Mojo - 38. Chapter 35: “What about Sadeeq?”

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Chapter 35: “What about Sadeeq?”

Just beyond the civilizing confines of Crotones, the sun beginning to set over the desert produced the most beautiful sherbet colors in the sky. Fingers of them reached overhead, almost like a sign that everything was put back into proper order; as if God – or at least one of them – was content and had had his ire satiated.

A snippet of schoolboy Latin resurfaced in my mind as I glanced upwards.

Sicut erat in principio,

et nunc, et semper,

et in saecula saeculorum.

Buoyant and curse-free, I ran back to our inn, avoiding the main plaza as much as I could and the delays I’d encounter there caused by the ongoing fiesta.

“¡Hola!” I sang out to the front-desk woman before mounting the steps two at a time.

I rushed into our room. “Honey!” He was not there…. “Gordon?” What if it was too late….

I heard some muffled sounds back from the way I’d come. After a minute or two of investigating, I figured out where they were coming from and burst into Sadeeq’s room.

Still holding onto the doorknob, I stood frozen, forced to witness an unaccountable scene.

The poet was astride his bed, lying face up, hands supporting the lower back of the young woman he was buggering, reverse cowgirl! Neither one was plussed by my presence, and I glanced down and saw a boy in his late teens sitting in a chair and also watching intently, as if taking mental notes. He occasionally tugged at the erection in his cargo shorts, and I judged the girl and boy to be siblings, for they both looked exactly alike.

“What ya up to, Kohl?”

“Have you seen Gordon?” I asked the poet.

“Nope.”

I was halfway out the door, when I turned back out of sheer curiosity. “But Sadeeq – you’re fucking a girl.” Confusion sounded in my tone.

“I know. The sacrifices I make for my Art.”

‘Huh?’ I wondered.

Continuing to roger her, the mad poet explained: “You see what I must endure? The mother dropped them off before heading to the fair, so I’m tutoring them per the mother’s express wishes.”

He winked at me lewdly. To the boy he said, “Don’t worry, your lesson’s coming up next.” Then the social media maven caught the youth eying my crotch. Sadeeq gallantly asked me, “Unless you’d like to do the honors, Kohl. You can be my substitute teacher to the chico if you want.”

“Gracias, no. I have to find Gordon—”

Just then the boy in question appeared at the door. He was smiling, peering over my shoulder at the scene in Sadeeq’s room, and still wearing his elotes uniform.

I grabbed him, closed the poet’s portal behind us, and ushered my husband into our room.

After I closed our door, I joined him in the center of the space to hug and kiss my boy.

Fairly astounded, Gordon held my shoulders and pushed back a little. “What has happened?”

Giddy as a schoolgirl, I bit my lower lip, enjoying the sweet savor of anticipation.

“I’m on club nine, or in seventieth heaven – however you say it.”

Gordon scowled.

I winked and smiled, ending his suspense. “I got it back, baby.”

“Got…. Got it back…?”

I nodded. “Yep. My ju-ju. Want to see?”

“I can see already, husband.” He grinned, reaching down to caress me through my sweatpants.

I pulled off Gordon’s shirt, and then my own.

The ruby twilight burnished his body to perfection.

Barely able to suppress my giddiness anymore, I stepped back, tugging open the bow closure of my running pants, and lowered both them and my drawers to my ankles. I stood fully upright again, hands on my hips to give my man an unencumbered view.

Gordon’s eyes popped; his jaw went slack as his noggin did a boyish doubletake.

“I’m cured, honey. Come check it out for yourself.”

He approached slowly, and I used Gordon’s hands – both of them – to cradle my gradually tubbing member.

“Kohl…?!”

“I know, right.”

“How did it happen?”

“Remember my dream on board the Ekdíkisi? The one where Priapus took me to the top of a hill and had me choose the world versus you? He wanted me to choose.”

“Yes, I remember,” he said distractedly, already beginning to play with me.

“It’s here! The hill is the top of the spring church. I went there, and this priestess used the holy water, oil and then….”

“And then what?” He held my eyes.

“She smeared it all over an eBay strapon and fucked me like she meant it. I know, you’re thinking ‘he’s never let me—’ But this was my first; I swear it, honey.”

“And this fucking cured you?”

“Yeah. Well, while she was ‘doing it,’ I had a vision that Priapus was finally pleased with me, and you know what? I shot a huge load – just buckets – I never came like that before.”

My boy smiled in a sultry way. I was fully hard now.

“Oh, oh,” I added, “and I have this for you.” I took off one of two identical priapic pendants from around my neck. I placed it over Gordon’s head, telling him, “Fala Diosa, the priestess, gave us these to wear. She said it’s a sign to other initiates that the God has blessed us. She said, ‘Go and spread his seed, my sons.’”

Gordon blinked with doe-y eyes and caressed the golden cock upon my chest.

Only when it was against my man’s alabaster skin did I realize it meant all those others we’d seen wearing this ensign – during our seemingly endless quest for a cure – had been fucked by the nature spirit too.

‘Gott im Himmel,’ I thought. ‘That’s some way to develop a loyal cult following: screw ‘em one at a time!’

Wondering, and following a hopeful notion, I touched Gordon’s basket. I undid his chinos and lowered them. Using my fingertips, I traced the outline of his cock over the fabric of his boxer briefs, and kept going, and kept going…halfway down his inner thigh.

My man was amazed, but I wasn’t. “You’ve been blessed too, baby.”

I pulled his shorts off, salivating as I dropped to my knees.

Raising it up – with both hands – I lifted my grateful eyes and said sincerely, “I’ve been a lousy lover to you, Gordon. I promise to do better, to be the full man you deserve. And I vow to make up for lost time…starting right now….”

He smiled, but wordlessly laced fingers through my hair, guiding me assuredly to my work.

I licked along the shaft, making him moan in pleasure, and causing the mighty member under my control to have its first jolt of life.

Holding it up along the sides, so the head passed his navel, I caressed it with my tongue from base to flaring tip. It became increasingly difficult to restrain it, so I let it fall into my open mouth. Again, finding and maintaining contact with his eyes, I slowly let it slide along my tongue with no pressure. Halfway in my mouth, I allowed my lips to encircle his shaft and suck.

The fingers on my scalp convulsed in pleasure, and the rod in my throat pulsated once or twice.

Letting it come back out, I repeated the procedure, and this time savored the honey-sweet taste of my beautiful man’s precum.

I settled back on my haunches, where I could be comfortable for a good long time, and let Gordon take control. In another thrust or two, he was face-fucking me, getting acquainted with the new length and girth of his dick, and boldly training my throat in the same dimensional equations.

I loved to apply suction as he withdrew, knowing how incredible the pressure feels when the hood draws back to the lips like this.

My hand found my own stiff ‘blessing’ and slowly worked it up and down: I did not want to go too fast, knowing the second orgasm after a long period of abstinence feels even more incredible than the initial breaking of the fast. And I wanted Gordon and me to come at the same time. It was going to be incredible.

His hands stroked the back of my neck, shoulders and caressed manfully along either side of my spine. My ass tingled with longing, knowing it had been missing so much for so long….

I stood into Gordon’s kiss. We hugged and helped each other kick and step out of our clothes. Then I led him to the bed, asking – pleading really, “Please; will you please, Gordon, fuck me?”

Happy and amazed, a joyful sort of moisture gathered in his eyes.

I lay down, head pointed towards the window while my boy retrieved the lube from the top dresser drawer.

Climbing on, the gilding light from outside animated his sleek form. His feline movements made me think of the spotted leopard so beloved of the boy-god of wine. He could devour me now if he wanted; I’d die happy.

Instead, he knelt by my lower extremities, cradled my legs over the top of his thighs and spread some lube on two fingers.

“Ready?” he asked.

A nod and eyebrow flare later, he was pressing the cool wetness around the perimeter of my portal. Actually, it felt soothing compared to the olive oil and pepper mix Fala Diosa had used.

I arched my lower back slightly to signal, and he slipped a finger in.

My dick reacted with an awesome bounce on my belly, and deposited a pearl of precum there.

He worked his digit in, going deeper at my insistence. Soon, the second finger was in there too, exploring and lubing the walls of my passage from every angle. He twisted his hand, and made me moan.

My neck arched too, allowing me to see out the window, but the only visions I’d see from now were of my husband’s incorruptible loveliness.

He withdrew, and I settled back on my pillow to watch him. More lube came out of the bottle and anointed his holy member, with him paying special attention to leaving the bulk of the slippery stuff on the head.

Gordon dumped the container and scooted up on the mattress, lifting my feet in the air as he did.

Romantically, just as I often did when first entering him, Gordon used the weight of his upper body to pin my legs down. His hands rested on the bed to the right and left of my ears, and he brought his face close to mine.

We were only inches apart, ready to gauge and savor the other’s pleasure, so I reached underneath with one hand and guided his cock in.

Breaching the opening initially made me wince – which caused my man to hesitate for fear of causing pain – but I latched onto both of his thighs, held his eyes steady, and pulled him deeper into me.

The sensation was amazing: life-altering, really. And Gordon felt the same, if I judged his tender blinking and searching of my features with his eyes, and the mouth standing open and exhaling a sweet breath of astonishment were any clue.

He continued halfway in, and I tugged on the back of his knees to give him more space. He took advantage of it and sank his dick into me to the balls. I thought I might lose consciousness for a second, but the insistence that my cock was having an incredibly good time kept me alert.

My man’s gaze on me was so beautiful. As he pulled out and began to develop a rhythm of fucking me, my fingers played with the curls near his ears.

He glanced away, concentrating on his work, and I told him, “Feels so amazing, baby.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted.

“Baby….”

“Whaaat….”

“I love you.”

“Uhhh…I….”

“Honey…?”

“Kohl, less talk; more fucking.”

I pulled him down for a kiss. My husband was always right, and I settled back while he worked up an amazing head of steam.

Eventually, Gordon raised himself kneeling position, holding my legs in both hands, and thrusting me good and deep, over and over.

I could tell by the quickness of his breath that he was nearing a magic moment, and I allowed myself to touch my dick – which was aching from neglect.

I paced my movements to Gordon’s incredible march to climax, matching him stroke for stroke, never feeling more alive or connected to the world, and all though the ministrations of a particular ‘one’: the man I loved more than life itself.

His eyes suddenly fell on mine with a mixture of pain, ecstasy and determination.

I stroked harder.

“Kohl; Kohl?” he said.

“Yes, baby.”

“I”—he slammed me balls-deep again, making my prostate teeter on the verge—“love the hell out of you. You’re my man. My only one.”

I started to cum, and I mean really cum. Jets of it sailed past my ears, towards the twilight locked in the frame of the window.

He fell on me, and I felt his mighty member unload in me. It didn’t stop, and matched the rhythm of my sexy stud’s breathing close to my ear.

I caressed the back of his head, felt the slight slick of perspiration on the back of his neck with loving gratitude. At last I knew what it meant to be a true man.

“Thank you, Gordon. I love you so much, and always will.”

He moved his head and kissed me.

Without another word, both of us drifted off to sweet, dreamless sleep – his dick still firmly rooted where it always should have been.

˚˚˚˚˚

Late at night, the moonlight poured into our room.

Gordon and I lay arm in arm, exhausted but able to slip some clothes on at last. Our sunset siesta hadn’t lasted very long, and now, after several verse flip-flops sessions where the life-affirming juices flowed in both directions, we just enjoyed the peace.

Sounds of the fiesta coming to an end drifted through the window. “It’s a shame,” said my husband. “But the party will be over and done within an hour or so.”

“You enjoyed working there, didn’t you?”

“You know, I did. I like rolling up my sleeves, getting my hands dirty, and making things happen. It’s all the better when it brings joys to others too.”

A sight of the Sanchez family nursery flashed across my mind. “I know you do, hon. You’re so good at so many things. You’re much brighter than I am, that much I know for sure.”

“Finally admit it, huh?” He poked my side with a laugh.

“Yes. I’m finally admitting a lot.”

There was a gentle rapping on the door.

“Who is it?” I called out.

“It’s me, Squiffy Wellington, dear boy. Do open up.”

We stood, smiling. I flipped on the light and unlatched the door.

The former TV star allowed Cáliza to enter first, then trundled in behind her with a pair of bags. He hurriedly closed the door.

“What’s going on?” my husband asked.

“¡Ay, señor!” the unemployed Puerto Rican maid said, running up to and grasping at Gordon. “You are in danger.”

“It’s true, old boy – both of you. Cáliza and I are getting out on a north-bound truck right now. But there’s a bus leaving in half an hour, carrying the fiesta musicians back home to a neighboring state.”

“Sí. You better to be on it!”

“But why?” I asked. “What’s changed?”

Squiffy explained: “The town’s wise to the poet’s scam and are planning a suitable revenge.”

“Oh, geeze,” Gordon muttered.

“Revenge for his awful poetry…?” I remained a bit cloudy, gleefully fucked stupid as I was.

“No, old sport. Revenge for promising to pay out large when this non-existent shipwreck money rolled in. They know none will be coming.”

“Ohhh.”

Cáliza and Squiffy rushed to one another and stood in the center of the room like a spotlight was pointed there. They embraced dramatically. “You see,” said Wellington, “my dear girl, angered by the rough and rude conduct of that woman, sneaked into Estallida's supply of Spanish fly and took it all.”

They giggled, and Squiffy pressed a finger to her lips. The washed-up TV presenter continued seriously. “This dear girl and her lovely blue-green pills have cured me, my boys. Cured! And better yet, I don’t want to drink – much – when I’m with my little fire-cracking petardo.”

More tittering laughter followed a pair of tweaked noses. Then they indulged in a long-lasting tongue kiss. Gross; I wish they wouldn’t force their 'lifestyle choices' down our throats….

Cáliza broke off first, glancing at her watch. “You’re on your own, and they will be acoming for you too. So, epack – now!”

I scrambled for our bags; the het couple skittered for the door; but my husband stood still and asked very insistently: “Um, guys – what about Sadeeq?”

Cáliza stamped her little foot. “There’s no time to warn him. He’s being feasted now by the Consejo Municipal.”

“By the town council, chappies – being fatted by the powers-that-be before slaughter.”

Gordon pleaded straight to me as the others picked up their bags, “We have to warn him.”

I said, “But baby, now with my cure, it’s time to start our HEA. No more getting dragged into crazy adventures.”

Cáliza puzzled. “Hay-chee-eh?”

I stared right into Gordon’s eyes. “Our Happily Ever After.”

Gordon slowly reached out and took my hand. He said hastily, “We’ll text him from the bus.”

˚˚˚˚˚

Well, that’s our story, and now it’s done.

As for what happened to the hasbin TV chef and the laid-off lady’s maid, El Señor Esquiffy and Cáliza post things periodically on social media. They’ve relocated to Monterrey, Mexico, so the firecracker can pursue her career in Country Music singing. You might be happy to know Squif is back on the boob tube! But he appears now as the laughable, bungling weatherman for a local station. People are once again checking out the movable trainwreck that is Wellington on their televisions, and the man’s ego is suitably oblivious as to why. Bless his heart that he could live all these many years never knowing people are laughing at him, and not with him. In any event, Cáliza and he seem happy, and they’ve even opened a dog rescue center. Aww. I can see Squiffy now, the cynic-savant, taking care of the poor mangy mongrels – or, not. lol.

That’s about it.

Oh. I guess I can hear you asking ‘So, what about Sadeeq?’

We texted him from the bus; whether or not he read it in time, we can’t say for certain. However, after Gordon and I got to safety, we checked all of Amergin’s social media sites. On his Facebook page, we found this one final, sad posting from the mad poet.

Mondo, addio!

 

How like Prometheus is an artist,

Punished for bringing enlightenment’s spark;

The brighter the flame, the more the catalyst,

The more target he becomes with a mark.

Critics rip the creative man’s liver

Like the Titan’s immortal vultures do,

But envy drives the literary skiver

To tan the writer’s hide each word anew.

And so, fair world, farewell – I’ve tried my best –

If my life is judged to have fallen short,

Chain my soul on the mountaintop with the rest:

Better to try than ever Art abort.

Gladly I’d die than bow to attackers,

For my work shall live, despite detractors.

Ultimately, he sacrificed himself willingly as a creative soul, because the next day, the town pushed him off a cliff.

I can hear his final words echoing off the canyon walls as he went.

“Nobody respects poets

 

anymore –

 

more –

 

ore….”

Gott im Himmel, he died for Art’s sake, for Fuck’s sake. Poor bastard absolved the sins of the rest of us. Well, good on ‘im, I suppose. In other words, better him than me.

Speaking of yours truly, part of me is aware just how melodramatic an ending this has turned out to be. But, if it was good enough for great Gay artists like Petronius, Oscar Wilde and Tennessee Williams, I guess it will have to be good enough for the truth.

Sometimes, as even the critics will admit, the truth is a hell of a lot stranger than any fiction, and so it turned out for us.

Oh. And then I suppose you’ll want to know a bit about what happened to my husband and me. Right…?

Let’s just say, Gordon and I are out there, doing what’s needed to get by. But we’re happy; just look around carefully and you may spot us. There’s a lot of us out there, and don’t you ever doubt it.

So if some day, while out walking, you spot two suspicious yet loving-looking lads up to no good; or if on a Sunday you’re kneeling in church, or having a picnic in the park, or grocery shopping and happen to see a blissfully happy same-sex couple; or perhaps you find yourself in a restaurant and see young love on display as a quiet exposing of tender hearts to the trust of one another – say one milkshake with two boys attached via straws – know we will be there too.

It matters not if our story were two thousand years old, fresh as a daisy and set right now, or revised and re-packaged two millennia in the future – we will always be out there, loving each other, living our lives, doing what we need to get by, and making ourselves happy.

So, that’s our tale of getting my mojo back, and as they used to say in print books of old, this is the end {for Fuck’s sake}.

~

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Kohl informs me he's busy scribbling a post scriptum -- says that he forgot some stuff -- and it should be ready for posting on Friday
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