"253 Creekside Canyon" 25
Watching the past.
By Gaedhal
Los Angeles, January 2006
Brian stared at the blank television screen and then stared back at Ron. "I can't believe you kept that film all these years!" he said. "I completely forgot about it. I guess my memory of that time is a little foggy."
Yeah, thought Brian. I was fucking strung out the entire time.
Except that when he put his mind to it, he remembered quite a lot through that druggy fog. And certain details were uncomfortably clear. How cold he'd felt on the street, and then how warm he became in Ron's apartment. The smell of Ron's shampoo. Sitting on the sagging sofa, wrapped in a blanket, his head leaning on Ron's shoulder as they watched some old movie late at night. The taste of the fresh bagels Ron brought back for breakfast. The black light that Ron turned on while they fucked.
And the camera in the bedroom. And what they did in front of it.
"I want to see it," said Brian.
"Are you certain?" Ron's voice was low. Hesitant.
"Yes," Brian affirmed. "I can't leave here without watching it. But you already knew that, didn't you, Ron?"
But Ron didn't say anything. He simply pressed a button on the remote. Then he sat beside Brian on the bed.
And suddenly there was Ron's old bedroom. Just a bed, a nightstand with a lamp on it, a dresser. It's a cramped space, like so many bedrooms in apartments in New York. Brian had remembered it being larger, but memory always made things seem larger. Larger and prettier than this nondescript room furnished with cast-offs.
And Brian saw himself. It was a shock to see his own body, his own face, so young and still uncompleted. And another thing surprised him -- he was smiling.
Whenever he thought of those weeks in New York he recalled the cold and the darkness and the fear. Brian pictured himself ragged, hungry, freezing. That was the version of himself that he'd seen when he'd watched 'Red Shirt' back in the loft. That was the Jack he remembered. Even in Ron's apartment he mainly remembered Jack as that same melancholy presence, waiting until the moment when he knew he would have to leave and never see this man again. The pitiful hustler boy. The addict who would soon be reclaimed by the streets. The lost boy who would somehow find his way back home again and put those days behind him forever.
But what Brian had never expected to see was a boy who is laughing. Making silly faces at the camera. Shaggy-haired and skinny, but also sexy. Long-legged, his torso smooth, his neck long, his lips full, his nipples like copper pennies, with a faint line of hair trailing down into white cotton briefs as he coyly lifts up his tee shirt, 'Jack' is already recognizably the future Brian. But he's also a boy. Playful. Teasing. And tempting.
"Are you going to come over here and fuck me?" the boy smirks as he rolls around on the bed. He strips off his tee shirt and snakes his right hand down into the front of his briefs. Then he falls back hard on the bed, groaning, pretending to be dead. But he can't stay still. He bounces his lean body against the mattress, full of energy.
"Be careful! Don't break my bed!" says a voice off-screen.
The boy laughs. "Come over and let's try it!"
And that's when the second person appears. Ron. Handsomer than Brian remembered. His dark hair thick and curling. His body thinner than it is now -- they both were so fucking thin! -- but still firm and strong-looking, his chest and arms covered with dark, wiry hair. He looks like a man next to the boy on the bed. A very desirable man.
The same man who was now sitting next to him.
The boy puts his arms around the man, whispering to him. Kissing him. Giggling between the kisses. Then the man disappears off-camera and the boy begins to perform. Takes out his already man-sized cock and strokes it to hardness. Then slips down his briefs and jerks off, lovingly and expertly, playing to the camera. He alternately laughs and gasps as he gets close to coming, until he finally spurts, his shaggy head falling backwards, his mouth open.
"That was a good one!" he exclaims, his face suffused with pleasure. And the screen goes blank.
But when the bedroom appears again a few moments later, it's the two of them. The man and the boy. Not just fucking, but making love. That's the thing that causes Brian's heart to flip in his chest. He never thought he knew how to make love until... until so much later. But he'd known how to do it all along. Here was the proof on the television screen before him. He'd done it with Ron.
There are a number of different scenes, shot on at least two different days, Brian recalled. The action starts and stops, the cuts jerky, the picture poorly framed and sometimes out of focus. And when Ron joins in the action, the camera is static, running on automatic, often missing what was happening as the two participants moved in and out of the frame. But that somehow made what Brian was watching all the more more exciting. All the more real.
And all the more troubling. Because what Brian was seeing was himself as he'd never imagined. Not Brian Kinney, the self-confidant Stud of Liberty Avenue, the Top of All Tops, but Brian as Jack, the boy who was getting fucked. Fucked from every angle. From behind. Face to face. Sitting on Ron's thick cock and bouncing aggressively. And Brian Fucking Kinney, the man who didn't do love, kissing and caressing. And being kissed and caressed. Letting himself go. Allowing himself to feel, to love, and not caring about anything but that emotion.
As Brian watched the screen, his hand began to reach for his cock. But then he stopped -- and reached over to Ron. Slipping his hand into the front of Ron's trousers, then unzipping them. Grasping his hard dick.
And Ron leaned against Brian. Murmuring at his neck. Dipping his hand under Brian's shirt to play with his nipples.
"How often do you watch this?" Brian asked, never taking his eyes off the screen.
"Not often," Ron said, quietly stroking Brian's hot skin. "I only found the footage a few years ago when I thought 'Red Shirt' was going to come out on DVD. I was looking for outtakes and that's when I discovered this reel of film, mixed in with the 'Red Shirt' cans. I edited it together and then hid it away. It was too hard for me to watch. It felt too raw, especially when I thought Jack was dead. But now...." His voice trails off.
"Shit," whispered Brian. "Shit, shit, shit."
"Don't make me come," said Ron, taking Brian's hand off his cock. He suddenly stood and pulled off his trousers. "Let me fuck you. Right now. Quick! Before the film ends!"
Brian didn't say a word. He lay back on the bed, slid off his jeans and unbuttoned his shirt. Behind Ron, Brian could see the two figures on the screen, moving like shadows, their bodies melding.
And then he and Ron did the same. And kept doing it long after the television screen went to blue.
By Gaedhal
Los Angeles, January 2006
Brian stared at the blank television screen and then stared back at Ron. "I can't believe you kept that film all these years!" he said. "I completely forgot about it. I guess my memory of that time is a little foggy."
Yeah, thought Brian. I was fucking strung out the entire time.
Except that when he put his mind to it, he remembered quite a lot through that druggy fog. And certain details were uncomfortably clear. How cold he'd felt on the street, and then how warm he became in Ron's apartment. The smell of Ron's shampoo. Sitting on the sagging sofa, wrapped in a blanket, his head leaning on Ron's shoulder as they watched some old movie late at night. The taste of the fresh bagels Ron brought back for breakfast. The black light that Ron turned on while they fucked.
And the camera in the bedroom. And what they did in front of it.
"I want to see it," said Brian.
"Are you certain?" Ron's voice was low. Hesitant.
"Yes," Brian affirmed. "I can't leave here without watching it. But you already knew that, didn't you, Ron?"
But Ron didn't say anything. He simply pressed a button on the remote. Then he sat beside Brian on the bed.
And suddenly there was Ron's old bedroom. Just a bed, a nightstand with a lamp on it, a dresser. It's a cramped space, like so many bedrooms in apartments in New York. Brian had remembered it being larger, but memory always made things seem larger. Larger and prettier than this nondescript room furnished with cast-offs.
And Brian saw himself. It was a shock to see his own body, his own face, so young and still uncompleted. And another thing surprised him -- he was smiling.
Whenever he thought of those weeks in New York he recalled the cold and the darkness and the fear. Brian pictured himself ragged, hungry, freezing. That was the version of himself that he'd seen when he'd watched 'Red Shirt' back in the loft. That was the Jack he remembered. Even in Ron's apartment he mainly remembered Jack as that same melancholy presence, waiting until the moment when he knew he would have to leave and never see this man again. The pitiful hustler boy. The addict who would soon be reclaimed by the streets. The lost boy who would somehow find his way back home again and put those days behind him forever.
But what Brian had never expected to see was a boy who is laughing. Making silly faces at the camera. Shaggy-haired and skinny, but also sexy. Long-legged, his torso smooth, his neck long, his lips full, his nipples like copper pennies, with a faint line of hair trailing down into white cotton briefs as he coyly lifts up his tee shirt, 'Jack' is already recognizably the future Brian. But he's also a boy. Playful. Teasing. And tempting.
"Are you going to come over here and fuck me?" the boy smirks as he rolls around on the bed. He strips off his tee shirt and snakes his right hand down into the front of his briefs. Then he falls back hard on the bed, groaning, pretending to be dead. But he can't stay still. He bounces his lean body against the mattress, full of energy.
"Be careful! Don't break my bed!" says a voice off-screen.
The boy laughs. "Come over and let's try it!"
And that's when the second person appears. Ron. Handsomer than Brian remembered. His dark hair thick and curling. His body thinner than it is now -- they both were so fucking thin! -- but still firm and strong-looking, his chest and arms covered with dark, wiry hair. He looks like a man next to the boy on the bed. A very desirable man.
The same man who was now sitting next to him.
The boy puts his arms around the man, whispering to him. Kissing him. Giggling between the kisses. Then the man disappears off-camera and the boy begins to perform. Takes out his already man-sized cock and strokes it to hardness. Then slips down his briefs and jerks off, lovingly and expertly, playing to the camera. He alternately laughs and gasps as he gets close to coming, until he finally spurts, his shaggy head falling backwards, his mouth open.
"That was a good one!" he exclaims, his face suffused with pleasure. And the screen goes blank.
But when the bedroom appears again a few moments later, it's the two of them. The man and the boy. Not just fucking, but making love. That's the thing that causes Brian's heart to flip in his chest. He never thought he knew how to make love until... until so much later. But he'd known how to do it all along. Here was the proof on the television screen before him. He'd done it with Ron.
There are a number of different scenes, shot on at least two different days, Brian recalled. The action starts and stops, the cuts jerky, the picture poorly framed and sometimes out of focus. And when Ron joins in the action, the camera is static, running on automatic, often missing what was happening as the two participants moved in and out of the frame. But that somehow made what Brian was watching all the more more exciting. All the more real.
And all the more troubling. Because what Brian was seeing was himself as he'd never imagined. Not Brian Kinney, the self-confidant Stud of Liberty Avenue, the Top of All Tops, but Brian as Jack, the boy who was getting fucked. Fucked from every angle. From behind. Face to face. Sitting on Ron's thick cock and bouncing aggressively. And Brian Fucking Kinney, the man who didn't do love, kissing and caressing. And being kissed and caressed. Letting himself go. Allowing himself to feel, to love, and not caring about anything but that emotion.
As Brian watched the screen, his hand began to reach for his cock. But then he stopped -- and reached over to Ron. Slipping his hand into the front of Ron's trousers, then unzipping them. Grasping his hard dick.
And Ron leaned against Brian. Murmuring at his neck. Dipping his hand under Brian's shirt to play with his nipples.
"How often do you watch this?" Brian asked, never taking his eyes off the screen.
"Not often," Ron said, quietly stroking Brian's hot skin. "I only found the footage a few years ago when I thought 'Red Shirt' was going to come out on DVD. I was looking for outtakes and that's when I discovered this reel of film, mixed in with the 'Red Shirt' cans. I edited it together and then hid it away. It was too hard for me to watch. It felt too raw, especially when I thought Jack was dead. But now...." His voice trails off.
"Shit," whispered Brian. "Shit, shit, shit."
"Don't make me come," said Ron, taking Brian's hand off his cock. He suddenly stood and pulled off his trousers. "Let me fuck you. Right now. Quick! Before the film ends!"
Brian didn't say a word. He lay back on the bed, slid off his jeans and unbuttoned his shirt. Behind Ron, Brian could see the two figures on the screen, moving like shadows, their bodies melding.
And then he and Ron did the same. And kept doing it long after the television screen went to blue.