Too Much Rain, Chapter 15
May. 21st, 2014 06:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yes_2dayHopefully, here is something to read that will take your mind off Paul's mysterious virus...
John and Paul have a romantic getaway, and it reminds them of a much earlier time...Will it bring up old wounds, or help to heal them?
WARNINGS: R RATED. Some pretty hot sex scenes (more than one) in this chapter, so if it ain't your thing, be forewarned and act accordingly.
AND THIS IS ALL AS FICTIONAL AS IT CAN GET.
Chapter 15
Paul had hoped to learn where they were going when they got to the airport, but the car had delivered them to a small runway for private jets on the Gatwick Airport campus. The private jet stood waiting for them, and they boarded - Paul none the wiser. He had tried to wheedle it out of the stewardess, but she only smiled at him and shook her head ‘no’. John paid them well, Paul grumbled to himself.
“You might as well sit down and relax, Paul,” John said, chuckling, as he watched Paul in full-stress mode. Paul really hated not knowing what was going on. “We’re not leaving until you buckle up.”
Reluctantly, Paul took his seat, but he was glaring at John. He had quizzed John in the car on the way to the airport, but it had gotten him exactly nowhere:
“How long will we be away?”
“That’s a surprise.”
"I've got a concert premiering in 9 days!"
"Carl told me it's all just window dressing now. He assured me it was okay for you to duck out for awhile."
“But what about Linda and the kids…”
“Linda knows. She’s cool with it.”
“How much is this costing?”
“We can afford it.”
“How long is the flight?”
“Long enough.”
Oh, it was frustrating for Paul, all right, who was feeling quite irritable and anxious at the moment. John just smiled smoothly at him, and leaned over to buckle Paul’s seatbelt for him.
“I can do it myself!” Paul grumbled.
“But, since you hadn’t done it yet, I did it for you.” John’s face was pleasant and agreeable.
It pissed Paul off. He crossed his arms in front of him and leaned pointedly towards the window and watched the takeoff. John just chuckled to himself and opened his book. He was reading a biography of the Marquis de Sade, which - come to think of it - was kind of appropriate under the circumstances.
The flight was very short - under an hour. Soon, they were landing in a small private airport in a suburban area. Paul calculated that in such a short flight time they were either somewhere in England or Wales, or they could be in France. He figured it would be France, because it was by far the most romantic destination within that flight time radius. If it weren’t dark outside he would have been able to tell by the landscape. He turned to John and John was smiling at him with a very gentle expression on his face.
“I thought we would celebrate our 30th anniversary a few months early, for your birthday instead of in October.”
Paul was confused for a moment. Anniversary? 30th anniversary? Of what? In his head, Paul counted backwards to …1961. October. Paris. Ohhhhhh.
John saw the penny drop and laughed. “You’re a bit slow on the draw, pardner,” he said in a bad Texan accent.
Paul’s face cleared and then erupted in to a cheeky smile. “So - what now? Montmartre? Or the 2nd Arrondissement?”
“Oh, I think it has to be Montmartre, don’t you?” John asked silkily. After all, that was where “it” first happened.
Soon they were in a car driving into the city of Paris. It was their city. Of course, they had been here briefly during their tour over two years ago, and John had been here with Yoko, and Paul had been here with Linda, and each of them had been here with other friends over the years, but whenever John and Paul had gone to Paris, no matter who they were with, they had really been “with” each other. Each time each man would be privately thinking to himself, “there is the café where we had dinner that night,” “here’s the market where we bought those stupid trousers,” “that’s the street where Jurgen was staying, when he butchered our hair.” And each of them had found time over the years to find innocent reasons to drive down a certain road in Montmartre past a frankly dilapidated building, thinking only to himself, “that’s where we stayed the first time we made love…”
On this night the car drove to a road in Montmartre that had been smartened up substantially in the intervening 30 years. The top floor of the 4-storey building was a large, elegantly-appointed flat, which John had rented for four days - this time their stay in Paris would be a lot more gentile than the first time. But still, they would be alone. The maid would only come in during the day if they were not in the apartment, so they would definitely not be interrupted. They wouldn’t have to share the bathtub with other tenants, and observe the disapproving faces as they scampered naked, clad only in damp towels, to their room, giggling the whole way.
When the car rolled to a stop, they were out and carrying their own luggage to the elaborate wrought-iron-cage- surrounded elevator. It was slow - like an iceberg - as it moved up to the fourth floor, and delivered them finally to their private entrance. It was the dinner hour - 8 p.m. - and after they unpacked a few things, John suggested they go out and find a bistro for dinner.
“You have something in mind?” Paul asked, who had surprisingly slipped quite easily into a scenario where John called all the shots. Since everything thus far had been immaculately planned, Paul assumed everything else had been too.
“From now on, it’s entirely random,” John announced. Just like it had been on their first trip, when they didn’t have the luxury of planning nice restaurant visits or pleasant outings. They had just gone out and started walking, and found whatever happened to be in their path. John wanted to recreate that freedom: the awkward lapses of boredom had resulted in brilliant ideas like racing each other up and down the Eiffel Tower and venturing into a soppy old-style “gay” club not once, but twice. Without boredom, there was no time for ideas.
Paul felt excitement pulsing in his veins. No plans? No obligations? No idea what you’re going to do next? When was the last time that he had really felt that free? Swept up in his enthusiasm, he said, “John, let’s make a promise to each other to do something random like this every few years. So it never gets old.”
Laughing his agreement, John threw his arm around Paul’s shoulders, and they left the apartment. They took the stairs (it was quicker) and soon were out on the streets of Paris, each wearing a light anonymous looking jacket, and each with a baseball cap (which John had packed in their cases) pulled down over his face. Paul had a sensation that felt very close to a thrill as he walked shoulder to shoulder with John, his hands in jacket pockets. No one turned to look at them. Here they were - two men in their late forties/early fifties in one of the less wealthy areas of the city of Paris, where no one expected to see celebrities. They may as well have been invisible! Paul thought that this was a much better idea than staying in a 5-star hotel where they would have been dogged every step by the paparazzi, who were even more fervid in France than they were in England.
They walked several blocks before they found a bistro that didn’t look infected, and so they ducked in, and found a comfy corner and settled in. They ordered some vin ordinaire, choosing not to stick out by purchasing anything dear. The crusty bread and salty fresh butter were a wonder. Everything in the décor was just slightly on the wrong side of tacky, right down to the bad posters of can-can dancers on the walls. But John and Paul didn’t care. It was a trip down memory lane for them.
“Remember, babe? We were sitting in a bistro like this one, when I popped the question,” John said, raising a raunchy eyebrow.
“In the most roundabout way imaginable,” Paul said, deflating John’s remark, and sipping his wine with an insouciant tilt to his eyes, which peered at John over the rim. “It took me ten minutes to figure out what you were on about.”
“Whatever,” John growled, but he wasn’t really angry. He was in a very flirtatious mood. “You were clueless, and I was scared to fucking death.”
“Scared?” Paul asked, surprised. He was like his 19 year-old self again, unable to believe that his hero had any clay in his feet. “What were you scared of?”
John thought a moment before he decided to let the thought go - as if he were letting loose the string to a balloon that he had husbanded carefully in his hand for years. “I was scared of rejection, of course.”
Paul was quiet for a moment. He tried to remember what it was like to be 19 years old, and away from home in a foreign country for the first time (Hamburg didn’t count; it was too like Liverpool and most everyone spoke English there). He had been so excited. Everything was new and different. Tonight, as he reminisced, he actually felt - dare he say it? - young again. He did not realize it, but his 49 year-old face suddenly looked young and innocent again - and to John it was very like the face that had stared across a table 30 years earlier as he had sputtered out his pathetic proposition. John felt a strong pull of love and affection for the man sitting across from him. How could one person be so important to him? How could he never really tire of this person?
It was difficult for a vegetarian to find anything substantial to eat in a real down-to-earth neighborhood bistro, but while John compromised and had a perfectly baked halibut filet, Paul was able to persuade the chef to saute a bunch of vegetables for him, and pour them over some wild rice. The meal took a leisurely two and a half hours for the two of them to consume because they lingered over every bite and every sip and every word. But at just before 11:00 p.m. they reluctantly left the warmth of the bistro and braved a walk home in the cool night. As they walked, John slipped his arm through Paul’s. They walked companionably and their hearts were in perfect harmony. No one looked at them, because French men often walked arm in arm. It was one of the reasons why John loved France so much. Men also held hands - and it wasn’t considered odd - not to mention the kisses they gave to each other on both cheeks as a greeting. And couples, both straight and queer, had kissed with wild passion under the trees on the promenade along the Seine - day or night, rain or shine.
Paul had thought (it was one of his more mischievous thoughts) to stop at a shop on the way to dinner to purchase a bottle of whiskey, a cheap brand, much like the whiskey he had purchased that first night in Paris almost 30 years ago. That first night, he had needed to be drunk. As they had walked back to their pensione in 1961, Paul had been thinking of various ways to escape his fate. He had agreed, reluctantly, to John’s request to experiment sexually because he had felt cornered, but as they walked he had begun to think that it was weird, wrong, and - worse - he felt it would end up hurting them badly in the end. The last escape route left to him that night as they approached their pensione had been hard liquor. And a lot of it. Somehow, drunkenness had made what followed possible for him, despite his mother’s Catholic mores, and his father’s prosaic proverbs, and his whole family’s deep working class roots. What was it about John that made him forget all and sundry that had come before, and venture out into the unknown? Paul still didn’t know the answer to that question, but he no longer argued with himself over it. He had accepted it as a given; it was his fate to squire this man through life. Nothing else had ever made this much sense to him, and nothing else ever would.
The apartment was flooded with rosy lights from dim pink light bulbs, as John quietly made his way to the bathroom while Paul poured out some tumblers of whiskey for them. John came out of the bathroom wearing one of his (Paul could think of no other word) feminizing Japanese silk dressing gowns. But to Paul the gown was only evidence (gleaned from years of experience) that underneath, John was naked. And that suited Paul down to the ground. He handed John his tumbler and they clinked glasses.
“To us!” Paul said, and John echoed him. But then, a few moments later John suddenly said in a teasing voice,
“You said we’d never last if we fucked, you know.”
“I never!” Paul cried.
“You did! That night, in the café. You said it wasn’t a good idea, because it would end badly.”
“It did end badly!” Paul protested, thinking of the horrors of 1968 - 1980.
“No - that was only the middle! That was the second act! We’re living the third act now, and it isn’t a bad ending, is it?”
Paul smiled. “No, it’s not a bad ending. You were right, and I was wrong.”
John pretended shock at this rare admission of Paul’s. “Let me find a tape recorder. Will you say that again, into a mic?”
Paul’s response was an indulgent smile. He moved closer, and, pulling John closer to him by the arms, soon had John right before him, nose-to-nose. “I will say anything you like into a mic,” Paul said with a raw, sexy voice as his forehead leaned against John’s.
“Was this a happy birthday?” John asked timidly.
“Very happy birthday, and if I’m not much mistaken, it is about to get much happier…” Paul was maneuvering John in the direction of the bed. It was a relatively modest size - a cross between a queen and a double bed - and it appeared to be a bit lumpy. But none of that mattered to Paul at that moment. John, of course, was oblivious. He was lost in the dark green haze of Paul’s eyes.
Paul was in charge, and John wouldn’t have it any other way. Paul had been the one in charge on that first night, too, because it was hard enough for Paul to think about having sex with a man, but impossible to consider himself on the bottom! Not that it had mattered on that first awkward night. Neither one of them had any idea of what to do, even after perusing the gay porn magazines they had purchased. In the end they had did little more than furtively pump each other’s members under the covers after feeling each other up. They had fallen asleep side-by-side, and had been too embarrassed to meet each other’s eyes in the morning. Instead, they had done a lot of modest covering with sheets and unnecessary clearing of throats.
Tonight, Paul wanted to express his love for John physically, because in truth he was deeply touched and grateful for John’s birthday “gift.” They’d been through some rough times over the last few years, and this trip was John’s way of affirming to him that they had made it through to the other side. Many other couples had failed to survive such challenges, but here they were, still obnoxiously enthralled with each other, and raring to show it.
Paul gently pressed John down by his shoulders until he was seated on the side of the bed. Then he pulled off his own cashmere pullover followed by his undershirt. He frowned a bit at the slight bulge of fat around his middle, but figured John couldn’t see it in the dim light. So he stripped off his socks, trousers and underpants, but before he could do more, John pulled Paul’s hips toward his face. He was clearly going to pay some attention to Paul’s cock.
John gave excellent head. Way better head than any woman ever had given him. Paul figured that only a man could really understand how to give good head. A cock was a pretty ugly, obnoxious thing - more obnoxious than ugly when aroused, and more ugly than obnoxious when flaccid. And most women thought of a cock as something it was better to feel but not see. Tonight Paul’s cock was very aroused as John’s clever mouth played with the skin over, around, and below it. Then John’s gentle hands were cradling Paul’s balls, and soon John was softly licking and sucking them, one at a time. Paul heard himself groaning, and his knees went weak. He grasped John’s shoulders so he wouldn’t sink to the floor. John briefly stopped his ministrations in order to chuckle. He pulled Paul down on to the mattress with him.
Paul fell a bit on top of John and a bit to the side, and he let out a guffaw. But soon they were facing each other - John on his side with his face resting on his palm, propped up by his elbow, and Paul laying face up on the mattress. Their legs were tangled, and dangling over the side of the bed, but at the moment they didn’t seem to mind. John traced a finger down the ridge of Paul’s nose, and shook his head ever so slightly. It was such a beautiful face. The long eyelashes cloaked the eyes a bit, but John could still see into their depths. He was feeling weak inside, like he always did, when he was touching Paul.
“I love you,” John whispered. It was heartfelt and it hit home. John watched as the beautiful eyes filled with tears.
Paul tried to speak, but the first sound out of his throat sounded more like an attack of catarrh. Paul snickered at his own gauche sound, and then said, “I spoiled it. I was going to say, ‘I love you too’ but then this horrible sound came out…”
John was still feeling mushy inside. He stroked hair off of Paul’s forehead and said, “Don’t worry, you didn’t need to use words, babe, I saw it in your eyes.”
Paul pulled himself up on to his forearms and said, “Let’s get comfortable on the bed.” He was thinking to himself that the days of doing it on the floor, on the furniture and in weird positions were probably, for the most part, behind them. More’s the pity. But rather than dangling half on and half off the bed, both men opted to get comfortable under the covers, and then Paul reached over and pulled the chain to shut off the lamp.
Paul rolled over and climbed on top of John, and John brought his legs up, his thighs squeezing Paul’s hips firmly. John felt the tiny little kisses feathering up his neck, and soon they were on his jaw, and now he felt little harmless bites on his lips, which tickled and made John squirm. He could feel his own member swelling, and he had the urge to pump up against Paul’s pelvis a little. This earned him a sweet chuckle from Paul, who whispered,
“So impatient…”
Soon the pace and force of Paul’s kisses increased until John was literally writhing under his lover, silently begging for the hard core stuff to start. But still Paul teased him. He began kissing down John’s neck again, and now down his chest in the direction of John’s…
“Arhhh!” John’s inarticulate shout came without warning as Paul’s tongue played with the tip of his penis. Now John was thrusting and pumping in a kind of ecstasy that he knew would soon result in an eruption, if Paul didn’t stop soon. John wanted to come, yes, but not so soon! He didn’t want to…nooo!
Paul’s mouth left his cock and soon Paul was poised above him in the dark.
John felt bereft for a moment, until he understood what was going to happen next. It was the sound of Paul rustling for the lube on the side table that gave it away, and John’s body felt like it couldn’t wait another minute. He grabbed Paul on either side of his hips and pulled him down towards him, and locked his legs around the small of Paul’s back. Paul accepted the smothering kisses and the rubbing and pumping in good grace, but it was a bit frustrating. He couldn’t very well lube up his cock and put it where it belonged if John was going to cling to him like this!
John was chanting in a throaty voice now, very low and soft, “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Paul laughed and said, “I will! Let me go, and I will!”
Finally, Paul was free, and he took John’s hand and squirted some lube into it, and then brought John’s hand to his cock. John quickly got the idea, and began to slather it around, which only served to arouse it more. Meanwhile, Paul’s lubed fingers made their way to John’s opening, and he began to insert one and then two fingers in the hole, surrounding the whole area with lubricant. John grabbed his bent knees and pulled his legs back as far as they could go, and soon he felt Paul’s hand guiding his cock to the entrance. The cock poked around a little, like a curious woodpecker, and then found the opening, and Paul began to push.
Their sweating bodies felt erotic to each other, and the groans, and cries, and throaty swear words accompanied the sound of skin slapping skin, while the bedsprings filled out the rhythm section. Paul came first, quickly pulling out just in time. It was a bit hard sometimes for a guy to come when he’s the one being fucked, but John was still greatly aroused, and Paul had been there, done that, and understood what he needed to do. Again, he brought his mouth down to John’s cock and proceeding to give aggressive head, the sound of slurping just adding to the eroticism. John soon came, and Paul manfully took the gism to the back of his throat, and swallowed. He then crawled up the bed, and plopped down in an exhausted heap next to John. They lay there in the dark holding hands as their breathing went back to normal. Soon the breathing became very shallow, and first one, and then the other, dropped off to sleep.
Was it a dream or was it a memory?
John’s superego appeared to be asking the question in the voice of a narrator over the flashing images in his mind.
A memory, John decided. He realized he was in that half-awake place in the dark of the early morning when his subconscious felt as real and alive to him as his conscious mind. John had always had the ability to peer right into his subconscious, and be at one with it, while his conscious mind acted as a kind of translator. He heard the steady breathing from Paul in the bed next to him, and this comforted him. He was safe, and could sink back into that memory at his leisure.
It had been an awkward morning, that morning after. They hadn’t looked at each other. Paul had a terrible hangover, because he had made himself drunk with that cheap whiskey. John had not drunk nearly as much, because he had wanted to be compos mentis when “It” finally happened: when Paul would touch him, and he would touch Paul, in all the forbidden places. John did remember every bit of it. John watched as Paul covered himself up with a sheet as he searched for his clothing, which was strewn all over the floor. The clothes were strewn because he was still a teenager, and that is what teenagers do - throw their clothes all over the bleeding place. John, at 21, had grown out of this, and had neatly folded and stacked his clothes on top of his suitcase. John had watched Paul perform this routine from his place laying in bed, feeling sad, hurt, confused, nervous, worried, awkward, and even afraid. Still afraid of rejection. The funny part was, Paul was struggling with the sheet to cover his front bits, but his beautiful ass was hanging out the other side, and there it was right in front of John’s wondering eyes.
Of course they had seen each other naked before. They had seen each other pissing, pooping, throwing up, bleeding from the nose from fights, fucking women, and so drunk they couldn’t walk or talk. They had slept in so many little beds together while wearing their underwear only, and had changed clothes openly in front of each other in dozens of tiny rooms over the 4 years they had known each other, while in clubs, cheap rooms for rent, and hitchhiking. But never before had they done so after a night spent pleasuring each other sexually. This was what hung over the room - the throbbing knowledge of that strange departure from their usual practice of pretending they were just pals. John had felt his eyes fill with tears, and he turned over to face the wall to hide those tears from Paul, on the odd chance that Paul would actually look at him again. The tears came because for John, pretending to be Paul’s “pal” had been painful, and it had been a constant thread of buried pain in almost all of their interactions for years, but John knew that Paul really did believe they were just “pals”, and so he’d never suffered the way John had.
Paul had made an excuse to leave the room as soon as he was dressed, ostensibly so that John could get out of bed and dress in private. But in truth, Paul was running away from what had happened between them, and was hoping that enough distance between them would ease the awkwardness. For John, of course, this only made it much worse. That whole day, in fact, they had hung out with Jurgen, and behaved as though nothing unusual had happened between them the night before. John wondered how Paul did it. How did he compartmentalize such things, so they could literally be locked away and ignored? John’s feelings flooded in and out of each other without discipline or warning. And on that particular day John’s emotions were like a rogue giant wave out in the middle of the ocean at midnight. No other human saw it or experienced it, but it was ferocious in its wildness and strength.
The day had to end, of course. And at some point they would have to face what had happened between them. Jurgen had been only too happy to usurp all their time, and Paul at least seemed to cling to Jurgen as he provided a convenient excuse not to have to deal with his own confused feelings. Paul’s feelings. John’s thought process came to a quick stop. Funny how he hadn’t really given much thought to Paul’s feelings about the whole thing before, other than to resent the boy’s ability to compartmentalize them. Paul had been 19 years old, and still very much his parents’ child. It had to have confused him a lot, so no wonder he avoided the inevitable. But they call it “inevitable” because eventually it had to happen.
There was still half a bottle of bad whiskey left when they returned from Jurgen’s place, and Paul was eyeing it as they returned to their pensione room at around midnight. John saw Paul’s thought process as if it were written in a bubble over his head, and finally found the courage to say something.
“Don’t, Paul.”
Paul looked over at John, his eyebrow arched. That was his way of asking John to explain.
“You don’t have to get drunk. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.” John was hunched on the side of the bed, looking down at the floor between his feet. A long silence followed, and John was fighting off those humiliating tears again. Then he felt the bedsprings move as Paul sat next to him. Paul was quiet, and seemed at a loss for words. John swallowed the saliva that had gathered in the back of his throat and added, “I’m sorry I made you do that. It hasn’t ruined our friendship, has it?”
Paul still had no words, but he did put his arm around John’s shoulders, and gave and held a strong side hug. “I’m sorry I’ve been so weird about it, John. It’s like I don’t know where to look.”
John chuckled, though his eyes remained glued to the ground. “You could look at me, for a start,” he finally said, lifting his head and facing Paul.
Paul’s eyes did meet John’s, and this time they didn’t shy away. They held for a long moment until John spoke again.
“It isn’t wrong, you know. It’s what they all tell us, but they tell us all sorts of stupid stuff that isn’t true. It isn’t wrong to touch people. Touching is good.”
Paul was listening to John with open ears.
“You’re not going to go to hell because of it, Paul. There isn’t a hell. There’s only just this life, this one little life. All that religious crap is just to make people feel better about their little lives.”
Paul’s response was reflexive. “I don’t believe in religion, either.” It wasn’t really true - at least not at this point in his life - although it would be true for him later. Paul had just recently adopted this cool atheist position after meeting John, in order to impress him.
“Was it so awful that you can’t even talk about it?” John asked, his fear peeking through this time.
Paul shook his head. “No! No, of course not!”
But what else could he say? John smiled at him and saw that Paul was eager to make amends. It was clear in Paul’s eyes. It took every ounce of John’s courage to reach his hand up, and gently caress Paul’s cheek. “You want to try again?” he asked softly. “Maybe it will be easier the second time.”
Paul had blushed. His face was a burning shade of red. John knew that Paul never acted this way around women, when they asked him for sex. But, John remembered, I’m his mate; it’s hard for him.
John lay back on the bed, and gave Paul’s arm a gentle jostle. His body language and expression said it all: come join me down here. It was up to Paul. Paul had turned to look at John as he lay there, and it took as long as 30 seconds before Paul gave in. He lowered his upper body down until his back was on the mattress. He studied the ceiling, and was still speechless. John turned over on his side, and propped up on his elbow, cradled the side of his head in his hand. He looked down at Paul, who was apparently afraid to meet John’s eyes.
John’s other hand slowly lowered itself on to Paul’s chest, and he could feel the heart beating wildly underneath. This gave him confidence. The hand began to slowly travel down Paul’s chest, in the direction of his crotch. They were both fully clothed, but still John felt the electricity in his hand as he moved in the forbidden direction. Paul did nothing to stop him, but nothing to help either. His mind seemed to be in suspended animation, but his body was betraying him. When John got to Paul’s zipper, he played for a moment with the button at the top, and allowed his hand to brush over the crotch area below. He immediately felt that Paul had a generous-sized boner already. John felt a rush of euphoria because he knew that whatever fears and hang ups Paul had, he was just as aroused by the touching as John. So he sat up and, serious now, both hands at work, pulled Paul’s zipper down. He then grasped the waistbands of Paul’s trousers and underpants, and pulled them down far enough to expose the erect penis. To John’s eyes it was the second most beautiful thing he’d ever seen - after Paul’s ass. The lamp was on this night, whereas the previous night Paul had made sure to turn off all the lights. So John was able to see everything and it was making him crazy.
John had never given a blowjob, but he had seen loads of pictures of men doing it in his stash of gay porn, and had fantasized about doing it - to Paul - for years. Here was his opportunity to put what he’d learned to good practice. He dropped down to the floor on his knees, and with both hands spread Paul’s slender thighs apart (they were impossibly slender - almost like a girl’s!), and then fit his head in between the two thighs. He began to lick Paul’s balls, and as soon as he started Paul jerked up from his place on the bed with an “oh!” sound, but John didn’t stop, and soon Paul had relaxed back on the mattress again, soft moans escaping from his throat.
When the time was right, John moved his mouth upwards from the testicles to the thick lower part of Paul’s penis, and licked his way up and around the cylinder of muscle and mass which grew bigger almost with every stroke of the tongue. Teasingly, he lingered just below and around the tip of the penis, waiting for Paul to urge for more. He did not have to wait long. Soon an impatient hand was pressing down on the top of John’s head. It was the crass international male signal to “suck my cock now!” that heretofore John had only done to women, and had not had done to him. But he was happy to receive this signal, and after a few more seconds of teasing, he went in for the kill. He pulled the tip of the cock into his mouth and was immediately surprised at how strong the muscles were that contracted and expanded as the blood pulsed through. He also was surprised at how quickly his mouth got tired, holding that hard, pulsing thing inside it. It required strong lower facial muscles, and John hadn’t really had occasion to develop them there yet. But, he was eager to learn.
John’s head started to bob up and down as he figured out the rhyme and rhythm to it all, and the sounds escaping from Paul were deliriously encouraging. John wasn’t too sure about having someone “cum” in his mouth, and his mouth (truth be told) was really getting tired, so he slowly withdrew Paul’s cock from his mouth, and then he stood up and pulled Paul’s trousers off completely, and removed his own. He then climbed on top of Paul. His hands cradled Paul’s face, his fingers mingling with the greasy black locks. He began to move his pelvic region slowly against Paul’s, while capturing Paul’s eyes with his own. What he saw in Paul’s eyes was blind passion. He couldn’t read anything else there, but it turned John on, and the gentle rubbing soon became a kind of rutting. Their legs were dangling over the edge of the bed, fully entwined now. John had stopped thinking then, and had gone into that animal place one visited just before an orgasm. He vaguely had heard the sounds of Paul coming, seconds before he did, and soon he felt their combined juices slithering around between them in their pelvic regions, and John decided he’d never had a more erotic moment than this one.
He had dropped to the side, and they’d lain there, and John had grabbed Paul’s hand and squeezed. They must have looked ridiculous; John’s mind had nagged him with the thought. They both still had their shirts on, and they were half on and half off the bed, naked from the waist down. He really ought to do something about that, but what? Any solution would require him to move. Paul had finally solved the problem by sitting up with a huge groan, and pulling off his shirt. He had then stood up and lent John his hand, pulling him to his feet. After turning off the bedside lamp, he’d yanked back the covers and slipped in against the wall, as John pulled his own shirt off and joined him. John had moved in so close to Paul (who had moved to the very edge of the bed), and surrounded him with his arm, and a thigh between Paul’s two thighs. Paul didn’t push him off or object, so John sighed and nestled his head at the top of Paul’s back. The hand that clutched Paul’s front chest could feel the heart beating underneath, and this ever-slowing pulse gently drummed John to sleep.
The next morning, Paul woke up to find John nestled against his back. His muscles were sore from being in the same position all night. God, it sucks getting old, Paul thought to himself as he tried to stretch a little without disturbing John. Slowly he turned over on to his back, gently persuading John to move a little to accommodate him. With both hands behind his head, elbows akimbo, Paul watched the morning Parisian light dance on the ceiling. The sun through the lace curtains created quite the shadow show. Paul was amazed that John had planned this incredible surprise for him right under his nose. And he could feel himself growing whole again, as if his emotional health was like his physical body, with the sinews and tissues mending themselves slowly until the injury disappeared. The whole cancer episode had been a nightmare, from beginning to end, and he silently prayed to the god he didn’t believe in to never make him go through something like that again. He didn’t think he could take it if he had to.
John was stirring now, and then his fuzzy head arose, his face grizzled with morning whiskers. He saw Paul propped up on his pillows smiling back at him. John groaned and said, “This fucking bed has lumps in it.”
Paul laughed and nodded. "Yeah, my muscles woke up complaining, too. By all means, let’s blame it on the bed, and not our age.”
John and Paul have a romantic getaway, and it reminds them of a much earlier time...Will it bring up old wounds, or help to heal them?
WARNINGS: R RATED. Some pretty hot sex scenes (more than one) in this chapter, so if it ain't your thing, be forewarned and act accordingly.
AND THIS IS ALL AS FICTIONAL AS IT CAN GET.
Chapter 15
Paul had hoped to learn where they were going when they got to the airport, but the car had delivered them to a small runway for private jets on the Gatwick Airport campus. The private jet stood waiting for them, and they boarded - Paul none the wiser. He had tried to wheedle it out of the stewardess, but she only smiled at him and shook her head ‘no’. John paid them well, Paul grumbled to himself.
“You might as well sit down and relax, Paul,” John said, chuckling, as he watched Paul in full-stress mode. Paul really hated not knowing what was going on. “We’re not leaving until you buckle up.”
Reluctantly, Paul took his seat, but he was glaring at John. He had quizzed John in the car on the way to the airport, but it had gotten him exactly nowhere:
“How long will we be away?”
“That’s a surprise.”
"I've got a concert premiering in 9 days!"
"Carl told me it's all just window dressing now. He assured me it was okay for you to duck out for awhile."
“But what about Linda and the kids…”
“Linda knows. She’s cool with it.”
“How much is this costing?”
“We can afford it.”
“How long is the flight?”
“Long enough.”
Oh, it was frustrating for Paul, all right, who was feeling quite irritable and anxious at the moment. John just smiled smoothly at him, and leaned over to buckle Paul’s seatbelt for him.
“I can do it myself!” Paul grumbled.
“But, since you hadn’t done it yet, I did it for you.” John’s face was pleasant and agreeable.
It pissed Paul off. He crossed his arms in front of him and leaned pointedly towards the window and watched the takeoff. John just chuckled to himself and opened his book. He was reading a biography of the Marquis de Sade, which - come to think of it - was kind of appropriate under the circumstances.
The flight was very short - under an hour. Soon, they were landing in a small private airport in a suburban area. Paul calculated that in such a short flight time they were either somewhere in England or Wales, or they could be in France. He figured it would be France, because it was by far the most romantic destination within that flight time radius. If it weren’t dark outside he would have been able to tell by the landscape. He turned to John and John was smiling at him with a very gentle expression on his face.
“I thought we would celebrate our 30th anniversary a few months early, for your birthday instead of in October.”
Paul was confused for a moment. Anniversary? 30th anniversary? Of what? In his head, Paul counted backwards to …1961. October. Paris. Ohhhhhh.
John saw the penny drop and laughed. “You’re a bit slow on the draw, pardner,” he said in a bad Texan accent.
Paul’s face cleared and then erupted in to a cheeky smile. “So - what now? Montmartre? Or the 2nd Arrondissement?”
“Oh, I think it has to be Montmartre, don’t you?” John asked silkily. After all, that was where “it” first happened.
Soon they were in a car driving into the city of Paris. It was their city. Of course, they had been here briefly during their tour over two years ago, and John had been here with Yoko, and Paul had been here with Linda, and each of them had been here with other friends over the years, but whenever John and Paul had gone to Paris, no matter who they were with, they had really been “with” each other. Each time each man would be privately thinking to himself, “there is the café where we had dinner that night,” “here’s the market where we bought those stupid trousers,” “that’s the street where Jurgen was staying, when he butchered our hair.” And each of them had found time over the years to find innocent reasons to drive down a certain road in Montmartre past a frankly dilapidated building, thinking only to himself, “that’s where we stayed the first time we made love…”
On this night the car drove to a road in Montmartre that had been smartened up substantially in the intervening 30 years. The top floor of the 4-storey building was a large, elegantly-appointed flat, which John had rented for four days - this time their stay in Paris would be a lot more gentile than the first time. But still, they would be alone. The maid would only come in during the day if they were not in the apartment, so they would definitely not be interrupted. They wouldn’t have to share the bathtub with other tenants, and observe the disapproving faces as they scampered naked, clad only in damp towels, to their room, giggling the whole way.
When the car rolled to a stop, they were out and carrying their own luggage to the elaborate wrought-iron-cage- surrounded elevator. It was slow - like an iceberg - as it moved up to the fourth floor, and delivered them finally to their private entrance. It was the dinner hour - 8 p.m. - and after they unpacked a few things, John suggested they go out and find a bistro for dinner.
“You have something in mind?” Paul asked, who had surprisingly slipped quite easily into a scenario where John called all the shots. Since everything thus far had been immaculately planned, Paul assumed everything else had been too.
“From now on, it’s entirely random,” John announced. Just like it had been on their first trip, when they didn’t have the luxury of planning nice restaurant visits or pleasant outings. They had just gone out and started walking, and found whatever happened to be in their path. John wanted to recreate that freedom: the awkward lapses of boredom had resulted in brilliant ideas like racing each other up and down the Eiffel Tower and venturing into a soppy old-style “gay” club not once, but twice. Without boredom, there was no time for ideas.
Paul felt excitement pulsing in his veins. No plans? No obligations? No idea what you’re going to do next? When was the last time that he had really felt that free? Swept up in his enthusiasm, he said, “John, let’s make a promise to each other to do something random like this every few years. So it never gets old.”
Laughing his agreement, John threw his arm around Paul’s shoulders, and they left the apartment. They took the stairs (it was quicker) and soon were out on the streets of Paris, each wearing a light anonymous looking jacket, and each with a baseball cap (which John had packed in their cases) pulled down over his face. Paul had a sensation that felt very close to a thrill as he walked shoulder to shoulder with John, his hands in jacket pockets. No one turned to look at them. Here they were - two men in their late forties/early fifties in one of the less wealthy areas of the city of Paris, where no one expected to see celebrities. They may as well have been invisible! Paul thought that this was a much better idea than staying in a 5-star hotel where they would have been dogged every step by the paparazzi, who were even more fervid in France than they were in England.
They walked several blocks before they found a bistro that didn’t look infected, and so they ducked in, and found a comfy corner and settled in. They ordered some vin ordinaire, choosing not to stick out by purchasing anything dear. The crusty bread and salty fresh butter were a wonder. Everything in the décor was just slightly on the wrong side of tacky, right down to the bad posters of can-can dancers on the walls. But John and Paul didn’t care. It was a trip down memory lane for them.
“Remember, babe? We were sitting in a bistro like this one, when I popped the question,” John said, raising a raunchy eyebrow.
“In the most roundabout way imaginable,” Paul said, deflating John’s remark, and sipping his wine with an insouciant tilt to his eyes, which peered at John over the rim. “It took me ten minutes to figure out what you were on about.”
“Whatever,” John growled, but he wasn’t really angry. He was in a very flirtatious mood. “You were clueless, and I was scared to fucking death.”
“Scared?” Paul asked, surprised. He was like his 19 year-old self again, unable to believe that his hero had any clay in his feet. “What were you scared of?”
John thought a moment before he decided to let the thought go - as if he were letting loose the string to a balloon that he had husbanded carefully in his hand for years. “I was scared of rejection, of course.”
Paul was quiet for a moment. He tried to remember what it was like to be 19 years old, and away from home in a foreign country for the first time (Hamburg didn’t count; it was too like Liverpool and most everyone spoke English there). He had been so excited. Everything was new and different. Tonight, as he reminisced, he actually felt - dare he say it? - young again. He did not realize it, but his 49 year-old face suddenly looked young and innocent again - and to John it was very like the face that had stared across a table 30 years earlier as he had sputtered out his pathetic proposition. John felt a strong pull of love and affection for the man sitting across from him. How could one person be so important to him? How could he never really tire of this person?
It was difficult for a vegetarian to find anything substantial to eat in a real down-to-earth neighborhood bistro, but while John compromised and had a perfectly baked halibut filet, Paul was able to persuade the chef to saute a bunch of vegetables for him, and pour them over some wild rice. The meal took a leisurely two and a half hours for the two of them to consume because they lingered over every bite and every sip and every word. But at just before 11:00 p.m. they reluctantly left the warmth of the bistro and braved a walk home in the cool night. As they walked, John slipped his arm through Paul’s. They walked companionably and their hearts were in perfect harmony. No one looked at them, because French men often walked arm in arm. It was one of the reasons why John loved France so much. Men also held hands - and it wasn’t considered odd - not to mention the kisses they gave to each other on both cheeks as a greeting. And couples, both straight and queer, had kissed with wild passion under the trees on the promenade along the Seine - day or night, rain or shine.
Paul had thought (it was one of his more mischievous thoughts) to stop at a shop on the way to dinner to purchase a bottle of whiskey, a cheap brand, much like the whiskey he had purchased that first night in Paris almost 30 years ago. That first night, he had needed to be drunk. As they had walked back to their pensione in 1961, Paul had been thinking of various ways to escape his fate. He had agreed, reluctantly, to John’s request to experiment sexually because he had felt cornered, but as they walked he had begun to think that it was weird, wrong, and - worse - he felt it would end up hurting them badly in the end. The last escape route left to him that night as they approached their pensione had been hard liquor. And a lot of it. Somehow, drunkenness had made what followed possible for him, despite his mother’s Catholic mores, and his father’s prosaic proverbs, and his whole family’s deep working class roots. What was it about John that made him forget all and sundry that had come before, and venture out into the unknown? Paul still didn’t know the answer to that question, but he no longer argued with himself over it. He had accepted it as a given; it was his fate to squire this man through life. Nothing else had ever made this much sense to him, and nothing else ever would.
The apartment was flooded with rosy lights from dim pink light bulbs, as John quietly made his way to the bathroom while Paul poured out some tumblers of whiskey for them. John came out of the bathroom wearing one of his (Paul could think of no other word) feminizing Japanese silk dressing gowns. But to Paul the gown was only evidence (gleaned from years of experience) that underneath, John was naked. And that suited Paul down to the ground. He handed John his tumbler and they clinked glasses.
“To us!” Paul said, and John echoed him. But then, a few moments later John suddenly said in a teasing voice,
“You said we’d never last if we fucked, you know.”
“I never!” Paul cried.
“You did! That night, in the café. You said it wasn’t a good idea, because it would end badly.”
“It did end badly!” Paul protested, thinking of the horrors of 1968 - 1980.
“No - that was only the middle! That was the second act! We’re living the third act now, and it isn’t a bad ending, is it?”
Paul smiled. “No, it’s not a bad ending. You were right, and I was wrong.”
John pretended shock at this rare admission of Paul’s. “Let me find a tape recorder. Will you say that again, into a mic?”
Paul’s response was an indulgent smile. He moved closer, and, pulling John closer to him by the arms, soon had John right before him, nose-to-nose. “I will say anything you like into a mic,” Paul said with a raw, sexy voice as his forehead leaned against John’s.
“Was this a happy birthday?” John asked timidly.
“Very happy birthday, and if I’m not much mistaken, it is about to get much happier…” Paul was maneuvering John in the direction of the bed. It was a relatively modest size - a cross between a queen and a double bed - and it appeared to be a bit lumpy. But none of that mattered to Paul at that moment. John, of course, was oblivious. He was lost in the dark green haze of Paul’s eyes.
Paul was in charge, and John wouldn’t have it any other way. Paul had been the one in charge on that first night, too, because it was hard enough for Paul to think about having sex with a man, but impossible to consider himself on the bottom! Not that it had mattered on that first awkward night. Neither one of them had any idea of what to do, even after perusing the gay porn magazines they had purchased. In the end they had did little more than furtively pump each other’s members under the covers after feeling each other up. They had fallen asleep side-by-side, and had been too embarrassed to meet each other’s eyes in the morning. Instead, they had done a lot of modest covering with sheets and unnecessary clearing of throats.
Tonight, Paul wanted to express his love for John physically, because in truth he was deeply touched and grateful for John’s birthday “gift.” They’d been through some rough times over the last few years, and this trip was John’s way of affirming to him that they had made it through to the other side. Many other couples had failed to survive such challenges, but here they were, still obnoxiously enthralled with each other, and raring to show it.
Paul gently pressed John down by his shoulders until he was seated on the side of the bed. Then he pulled off his own cashmere pullover followed by his undershirt. He frowned a bit at the slight bulge of fat around his middle, but figured John couldn’t see it in the dim light. So he stripped off his socks, trousers and underpants, but before he could do more, John pulled Paul’s hips toward his face. He was clearly going to pay some attention to Paul’s cock.
John gave excellent head. Way better head than any woman ever had given him. Paul figured that only a man could really understand how to give good head. A cock was a pretty ugly, obnoxious thing - more obnoxious than ugly when aroused, and more ugly than obnoxious when flaccid. And most women thought of a cock as something it was better to feel but not see. Tonight Paul’s cock was very aroused as John’s clever mouth played with the skin over, around, and below it. Then John’s gentle hands were cradling Paul’s balls, and soon John was softly licking and sucking them, one at a time. Paul heard himself groaning, and his knees went weak. He grasped John’s shoulders so he wouldn’t sink to the floor. John briefly stopped his ministrations in order to chuckle. He pulled Paul down on to the mattress with him.
Paul fell a bit on top of John and a bit to the side, and he let out a guffaw. But soon they were facing each other - John on his side with his face resting on his palm, propped up by his elbow, and Paul laying face up on the mattress. Their legs were tangled, and dangling over the side of the bed, but at the moment they didn’t seem to mind. John traced a finger down the ridge of Paul’s nose, and shook his head ever so slightly. It was such a beautiful face. The long eyelashes cloaked the eyes a bit, but John could still see into their depths. He was feeling weak inside, like he always did, when he was touching Paul.
“I love you,” John whispered. It was heartfelt and it hit home. John watched as the beautiful eyes filled with tears.
Paul tried to speak, but the first sound out of his throat sounded more like an attack of catarrh. Paul snickered at his own gauche sound, and then said, “I spoiled it. I was going to say, ‘I love you too’ but then this horrible sound came out…”
John was still feeling mushy inside. He stroked hair off of Paul’s forehead and said, “Don’t worry, you didn’t need to use words, babe, I saw it in your eyes.”
Paul pulled himself up on to his forearms and said, “Let’s get comfortable on the bed.” He was thinking to himself that the days of doing it on the floor, on the furniture and in weird positions were probably, for the most part, behind them. More’s the pity. But rather than dangling half on and half off the bed, both men opted to get comfortable under the covers, and then Paul reached over and pulled the chain to shut off the lamp.
Paul rolled over and climbed on top of John, and John brought his legs up, his thighs squeezing Paul’s hips firmly. John felt the tiny little kisses feathering up his neck, and soon they were on his jaw, and now he felt little harmless bites on his lips, which tickled and made John squirm. He could feel his own member swelling, and he had the urge to pump up against Paul’s pelvis a little. This earned him a sweet chuckle from Paul, who whispered,
“So impatient…”
Soon the pace and force of Paul’s kisses increased until John was literally writhing under his lover, silently begging for the hard core stuff to start. But still Paul teased him. He began kissing down John’s neck again, and now down his chest in the direction of John’s…
“Arhhh!” John’s inarticulate shout came without warning as Paul’s tongue played with the tip of his penis. Now John was thrusting and pumping in a kind of ecstasy that he knew would soon result in an eruption, if Paul didn’t stop soon. John wanted to come, yes, but not so soon! He didn’t want to…nooo!
Paul’s mouth left his cock and soon Paul was poised above him in the dark.
John felt bereft for a moment, until he understood what was going to happen next. It was the sound of Paul rustling for the lube on the side table that gave it away, and John’s body felt like it couldn’t wait another minute. He grabbed Paul on either side of his hips and pulled him down towards him, and locked his legs around the small of Paul’s back. Paul accepted the smothering kisses and the rubbing and pumping in good grace, but it was a bit frustrating. He couldn’t very well lube up his cock and put it where it belonged if John was going to cling to him like this!
John was chanting in a throaty voice now, very low and soft, “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Paul laughed and said, “I will! Let me go, and I will!”
Finally, Paul was free, and he took John’s hand and squirted some lube into it, and then brought John’s hand to his cock. John quickly got the idea, and began to slather it around, which only served to arouse it more. Meanwhile, Paul’s lubed fingers made their way to John’s opening, and he began to insert one and then two fingers in the hole, surrounding the whole area with lubricant. John grabbed his bent knees and pulled his legs back as far as they could go, and soon he felt Paul’s hand guiding his cock to the entrance. The cock poked around a little, like a curious woodpecker, and then found the opening, and Paul began to push.
Their sweating bodies felt erotic to each other, and the groans, and cries, and throaty swear words accompanied the sound of skin slapping skin, while the bedsprings filled out the rhythm section. Paul came first, quickly pulling out just in time. It was a bit hard sometimes for a guy to come when he’s the one being fucked, but John was still greatly aroused, and Paul had been there, done that, and understood what he needed to do. Again, he brought his mouth down to John’s cock and proceeding to give aggressive head, the sound of slurping just adding to the eroticism. John soon came, and Paul manfully took the gism to the back of his throat, and swallowed. He then crawled up the bed, and plopped down in an exhausted heap next to John. They lay there in the dark holding hands as their breathing went back to normal. Soon the breathing became very shallow, and first one, and then the other, dropped off to sleep.
*****
Was it a dream or was it a memory?
John’s superego appeared to be asking the question in the voice of a narrator over the flashing images in his mind.
A memory, John decided. He realized he was in that half-awake place in the dark of the early morning when his subconscious felt as real and alive to him as his conscious mind. John had always had the ability to peer right into his subconscious, and be at one with it, while his conscious mind acted as a kind of translator. He heard the steady breathing from Paul in the bed next to him, and this comforted him. He was safe, and could sink back into that memory at his leisure.
It had been an awkward morning, that morning after. They hadn’t looked at each other. Paul had a terrible hangover, because he had made himself drunk with that cheap whiskey. John had not drunk nearly as much, because he had wanted to be compos mentis when “It” finally happened: when Paul would touch him, and he would touch Paul, in all the forbidden places. John did remember every bit of it. John watched as Paul covered himself up with a sheet as he searched for his clothing, which was strewn all over the floor. The clothes were strewn because he was still a teenager, and that is what teenagers do - throw their clothes all over the bleeding place. John, at 21, had grown out of this, and had neatly folded and stacked his clothes on top of his suitcase. John had watched Paul perform this routine from his place laying in bed, feeling sad, hurt, confused, nervous, worried, awkward, and even afraid. Still afraid of rejection. The funny part was, Paul was struggling with the sheet to cover his front bits, but his beautiful ass was hanging out the other side, and there it was right in front of John’s wondering eyes.
Of course they had seen each other naked before. They had seen each other pissing, pooping, throwing up, bleeding from the nose from fights, fucking women, and so drunk they couldn’t walk or talk. They had slept in so many little beds together while wearing their underwear only, and had changed clothes openly in front of each other in dozens of tiny rooms over the 4 years they had known each other, while in clubs, cheap rooms for rent, and hitchhiking. But never before had they done so after a night spent pleasuring each other sexually. This was what hung over the room - the throbbing knowledge of that strange departure from their usual practice of pretending they were just pals. John had felt his eyes fill with tears, and he turned over to face the wall to hide those tears from Paul, on the odd chance that Paul would actually look at him again. The tears came because for John, pretending to be Paul’s “pal” had been painful, and it had been a constant thread of buried pain in almost all of their interactions for years, but John knew that Paul really did believe they were just “pals”, and so he’d never suffered the way John had.
Paul had made an excuse to leave the room as soon as he was dressed, ostensibly so that John could get out of bed and dress in private. But in truth, Paul was running away from what had happened between them, and was hoping that enough distance between them would ease the awkwardness. For John, of course, this only made it much worse. That whole day, in fact, they had hung out with Jurgen, and behaved as though nothing unusual had happened between them the night before. John wondered how Paul did it. How did he compartmentalize such things, so they could literally be locked away and ignored? John’s feelings flooded in and out of each other without discipline or warning. And on that particular day John’s emotions were like a rogue giant wave out in the middle of the ocean at midnight. No other human saw it or experienced it, but it was ferocious in its wildness and strength.
The day had to end, of course. And at some point they would have to face what had happened between them. Jurgen had been only too happy to usurp all their time, and Paul at least seemed to cling to Jurgen as he provided a convenient excuse not to have to deal with his own confused feelings. Paul’s feelings. John’s thought process came to a quick stop. Funny how he hadn’t really given much thought to Paul’s feelings about the whole thing before, other than to resent the boy’s ability to compartmentalize them. Paul had been 19 years old, and still very much his parents’ child. It had to have confused him a lot, so no wonder he avoided the inevitable. But they call it “inevitable” because eventually it had to happen.
There was still half a bottle of bad whiskey left when they returned from Jurgen’s place, and Paul was eyeing it as they returned to their pensione room at around midnight. John saw Paul’s thought process as if it were written in a bubble over his head, and finally found the courage to say something.
“Don’t, Paul.”
Paul looked over at John, his eyebrow arched. That was his way of asking John to explain.
“You don’t have to get drunk. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.” John was hunched on the side of the bed, looking down at the floor between his feet. A long silence followed, and John was fighting off those humiliating tears again. Then he felt the bedsprings move as Paul sat next to him. Paul was quiet, and seemed at a loss for words. John swallowed the saliva that had gathered in the back of his throat and added, “I’m sorry I made you do that. It hasn’t ruined our friendship, has it?”
Paul still had no words, but he did put his arm around John’s shoulders, and gave and held a strong side hug. “I’m sorry I’ve been so weird about it, John. It’s like I don’t know where to look.”
John chuckled, though his eyes remained glued to the ground. “You could look at me, for a start,” he finally said, lifting his head and facing Paul.
Paul’s eyes did meet John’s, and this time they didn’t shy away. They held for a long moment until John spoke again.
“It isn’t wrong, you know. It’s what they all tell us, but they tell us all sorts of stupid stuff that isn’t true. It isn’t wrong to touch people. Touching is good.”
Paul was listening to John with open ears.
“You’re not going to go to hell because of it, Paul. There isn’t a hell. There’s only just this life, this one little life. All that religious crap is just to make people feel better about their little lives.”
Paul’s response was reflexive. “I don’t believe in religion, either.” It wasn’t really true - at least not at this point in his life - although it would be true for him later. Paul had just recently adopted this cool atheist position after meeting John, in order to impress him.
“Was it so awful that you can’t even talk about it?” John asked, his fear peeking through this time.
Paul shook his head. “No! No, of course not!”
But what else could he say? John smiled at him and saw that Paul was eager to make amends. It was clear in Paul’s eyes. It took every ounce of John’s courage to reach his hand up, and gently caress Paul’s cheek. “You want to try again?” he asked softly. “Maybe it will be easier the second time.”
Paul had blushed. His face was a burning shade of red. John knew that Paul never acted this way around women, when they asked him for sex. But, John remembered, I’m his mate; it’s hard for him.
John lay back on the bed, and gave Paul’s arm a gentle jostle. His body language and expression said it all: come join me down here. It was up to Paul. Paul had turned to look at John as he lay there, and it took as long as 30 seconds before Paul gave in. He lowered his upper body down until his back was on the mattress. He studied the ceiling, and was still speechless. John turned over on his side, and propped up on his elbow, cradled the side of his head in his hand. He looked down at Paul, who was apparently afraid to meet John’s eyes.
John’s other hand slowly lowered itself on to Paul’s chest, and he could feel the heart beating wildly underneath. This gave him confidence. The hand began to slowly travel down Paul’s chest, in the direction of his crotch. They were both fully clothed, but still John felt the electricity in his hand as he moved in the forbidden direction. Paul did nothing to stop him, but nothing to help either. His mind seemed to be in suspended animation, but his body was betraying him. When John got to Paul’s zipper, he played for a moment with the button at the top, and allowed his hand to brush over the crotch area below. He immediately felt that Paul had a generous-sized boner already. John felt a rush of euphoria because he knew that whatever fears and hang ups Paul had, he was just as aroused by the touching as John. So he sat up and, serious now, both hands at work, pulled Paul’s zipper down. He then grasped the waistbands of Paul’s trousers and underpants, and pulled them down far enough to expose the erect penis. To John’s eyes it was the second most beautiful thing he’d ever seen - after Paul’s ass. The lamp was on this night, whereas the previous night Paul had made sure to turn off all the lights. So John was able to see everything and it was making him crazy.
John had never given a blowjob, but he had seen loads of pictures of men doing it in his stash of gay porn, and had fantasized about doing it - to Paul - for years. Here was his opportunity to put what he’d learned to good practice. He dropped down to the floor on his knees, and with both hands spread Paul’s slender thighs apart (they were impossibly slender - almost like a girl’s!), and then fit his head in between the two thighs. He began to lick Paul’s balls, and as soon as he started Paul jerked up from his place on the bed with an “oh!” sound, but John didn’t stop, and soon Paul had relaxed back on the mattress again, soft moans escaping from his throat.
When the time was right, John moved his mouth upwards from the testicles to the thick lower part of Paul’s penis, and licked his way up and around the cylinder of muscle and mass which grew bigger almost with every stroke of the tongue. Teasingly, he lingered just below and around the tip of the penis, waiting for Paul to urge for more. He did not have to wait long. Soon an impatient hand was pressing down on the top of John’s head. It was the crass international male signal to “suck my cock now!” that heretofore John had only done to women, and had not had done to him. But he was happy to receive this signal, and after a few more seconds of teasing, he went in for the kill. He pulled the tip of the cock into his mouth and was immediately surprised at how strong the muscles were that contracted and expanded as the blood pulsed through. He also was surprised at how quickly his mouth got tired, holding that hard, pulsing thing inside it. It required strong lower facial muscles, and John hadn’t really had occasion to develop them there yet. But, he was eager to learn.
John’s head started to bob up and down as he figured out the rhyme and rhythm to it all, and the sounds escaping from Paul were deliriously encouraging. John wasn’t too sure about having someone “cum” in his mouth, and his mouth (truth be told) was really getting tired, so he slowly withdrew Paul’s cock from his mouth, and then he stood up and pulled Paul’s trousers off completely, and removed his own. He then climbed on top of Paul. His hands cradled Paul’s face, his fingers mingling with the greasy black locks. He began to move his pelvic region slowly against Paul’s, while capturing Paul’s eyes with his own. What he saw in Paul’s eyes was blind passion. He couldn’t read anything else there, but it turned John on, and the gentle rubbing soon became a kind of rutting. Their legs were dangling over the edge of the bed, fully entwined now. John had stopped thinking then, and had gone into that animal place one visited just before an orgasm. He vaguely had heard the sounds of Paul coming, seconds before he did, and soon he felt their combined juices slithering around between them in their pelvic regions, and John decided he’d never had a more erotic moment than this one.
He had dropped to the side, and they’d lain there, and John had grabbed Paul’s hand and squeezed. They must have looked ridiculous; John’s mind had nagged him with the thought. They both still had their shirts on, and they were half on and half off the bed, naked from the waist down. He really ought to do something about that, but what? Any solution would require him to move. Paul had finally solved the problem by sitting up with a huge groan, and pulling off his shirt. He had then stood up and lent John his hand, pulling him to his feet. After turning off the bedside lamp, he’d yanked back the covers and slipped in against the wall, as John pulled his own shirt off and joined him. John had moved in so close to Paul (who had moved to the very edge of the bed), and surrounded him with his arm, and a thigh between Paul’s two thighs. Paul didn’t push him off or object, so John sighed and nestled his head at the top of Paul’s back. The hand that clutched Paul’s front chest could feel the heart beating underneath, and this ever-slowing pulse gently drummed John to sleep.
*****
The next morning, Paul woke up to find John nestled against his back. His muscles were sore from being in the same position all night. God, it sucks getting old, Paul thought to himself as he tried to stretch a little without disturbing John. Slowly he turned over on to his back, gently persuading John to move a little to accommodate him. With both hands behind his head, elbows akimbo, Paul watched the morning Parisian light dance on the ceiling. The sun through the lace curtains created quite the shadow show. Paul was amazed that John had planned this incredible surprise for him right under his nose. And he could feel himself growing whole again, as if his emotional health was like his physical body, with the sinews and tissues mending themselves slowly until the injury disappeared. The whole cancer episode had been a nightmare, from beginning to end, and he silently prayed to the god he didn’t believe in to never make him go through something like that again. He didn’t think he could take it if he had to.
John was stirring now, and then his fuzzy head arose, his face grizzled with morning whiskers. He saw Paul propped up on his pillows smiling back at him. John groaned and said, “This fucking bed has lumps in it.”
Paul laughed and nodded. "Yeah, my muscles woke up complaining, too. By all means, let’s blame it on the bed, and not our age.”