his pleasure-entrance.

“You ready?”

He grunted, and I saw his left hand begin to jack himself.

I guided my dick, with an index finger toying at the bottom of his passage, and pushed in.

Pausing, in ecstasy as his muscles helplessly contracted in delight-spasms around my head, I waited for the feeling of him relaxing.

It came, and I sank in, not stopping until his moaning echoed around the shabby-chic motel room, and my body was pressed fully against his.

I pumped a couple of times, to get us both used to the new sensations, and then placed my hands around his chest from underneath.

I laid my chest on his back, kissing his neck and ear, and fucked him.

In and out, over and over, each sliding motion becoming more fluid, and each millimeter of resistance becoming paved over in greater moisture from our joint excitement.

“You like this, Gordon? This is what you wanted, huh?”

My boy, a limber and nimble teenager, whipped his left arm up and around my neck.

We faced one another now, and his pretty eyes were half-shut in bliss as he watched me rock his world.

While I continued to fuck, base-deep to the tip of my cock threatening complete pull out, that glorious feeling of wanting to cum built inside my body. It was like the sensation of having to pee, but one wrapped in silken spikes and bullying my mind into believing it just might melt my spine along the way.

“Kohl,” he pleaded.

“Do you—”

“Yes. With all my heart,” he reassured me.

“Me too. Can I cum, baby?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“You sure,” I teased him, both of us knowing he was about to get seeded anyway.

He kissed me, drawing my head forcefully, and making me pause full-bore in his ass.

I grunted into his mouth, toying with him the millisecond before I shot a mass of cum into his throbbing passage.

He felt it and wriggled his ass even deeper on my cock, making me black out for a timeless instant of eternity.

He did it again, and I again – still in the throes of my orgasm – lost control of my body entirely for one, gloriously transcendental second. God, I loved this boy. God help me, I did.

Lost in the moment, only a very faraway piece of me acknowledged Assauer’s voice mumbling something about “Forgot my phone charger….”

Gordon started to scramble under me, and I partially wondered why, when suddenly my ex rent the air with applause and laughter.

As I was groggily trying to turn around, another sound ricocheted from the corners of the room like a bullwhip.

My ass stung from where Assauer’s wet towel struck me, forcing a rude and rough withdrawal from my boy.

The towel rang out again and bit my other ass cheek. “Hey!” I said, rolling onto the floor and shielding my tush from another possible onslaught.

Gordon scrambled for his shorts, and Assauer howled like a banshee. “All I wanted was a little ‘share and share alike.’ Was that too much to ask?!” More wild laughter erupted.

In my head, the only thing I knew was me and Gordon would have to move…. I wondered where, but then I thought of Napoleon Trueblood and his thirsty throt of a boyfriend.

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