The kiss
Posted by David N. Guy | May 10, 2010 | Comments Off
They’ve been working hard on it all week, this kiss, preparing themselves in front of the mirror, sucking on the backs of their arms and pretending it’s their new lovers neck, reciting the words they’ll say as they draw near, the hesitant trembling touch as they reach out a hand towards their partners cheek. And now they’re here, together, alone, and neither of them know what to do, what to say. The silence has stretched out for what seems like a month. Time and space have solidified around them. They feel like they couldn’t even move if they wanted to.
But then David breaks free from his paralysis, though whether through fear or sheer force of will he cannot tell. “We can do this,” he says. “We have to do this. We’ve waited so long.” He stretches his arm out, stiffly placing it on Nick’s shoulder. “We both want it.”
The contact releases Nick, life and courage flowing through his body. “Oh yes,” he says. “Oh yes.” He takes David’s hand into his own, puts his other hand on his lovers cheek. It’s sticky, like the skin is not quite solid, putty not yet set. It’s incredible, so sensuous, like placing a hand directly into his being. Emotions take hold, tenderness replaced by an animal roughness, their faces pushing in, their mouths locking, tongues pushing hungrily past each other, saliva spilling from the corners of their lips. Nick’s hands sink into David’s cheeks, drowning in the ectoplasmic depths.
David’s hands are busing undoing the buttons on Nick’s shirt, pulling, tugging, ripping at the fabric, desperate to get to the flesh beneath. Nick’s skin is cold, white, puckered, freshly waxed and quivering at the touch. He rubs his thumb over one of Nick’s nipples, its shape and solidity making it feel oddly like a Risk piece lost in a country all of its own.
Nick steps backwards, pulling his hands out of David’s face, clumps of puttyied flesh hanging from his fingers like jelly on an East End eel. He undoes his belt and drops his trousers, while opposite him David quickly, almost miraculously, disposes of his own clothes. David’s body is unformed, soft, clean, unlined and smooth, the only blemish the crude hairless genitalia stolen directly from a Greek sculpture. Nick stares at it, fascinated. He bends down, soundlessly moving his lips in a final prayer.
Outside, Gordon stands on the verge, forgotten, glowering and desperate, a face like Goya’s Saturn. He takes another bite from the corpse in his hands, anything to stifle the screams he can feel building in his heart.