Original Fiction: The Slow Fall (R)
I wrote this short story for my Creative Writing class, and I really like it, so I want to post it here because I want to revise it and I feel like I need more feedback and concrit (though I might have to delete it when I send it out for publication, which is part of the class). It's about a gay teenager's first time, so it is, essentially, slash. And one character is sort of an Expy of a certain character most certainly not the man in my icon. So here we go:
The morning after. I wake up in a bed that’s not mine in an apartment I don’t live in on a street I don’t know. There’s another body next to mine-that’s not normal. Who is this guy? How did I get here? Oh, yeah…
You wander into the club, brown eyes wide, sure that none of the other guys will notice you. You’re too skinny, too short (only 5’8”), your face is too long, your nose hooks too much, and there are about a thousand other things wrong with you. You don’t expect much, except maybe to get picked up by the pervy old fag who hasn’t gotten any since Operation: Desert Storm.
You sneak past all the men dancing and prancing in the middle of the club, muscles flexing, skin glowing momentarily in each strobe light, and you lean against the wall, praying no one will notice you. You’re here to watch, not to be seen. You look over at one twentysomething giving another a blowjob in the corner. You observe the way the man receiving it arches his back and runs his hands through the other one’s hair so quickly, so fervently, and the way the other sucks him and strokes his body, and suddenly you’re hard, and you know you should look away-you should run out of here, go back home, forget about this-but you can’t. You don’t want to. For some reason, for the first time, you’re alright with this-where you are, what you are, maybe even who you are. And then you feel someone’s hand on your shoulder. Your whole body stiffens.
“Oh, hey, kid,” he murmurs to me as he wakes up. “You’re still here.”
“Um, yeah,” I said. “I don’t have a car.” Why can’t I just be cool?
He looks up at me lazily with beady blue eyes staring and wavy brown hair falling in his eyes. “Why not?”
I sit up and curl my legs up to my chest and I can feel my cheeks flush hot and probably bright red. “I don’t know.”
“You know, kid, you look younger in the daylight.”
“Um, thanks, I think?”
He rolls over onto his back. “So how old are you?”
“Uh…how old do you think I am?” I can’t meet his eyes-they scare me a little bit.
“Last night, I’d’ve said about twenty-two or twenty-three.” He cocks his head sideways. “Now, I’d say nineteen, tops.”
“Close.” I can’t say it. I just can’t.
“Twenty? Damn, you’re baby-faced.”
“Um. Lower.” Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’tsayitdon’tsayitdon’tsayitdon’tsayit.
“Eighteen. At least you’re legal.”
“Seventeen.” I let my head drop into my hands.
I look up just long enough to see his beady eyes grow wide. I drop my head again. He’s gonna kick me out, I just know it.
He chuckles. “Well, shit. I’m going to prison.”
You turn around, and there he is. A lean body, wavy brown hair slicked back, beady blue eyes sparkling, lips in a perfect pout paired with the highest cheekbones you’ve ever seen-this man’s a god, and he’s the Big Bad Wolf to your Little Red Riding Hood. Ironically, he’s wearing a short, bright red, old-fashioned-looking military coat with gold, braided stripes down the front and on the shoulder. But he wears with a close-fitting black T-shirt, tight jeans, tall boots (that hugged his jeans), and a devil-may-care stance that was very James Dean Goes to Boot Camp. This guy could have anyone in here, anyone in the world, and he’s staring at you and your knobby knees, bony shoulders, buzz cut, and hooknose. Hell must be an icebox right now.
“Kid, you waitin’ for somebody?” He asks huskily. You think your knees just got a little weaker.
“No.” That’s all you can say without stuttering.
“Buy you a drink, then?” His grin is sultry and inviting-why is he looking at you like that?
You nod. He grabs your wrist and leads you over to the bar. You order a screwdriver because you know it has orange juice in it, so it won’t be too bad. Then he leads you up the stairs to the tables and picks a booth nestled right in the corner, where you’re least likely to be seen. He sits really close to you, eyeing you like a gourmet steak, and even though you’re sitting in the back, you feel like everyone in the club is staring at you.
“So, kid, what’s your name?” he asks, nuzzling up to you.
“I, uh, I…it’s Nick.” Smooth.
He downs his drink pretty quickly (you don’t even know what he’s having), but you can only sip yours, trying to focus on the orange juice instead of the alcohol. You like it, but you don’t know why.
“I haven’t seen you here before.” He nuzzles his nose against your neck, and you can feel the goosebumps rising.
“Well, uh, it’s my first time. Here, I mean. My first time here. I go to lots of other clubs.” Will he see through that? Will he even care?
“How does this one hold up, then?” Now he’s kissing your neck, and you’re pretty sure you’re paralyzed.
“It’s pretty good, I guess. Really good. Yeah.” A tiny part of you wants to run. You never would, though. Not when he’s practically in your lap.
“Mmmm…” Is he even listening?
All the nuzzling and the nipping are too much, so you lift his head and you kiss him, full on the mouth. That’s a first.
“Well, I’m practically legal,” I say, lifting my head up and trying to sound mature. I know I just sound whiny.
“Nope. Still jailbait. Was still fun, though.” He sits up and looks straight at me.
“Um, yeah. It was amazing.” God, I hope that didn’t sound lame.
“Your first time, huh?” He asks, like he totally knows.
“Uh, yeah.” Crap.
He laughs. “God, if I had a nickel for every virgin I banged…”
“Do you only do virgins?” I ask. I know my ears perk up and my eyes are wide.
“Not on purpose. I guess I just attract them. Just so you know.”
“Oh. Okay.” I look down and rub my hand against the bed sheets.
“Hey, kid-what’s your name again?”
“Nick.”
“Yeah, Nick, why’re you so embarrassed? It’s just sex.” He raises his eyebrows and I see the lines in his face-he’s older than I thought he was-early forties, maybe.
“I don’t know, I guess I thought it’s all supposed to…” I rub my hand harder and faster against the sheets.
“All that shit Mommy and Daddy told you about your first time being special? Doesn’t actually matter.”
“Okay.” I kiss him. I try to kiss him long and slowly, but he breaks it off and turns away.
“Kid-Nick, whatever, like I said, it doesn’t matter.”
Pretty soon, you’re all over each other, kissing and licking and nipping and running your hands up and down each others’ bodies. You’re afraid you’re doing something wrong, moving too fast, moving too slowly, putting your hands in the wrong place…And then you’re both straddled across the booth, and half your brain is enjoying this while the other half is worried that you’ll hit your head and crack it open on the table like you did when you were two. You know you have nothing to worry about, right? So why’s your stomach in a giant knot?
Before you know it, you’re pressed against the building outside and he’s unzipping your fly, and Oh God, you’re the one getting blown and you’re the one with your back arching and your hands running through his hair like crazy-you, the nobody, the nothing, the geek. Why you? What the hell?!
And then you think might’ve been riding in a car, but suddenly you’re in his apartment, and he’s got your shirt off. Oh, shit, he’s going to see how horribly skinny and bony and pale you are and that’ll be the end of that. So you take off his awesome jacket and T-shirt, and he looks great of course. No way you could ever top what he sees in the mirror every day.
“Goddamn, you’re beautiful,” he whispers huskily into your ear between kisses.
“What?”
“You’re damn sexy, you know that?”
You blink. “Um, I don’t know you’re name.” Like that matters.
“So?” He’s dropped his pants and he’s working on yours.
“I just want to know.”
“Um, John.”
Good. John. A name. Now you don’t have to say your first was a total stranger. He grabs you roughly and you both crash onto the bed, still exploring each others’ bodies. If this is bliss, then you wonder why no one ever told you it was so rough.
“Kid, I’m not your boyfriend or your lover or your partner-“
“I never said you were.”
He turns back to face me with a steely glare. “But you were thinkin’ it. I know your type-all poetic dreamers lost in their own little worlds of love and romance. Well, let me tell you, kid, the world ain’t like that-the world fucking sucks-no one loves you, no one wants you, and then it all ends like a bad joke with a stupid punch line.”
I just blink and stare. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, here’s an example, kid: I look pretty good to you, right?”
It takes me a few seconds to find my voice again. “Um, yeah-I mean, more than just pretty good, you’re really gorg-“
“Yeah, well, not for much longer. ‘Cause guess what? I got six months left.”
My breath catches in my throat and my body freezes up. “Is it…AIDS?” What did I get myself into?
“Hell no, kid. They can practically cure that now. Cancer. Terminal. Great, huh?”
He’s on top of you now, and you’re hyper-aware of every movement, every touch, and it sends you soaring. You turn over onto your stomach because you know what he wants, what you both want.
He flips you back over onto your back, lifts your legs up onto his shoulders, and looks at you hungrily. “I want to see your face when you come.”
And then he’s inside you and oh, God. Damn. It. YES. The feeling crashes over you like a giant ocean wave that fills every open niche in the sand with water. Right before he comes, he groans, “I love you.” He falls down next to you and takes you into his arms and kisses you, softly and slowly, so much differently than earlier. The last thing you see before you fall asleep is the amazing red jacket with its white-and-gold braid glittering in the dim light of the apartment.
I look down at the sheets again, twisting them with my hands. “I’m sorry…”
He glares at me again. “I don’t need your pity, kid.”
For some reason, he looks older to me now. I can see all the lines in his face, all of the beginnings of age on his body. He’s so faded in the daylight. He seems less like Apollo and more like Hephaestus.
Something catches my eye-it’s the braiding on his red military jacket. I get out of bed and pick it up, admiring it closely now. It’s slightly faded, too, with a couple of frayed strings hanging off the end of the sleeves and the bottom of the jacket-nothing a scissors couldn’t fix, though.
“You like that, huh?” he asks, smirking.
“Yeah, it’s beautiful.” I can’t take my eyes off of it.
“Found it at a thrift store.” He shrugs.
“Oh.” It loses a bit of its majesty, but it’s still wonderful for some reason, even though I can’t put my finger on it.
“You want it? I probably don’t even need it anymore, considering.”
I smile for the first time that morning. “Really?”
“Sure.” He shrugs again.
I get dressed quickly and put on the jacket. It’s heavier than I thought it’d be. “Wow.”
“You’ll grow into it.”
I walk over to him and kiss him again. “Thanks, John.”
“Just go, kid.” He turns away from me, looking kind of ashamed, but I don’t know why.
As I walk out, I see a piece of mail on a small table near the door. The name it’s addressed to isn’t “John.” I take one last look at him, staring into those beady blue eyes. And then I walk out the door, closing it a little harder than I should. After I walk down the stairs, I stand outside for a few minutes and realize one thing.
I don’t know how to get home.
The morning after. I wake up in a bed that’s not mine in an apartment I don’t live in on a street I don’t know. There’s another body next to mine-that’s not normal. Who is this guy? How did I get here? Oh, yeah…
You wander into the club, brown eyes wide, sure that none of the other guys will notice you. You’re too skinny, too short (only 5’8”), your face is too long, your nose hooks too much, and there are about a thousand other things wrong with you. You don’t expect much, except maybe to get picked up by the pervy old fag who hasn’t gotten any since Operation: Desert Storm.
You sneak past all the men dancing and prancing in the middle of the club, muscles flexing, skin glowing momentarily in each strobe light, and you lean against the wall, praying no one will notice you. You’re here to watch, not to be seen. You look over at one twentysomething giving another a blowjob in the corner. You observe the way the man receiving it arches his back and runs his hands through the other one’s hair so quickly, so fervently, and the way the other sucks him and strokes his body, and suddenly you’re hard, and you know you should look away-you should run out of here, go back home, forget about this-but you can’t. You don’t want to. For some reason, for the first time, you’re alright with this-where you are, what you are, maybe even who you are. And then you feel someone’s hand on your shoulder. Your whole body stiffens.
“Oh, hey, kid,” he murmurs to me as he wakes up. “You’re still here.”
“Um, yeah,” I said. “I don’t have a car.” Why can’t I just be cool?
He looks up at me lazily with beady blue eyes staring and wavy brown hair falling in his eyes. “Why not?”
I sit up and curl my legs up to my chest and I can feel my cheeks flush hot and probably bright red. “I don’t know.”
“You know, kid, you look younger in the daylight.”
“Um, thanks, I think?”
He rolls over onto his back. “So how old are you?”
“Uh…how old do you think I am?” I can’t meet his eyes-they scare me a little bit.
“Last night, I’d’ve said about twenty-two or twenty-three.” He cocks his head sideways. “Now, I’d say nineteen, tops.”
“Close.” I can’t say it. I just can’t.
“Twenty? Damn, you’re baby-faced.”
“Um. Lower.” Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’tsayitdon’tsayitdon’tsayitdon’tsayit.
“Eighteen. At least you’re legal.”
“Seventeen.” I let my head drop into my hands.
I look up just long enough to see his beady eyes grow wide. I drop my head again. He’s gonna kick me out, I just know it.
He chuckles. “Well, shit. I’m going to prison.”
You turn around, and there he is. A lean body, wavy brown hair slicked back, beady blue eyes sparkling, lips in a perfect pout paired with the highest cheekbones you’ve ever seen-this man’s a god, and he’s the Big Bad Wolf to your Little Red Riding Hood. Ironically, he’s wearing a short, bright red, old-fashioned-looking military coat with gold, braided stripes down the front and on the shoulder. But he wears with a close-fitting black T-shirt, tight jeans, tall boots (that hugged his jeans), and a devil-may-care stance that was very James Dean Goes to Boot Camp. This guy could have anyone in here, anyone in the world, and he’s staring at you and your knobby knees, bony shoulders, buzz cut, and hooknose. Hell must be an icebox right now.
“Kid, you waitin’ for somebody?” He asks huskily. You think your knees just got a little weaker.
“No.” That’s all you can say without stuttering.
“Buy you a drink, then?” His grin is sultry and inviting-why is he looking at you like that?
You nod. He grabs your wrist and leads you over to the bar. You order a screwdriver because you know it has orange juice in it, so it won’t be too bad. Then he leads you up the stairs to the tables and picks a booth nestled right in the corner, where you’re least likely to be seen. He sits really close to you, eyeing you like a gourmet steak, and even though you’re sitting in the back, you feel like everyone in the club is staring at you.
“So, kid, what’s your name?” he asks, nuzzling up to you.
“I, uh, I…it’s Nick.” Smooth.
He downs his drink pretty quickly (you don’t even know what he’s having), but you can only sip yours, trying to focus on the orange juice instead of the alcohol. You like it, but you don’t know why.
“I haven’t seen you here before.” He nuzzles his nose against your neck, and you can feel the goosebumps rising.
“Well, uh, it’s my first time. Here, I mean. My first time here. I go to lots of other clubs.” Will he see through that? Will he even care?
“How does this one hold up, then?” Now he’s kissing your neck, and you’re pretty sure you’re paralyzed.
“It’s pretty good, I guess. Really good. Yeah.” A tiny part of you wants to run. You never would, though. Not when he’s practically in your lap.
“Mmmm…” Is he even listening?
All the nuzzling and the nipping are too much, so you lift his head and you kiss him, full on the mouth. That’s a first.
“Well, I’m practically legal,” I say, lifting my head up and trying to sound mature. I know I just sound whiny.
“Nope. Still jailbait. Was still fun, though.” He sits up and looks straight at me.
“Um, yeah. It was amazing.” God, I hope that didn’t sound lame.
“Your first time, huh?” He asks, like he totally knows.
“Uh, yeah.” Crap.
He laughs. “God, if I had a nickel for every virgin I banged…”
“Do you only do virgins?” I ask. I know my ears perk up and my eyes are wide.
“Not on purpose. I guess I just attract them. Just so you know.”
“Oh. Okay.” I look down and rub my hand against the bed sheets.
“Hey, kid-what’s your name again?”
“Nick.”
“Yeah, Nick, why’re you so embarrassed? It’s just sex.” He raises his eyebrows and I see the lines in his face-he’s older than I thought he was-early forties, maybe.
“I don’t know, I guess I thought it’s all supposed to…” I rub my hand harder and faster against the sheets.
“All that shit Mommy and Daddy told you about your first time being special? Doesn’t actually matter.”
“Okay.” I kiss him. I try to kiss him long and slowly, but he breaks it off and turns away.
“Kid-Nick, whatever, like I said, it doesn’t matter.”
Pretty soon, you’re all over each other, kissing and licking and nipping and running your hands up and down each others’ bodies. You’re afraid you’re doing something wrong, moving too fast, moving too slowly, putting your hands in the wrong place…And then you’re both straddled across the booth, and half your brain is enjoying this while the other half is worried that you’ll hit your head and crack it open on the table like you did when you were two. You know you have nothing to worry about, right? So why’s your stomach in a giant knot?
Before you know it, you’re pressed against the building outside and he’s unzipping your fly, and Oh God, you’re the one getting blown and you’re the one with your back arching and your hands running through his hair like crazy-you, the nobody, the nothing, the geek. Why you? What the hell?!
And then you think might’ve been riding in a car, but suddenly you’re in his apartment, and he’s got your shirt off. Oh, shit, he’s going to see how horribly skinny and bony and pale you are and that’ll be the end of that. So you take off his awesome jacket and T-shirt, and he looks great of course. No way you could ever top what he sees in the mirror every day.
“Goddamn, you’re beautiful,” he whispers huskily into your ear between kisses.
“What?”
“You’re damn sexy, you know that?”
You blink. “Um, I don’t know you’re name.” Like that matters.
“So?” He’s dropped his pants and he’s working on yours.
“I just want to know.”
“Um, John.”
Good. John. A name. Now you don’t have to say your first was a total stranger. He grabs you roughly and you both crash onto the bed, still exploring each others’ bodies. If this is bliss, then you wonder why no one ever told you it was so rough.
“Kid, I’m not your boyfriend or your lover or your partner-“
“I never said you were.”
He turns back to face me with a steely glare. “But you were thinkin’ it. I know your type-all poetic dreamers lost in their own little worlds of love and romance. Well, let me tell you, kid, the world ain’t like that-the world fucking sucks-no one loves you, no one wants you, and then it all ends like a bad joke with a stupid punch line.”
I just blink and stare. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, here’s an example, kid: I look pretty good to you, right?”
It takes me a few seconds to find my voice again. “Um, yeah-I mean, more than just pretty good, you’re really gorg-“
“Yeah, well, not for much longer. ‘Cause guess what? I got six months left.”
My breath catches in my throat and my body freezes up. “Is it…AIDS?” What did I get myself into?
“Hell no, kid. They can practically cure that now. Cancer. Terminal. Great, huh?”
He’s on top of you now, and you’re hyper-aware of every movement, every touch, and it sends you soaring. You turn over onto your stomach because you know what he wants, what you both want.
He flips you back over onto your back, lifts your legs up onto his shoulders, and looks at you hungrily. “I want to see your face when you come.”
And then he’s inside you and oh, God. Damn. It. YES. The feeling crashes over you like a giant ocean wave that fills every open niche in the sand with water. Right before he comes, he groans, “I love you.” He falls down next to you and takes you into his arms and kisses you, softly and slowly, so much differently than earlier. The last thing you see before you fall asleep is the amazing red jacket with its white-and-gold braid glittering in the dim light of the apartment.
I look down at the sheets again, twisting them with my hands. “I’m sorry…”
He glares at me again. “I don’t need your pity, kid.”
For some reason, he looks older to me now. I can see all the lines in his face, all of the beginnings of age on his body. He’s so faded in the daylight. He seems less like Apollo and more like Hephaestus.
Something catches my eye-it’s the braiding on his red military jacket. I get out of bed and pick it up, admiring it closely now. It’s slightly faded, too, with a couple of frayed strings hanging off the end of the sleeves and the bottom of the jacket-nothing a scissors couldn’t fix, though.
“You like that, huh?” he asks, smirking.
“Yeah, it’s beautiful.” I can’t take my eyes off of it.
“Found it at a thrift store.” He shrugs.
“Oh.” It loses a bit of its majesty, but it’s still wonderful for some reason, even though I can’t put my finger on it.
“You want it? I probably don’t even need it anymore, considering.”
I smile for the first time that morning. “Really?”
“Sure.” He shrugs again.
I get dressed quickly and put on the jacket. It’s heavier than I thought it’d be. “Wow.”
“You’ll grow into it.”
I walk over to him and kiss him again. “Thanks, John.”
“Just go, kid.” He turns away from me, looking kind of ashamed, but I don’t know why.
As I walk out, I see a piece of mail on a small table near the door. The name it’s addressed to isn’t “John.” I take one last look at him, staring into those beady blue eyes. And then I walk out the door, closing it a little harder than I should. After I walk down the stairs, I stand outside for a few minutes and realize one thing.
I don’t know how to get home.