A Story for Hups
My pal Hupsoonheng is working on NaNoWriMo, and I am loving her story so far. I love the story, I love the main character, I love to hate the Francophone antagonist. Therefore, I've written some fan-fiction, if you will, of the man humiliating himself on a disgusting couch. Enjoy!
Well after midnight in the Wayhouse, Laurent slipped out of the room he shared with Khalil. The infuriating automaton thwarted Laurent’s every attempt at seduction- not even thwarted- not even ignored- utterly failed to register in any way tactics that would have had any man in the world eating out of Laurent’s hand. Laurent knew for a fact that his methods were sound- men and women more experienced, clever and attractive than Khalil had fallen, opening their inmost secrets for him to plunder. It was the mental defective’s own loss if he could not see what Laurent had to offer.
As he peered down the hallway, Laurent was plagued by the quiet, insistent question as to whether he had that much to offer. He had always told himself that he was maturing, like a fine wine, year by year growing more complex and intoxicating. Had he gone to vinegar, somehow? Sarah had certainly soured on him.
Young wine, now that was a thought. If only that infernal mother hen, Diego, was asleep... Not finding the shorter man in his usual post at the kitchen table, Laurent ventured to listen at the door of the room that the ringleader of this sorry circus shared with his mademoiselle. Soft sounds from inside indicated that the pair were busy, granting Laurent a modicum of freedom.
Moving silently, Laurent made his way to a heap of assorted winter clothes near the door. Under the guise of setting the groceries down for a moment to remove his overcoat, he had concealed a bottle of the cheapest, most renowned wine in America in the throat of a lone galosh that did not appear to fit any of the Wayhouse’s current residents. Opening the philistine screw top, he made his way to the couch to sample last year’s vintage of this so-called “three-buck Chuck.”
His T-shirt and boxers offered scant protection from the contagion Laurent was sure adhered to this battered baulk of foam-rubber. He cocooned himself in a blanket which he knew had been laundered in the past week, and which he hoped had not been used since by Miriam, Khalil’s strongest competition for the title of Village Idiot. At least he had utter control of the DVD player at this time of night. He selected a disc featuring a brunette ingenue who reminded him of Sarah in some ways. With the sound off,he skipped to a point he recalled about two-thirds of the way through the film. The ingenue was in a cotton nightdress, arms bare, looking back over her shoulder toward him with an expression of regret and longing. Parfait...
Freezing the recording, Laurent took a wary look around him. Miriam’s cupboard was shut, her snoring thunderous and sincere. The three-ring circus, including his androgynous admirer, was accustomed to obeying Diego’s injunction to stay in bed at night, and Diego and Catherine would be occupied with one another for a while yet. As for Khalil, he slept soundly enough that only Laurent’s pride moved him from their bed in the first place. Khalil...
Laurent took a mighty pull of the wine to banish that little lump from his mind. Forget him. Think only of the woman, looking back, longing. Soon, she would take her lover back, apologise, beg forgiveness, fall into his arms. Even the most sorely jilted paramour could not begrudge her for long. Soon, the embrace of reunion, the music of her sighs, the youthful resilience of her American thighs... Laurent unbuttoned the fly of his boxers.
Swigging at the wine again- it really was acceptable, for an American vineyard- Laurent thought of love, of betrayal and denial, of what a lover might do to earn his forgiveness. Nothing too dire, nothing too vile, just the purest evidence of love and acceptance that one human could give another. The most intense pleasure, the gateway to the soul, the mouth upon his most sensitive, secret regions. His hand moved faster.
In his patriotic pride, Laurent knew that only the French could have invented an act so perfect. The union of bliss and tenderness, the lover’s every sigh of love transmuted to physical pleasure. An act of total surrender or both parties- surrender to ecstasy for Laurent, surrender to Laurent’s will for the other.
Surrender- Mon Dieu yes- a lover at his feet, hungry for him, looking up into his eyes- yes! Suddenly, the beseeching eyes were misty grey-green. the pleading face was laced with scars, as were the hands clutching at his hips. Khalil would give him everything- would yield all, and be glad of it- would swallow Laurent's essence like an elixir- yes! His vision went red inside his eyelids as he shook with release.
Laurent sat stunned on the filthy couch, his cooling seed gluing his boxers to his thigh, tainting the blanket, oozing in great sticky masses over his fingers. He wiped his hand on the underside of one of the horrible couch cushions. Next, he finished the wine in one long swallow, with barely enough presence of mind to hide the empty bottle under the couch. What in Hell’s name had that been? The beautiful woman still gazed at him from the screen, and his thoughts had been invaded by a boy who was laughably beyond ugly. Had he become so deranged by loneliness as to be led astray from true love by a pair of gray-green eyes? Ridiculous. The little monster would succumb to him, and with his mind cleared, he would reclaim Sarah from her corn-fed Yanqui fiance. In the morning. It would be easy, in the morning. Wrapping the soiled blanket around himself, Laurent fell asleep on the noisome couch. The woman on the screen flickered to a blue blankness and disappeared.
Well after midnight in the Wayhouse, Laurent slipped out of the room he shared with Khalil. The infuriating automaton thwarted Laurent’s every attempt at seduction- not even thwarted- not even ignored- utterly failed to register in any way tactics that would have had any man in the world eating out of Laurent’s hand. Laurent knew for a fact that his methods were sound- men and women more experienced, clever and attractive than Khalil had fallen, opening their inmost secrets for him to plunder. It was the mental defective’s own loss if he could not see what Laurent had to offer.
As he peered down the hallway, Laurent was plagued by the quiet, insistent question as to whether he had that much to offer. He had always told himself that he was maturing, like a fine wine, year by year growing more complex and intoxicating. Had he gone to vinegar, somehow? Sarah had certainly soured on him.
Young wine, now that was a thought. If only that infernal mother hen, Diego, was asleep... Not finding the shorter man in his usual post at the kitchen table, Laurent ventured to listen at the door of the room that the ringleader of this sorry circus shared with his mademoiselle. Soft sounds from inside indicated that the pair were busy, granting Laurent a modicum of freedom.
Moving silently, Laurent made his way to a heap of assorted winter clothes near the door. Under the guise of setting the groceries down for a moment to remove his overcoat, he had concealed a bottle of the cheapest, most renowned wine in America in the throat of a lone galosh that did not appear to fit any of the Wayhouse’s current residents. Opening the philistine screw top, he made his way to the couch to sample last year’s vintage of this so-called “three-buck Chuck.”
His T-shirt and boxers offered scant protection from the contagion Laurent was sure adhered to this battered baulk of foam-rubber. He cocooned himself in a blanket which he knew had been laundered in the past week, and which he hoped had not been used since by Miriam, Khalil’s strongest competition for the title of Village Idiot. At least he had utter control of the DVD player at this time of night. He selected a disc featuring a brunette ingenue who reminded him of Sarah in some ways. With the sound off,he skipped to a point he recalled about two-thirds of the way through the film. The ingenue was in a cotton nightdress, arms bare, looking back over her shoulder toward him with an expression of regret and longing. Parfait...
Freezing the recording, Laurent took a wary look around him. Miriam’s cupboard was shut, her snoring thunderous and sincere. The three-ring circus, including his androgynous admirer, was accustomed to obeying Diego’s injunction to stay in bed at night, and Diego and Catherine would be occupied with one another for a while yet. As for Khalil, he slept soundly enough that only Laurent’s pride moved him from their bed in the first place. Khalil...
Laurent took a mighty pull of the wine to banish that little lump from his mind. Forget him. Think only of the woman, looking back, longing. Soon, she would take her lover back, apologise, beg forgiveness, fall into his arms. Even the most sorely jilted paramour could not begrudge her for long. Soon, the embrace of reunion, the music of her sighs, the youthful resilience of her American thighs... Laurent unbuttoned the fly of his boxers.
Swigging at the wine again- it really was acceptable, for an American vineyard- Laurent thought of love, of betrayal and denial, of what a lover might do to earn his forgiveness. Nothing too dire, nothing too vile, just the purest evidence of love and acceptance that one human could give another. The most intense pleasure, the gateway to the soul, the mouth upon his most sensitive, secret regions. His hand moved faster.
In his patriotic pride, Laurent knew that only the French could have invented an act so perfect. The union of bliss and tenderness, the lover’s every sigh of love transmuted to physical pleasure. An act of total surrender or both parties- surrender to ecstasy for Laurent, surrender to Laurent’s will for the other.
Surrender- Mon Dieu yes- a lover at his feet, hungry for him, looking up into his eyes- yes! Suddenly, the beseeching eyes were misty grey-green. the pleading face was laced with scars, as were the hands clutching at his hips. Khalil would give him everything- would yield all, and be glad of it- would swallow Laurent's essence like an elixir- yes! His vision went red inside his eyelids as he shook with release.
Laurent sat stunned on the filthy couch, his cooling seed gluing his boxers to his thigh, tainting the blanket, oozing in great sticky masses over his fingers. He wiped his hand on the underside of one of the horrible couch cushions. Next, he finished the wine in one long swallow, with barely enough presence of mind to hide the empty bottle under the couch. What in Hell’s name had that been? The beautiful woman still gazed at him from the screen, and his thoughts had been invaded by a boy who was laughably beyond ugly. Had he become so deranged by loneliness as to be led astray from true love by a pair of gray-green eyes? Ridiculous. The little monster would succumb to him, and with his mind cleared, he would reclaim Sarah from her corn-fed Yanqui fiance. In the morning. It would be easy, in the morning. Wrapping the soiled blanket around himself, Laurent fell asleep on the noisome couch. The woman on the screen flickered to a blue blankness and disappeared.