Innocents Abroad
Sounds. Drifting down the hall. A door mistakenly left ajar. I smiled. They were at it again. Our neighbors were two sweet guys. But they had no shame. They also quite frequently forgot that they were now in the big city. Doors should be shut. Locked. Not everyone was as understanding as Jeff and I.
Beyond the entry door and its buzzer there was no security in our building. You might find anyone wandering the halls. You shouldn't. But you might. We'd tried to get the point across. And. No one ever knew all his neighbors. Their prejudices. What might spark interest, anger, rage.
This idea they totally rejected. They moved through this world, its good and its evil, smiling. Greeting strangers with an openness that startled the city's jaded inhabitants. Having known or knowing someone who knew someone touched by the city's filth they smiled back and then shook their heads.
Nothing swayed these two's belief that people were basically good. Like back in their hometown. Somehow even there they had never experienced raw hate. Jeff and I listened to their recollections with wonderment. We both knew the trials of growing up gay in a small town. From our prospective their lives had been blessed. Or, just maybe, they were in denial.
I moved on down the hall. Stopping outside their door I reached out and pulled it shut. Later. A reminder that it should be locked. Visitors checked through that damn peep hole. We did it. And, hell, except for the fact that we were two guys living together few knew we were lovers. They knew. Although they were unsophisticated they had that innate ability to identify others of their species. Gaydar. What an ugly term.
Jeff was late. I was washing lettuce when I heard the key. Over dinner we caught up on the day's events. He shook his head, his lips drawn between his teeth, when I described my friendly gesture. We agreed, fearfully. Someday. Unless they changed something would happen. They were just so naive.
I knocked. Behind the door were mumbles that grew silent. Billy threw open the door. Standing there an instant smile lit his face. They had made few friends since their arrival. Lived in their own world. Loved in their own world. Totally self sufficient. But they had adopted us immediately. Big brothers. Fellow travelers they were always glad to see. Enjoyed. Opened their lives to without reservations.
Bobby lay sprawled on the sofa. Clearly they had been snuggling, watching the TV, the sound muted. More than just snuggling. Jeff apologized for the intrusion. Billy grabbed a shirt off the floor and shrugged into it. Bobby sat up, snagged shorts with a toe and tugged them up, bouncing to pull them past his rear. He had trouble arranging things so he could button them.
They listened to our pleas without a flicker of concern. Jeff started with an admonition about not answering the door like Billy had. No inquiry. No visual check. I chimed in about coming home to find their door open. Reiterated the dangers. These two were ripe for disaster. Jeff gave me that look. We'd tried again. All to no avail.
Later. Much later. Lying content, satiated, sprawled across the bed while Jeff spent his usual after time in the bath, I was drifting, euphoric. A cold clamminess covered me. Although the window was shut, the air conditioner still, the curtains stirred. There was an unpleasant presence in the room. I bolted upright. An unnamed fear clutched my heart. It was pounding. I snapped on the light. Nothing.
I didn't tell Jeff. I couldn't. Tell him what? That I had felt evil. That a thirty nine year old man had experienced the boggy man. Imagination. Premonition. Bad tuna salad. Sure as hell wasn't bad sex. With Jeff that was impossible.
Nights later, a week, no, more like two, it happened again. I was alone. Jeff out of town to a sales convention. Couldn't sleep. Seldom could without my security blanket to snuggle into anymore. It had been a hectic day. Normal. But hectic. Finally I drifted off, curled around one body pillow, two regular pillows and a pile of bedding. Piss poor substitute for Jeff.
This time it started with a dream. I don't dream. Correction. Haven't since high school. Vivid. Unknown parties. Drenched in a glowing orange syrup. Dripping off fingertips. Running down to stream from the end of half erect penises. Hands reaching. Pleading to me. Orange goo slowly turning red. Drops falling from outstretched arms. Blood. Faces obscure.
Moonlight. The place, a cemetery. Their flesh began to melt. Pink and tan merging to drop onto the ground with the flowing red. Soaking in. Disappearing. Nothing but headstones. Jeff's name. I screamed. Blackness. I hunched in the middle of the bed hugging my legs to my chest, shivering as the cold washed over me.
I was wide awake. Or still dreaming. This time it was the closet door. It moved, slowly opening. I couldn't look away. Nothing physical emerged. Nothing I could see in the darkness. Still I felt a presence. And this time I smelled it. Dust. Musky. Old. A basement left abandon for years. I lunged for the light and lit the room. Empty.
I pinched myself. I grabbed and squeezed a ball hard. It hurt like hell. Damn fool. What was happening? Sleep was impossible. Turning out the light was impossible. I read. I fixed breakfast at 2 a.m. I refused to reenter the bedroom, sat drinking coffee, stared at the TV, the world outside. Normal. Violent. Greedy. Switched to Lucy. Lucy's always on somewhere.
I was a wreck at work. Jeff returned midday. Called all pumped about the convention and the seminars he'd attended. Even over the phone he could read me. Wanted to know what was the matter. I sluffed it off on problems at work. Took off early. Needed to see him, hold him, make love.
There he lay. His familiar snores softy reverberating through the room. That damn pixie smile. Tousled hair, straw blond, just a bit too long for corporate America, but not enough to cause concern. Tawny skin on stark white from mid waist up. The rest encased in the top sheet from his pre slumber tossing. One half a foot peeking out.
His bags were at the foot of the bed. One open with a mess of clothes spilling out. Atop the other a box, wrapped in silver foil. My been-a-good-boy present. He always brought me a been-a-good-boy present whenever we were apart overnight. It was his way of saying there had been temptation but he'd passed. Lucky me.
I put things away. Laid the present on the dresser. Stuck the bags back in the closet. Disrobed, and chucked our dirty or questionable items in the hamper. Standing there I watched the slow steady movement of his breathing. He shifted. The foot disappeared. A hand, fingers splayed, rubbed across his chest and then descended under the sheet. He rolled on his side taking the sheet with him, exposing his back down to mid thigh.
Talk about temptation. I'd fallen for Jeff the first time I saw that rear end. Tight jeans I couldn't take my eyes off. It was one of those free public concerts in the park. Picked him up at a taco stand. We dated for two months before we decided this must be it. Both took a week's vacation. Never left the hotel bed until the third night. Saw Rosie in 'Grease'. Knew we'd been right. This was IT.
It still was after three years. I'd gotten hard just standing there. Looking at Jeff does that. Particularly looking there. He knows too. Loves to tease in public places. Out of work clothes he's always in jeans, or those damn running shorts.
Moving around the bed I reached and lightly rubbed one cheek. Smooth. With familiar reflex he thrust back and squirmed. I kissed the hollow where cheek meets thigh, lightly. His hand extracted it self and reached back to ruffle my hair. A half asleep, half awake hum of approval came muffled by the pillow. Kissing slowly down his thigh I tugged the sheet free and let it fall to the floor.
His voice, still muffled by the pillow, greeted me, asked if I'd got my present. I told him I hadn't opened it. Had a present of my own for him. Had missed him. Needed him. He stretched. Joints popped. On his stomach he turned his head, wrinkled his nose at me and mouthed an 'I love you'. I returned to kissing, more feverish now.
His temple lifted to meet my lips, surging back, taking me. I feasted. My hands lightly stroked his thighs. Gripped tight. Tan line, backbone, shoulder blades. Lips. Hungry. We joined. I rode my stallion with passion and with fear, images from the night haunting me as we moved together. I heard him urging me on. Hands locked together. Bodies, hot, smacking, constricting. Together. One. Oblivion.
We cleaned, steamed, kissed, joked in the shower. Rubbing against each other intimately in its box like confines. Soaping, letting the water stream over us. Hands finding ordinary places that only lovers know are sensual. Kissing. Toweling dry. Planning dinner. Or back to bed. Knowing each other. Still, I kept my secret.
Billy and Bobby slipped a dinner invitation under the door a few days later. Wanted us to join them Friday night, if we could. No conflicts on either of our calendars. Jeff caught Billy in the laundry room the next evening and told him we would be there. I felt strange all day Friday. Apprehensive. Uneasy. Snapped at Joan for no real reason. Great secretary. I apologized later that afternoon.
Thinking like the twosome we are Jeff and I both arrived home with wine for our hosts of the evening. One white. One red. Decided to take both. Bobby gushed over our offerings. Billy was busy clattering around in the kitchen. We'd gone fairly informal. Jeans, tee shirts. The boys were even more so. Bobby greeted us, after yelling through the door to ask if it was us, sans anything but a pair of silk boxers. Success. Somehow our warnings had soaked in. Billy strode out of the kitchen with a steaming dish in his hand wearing a novelty cook's apron. Nothing else.
The meal was a wild mix of down home American and exotic Chinese. Somehow it worked. Spinach salad, a spicy egg drop soup, fried chicken, steamed and stir fried oriental vegetables, almond cookies smothered with pudding topped by a thick caramel sauce. Everything but the cookies made from scratch right in their kitchen. After dinner it started.
We settled in front of the television and Bobby shoved a tape in the VCR. He settled in with Jeff on the couch. Billy pulled the matching chair over, offered it to me and curled at my feet his head resting on the front of the cushion, between my legs. Jeff shot me a quick tilt of his head. With a quizzical smirk he looked first at Bobby and then across at Billy. So the boys were interested in more than dinner. I'd once, shortly after we first met them, suggested to Jeff that a four way might be possible. He'd pooh poohed the idea. Now it seemed a clear possibility.
We'd experimented with multiple partners a few times. Even were infrequent participating members of a 'club' that met monthly, usually after hours at one of the gyms. Free wheeling, anything goes coupling, or just voyeuristic enjoyment, whatever you felt like. Every time we'd ended up more horny for each other afterwards. Never made any permanent connections. But the experiences heightened our own sex life for the following week or two. Like we needed extra stimulation.
What flickered onto the screen was a surrealistic, erotic but well plotted and acted presentation. High class porn. Surprising, not in content, but because the boys had it. Pretty sophisticated fare for those two unworldly country rubes. I started revising my evaluation of Bobby and Billy right then and there. Maybe they weren't as innocent, as simple as I had thought.
Billy made the first move. Shifted subtly so his head came to rest on my inner thigh. A hand rubbed my lower leg and then pushed under the rolled cuff to lightly touch bare flesh. When he wasn't rebuffed Bobby stretched, moved closer to Jeff and let an arm fall on his shoulders. I caught that action from the corner of my eye. When I heard Jeff's low growl I knew Bobby was snuggling in, nibbling an ear, sticking his tongue in, teasing.
The action on the TV was heating up too. Billy changed to stroking my inner thigh. As my legs spread the soft rasp of a zipper opening reached my ears. Since silk boxers don't have zippers I knew who's pants were being opened. I'd kicked off my shoes. Billy reached up to tug on my tee. I crossed my arms, stripped it off and dropped it beside the chair.
Moments later there were two disheveled pile of clothes and four nude bodies lit by the flickering light. Billy had used the available handle to tug me out of that chair and down onto the floor with him. We were stretched out, still semi watching the tape. Blindly groping. Exploring. I glanced at the sofa. A tangle of limbs. Neither Jeff nor Bobby was paying any attention to the TV. Heads buried in crotches they were too busy. Muffled sex sounds rose beside us.
Billy turned, heat burning in his eyes, the remote held up, questioning. I nodded. Click. Dusk filled the room. He stood, offered me a helping hand. We moved together. He whispered one word in my ear. I nodded again. He let the way to the bedroom, guiding me in the darkness. A bubbling gush. Waterbed. Arms open. Enfolding. Lips, chests, loins, thighs pressing. Hardness riding on hardness. Hips wiggled. Rolling across, back over. Wet. Thrusting.
From the open door a familiar groan and then another low rumbling growl. A tongue flicked across my teeth and then in. Hands, fingers spread, settled to clasp my bottom. Pressing. Shoving. Soft moans filled the air. Questions. Needs. Agreement. Legs opening. Billy offering. Table drawer. No other preliminaries. Wanting. Pressing. A tightlipped wail. Body shuddering. Penetration. Feet clasp tight, wide apart. Billy's face flush but smiling. Lips parting as the wail echoed and grew louder then faded. Lifting. Pushing. Drilling.
Together. Locked in a shuddering embrace. Gushing. Billy cried out. I howled and bucked into him harder, wilder. Head swimming. Gasping for air. Feeling his throbbing. Each release clamping tighter. Going. Exploding inside. Staying connected, alive, expended but unfinished. Continuing. Longer. Slower. His eyes wide. Fear. Pleading. Then changing, accepting, joining again, pushing, wiggling, crying out for more. A steady beat, trembling, thrilling, being one again.
Gradually it built deep inside. I was swelling even larger, growing longer, filling him, feeling the warm grasping. Billy was moaning, his head slamming from side to side. Begging me to finish. Never stop. Screaming denial. Shouting acceptance. I couldn't stop. Wouldn't. Grunting. Muttering filth, love words. Eyes clinched. Arms aching, muscles taut. Stretching, spreading his legs that trembled with the strain. Driving. Pounding. Lost.
I peaked. Gut wrenching tremors. Ejaculating. A yell caught in my throat. Nothing but a bubbling gurgle. Legs locked. Buried. Shivering as it flowed. Billy limp below me. Wonderment on his face. His eyes closed and relief, contentment washed over his features. I fought to loosen my hands and let his legs go. Calling repeatedly on our maker he lay spread eagle as I rolled off. It was over. I wanted to snuggle. With Jeff.
We didn't talk about it that night, nor in the morning. As usual I got home first. Dinner was already cooking in the crock pot. I was scanning the paper when I heard the key. As the door opened Jeff was telling one of the boys we'd had a great time. Commented we should do it again some time. He stepped in and shut the door. Gave me an intent stare and asked if he'd been right. I shrugged. His briefcase went on the desk, his ass plopped down beside me.
We talked. I admitted that it had been . . . searching for the right term the best I could offer was 'fun'. Finally he dug it out of me, the odd feelings, the happening, the dream. Everything except the tombstones. Somehow deep inside I felt it was all tied to the B boys and said so. Jeff was skeptical until it sunk in that for whatever reason I was serious, really bothered by it all. He wanted to know if I'd had experiences like this before. Admitting that I'd not even dreamed since high school didn't make things easier for him to accept.
The main point he made was that nothing strange had happened last night. Before, during or after. I had to agree. So there was no explanation. Just a feeling that we should cool it with Bobby and Billy. Jeff quickly agreed. It had been, using my term, fun but nothing special. Hot, steamy sex. But we already had that, in abundance. We sat looking at each other. That gleam began to sparkle in his eyes. Dinner was late. Very late. Thanks to the crock pot inventor.
It was nearly two months later when it happened. There had been no more ectoplasmic appearances, no dreams. We were still close with the boys. But we had passed a couple of times on offers to get together. White lies about other obligations. Bobby seemed a little miffed. It seemed that Billy didn't care one way or the other. Once in a while he'd greet me with a wink and give an imitation of his final invocation of the deity, breathy and teasing.
We'd dropped by just for a quick visit Wednesday after work. During the conversation I mentioned I'd have to work late Thursday. Told Jeff that made him the cook for dinner. Suggested he should get some tips from Billy. Again I praised Billy's culinary efforts displayed at the dinner. Jeff bantered back with a comment about how Billy'd seem to do a pretty good job after dinner too. I shot back with a crack about how he and Bobby sure got upset when the TV was turned off before the movie was over. All four of us sat an chuckled. Bobby looked right at me and asked if we were free for dinner Friday. I caught Jeff's eye. His look said it was my call. I told Bobby I'd let him know when I got home from work. Mentioned the late work might continue.
The apartment was dark when I got home. Jeff's briefcase was on the desk but Jeff wasn't there. So he was grocery shopping for something special and got delayed. Or some friend had called with a problem. Jeff was always holding someone's hand. But there wasn't a note. Grocery shopping. That had to be it. An hour later I began to panic. I called around. No one had seen Jeff or asked him to come running. By the second hour I was calling emergency rooms, frantic, knowing something was dreadfully wrong. This wasn't like Jeff. He would have called by now.
There was a light tapping on the door. I rushed over and, without the usual precautions, threw it open. Bobby stepped back, startled. He was pale, eyes puffy and red. I knew. I grabbed him and shook him yelling for him to tell me where Jeff was. Tears welled in his eyes. He pointed toward their door which stood open. He began to blubber. Words tumbled out, unintelligible, blaming Billy, crying for forgiveness.
Shoving him aside I raced into their apartment. Shambles. There had been a struggle, a fight. Billy lay half in half out of the bedroom door. He had been going in when the knife hit him. Its hilt stuck up from his broad back. The rug was stained, wet between his legs. His bladder had emptied as he died. The only blood was a small collection around the blade where it had entered. The larger mate for the knife that had struck him down lay by his outstretched hand, inside the bedroom. It and his hands were covered with blood. I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
They played these games. Had started when they were boys on the farm. Inspector Evers was kind, so many others weren't. Just another set of fag killings was their evaluation. It got splashed all over the front pages of papers, local and national because it was so gory, and because of the twins' story. First it was stray cats. Tortured. Killed. Or mutilated but alive, thrown deep in the woods, left to die. Bobby initially tried to blame it all on Billy. But somewhere during the questioning he broke.
They played these games. As soon as they got their drivers licenses they started picking up human strays. Bobby said he'd been the one to lure their pray. If he was responsive, interested, he got entertained in the back seat of their dad's car. The evil was random. Some just parted after servicing one or both of the boys or being serviced by one or both of them. Others. Others lay under the damp musky floor of the forest. Gagged, tortured, limbs sliced off, or bodies covered by repeated long shallow cuts, bleeding to death, unknown, unmourned.
They played these games. There had been a tramp farm hand that just disappeared. They'd let him play with them, got him frantic. Tied him down between trees in the woods, just more play. While Billy, or maybe Bobby, rode him the other waited and at the moment of climax slit his throat. Bobby told where he was buried. Bobby couldn't recall where all the other bodies were.
They played these games. Graduated. Left the farm. Moved from city to city. Adopted gay friends. Played the country bumpkins. Wormed their way into hearts and minds. Struck. Leaving a string of unsolved cases. Most police forces didn't care whether these cases were ever solved. One less queer. Lover's quarrels. Good riddance.
Inspector Evers told me I had been lucky. What had happened had been unplanned. The actual plan was to take both Jeff and I in our apartment. Leave us and move on. Billy had got impatient, and horny for variety. As Bobby told it he'd been planning the Friday party where we would end up at home with our two visitors. A party which we were not going to leave alive. But Billy concocted a problem and caught Jeff in the hallway. He'd just tossed his briefcase on the desk and went to help. That was Jeff. Bobby thought it was just going to be a sex thing. It could have been but Jeff wasn't willing. Bobby said he heard Jeff tell Billy that it was the two of us or nothing, that he didn't play around behind my back.
Billy went wild. Attacked Jeff. Blindsided him and left him groggy on the floor. Then he tied him down, ripped his clothes off and raped him. It was all wrong and Bobby knew it. He argued with Billy. They fought. During the fight, Jeff, groggy but hearing enough to know he was in danger of more than just being sexual assaulted again, slithered across the floor into the bedroom and was trying to use his body to prop the door shut. The next thing Bobby knew Billy was in the kitchen and then stormed into the bedroom with the knife. He hacked at Jeff, stabbing him over and over. The room was splattered with blood. Bobby was yelling for him to stop. He did, just long enough to step into the living room and tell his brother what he was going to do next. When he turned back was when Bobby struck. He backed away and began to cry. Hours latter he was calm enough to come to our door. Why hadn't he just left. Inspector Evers told me Bobby had said he couldn't leave his lover, his brother, his soul mate, the man he had killed.