Hi friends and readers:
Ah, beach season. The sights on the shore are always so nice. Schools and colleges are out for the summer and there’s always plenty of young flesh parading around in very little clothing. You see, there are benefits to living on an island on the Gulf.
I’ve had a productive day. I just finished the first draft of my new short story, working title, The Little Prince. I think it turned out quite well, but it needs a bit of tweaking to make it just right. I’ll get on that tomorrow. I had a great workout and swim at the YMCA. Now I’ve opened my first beer of the evening and it’s time to catch up on correspondence.
Oh, some folks have written and complained about my failure to post another installment of Dr. Fungo’s Amazing Time Machine. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget. I was just busy yesterday.
Here’s the final installment. And please, if you are under eighteen, this material is not suitable for you. Got that, youngsters?
* * *
Up close, with his clothes off, De Wilde’s body looks better than it did on stage — lean and defined. He stands by the bed in black briefs. His clothing drapes a chair while mine lies in a heap on the floor. I’m already naked and my boner wags before me. My pulse races and my belly flutters. I think, I can’t believe this is happening. All this time I’ve longed for De Wilde and now he’s here. I am going to touch him, intimately. Thank God for Dr. Fungo.
DeWilde stares at my penis, a smile playing on his lips while I lower the covers on the bed. He says, “You’ve got a huge dick.” (Not to brag, but it’s eight inches and thick as a broom handle.)
I sit on the edge of the bed and motion him to me. He stands before me. I hook my fingers inside the waistband of his briefs. Looking up, I ask, “May I?”
He nods his head, then I yank the briefs to his ankles and he steps out of them and his dick bobs before my face, pointing at the ceiling. It’s not as big as mine — maybe six or six-and-a-half inches — but it’s pretty, with a creamy shaft and a rose-colored head shaped like a plum. His nuts are snug in their fuzzy sac. I take them in my fingers and tickle while I seize the base of his cock with my other hand. I take his whole erection into my mouth. He hasn’t showered since his performance and I smell his sweat when my nose meets his brown pubic bush.
He moans, running his fingers through my hair. “God,” he says, “I love a good blow job.”
I let go of his balls, and while I suck him I feel his buttocks, squeezing and stroking. His ass is firm, as smooth and white as porcelain. I tease his butt crack with a finger, then work my digit inside the cleft, stroking his pucker, making him shudder.
He asks, “Do you plan to fuck me with that big pecker of yours?”
I stop sucking a moment. Releasing his cock from my lips, I look up at De Wilde and say, “If you’d like.”
“I would,” he says, winking, “but work on my dick a while longer. You suck very well.”
His remark produces warmth in my chest.
I slurp away, my mouth making the only noise in the room. De Wilde’s hands rest upon the crown of my head and he thrusts his hips, matching my rhythm. I hear his breath whistle in his nose. His cock nudges the back of my throat and I’m tempted to let him spew, but no, I want my cock buried in his ass when he shoots.
I take him on his back, his legs hiked, knees touching his shoulders, and he shudders when I press a dollop of lube to his pucker, when I slip a finger inside him. His hole is tight and it goes into spasms.
“Easy,” he whispers, “it’s been a while.”
I gaze into De Wilde’s face while I work the finger in and out, my knuckle stretching him, the lube smacking. His lips are parted and his teeth reflect lamplight. His face shines with sweat and his eyes are luminous — he keeps them locked onto mine and I see the loneliness which has always haunted his gaze.
I lube a second finger and join it with the first, then I stretch his hole anew and his breathing quickens. I poke his prostate and he sighs, anus flexing against my fingers. I take a chance and bring my lips to De Wilde’s forehead, kissing damp skin. I smooch his eyebrows, then his cheek. He does not resist and I nibble an ear lobe, then stick the tip of my tongue inside his ear and twirl it around and he moans.
Oh, good, I think, he likes intimacy. He’s a lover boy.
I withdraw my fingers and grease my cock while De Wilde watches, moistening his lips and holding his legs aloft. His pucker glistens with lube as I bring the tip of my cock to it and nudge. I seize De Wilde’s ankles to steady myself, looking into his eyes.
He shifts his hips on the mattress. “Take it slow,” he says.
I apply pressure with my hips and his pucker stretches and the head of my cock slips inside him. He grimaces, sucking air through his teeth. Placing a hand on my hip, he halts me.
“Give me a minute,” he says.
I do as he asks. I kiss his forehead and the tip of his nose, then I bring my lips to his and our mouths open and our tongues meet, they rub together like anxious snakes. Our chin stubbles make a scratchy sound, then De Wilde pulls his lips away. He pats my ass cheek.
“Go on now,” he says, baring his teeth. “Fuck me.”
He groans when my cock bores into him. His hole is tight and slick and it feels like heaven. I look into his handsome visage while I thrust, making the headboard drum and the bedsprings wheeze. De Wilde’s face is flushed and sweaty and his lips have darkened to a ruby shade. My pelvic bone slams his buttocks, making a slapping sound. His eyes remain fixed upon mine and they are a universe unto themselves, endless and enveloping.
I could stare into them forever, I tell myself. They’ve got a healing power.
DeWilde’s chest heaves as my cock stretches his pucker, while it jabs his prostate with a steady rhythm. He’s got one hand on his swollen cock now, stroking himself, while his other hand clutches one of my buttocks. We both sweat and our skins glow, reflecting lamplight.
“Kiss me,” De Wilde whispers.
I do so and his tongue enters my mouth, exploring, rasping against my tongue. His breath steams my upper lip while I thrust inside him, over and over. I feel a tingle in my spine and my cock throbs, jetting semen into De Wilde’s rectum. He senses this and groans, tongue still in my mouth. His breath huffs and his cock flings sticky pearls across his belly and chest while his anus flexes against my dick. I tear my mouth from his and I look into his eyes and a grin spreads across his sweaty face while he catches his breath.
I am still inside him when he blinks and says, “That was nice, Andre. We should do this again.” Then he shifts his weight and my cock pops free and I roll away from him, already missing our closeness. I watch him swing his legs over the side of the bed, then stand and stretch his limbs like cat.
I shake my head in amazement, thinking, He’s so beautiful.
De Wilde uses the toilet, then he says I should shower first; he needs to rest a minute.
While I soap myself I wonder if De Wilde and I might have a future. Sure, he’s married, but we could set up a trysting schedule, we could meet at motels. Imagine, I think, making regular time trips. I could stare into his beautiful eyes, again and again.
I emerge from the bathroom with a towel wrapped about my waist and find De Wilde seated on the edge of the bed, still naked, with my wallet in his hand. He looks at me with his brows knitted.
“Who are you?” he asks.
I raise my shoulders. “I’m Andre Zalelski.”
He shows me my driver’s license in its plastic sleeve. “It s says here you were born in 1951, that would make you twenty-one years old, but you’re my age.”
I stare at the license and swallow, not saying anything.
“Also,” he says, “this license says it was issued on September 22, 1975. How can that be?”
He flips through my wallet, then points to another item. “Your library card was issued in 1977, five years from now. I don’t get it.”
I take a seat on the bed, next to De Wilde, and the springs squeak.
I look at him and say, “Do you believe in time travel?”
He makes a face.
“I’m serious. Do you?”
He shakes his head. “Why are you asking me that?”
“I own a time machine. I traveled here from 1979 to meet you.”
De Wilde busts out laughing, bending at the waist. Shaking his head, he says, “I’ll tell you what, Andre or whatever your real name is. You are one crazy motherfucker.”
He reaches for his undershorts. Rising, he puts them on, then his blue jeans.
I touch his forearm. “Don’t go; we need to talk.”
He looks at me like I’m nuts. Shrugging my hand away, he pulls on his socks, then reaches for his boots.
“Brandon, please. Stop a minute and listen. There are things you must know, future events–”
“Look,” De Wilde says, raising a hand and scowling, “the sex was nice, but maybe we shouldn’t see each other again.” He pulls on his t-shirt, tugging at the hem and adjusting the fit.
“There will be an accident with your motorcycle on July sixth, five days from now. I came to warn you.”
His eyes narrow and he raises his voice. “Cut it out, will you? I don’t want to hear this crap.”
He dons his jacket and reaches for his keys.
I rise and approach De Wilde, grabbing his forearm, squeezing the leather. “I’m not crazy,” I say. “What I’m telling you is true.”
He seizes my hand and pulls it from him. Eyes glaring, he says, “That’s enough. Don’t touch me again, please.”
When he reaches for the door knob I say, “July sixth, Brandon. You can’t ride your Harley that day.”
He opens the door and enters the hallway. He strides toward the elevator.
Standing in my doorway, I cry, “Remember July sixth.”
He doesn’t look back. The elevator dings and the door opens and a couple get off and De Wilde gets on. He presses a button and the door closes and I’m left there in my bath towel, my eyes brimming with tears. The couple who got off the elevator stare at me like I’m a lunatic when they pass in the hall.
I spend two more days in Denver before my scheduled return to Florida. Twice I try to rendezvous with De Wilde in the parking garage, but his Harley isn’t there on either evening and I presume he is avoiding me. Who could blame him?
I pen a note to De Wilde on Hotel Teatro stationery, addressing the envelope to him in care of the Stage Theatre. I write:
Brandon, I know you think I’m nuts, but I’m not. Don’t ride your motorcycle to the theater on July sixth, please.
I’m glad we met.
A first class postage stamp costs me eight cents.
I’m back home. It’s 1979 and I’m seated in my kitchen, after visiting the public library. I viewed New York Times microfiche (again) and the news reads the same as before: it reports De Wilde’s death in Denver, describing the accident and the Harley Sportster he drove.
I drum my fingers on the table and my eyes grow teary and I feel absolutely awful. How could this be?
I ask myself, Is De Wilde’s blood on my hands? Did I fail as a time traveler? And why didn’t I change the course of events?
I tell myself, You must write Dr. Fungo. You must ask him these questions.
Perhaps he’ll have answers.
Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009
* * *
Well, did everyone enjoy the story? If you did, send me a comment and tell me what you liked about it. Negative comments are welcome as well. I don’t mind criticism.
Have a great Monday evening, all.