At Last

Sometimes I am reminded that my life, though far from perfect, is rather charmed, and my gratuity towards the forces of the universe that seem to watch out for me are renewed. And while the last month has been hellish, yesterday earns God and the world at large a brief respite from my angst.

Yesterday, I spent the day with Clay in his new home on the corner of Hollywood & Vine. (Okay, so that’s not REALLY where it is, but it sounds better than “Laredo and 56th ” but I digress.) I was excited to see that the bedroom and living room were set up and looking like someone actually lived there. Like things were getting back to normal again. Better than normal, actually, because this house on the corner of Heartattack & Vine kicks the ass of his dreaded erstwhile loft.

I poked about the house, seeing what he'd done, then, because it was a hot day and I was sweaty, and because it was an easy excuse to get out of my clothes, I took a quick shower.

When I came out, Clay was on the bed. He yanked me to him by the towel, which came quickly off. (How'd that happen!?)

We spent probably a good hour sucking and yanking and biting and thrusting at each other, safe in this house on the corner of Heartattack & Vine, making all the grunts we wanted as loudly as we pleased. The bedroom of sin had been christened at last. I shot myself in the face with an exuberant several-day build up of cum.

Clay took me out for my ice cream cone (with chocolate sprinkles goddammit!) It was a huge double scoop cone of white chocolate mousse in a chocolate dipped waffle cone, with chocolate sprinkles, goddammit! It made me sick, in a delicious, "closure" kinda way. With every dribbling, messy lick of that waffley cone, through the pores of which bled droplets of chocolate, I closed another door on last month with a sigh of grateful finality.

We did our little Uptown rounds, seeing friends out and about, then began driving back to Clay's place on the corner of Hollywood & Vine.

There was something I was needing, I didn't know what. The sex and the ice cream cone with the chocolate sprinkles (goddammit!) helped, but my body and soul required a keystone to hold everything together. I wasn't quite sure how to silence this last nagging bit of ennui until, while driving, Clay mentioned the word "daiquiri" and I U-turned like a good Pavlovian slut immediately and made a busy little beeline for the nearest Ye Olde Daiquiri Shoppe.

It was "Fat Tuesdays," which has a drink special, ironically, on Mondays and Wednesdays, so we took advantage of that, getting a bucket of strawberry daiquiri for me, and trough of long island ice tea for Clay.

Cards on his roof - gin rummy - groups of cards weighted down with plates and lighters and daiquiris in the wind.

Clay gave me a kiss and we walked up the block to pick up some beer.

On the walk, life kicked in like never before. I wanted to take off my clothes and feel the hot night air on my body. The neighborhood is not too bad, but that would have been a bad idea nonetheless, so I exercised a mite of prudence for once.

Back at Clay's, I was flying, happy with the world, happy with my ice cream cone that afternoon, and almost tripping.

"Read me lists of things!" I beckoned to Clay from the couch.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Lists! I want to hear lists of things or people or places or facts. I want to hear your voice and roll in its resonance out of context of everything else. Read me labels on household cleaners or lists of words from a foreign dictionary or the phone book or something."

He read me lists of dead people who had come out of the closet or were outed in their lifetime. (J. Edgar Hoover? Herman Melville? Liberace!?! Say it isn't so!) I reclined on the couch, engorged by his words, rolling in the vibrations in the air like an elephant in mud.

He read me words and definitions of American Indian terms. Strange languages with clicks and pops in the middle of sesquipedalian terms, for each word he assumed a new, goofy voice. I laughed on the couch in pure bliss.

To the bedroom, eventually. Beer usually puts me to sleep after a brief bit of fun. Last night, I wanted anything but sleep.

Lying on the bed, hands behind head, Clay said, "Hey, why don't you suck my cock for a while?"

Out of character for him to request, But My God, what a brilliant idea! Truly inspired! I don't know where he gets it!

I took off his clothes and stroked his beautiful body, top to toe, drinking in the lines and contours by the dim light of a streetlamp, engrossed, enchanted and enrapt. Very happy with my choice of boyfriend, and noting somewhere in the back of my mind the strange realization that I have no carnal desires for anyone else. Even sex with Orlando last week, though entertaining, didn't actually do anything for me like it once did.

I felt whole and complete in my paroxysms of ecstasy, mouth filled with Clay's cock face-fucking me frantically while he did something to my own dick which involved a lot of wet mouth and circular hand movements. (I really must find out what he did so I can administer the same pleasures to him, or ask for it by name in the future. "I'll have the Swirly Piston Fuck Thing tonight, I think, darling.")

Jacking us off simultaneously, our dicks rubbing against each others' in the dim light in the bedroom on the corner of Hollywood & Vine, all is right with the world.

At. Fucking. Last.

FINIS