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  The rain falls onto the aluminum hood of the kitchen exhaust fan, reminding me of an intravenous drip and nickels. Some unkillable fungus grows under my toenails (I call it Cardinal O’Connor). But despite it all, despite the pot of coffee and a quart of Diet Pepsi I just ingested in lieu of the blood of Christ, I’ll sleep soundly tonight, while junkies curl up in doorways and shoot tepid smack into their veins, grateful not to go to sleep sick. After all, it’s a holiday.

  I’ll take an aspirin against the pains of holidays and age and sleep with memories of Chip in my mouth, of Joey Stefano (higher than a kite, his asshole open to accept the loneliness of the male world). I’ll think of lovers who smelled of formaldehyde even before they died and jerk off wondering if Ralph was ever happy. And I’ll drift off on clouds of beer-swilling Texican Daniel. He was a rose, all right, a yellow rose that I am dreaming of, of Danny Boy from Dallas, of hate in Irish eyes, and vengeance.

  First Shave

  Jameson Currier

  Barry lies on the bed diagonally and I pull his body closer toward me so that his legs dangle over the edge of the bed. His erection stretches up toward his navel and I grasp his cock and give it a few pumps with my fist. The water is in a large pot on the nightstand beside the bed, and I lean back from where I am standing and dip the tips of my fingers in the pot to wet them, then dip my hand all the way inside, clutching a grip of the warm water in my palm. I lean back toward Barry and drip the water over his waiting balls and cock, his skin soaking in the water as I next run my hand over them, the liquid a slick lubricant as I reach up and play with the shaft of his cock. Barry’s eyes are closed, but he smiles as I run my fist back and forth along the head of his dick. I cup his balls with the palm of my other hand, feeling the warmth and wetness of them now, then move my own dick, stiff and needy, to the side of me so that it falls against his balls.

  I reach over from where I stand and get the shaving cream from the nightstand, squirt a handful of it into my palm, and rub it on Barry’s balls. I let the skin soak this up, and while waiting I use the cream as a lubricant to play some more with his cock. Barry smiles again, wider, ’til his lips stretch almost to his ears, and then he opens his eyes and looks down at my hand, the shank of his neck flushed red from where my movements have excited him. I take my free hand and lightly squeeze his left nipple, and he shoves his head back against the bed, lifting his ass up slightly so that his dick slips in and out of my enclosed fist from the rocking motion he makes himself. When he relaxes again, I reach for the razor from the nightstand, do a fast check of the shaving cream on his balls, and decide to squirt some more on them. I use one hand to pin his dick against his stomach, then point the razor right beneath the shaft of his cock. I bring the razor down slowly against his skin, feeling the hair on his sack pull a little as I work on him, shaving him in short, firm strokes. Overcome slightly by the reality of my own shyness, I lean back and rinse the razor in the pot of water, even though I could have shaved some more of him. This is my first time shaving Barry, and I feel the tension in the arch of my back. After eight months of irregularly dating one another, Barry finally trusts me enough with a razor at his balls.

  Not that he should, of course. We’re not lovers, we’re not roommates—nor friends, either, really. Merely two men who date one another, something a little more complex than fuck-buddies, however. Barry already has a lover. Isn’t that always the story? The way it goes? The good one’s always taken? Or at least the sexy one? Barry’s been with Eric for almost twenty years now, and Barry tells me every time I see him that he and Eric haven’t had sex in years. Every time he mentions Eric, however, I feel both jealous and envious; Eric has a daily intimacy with Barry I know I will never possess.

  Now, using my thumb and fourth finger, I stretch some of the skin of Barry’s balls, and with the razor, shave the skin I have pulled taut. Then I push one of the sides of his balls tight against the other, shaving the side of it and slightly underneath. I do the same with the other side of his sack, dip the razor clean, and then play with his cock to make sure he is enjoying all this attention.

  Barry first shaved his balls when he started dating a guy who had shaved his balls and ass. Not Eric, of course; Barry has been seeing other guys since his relationship with Eric began, when they were college roommates. They never started out monogamous, Barry told me the night he first slept over at my apartment, but they made a rule, right up front, of never discussing their other lovers, dates, or tricks with one another. How Barry explains his clean shaven balls to Eric now, I have no idea, though I think it might have something to do with the absence of sex between them. But if I try to understand the complexity of their relationship, I only become frustrated with the inadequacy of ours.

  I want more than this, of course; or rather, I want more than what Barry is willing to give me. He likes our arrangement the way it is—once or twice a week for a movie, dinner, and, inevitably, sex. When Eric is out of town, one of us sleeps over at the other’s apartment.

  At first, all Barry wanted us to be was fuck-buddies, an arrangement I was perfectly capable of accepting, though not happily. But Barry wouldn’t stop calling me—first for sex, then later, to complain about Eric. He called from the office, from the car, from the lobby of the theater, ’til sometimes, we spoke to one another four or five times a day. Then he would disappear for a long stretch of time, only to call repeatedly again. I always expected that Barry would have used me up by now, but instead he arrives with little gifts—toys which we will use later, together, in bed—handcuffs, rings, clamps, dildos, flavored lube. That’s how the shaving came about. Barry arrived tonight with a disposable razor and shaving cream.

  I continue to talk to Barry’s body with my hands. His dick is rock-solid hard, thick and pumped like his morning erections always are, and I sneak a look at the whole package of him, the hefty, well-fed physique of a well-groomed, middle-aged theatrical producer. What is this thing I have for older men, anyway? Barry is effortlessly a man, however, natural and unrattled as a father, with a chest and stomach full of flat, brown hair, the ends of which are tipped in gray, and full round biceps and an ass you would believe belonged to a much younger body. There is a good twenty years difference between us; Barry says, more often than not, that I look like Eric did when they first met. In spite of his comparisons, in spite of knowing I’m being compared, I also find Barry inherently sexy. I play with myself for a moment, stroking my cock as I look him over, then tell him first to turn over on his stomach, then to push himself up, supporting himself on his knees and elbows.

  His ass now—the white, creamy complexion of it—is pitched heavenward into the air, and I cup his cheeks with my wet hands, kneading them first and then giving them light slaps. His skin is baby soft but firm beneath the flesh, and I slap and knead, slap and knead, as Barry shifts himself beneath me to accommodate my grips, his ass pushing itself even higher into the air above him, as if trying to drink in the air through his asshole.

  Not long after I met Barry, he told me that he liked the slick feel of his cleanly-shaved balls, and that he would go wild when someone just touched him there, cupping them completely into the warm palms of his hands. Now Barry shaves the evening before he sees me, in case he nicks himself, he tells me, in order to give the skin time to heal. I worry a moment about nicking him now, imagine how I would handle the blood if that should happen. But I shake off the thought, mentally chant it out of the room. That will not happen, I tell myself over and over, because he trusts me. No blood. No blood. No blood.

  I run a finger from the base of Barry’s spine, down through the crack of his ass, back down to his balls. I cup them with one hand, then take my other hand and rub my fingers against his asshole. The hole is red and almost angry-looking, and I study the hairs along the puckered surface. I reach over to the still-warm water, wet my fingertips, then run them into the crack of his ass, digging a damp finger slightly into his asshole. I play with the water some more against his ass, then squirt
shaving cream into my hand and rub it along the crack. I tell him to spread his knees even further, widening my view of his asshole. I slap the skin some more, then take the razor in one hand and with my other hand spread the skin of his other cheek—first for support, and then, when I am sure of the flesh, to stretch the skin even further apart.

  I shave the base of his spine first, then, in short, quick strokes, work my way down the crack to his asshole, watching the warm, creamy liquid drip down onto the sack of his balls. When I reach the more furrowed surface of his asshole, I slow down, almost tapping the razor against his skin. I can tell he is even more aroused now, imagine my quick, light movements must feel as if he is being tickled there, and I smile at the thought of it and continue shaving him.

  When I first started dating Barry, I wanted desperately to fall in love with someone, having just emerged from a string of very bad blind and fruitless dates. The moment Barry told me about Eric, I was ready to end it all. Who wants to be the other woman, after all? Had the sex not been so good, so comfortable, so hot and inventive between us, he could never have convinced me to continue.

  I rinse the razor and continue shaving his asshole, using the razor a little harder now to get a closer shave. I run a finger along the clean, finished surface of the skin, testing the smoothness. I decide I want it to feel even smoother, and repeat my strokes along his ass. I stop midway, however, reach underneath him, and pump his cock. He groans and shifts his body. I knead his cheeks, then finish with the remainder of his ass. The shave is done now, but I touch up the underside of his balls to get a closer shave from this new angle. The cream, water, and shave take only a moment, and I use the excess liquid to lube his dick, feeling as I do the damp sensation of his precome wetting his cock. I place the razor back on the nightstand, wet my hand again in the pot, and then begin to finger his asshole. One finger slips easily in, and I wiggle it around inside him, feeling for his prostate. I find it—a hard little nodule beneath the tip of my finger—and massage it. He groans again, and I wedge a second finger into his ass, move it in and out, in and out, listening to his moans to make sure that they emanate more from pleasure than from pain.

  Barry said that Eric hadn’t fucked him since Eric tested positive, almost five years ago. Barry is negative, and the difference in their serostatuses, Barry said, not only pushed them further apart sexually, but bound them closer together emotionally. How could he walk out on Eric now, Barry once told me, not knowing what the future could mean for either of them? Of course it upset me when I heard it; it still does when I think about it. Eric is asymptomatic, and Barry, I know, does not want to leave him. This is what I have, I remind myself, and continue fingering Barry’s ass. This is what I get. If I want more or something else, I know I have to get out and look elsewhere.

  From the nightstand, I remove a condom and slip it over my cock. I lean over Barry’s ass and push my dick slowly in. Barry takes a deep breath, and I wrap my arms around his waist as I fuck him from behind, my movements slow and thoughtful, in and out, in and out, so that he feels every inch of my dick and balls against his now-hairless ass.

  He groans louder as I go in deeper and faster, and my thoughts change from erotic to frustrated. Barry’s sexual appetite is insatiable—I’m not his only companion-slash-fuck-buddy. My friend Martin’s seen Barry at the bar picking up tricks; my neighbor, Jon, saw him and a date at a premiere at the Ziegfeld. Barry’s even taken me to the bar with him a couple of times when he’s been in search of fresh meat. Now, instead of pushing myself harder into Barry, I take deep breaths, rapidly and loudly, wanting to believe, as I do, that Barry is not just another jerk fucking me over, using me as a sex toy. Beneath me, beneath Barry’s ass, I reach down and pump his cock as I fuck him. Barry suddenly comes into my fist, and I rub his hot cream back up against the shaft of his cock, around the base and onto his slippery balls.

  I pull out of him and watch myself come into the tip of the condom, my dick suspended somewhere above Barry’s milky-white ass. Barry twists his body beneath me, twirls around so that his ass rests again on the bed. His eyes look up at me, searching for my own. I meet his gaze and watch his lips purse together as if to speak. For a moment, I think he will say something romantic, caring, but I lean down into him, wanting to cut him off, not wanting to hear some sort of half-hearted remark about how nice he thinks I am. Instead, he stops my face right above his own by shoving his hands against the side of my skull. For a moment, the power between us shifts. Barry is twice as big as I am, and he could easily crush my skull in his hands. Instead, he turns my head so that my ear is right above his lips. “Show me you care,” he says lightly into my ear. “Come on. I want you to do it again.”

  Aegis

  D. Travers Scott

  Soon, Ian thought.

  The razor glided across his scalp, leaving a smooth, pink wake in the lather. A chill followed the razor’s swath, cold air touching exposed skin. In contrast, a warm razorburn glowed. The hot/cold juxtaposition reminded Ian of raves: flushed Ecstasy-forehead heat against cold menthol jelly on lips and eyelids.

  Hot and cold make tornadoes, he thought.

  Stevik was steady, careful.

  Ian shifted his concentration from top to bottom as the razor made another pass.

  Feet flat against the floor-tiles, back braced against the goal posts of Stevik’s legs, Ian held himself still as possible. The tattooist’s knees jutted out through torn black denim, the cotton fray and kneecap hairs tickled Ian’s earlobes. Ian’s arms circled back around Stevik’s calves, the hard swells from years of bike messengering wedged solid inside Ian’s elbows. Ian focused on the tactile sensations underneath his fingertips and sweaty palms. Stevik had put him on a steady diet of L-arginine, niacin, pantothenic acid and choline to heighten his sense of touch. Boots and jeans flooded his system: Rough canvas cord, cold metal eyelets and supple leather, smooth spots on frayed laces, and rough denim all weave against his armflesh. Stevik’s shins ran down his bare back in sharp verticals.

  Focusing on these sensations kept Ian motionless. Stevik could work around a nick, but Ian knew he’d prefer perfection from the onset and wanted to give it to him. He opened his eyes. The sun, low on Belmont, shot orange verticals of August evening slicing through the windows of Endless Tattoo. Stevik’s boots glowed black-red; the silver ring on Ian’s fourth finger gleamed in bright contrast. The oblique light carved deep shadows into the inscription, BOY.

  Ian fought a shudder. It would take several sessions to do a piece as elaborate as Stevik had promised, as elaborate as the work he’d done on Toad: The outlining, fill, shading, color. Finally, they were approaching the home stretch. Once Stevik had marked him, it would happen.

  “So,” the pierced guy with dreads drawled, “who gave you the ring?”

  Ian turned around, surprised.

  “No one.” Ian’s eyes, burning underneath thick, furrowed brows, darted around the club. They lit on the dreaded guy. “Gave it to myself.”

  The man held his gaze, unblinking. “Self-made Boy?”

  Ian looked away.

  “Someday…” Ian glanced at his half-peeled Calistoga label. His eyes danced briefly onto the pierced guy, gazed past him out into the pit.

  “Someday, someone’ll give me one to replace it.”

  The man curled out his lower lip thoughtfully.

  Ian scowled into his bottle.

  The man with the dreads rose, took one of his two singles from the counter.

  “Yeah. Someday,” he muttered.

  Ian’s eyes trailed his dissolution into the crowd.

  “There.”

  Hot/cold prickles ran over Ian’s clean scalp, down his neck.

  “Okay, Ian. I’m done.”

  Ian stared at the ring, and his pale fingers gripping Stevik’s black laces. He didn’t want to let go. He’d waited so long for this—and what would follow—he almost feared its arrival. “Ian, I gotta get you into the chair to do it.”

  Ian tilted h
is freshly-shaved head back against Stevik’s lap, looking up into his eyes. Stevik’s brown dreads circled down around his face like curtains. His face was a series of long shadows and gleaming sparks from the stainless piercings: Labret below the lips, Niebuhr between the eyes, septum, eyebrow. Ian traced them with his eyes, drinking in the details of the man’s face. His black goatee curled down in a point; scars striped his eyebrows. Two dark brown eyes terrified Ian, their enormous potential energy, poised to spring deep into him.

  Ian smiled.

  Stevik’s lips curled into a fond snarl.

  He spat.

  The hot saliva splattered beneath Ian’s right nostril. His tongue stretched to gather it up.

  “Fuck,” Stevik sighed. “I get so hot thinking about marking you.”

  Ian nodded. He squeezed Stevik’s ankle and laid his face against his thigh. He breathed in sweat, dirt, and crotch-funk through the stiff denim, nuzzled the coarse fabric, sighed.

  “I know,” Stevik murmured. “Won’t be much longer, boy. Not too long. And it’ll be worth the wait. You’ll have earned it.”

  Ian exited into the gelid night. LaLuna’s neon tinted the wet street hyper-cobalt.

  Town always looks like a fucking car commercial, he thought.

  Assorted young queers drifted past with affected chattering, unlocking station wagons and Buicks, strapping on bike helmets, revving motorcycles, stretching into raggedy sweaters and backpacks.

  Ian kicked around the corner, disgusted. Another wasted night. Tweakers, smoked-out groove-rats, slumming twinks. Even at the freak convention, he felt the freak. The kids, his peers, had all been babbling about the Psychotronic Circus coming down from Seattle, trashing a new all-ages called The Garden, comparing notes on which of the street kids arriving for spring were fags and which ones would fuck around anyway, for money or a dose.