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.It wasn't that funny, but Bobby wanted to laugh anywayThe moment became too long, tipped towards awkward.Before Bobby could say anything, Sandy did.“You are so pretty,” he said from the bed, his voice soft, sweet and melodic.Even though it was low, crushed by what had happened and where he was, Bobby could hear a tiny ring of the singer's old voiceYes, I do, Bobby thought as he pulled his sweater over his head.“Yes, I do,” he said to the man on the bedA whistle, not too loud; a whistle, not too soft.A conversational whistle, a casual whistle.It wasn't a whistle as a taunt, to draw attention to the subject or the whistler.Just a sound, a kind of a high pitched, single note hello.It had been bad, but it could have been worse.Still, that it came almost every time Bobby left his apartment was enough to make him clench his jaw, grind his teeth, and turn his hands into fists.One day it became too much for just a clenched jaw, ground teeth, hands made into fists.The night before had been a rough one, a five-alarm downtown that'd started with roaring flames and towering smoke as the sun set and ended with crumbling charcoal, rivers of black mud in the street, and a drifting sooty snowfall as the sun rose the next morning.Far beyond too tired, he'd staggered away from two weeks in the station.Far too tired, he'd stumbled home.Far too tired, he'd tripped on the front steps.Far too tired, he'd been mostly asleep when he passed the first apartment on his floor—the door that had been open.Then the guy in the apartment, who'd been standing in the doorway, whistled at him just one too many times."You're hard, aren't you?” Despite the place, the time, what had happened, his voice still had those lingering notes of his old timbre.Bobby had been prepared to say something else, but as he opened his mouth to say it—whatever that would have been—he didn't have to.He was hard.Naked, standing in a hospital room, feeling many things, none of them even close to arousal, he was hard.The world, which included that hospital room, seemed to get very quiet.He was hard.Very hard.He shouldn't have been, but he was.He knew he should be bothered by it, disturbed by the fact and the degree of his erection.But even as he began to do just that he stopped: that was for later and that day, in that hospital room, was for Sandy."Yeah,” he croaked out, like his voice hadn't been used for years instead of just a few minutes.“I am.I really am.My cock is very, very hard.""I knew it,” Sandy said, but that was all he said, offering no reason why he knew or even that he'd just been talking."I like you hard.Do you like to be hard? I bet you do,” the singer in the bed continued.“It's good to be hard.I'm hard too.""Yeah, I thought so,” Bobby said.He'd noticed the tenting of the stiff sheets a few minutes before.“Why don't you show me?"Sandy did.Bobby had seen cocks before, of course.Locker rooms and porn, plus a few other—and creepier—places.None of them had really been important.This cock was.A connoisseur, he wasn't.He couldn't tell if Sandy's dick was a good one or not.It was big, yes, and thick.It was lightly pink and purple veined.The head was fat and circumcised: it was like a mushroom with a pointed cap.It swayed, gently, back and forth on its own, without Sandy's hips helping it along—a sign of hardness that Bobby knew very well.Very well because his own cock was doing the same."I like it,” Bobby said, talking as if from the bottom of a very deep well."I like it too,” Sandy said from the bed, a catch in his voice: the tone echoing the strength of his erection.And that was all that mattered: “I'm going to jerk off.Do you mind?""Not at all,” Sandy said.“Not at all."Fucking faggotFrom that open door to his own door.Once a zombie, before a somnambulist, now jittery with humming tension, having to target his lock with his key three then four times before one went in the other and he went into his apartment.Fucking faggotJunk mail on the floor, a pile of catalogs and pleas for help from charities he didn't care about.All of them went from his hand into the trash.Stepping into the bedroom he flipped a switch, making light connected to it brightly spark and die.Fucking faggotGetting a new bulb from the kitchen he smacked his head on the cabinet door that was always coming open.Rubbing the top of his head he dropped the new bulb.It missed the small carpet completely, breaking with a sharp chime of breaking glass on the vinyl floor.Fucking faggotSweeping it up he hoped he'd gotten it all.But he hadn't [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.It wasn't that funny, but Bobby wanted to laugh anywayThe moment became too long, tipped towards awkward.Before Bobby could say anything, Sandy did.“You are so pretty,” he said from the bed, his voice soft, sweet and melodic.Even though it was low, crushed by what had happened and where he was, Bobby could hear a tiny ring of the singer's old voiceYes, I do, Bobby thought as he pulled his sweater over his head.“Yes, I do,” he said to the man on the bedA whistle, not too loud; a whistle, not too soft.A conversational whistle, a casual whistle.It wasn't a whistle as a taunt, to draw attention to the subject or the whistler.Just a sound, a kind of a high pitched, single note hello.It had been bad, but it could have been worse.Still, that it came almost every time Bobby left his apartment was enough to make him clench his jaw, grind his teeth, and turn his hands into fists.One day it became too much for just a clenched jaw, ground teeth, hands made into fists.The night before had been a rough one, a five-alarm downtown that'd started with roaring flames and towering smoke as the sun set and ended with crumbling charcoal, rivers of black mud in the street, and a drifting sooty snowfall as the sun rose the next morning.Far beyond too tired, he'd staggered away from two weeks in the station.Far too tired, he'd stumbled home.Far too tired, he'd tripped on the front steps.Far too tired, he'd been mostly asleep when he passed the first apartment on his floor—the door that had been open.Then the guy in the apartment, who'd been standing in the doorway, whistled at him just one too many times."You're hard, aren't you?” Despite the place, the time, what had happened, his voice still had those lingering notes of his old timbre.Bobby had been prepared to say something else, but as he opened his mouth to say it—whatever that would have been—he didn't have to.He was hard.Naked, standing in a hospital room, feeling many things, none of them even close to arousal, he was hard.The world, which included that hospital room, seemed to get very quiet.He was hard.Very hard.He shouldn't have been, but he was.He knew he should be bothered by it, disturbed by the fact and the degree of his erection.But even as he began to do just that he stopped: that was for later and that day, in that hospital room, was for Sandy."Yeah,” he croaked out, like his voice hadn't been used for years instead of just a few minutes.“I am.I really am.My cock is very, very hard.""I knew it,” Sandy said, but that was all he said, offering no reason why he knew or even that he'd just been talking."I like you hard.Do you like to be hard? I bet you do,” the singer in the bed continued.“It's good to be hard.I'm hard too.""Yeah, I thought so,” Bobby said.He'd noticed the tenting of the stiff sheets a few minutes before.“Why don't you show me?"Sandy did.Bobby had seen cocks before, of course.Locker rooms and porn, plus a few other—and creepier—places.None of them had really been important.This cock was.A connoisseur, he wasn't.He couldn't tell if Sandy's dick was a good one or not.It was big, yes, and thick.It was lightly pink and purple veined.The head was fat and circumcised: it was like a mushroom with a pointed cap.It swayed, gently, back and forth on its own, without Sandy's hips helping it along—a sign of hardness that Bobby knew very well.Very well because his own cock was doing the same."I like it,” Bobby said, talking as if from the bottom of a very deep well."I like it too,” Sandy said from the bed, a catch in his voice: the tone echoing the strength of his erection.And that was all that mattered: “I'm going to jerk off.Do you mind?""Not at all,” Sandy said.“Not at all."Fucking faggotFrom that open door to his own door.Once a zombie, before a somnambulist, now jittery with humming tension, having to target his lock with his key three then four times before one went in the other and he went into his apartment.Fucking faggotJunk mail on the floor, a pile of catalogs and pleas for help from charities he didn't care about.All of them went from his hand into the trash.Stepping into the bedroom he flipped a switch, making light connected to it brightly spark and die.Fucking faggotGetting a new bulb from the kitchen he smacked his head on the cabinet door that was always coming open.Rubbing the top of his head he dropped the new bulb.It missed the small carpet completely, breaking with a sharp chime of breaking glass on the vinyl floor.Fucking faggotSweeping it up he hoped he'd gotten it all.But he hadn't [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]