Michael Gouda

I have my eye on him right from the start. I would have liked to have had my hands on him – or any other parts of my body, but I know this is impossible. He is the most beautiful young man I have ever seen. He is perfect. I drool as I try to find the words to describe him. His hair is the colour of ripe corn - no that's too banal – it is spun gold – too
clichéd, the rich sunshine gold that catches and reflects the light. His skin is smooth, its colour, the tawniness of a lion. His eyes – oh his eyes – are blue like forget-me-nots, like the early spring sky, like the rich blueness of sapphires, of . . . of. . . I have not the words.

He has taken his shirt off and his chest gleams in the disco lights with a faint sheen of sweat. His skin is the colour of burnished copper and he has obviously spent a lot of expensive time out in the sun. His regular features, straight nose, eyes of - surely - the most rain-washed, heavenly blue –– I repeat myself but I cannot help it. Lips so perfectly formed that they demand to be kissed, white teeth exposed in a smile of such seductive attractiveness that I am immediately entranced, besotted, infatuated, bewitched and beguiled.

He, like a garden, is a lovesome thing, God wot! Wherever he walks, cool breezes fan the glade; trees, where he sits, do crowd into a shade. OK. I am a plagiarist. My apologies to Thomas Edward Brown and Alexander Pope – but I do not care.

I want to explore with my pointy, pointy tongue every one of his orifices, extract the wax from his shell-like ears, taste the saltiness of his tears from his eyes, unearth the snot from his nostrils, smegma from under his foreskin, the toejam from his feet, and taste the fragrance from the dark orifice where the sun seldom shines. Then drink the golden liquid when he pisses and watch his eyes open wide, his mouth gasp in a sperm wail and possess the white pearls when he gloriously, mind-bendingly, groin-achingly, muscle-tensingly –– comes. Can he really have such earthly, and earthy, liquid and solid by-products? Everything that comes from that divine body surely must be the most divine ambrosia and nectar.

And I. What am I? I am a corruption. Foster is corruption; corruption is Foster. A misshapen runt of a man, dark as oak, bent as an old tree, desiring what I know I can never have and therefore hating him, loving him, hating him.

I crouch in the shadows hiding my ugliness from the world, desiring what I know I cannot have, lusting with my thoughts. Paul, whom some call a saint, told the Colossians to put to death whatever belongs to their earthly nature, sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires. What did the Colossians have that I haven't in greater volume? Though I don't have greed. I would willingly give away all my money, everything I own for one night with him in willing acquiescence.

I would give everything. "Everything," I repeat – and realise I have said the word aloud.

A man stands next to me. He is tall and saturnine of feature, with curious eyebrows which rise to a peak in the centre. He introduces himself as Mr Stofolus, a Greek from Thessalonika.

Out of politeness I start to introduce myself. "I am . . ."

"Foster," he says before I can complete. "I have been watching you. I have seen you lusting and leering, craving and coveting. I know your secret desires, though they are hardly secret. You give yourself too much away, my friend."

I feel embarrassed, lower my eyes, wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. "I know I can never . . ."

Again I am interrupted. "Never say never." I look at him, hypnotised by the movement of those eyebrows which seem to have a life of their own. Two dark caterpillars which hide the brightness of his eyes. These, I realise are what I should be concentrating on. They are dark and hypnotic and it seems he never blinks.

"There is a possibility?" I ask with the desperation of hopelessness.

"There is a perhaps, if you are prepared for the cost."

"Anything, everything," I say. "I would give my soul."

"Your soul?" says Mr Stofolus. "A paltry thing, of little worth."

"I have money," I say.

A sneer. "Money," he says and holds his hands apart, one above the other. From the palm of the top one gold coins fall into the palm of the other. Coin after coin. A regular cascade which forms a gold lake but never overflows. It is a trick, no doubt, but an impressive one and I cannot see how it is done. But obviously he is indicating he does not need money.

"Then what?"

"You would give your life?"

Without a thought I say, "I would. I would."

"But what would that avail me? You are no use to me dead."

I stare at him. He is just teasing me, a cruel trick, to raise my hopes and then dash them. I turn away but then am presented with the sight of 'him', dancing in the spotlight, every turn and twist of his body a delicious torture to me. I groan.

"Total subjugation to me," Stofolus says. "That's all it takes."

For a fleeting moment, I have a twinge of doubt. "Nothing less?" I ask.

"Nothing more. You may not find it too onerous."

"What do I have to do?" I speak to him but my eyes are on the other. I know there is no contest.

"Everything or anything I tell you to. Nothing beyond your capabilities."

"And for that I get him, willingly, no force, no compulsion, no regrets."

"On his part, no. He will be putty in your hands."

To compare that divine being with such an earthy substance is almost blasphemy but I imagine his flesh acquiescent in my calloused hands, being moulded to my will, to my desires – and I am lost.

"I agree," I say – and Mr Stofolus smiles, extends his hand and we clasp. I feel a sudden sharp shock as if I have earthed some static electricity and I try to snatch my hand back but it is no use. When eventually he releases me, I stare at my palm, see the sign there, like a blue tattoo. It is three numbers and I recognise the number of the beast. Or is it just the pass out number for the club?

Shaken, I say, "What do I do now?" but there is no answer and no one is standing beside me.

But I feel full of a certain self-confidence and I step onto the dance floor . . . and the fever engulfs me, draws me in, spins me into the vortex of dancing bodies with the smells of desire and the touches of naked flesh so that my senses whirl.

He sees me. He sees me. He sees me. And is not repulsed. Our eyes meet and he comes towards me. I touch him. I feel his breath on my cheek. It is as sweet as honey. I hear someone speaking from the crowd around us. "What can he see in that one?" and the answer, "He must have money or an enormous cock." And then his arms are around me and nothing else matters.

So, we proceed from club to bed. I lay him on it and explore him with my fingers and tongue, then my nose and cock and, as they say, there was no part of him that was not a stranger to me. He moans and groans at all the right times and gasps and comes copiously, and as I lap it up I know this is as good as it's ever going to be. Which is a worrying thought. Trouble is the juices taste much the same as any others I have tried. What more can I do? I turn him over and try again and he loves it – he says he does. He swears he does. He has never experienced such sensations before.

Why do I not believe him?

And when eventually I lift myself from his prostrate body and see him lying there covered in my (and his) effusions, I know only that it was his unsullied self that I lusted after not this used thing, and that an achieved desire holds in itself the seeds of disappointment.

So he leaves and I am sorry to see him go, wishing perhaps that he says he felt some elements of regret. But there is nothing I can do. I have had my wish granted and now I must await the summons. The palm of my right hand tingles as if I had grasped too carelessly a bunch of nettles.


Date started: Friday, January 12, 2007
Date Finished: Friday, December 7, 2007
Words: 1,482

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