Be Kind, Rewind

I stare at the scuffed lino of the corridor, listening to the fading rustle of his jacket as he makes his way downstairs. When he pulls the main door open an icy draught gropes into the building and snatches the last trace of his warmth from my chest. Lost and alone once more, I turn to go inside. But suddenly I freeze, alert. His footsteps I realise are not diminishing but growing louder and louder now, and I look around and in rewind I see him reversing back up the corridor towards me and in an instant he is in my arms again, and I am hugging him again at the door of my apartment, deeply and warmly, with all the strength of my frail arms, trying to tell him that I really like him, begging him to understand that it would kill me if this were the last time. But his face is far far away, blank and constricted by the same decisive stiffness that I feel in his chest. He is impatient to be gone. We break apart and back first, with the wary, stilted gait of two people who are afraid of bumping into each other, we enter the kitchen and he slips off his jacket and drops it on a chair, and then we reverse up the narrow staircase to my bedroom and begin to strip in silence. I watch as he unties his shoelaces and then removes his shoes and socks. He pulls off his jeans, his t-shirt and finally his boxers at the same instant as I drag mine down to my ankles. We flop down on the bed with a bounce and I flinch when I caress his bare chest because when I look into his eyes they seem distant and colder now, like they do not know me anymore. We lie motionless side by side but not touching as our breathing grows heavier and deeper. Our gulped pants are coming thick and fast now and we are wiping up with scrunched wads of toilet paper. I drag him to me and hold him and press my cock into the tufted pucker of his ass and we both come instantly and then I start fucking him, the rhythmic slaps of my thighs against his butt cheeks ringing in our ears. When I pull out he whispers urgently, “Fuck me now!” and so I begin to suck his cock and massage his asshole and kiss him deeply, ravenously, on the mouth, on the nose, on the neck as we slowly, garment by garment, dress ourselves in the bed and then leap off it and wedge our shoes on without bothering with the laces and rush downstairs through the kitchen where he grabs his jacket from the chair and then out onto the street. And we are practically running through the midnight streets now, hands gripped together, streaking past wobbling drunks and rubbish blowing in the freezing winds, laughing, telling silly jokes, smiling when we catch each other’s eyes, impatience and desire burning a hole in us, though not enough to stop us pausing on the bridge above the glittering black back of the waters for a deep and fierce, teeth-clashing kiss. We blaze through the final streets, burst into the nightclub and race straight to the dance floor where we hold each other and kiss. And when our two famished mouths meet and lock, and our four hands clutch and begin to sing, and when we bury ourselves in each other and the loudness all around us dwindles to a speck, in this moment I know that this is all I’ve ever wanted, not happiness, but just this. This. And now he is leading me with a nervous, pleading hand down the stairs towards the smoking area, barging through knots of dancers, twisting his head around with each step as if he is terrified that I may suddenly disappear. When we reach the far end of the smoking terrace we halt and he asks me with a gentle quaver in his voice, “Do you want to dance?” and then we lean in for our very first kiss. His huge grey eyes loom like two moons before me, his tobacco-curdled breath hits my face, and then softly our chapped lips collide. My heart strikes once, a solid punch behind my ribs, and then falters, and for an instant the whole world is silent and still. As we pull apart the roar of revelry plunges back into my ears, and now we are chatting for dear life. My tongue pushes out word after meaningless word as if a steady stream of noise is my only possible hope. I do not know what I am talking about and all I am thinking is that I do not understand why he didn’t just tell me to leave him alone when I came over to him he is so beautiful. And he keeps relighting his cigarette even though it has never once gone out, and he looks down at the ground and then into my eyes and smiles, and then up at the sky, and my bones and sinews and every inch of my flesh is yearning to clasp him to me he is so beautiful, so cute, so tender, so kind. And I’m so lucky to be here, right here, and for once in my life I know how lucky I am. Eventually I work up the courage to ask him his name, then how his night is going, and finally I manage to wrench from my mouth the word “Hey!” and walk away from him, retreating in rewind across the smoking area back to the entrance of the bar with my heart pounding like a sweet illness in my chest. And I am by the door now watching through the crowd a lone boy lost in thought dragging from a new-lit cigarette. I backstep through the doorway, the murky heave of the dance floor rumbling behind me, a cold lick of winter creeping down my chest, and a blast of joy swells inside me as my eyes fall like hammers on a gorgeous young man, one of those brutal incarnations of my most cherished dreams. And I watch, the stench of success already filling the air, though I cannot sense this yet, as he raises a blackened match before his lips and with one sharp breath sets it to flame. 

Linger Generously, And Wind Back

I glower at the rubbed lino of the passageway, heeding to the dwindling swish of his sleeve as he styles his system below. The miniature he unbolts the focal exit a sub-zero current of air flounders into the shop and filches from my ribs the most recent wholehearted dash of his bit. Missing and by yourself once more, I crack to go private. But rapidly his footpaths breed showier and gaudier and in spool-back he is oncoming back up the flight path towards me and in an instantaneous is in my armaments again, and I am infolding him yet again at the gate of my bedsit, severely and tenderly, with all the gift of my puny guns, demanding to say him that I certainly like him, supplicatory to him to recognize that it would slaughter me if this were the final period. But his façade is remote and far away, unqualified and straitened by the same critical onerousness that I sense in his torso. He is irritated to be disappeared. I pause absent and back first, with the overformal step of dual individuals who are petrified of jouncing into each other, we arrive in the pantry and he blunders off his pelt and descents it on a head and then we inverse up the slender stairway to my chamber and inaugurate to uncloak. I sentry in muteness as he unravels his fasteners and then eradicates his shoes and thwacks. He takes off his wash pants, his t-shirt and to conclude his wrestlers at the same twinkling as I tweak off mine. We dud down on the cradle and I baulk when I trace his unadorned box because when I guise into his discernments they give the impression aloof and stonier now, like they do not identify me to any further extent. We fib stagnant, cross by cross but not pitiful as our wheezing develops heftier and heftier and then we are streaking ourselves down with stout chews of privy rag. I yank him en route for me and press my angle into the lenient, tufted crumple of his hoop and we both arrive promptly and then I shock fucking him, the periodic clouts of my thighs against his tub brasses braying in our ears. When I jerk out he gossips directly, “Fuck me at this time,” and so I activate to slurp his incline, kneading his dirthole and smackering him extremely, gluttonously, on the aperture, on the schnozzle, on the turtleneck as we sluggishly, vestment by vestment, costume ourselves in the crib and then dive off it and block our shoes on without fretting with the cords and gust downwards through the scullery where he snatches his skin from the president and then out onto the boulevard. And we are well-nigh running through the twelve o’clock highways now, needles riveted together, zooming past bobbing lushes and hogwash blustering in the bitter squalls, pleased, conveying mindless gags, tickled when we clasp each other’s appreciations, intolerance and aspiration boiling a slum in us, though not plentiful enough to thwart us from hesitating on the connection for a stern, subterranean, teeth-clashing caress, exceeding the glitzy dark nether of the liquids. We flash through the closing paths and spurt into the casino and battle straight to the rave flat where we clamp each other and pat. And when our two underfed entries encounter and latch, and our four fingers grip and originate to chant, and when we entomb ourselves in each other and the intensity all around us shrinks to a fleck, I discern in this second that this is all I’ve ever hunted, not cheerfulness, but just this. This. And then he is owning me with a panicky, piteous arrow down the treads out to the smouldering area, elbowing through nubs of boppers, snaking his pate around with each stride as if he is fearful that I may rapidly evaporate. When we touch a vacant curve of the smouldering terrace, he probes me with a worried clip in his gullet, “Do you famine to hop?” and then we trim in for our major osculation. His vast hoary judgements emerge like two swoons before me, his nicotine-clotted snuffle smashes my air, and then delicately our chapped chops crash. My core attacks once, a dense sock behind my spokes, and then abates and for a precooked the unabridged sea is hushed and tranquil. The thunder of festivities dives back into my auricles as we jerk away from each other, and nowadays we are dialoguing for cherished existence. My doorway shoves out expression after throwaway expression as if a fixed torrent of racket is my solitary conceivable courage. I do not distinguish what I am chatting around and wholly I am unthinking and do not appreciate why he didn’t voice me disinterestedly to consent him to be unassisted when I came determined to him he is so fine-looking. And he persists at reawakening his ciggy even though it has on no occasion on one occasion gone out, and he stares down at the pounded and then into my senses, and then at the heavens, and my very carcass is haemorrhaging out headed for him he is so gorgeous, so adorable, so warm, so sweet, so benevolent. And I’m so fluky to be at this point, right at this time, and for once I distinguish it. In due course I slog up the nerve to ask him his label, then how his nocturnal is working. In conclusion I accomplish to approximate, “Hey!” and tread missing from him, ebbing in spool-back across the smouldering area back to the entry of the saloon with my mood drubbing like a honeyed infection in my box. And I am by the access now inspecting through the pack a unique lad misplaced in thought heaving from a fresh-lit fag. I stage through the entranceway, the gloomy lurch of the jazz ground reverberating at my vertebral, the unemotional wintertime air skulking down my ribs, and a detonation of delight billows inside me as my tastes plunge like mallets on this dazzling animal, this most vicious avatar of all my dear mirages. And I guard in a torment of glee, the pong of victory by this time plugging the ether, although I cannot wisdom it yet, as he nurtures a begrimed match before his jaws and with one harsh lungful sets it to blaze.

About Dermot O'Sullivan

Dermot O'Sullivan is from Dublin, Ireland. He studied English Literature in Trinity College, Dublin. His work has been published in various journals including The Honest Ulsterman, Causeway/Cabhsair, The Dalhousie Review and Fence. He currently lives in Brazil, where he recently had his first full-length play produced.

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