Places, San Francisco Places: San Francisco
By John Yager
This is one more in the series of short vignettes collectively titled Places.
I want to extend continued and sincere thanks to Andrew, for much needed help with proofing and editing.
This work is copyright © by the author, 2004, and may not be reproduced in any form without specific written permission from the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.
jvoyager@hotmail.com
A mutual friend had suggested I meet Clay while I was in San Francisco on business. As it turned out, "Meeting Clay," had been a euphemism for one amazing afternoon.
He'd come to my room on a Saturday afternoon. We exchanged a friendly handshake and a little conversation, the sort of friendly, exploratory chat you have with someone you've just met.
There was already a sort of tension in the air. We joked about the similarity of our clothes, each of us wearing jeans and black T-shirts, as if by prior arrangement. Then we went off to an Indian restaurant a short way from my hotel.
It was late for lunch and we had the place to ourselves. A solitary waitress hovered in the back, giving us privacy, space and time to talk.
The conversation was rambling, comparing backgrounds, likes, dislikes, the usual banter. But at some point it ceased to be banter.
We crossed a line, connected, said without saying, that the few hours we'd have together would count, really count.
Our hands met, coming together across the table, touching between the dishes of Palak Paneer and Brindil Bhaji. There was that look in Clay's eyes, that slight nod, an unspoken understanding.
Back in my room, we embraced without a word; then without a word we kissed. Stepping back, we silently undressed. The black T-shirts and jeans pealed away and our bodies came into view.
Nice, very nice, I thought, looking him over, catching the approving smile on his face as his eyes ran over my torso and then the rest of me.
We hugged again, naked this time, harder, his warm body pressing into mine, both of us trembling a bit, wanting this, but not yet sure of ourselves, not sure of each other.
Then our instincts took over and we stepped out of reality into a reverie. No, not a reverie. Sensations were too sharp for that. We entered an altered state, beyond reality, or at least beyond reality as we normally define it.
We were no longer standing. The bed covers were turned back but I had no recollection of doing it, or helping Clay do it. We were on the bed, on the crisp, cool hotel sheets, our bodies warm and hungry, kissing, touching, stroking, making love.
There was power there, not just sexual power, but something deeper, more primal. I could think of no term for it other than to say it was spiritual. I knew instinctively that it wasn't to be toyed with. I might connect with this man once and walk away from it, but twice? Twice and I knew he'd claim me, forge links that would not be broken.
When I thought about it later I could only remember sensations, isolated moments, not the continuity, the flow. The sense of passing time was gone.
Now, weeks later, the thought of it, of him, is more than I can deal with. I remember feeling his body against mine, feeling his big, heavy, pendulous cock getting harder, longer, hotter, probing, seeking my hole, wanting in.
I was moaning under him, wanting him in me, yet afraid that he was too big for me, feeling the heft and weight of him, of his body, of his hard cock, wet, drooling, slick, so hot, wanting in.
"Yes," I'd moan, giving him permission, inviting him to ram himself into me.
I felt the wet head of his shaft, blunt, hot, sticky with desire, wet with anticipation, my own body shaking, wanting it, fearing it.
"Yes" I moaned again as I felt him breach me, as I felt the width of him, the grandeur of him, pressing in, spreading me, opening me, letting me know his will, feeling every fraction of each inch, loving it, groaning, wanting more, wanting it all.
Then he was in me, all the way, embedded, filling me, letting me rest, letting me come to terms with him, with his size, with the power, the strength, the maleness, the potency of him. I wanted his weight on me, all his weight, the feel of his chest pressing down on my chest, his hard belly pressing down on my belly, the ridge of his pelvis pressing into my pelvic bone.
I wanted to be under him, held, immobilized, not able to move, not wanting to move, not wanting to escape, just feeling his weight, his body on my body, his cock deep in my ass.
"Yes," I moaned again as he began to move, pulling back a little.
"No," I whimpered, afraid of losing him.
"Yes," I sighed as he slid back in, back home, into me.
He pulled back again and pressed in quickly, back and in, back and in, the pressure building, the rhythm speeding up. I moaned and moved with him, trying to thrust up, trying to impale my body on his shaft, wanting to feel the length of him in the depths of me, wanting our bodies to join, fuse, wanting us to be one, spiritually and physically one.
I think that's the reality of sex, but also the ritual, the rite of joining, the coming together of two souls. It's the rhythm of the sea, the moon, the primal beat of one great heart and the tempo of creation.
He moved smoothly, faster, harder, driving into me, making my body shudder with the impact of each stroke. I moaned, way beyond words, beyond caring, wanting only the strength of him, the joining of him with me, the one self, linked by flesh, by chains of spirit, filaments of soul.
There was the weight, the mass, the bulk of him, of his cock , in me, stretching me, spreading my ass, forcing me to accommodate myself to him. There was also the length, the probing length, deep in me, in my bowels, in the center of my being, deep and hot and wet.
I sucked in the hot smell of sex, the room sultry with sex, our sex. It reeked with the stench of sex, male sex, hard, sweaty, rank, the odor of our laboring bodies, the stench of my ass, spread open, acrid with the harsh juices of our passion.
There was nothing delicate, nothing soft, nothing feminine. It was the harsh reality of male love, the masculine truth of cock in ass and sweating bodies, worked to the brink, one more, just one more thrust, one more driving of him into me.
"Yes," we both moaned, the words meaning everything and nothing, all we felt and all we couldn't express.
Later, lying spent, kissing softly, just reveling in each other, he rolled over and presented himself to me, for me to claim, for me to enter. That was what he wanted and I was there, ready, spreading his hole, coating, soothing it, readying him for me, opening him up for all and everything.
Had he ever felt totally possessed by sex? I wondered. Had he experienced such complete oneness with another man? That was what he wanted and I claimed him, possessed him, came into him and made him mine.
The connection was made, his eyes looking into mine, mine into his.
The bond was struck, my body locked to his, his soul meshed with mine.
Now, weeks later, we are two thousand miles apart, but yet no distance at all. We are space spanners, time travelers, one.
The end