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New in the gallery -- Henry Scott Tuke

Three Cold Kisses

(Here's the next Roman & Clay tale by one of LustSpiel's favorite authors. His stories will be fashioned into a work of fiction length eventually, and this piece, although no° 4 in terms of posting, will eventually figure as the second chapter of his forthcoming book on Enjoy:)

By Dangeris F.A.G.


“I’m done sublimating,” is how Clay put it. As a further expression of this he farted into plastic bags a little bigger than sandwich size, zipped and dated them. On a certain day hence he took the bags to the professor’s studio office and stomped them in random order in Dr. Wuss’s presence, holding his breath, and immediately fled the room slamming the door. He realized this was not much fun, but he submitted the project nonetheless as a final thesis in his last studio art class.

"I'm done sublimating."

When he’d finished and re-entered the professor’s palace the evaluation took place. Naturally the old trout liked it. He was this aged academic art queen, had been pals with Mapplethorpe and something of a houseboy for Cage & Cunningham, even wore a beret sometimes. And Clay knew Dr. Wuss was into him. That’s why he asked such stupid questions. For instance:
“It reminds me of William Blake, but how would you theorize its integrity?”

    “I dunno,” Clay responded, “It’s just a (f)art project. Guess I could give you a written narrative of the circumstances of each stinker plus a menu of the gastro-content of each butt-burp, so I could, you know, deflate (de-fetishize) them, giving fossil fartbag an antihistorical context.”
    “I see.”

    “But I’m not gonna. You see, that’s everything that’s wrong with art.” He began reading from his documentation: “’The attempt to stabilize the corruption of nature, in this case the contents of a stale gasbaggie -- attempting to enslave encapsulated corruption – is obviously a political discourse’” (he looked up from his text), “and dude, politics on that level is a total weenie-shrinker. However,” -- Clay knew the prof liked this kind of wordy jerkoff language, so, reading again -- “’I decided the only choice for a successful outcome, now that I’d begun the work, was the deliberate stomping/popping of the toot-bladders, nostrils held, and fleeing the site of authenticity, rendering it empty nihilistic space, empty but for the historical human expulsions-as-(f)artifacts to dissipate in the teleological breeze.’”

"And dude, politics on that level is a total weenie-shrinker."

  “Excellent,” said the prof.
    “Yeah,” Clay ended, “It really, in other words, stinks as art.”
    But the teacher went on probing. He raised an eyebrow and inquired as to the prospect of an eschatological dimension.
    “What – you mean, like, God?”
    “Is it from reverence or – in holding your nose – revulsion, do you suppose, Mr. ____?”
    “I dunno,” Clay said. “I wasn’t thinking about that. I was just doing breeze balloons to have some material reference to, like . . . link the bladdergas to your stupid nose and brain. You know, like metaphysics doesn’t come into it. It ain’t Piss Christ or nothin’. As for the documentation . . . I’m gonna eat it.” And with that Clay added, “Yeah, here comes my very last utterance about art and nature.”

"Here comes my very last utterance about art and nature."

   He took a bite of text. When he got it down: “Now, next time that booty bubbler sees light it’ll splash around and flounder for a minute in potty water, in the gray shadow of my bare ass, and once again be swallowed into the black bowels of the sewer below, where my boy Genet presides. Know what I’m sayin’?”
    “I’ll give it an A minus,” said the winking doc. “Unless you’d like to have an A.”
    “No thanks.” Clay kissed him on the lips and left to get high.


Clay worked on his walk. Which is why the dude pissed him off -- some asshole townie on an orange motorcycle – by gunning it up the street. Clay spotted the guy flying down on him in total race mode, trying to beat the light, which everyone knows is interminable, but still. It made Clay have to hustle, a thing he loathed. It simply had to be done with awkwardness of style. His footing was everything, it absolutely defined the space he was in, and nothing fucked with that like having to boost. He flipped the guy off and cut into a candy store where the high school punks play video.

Clay worked on his walk.

The games are okay here, just some money and something to make happen with your hand on a joystick or tethered plastic 9mm. Faith in the near present, which is naturally impossible to predict. Art was no different. He’d thought up a plan for a porn arcade game whose goal was not to “shoot,” though the player has his dick stuck in this multifunctional joy-hole just at the average site of the male phallus. This would work great for hetero military guys, he thought, making a note to adapt the hardware for war porn games, maybe called HARDWAR. But the object really was to achieve the sensation of virtual castration: the perfect porno-aesthetic construct. The deconstruction of pornsex is enlightened boredom. Enlightened is a shit word. What takes place inside this inviting joy-hole is anybody’s guess. He’ll work on it later, maybe.

But gaming starts to bore him so he scopes his surroundings and eventually notices a pretty object over by the door staring. Looks familiar. Right, it’s the one that was straddling that aforementioned snuff-bike. He’s pretty cute: clean white t-shirt, recent high school twink but newly working-class redneck with attractive sneaks, trying to make payments on a motorcycle in the slave economy. He’s standing there amidst other, younger guys trying to look stud. Clay approaches and asks, “The fuck you lookin’ at?”

The boy puffs up and asserts, “You flipped me off, dude.”
“What of it, motherfucker?” Clay thinks of punching him---his wrist taking some sweet pain from the boy’s hard stomach. He thinks it’s what the guy’s probably looking for. But his four boyfriends fan out around Clay in a defensive phalanx. What’s Clay gonna do now?
In a lightning burst of speed and strength he takes the kid by the throat and drags him out the door and pins him to the brick wall. The boyfriends follow but decline to interfere – they’re in the presence of a madman. In this posture Clay pushes his whole upper body against the other and whispers, calmly, in his ear: “Alright, I didn’t wanna have to do this, kid, but you forced me to move outa your way, back there on the street. It rudely inconvenienced me. Not only that, it made me have to look stupid.”

The boy puffs up and asserts, “You flipped me off, dude.”

He realizes those could be the cheesiest lines in any number of bad screenplays. Had to be.
The kid’s face has taken on a red-faced expression, like he’s gonna wet his pants and foul the sidewalk. Clay tightens then loosens his hold on the boy’s neck. The boy tightens then loosens his hold on Clay’s wrists. Next, Clay’s hand drops down, gathers up the guy’s entire dick and balls and squeezes his button-fly crotch in an act of love. His face plasters a hard kiss over the boy’s mouth as though he’s going to start eating him. And throughout this prolonged face-rape the boyfriends bawl in protest and ridicule.

The one that used a homosexual epithet on Clay gets a knee to the nuts as Clay walks off demonstrating the very practiced walk he’s perfected.


Even now he postpones getting high to trip out to the upscale campus athletic workout center. His workout helps with his ‘work.” Besides, he gets off on locker rooms. Guys in the shower always get him going – must be all that muscled nudity under hot, steaming spray. When you look in a locker room shower you’re trying to either catch or elude the other guy looking. Concerning the former, Clay figures the male look amounts to two things: Who’ll be the top.

    He rushes through his workout so he can hit the shower. Guys there are like the sculpted slave boys in the baths of classical antiquity. Upon entering he hangs his towel next to the others and takes up position beside---what else?---the guy with the most killer ass. It’s sort of art: instead of a whole constructed from the imagination, why not a stark naked hole beheld in glistening realism? Seems to be where Clay’s at. Better yet: (w)hole. Like the deconstructive trope they were all talking about in the 80s and 90s. What’s deconstruction? A simple meta-construction and you come up with “condestruction.” Yeah, concentrating on a hole is everything/nothing. Like poetry on potty walls. Poignant filth. Anyway, the hole is the darkest desire signifier – empty, anti-intellectual ignorance. A stupid boy’s ass, or a dumb girl’s twat, if you dig that sorta thing. Ignorance that’s always/already full of its own emptiness. The twitching cock desiring to break off inside and take its turn with “lack” or the true freedom of castration. (Wait a minute, that sounds like the ravings of a militant dyke; maybe he’d better drop this line of thinking, he thinks.) No, the vulnerable twitching cock stuff, the threatened phallus, maybe that’s still the necessary transgressive muscle: all the better that its integrity’s totally at stake. Yeah, and that’s why it’s stupid for girls to do rock. (Guess I’m conservative in this regard, admits Clay.) Girls do look sorta stupid playing guitar and drums, don’t they?

He rushes through his workout, so he can hit the shower.

    Anyway, back to the shower – the guy with the superlative buttocks. Clay openly observes him soaping it up with the flat of his hand, rubbing up and down in his crack forever, well beyond what’s needed, or seemly, like a compulsive form of self-stimulation, no lie. He’s a trim muscle boy – ribs, abs, arms, what little body hair is dark, the perfect amount barely showing in his soapy crevice. Tasteful eagle-wing tat spreading over the shoulder blades.

    The guy – let’s call him Joey – must be sensing surveillance so he peers around his shoulder, catches Clay looking, turns back around but crunches his ass muscles as if to disinvite him. Not the safest strategy against Clay. Ah, but then Joey turns frontward, giving Clay a peek at the rest of his stuff – the waterfall running off his dick is pretty blurry. Nice. And Joey’s definitely checking out Clay, too. Clay thinks it might be fun to stare as long as it takes for Joey to respond in some way, but by then Clay might have developed a real pronger. His cock’s taking on some unwanted woodness already.

    So the big suspicion used to be that all guys were suspected of wanting to fuck your daughter or wife or girlfriend or whatever. The new one is: all males suspect themselves of wanting to poke one another. That’s why het guys need to get it out there quick, establish they’re straight, in case there’s any question. Our species might be in serious trouble when they don’t . . . But Clay likes to push this tension to the max. He’s momentarily infatuated with the precise dimensions of this guy’s backside – it’s what’s meant by the blunt business end of queer desire. Therefore, he’ll have to go way over the edge here.

 So the big suspicion used to be that
all guys were suspected of wanting to fuck
 your daughter or wife or girlfriend or whatever

In his reading of Joey’s body it’s clear the stud is all about showing it off – that’s why guys come to these places and work so hard on their physiques, isn’t it? In the middle of one of Joey’s creamy white butt cheeks appears what seems like a rope burn, or a laceration brought about by a bullwhip – maybe it’s just a scar or birthmark. Whatever, it further impels Clay to ponder the means of ingress. Ah ha, he gets an idea: he might just bloody his own nose. Blood really freaked guys out. He could pretend to faint, and then . . .

    He does it. Clay doesn’t have to use his fist on himself – he doesn’t want to have a purple nose – because he knows how to bring on a nose bleed by simply crunching the cartilage to one side with the heel of his hand. It hurts a lot. At first the blood won’t come, but then he feels his head give a snap right at the bottom of his eyes, or behind them, which releases the flow. It feels fucking real! He holds a mess of it in his hand, staggers, goes down.

    In short order Joey’s right there over him, and Clay’s making a zombie face so he can keep his eyes open.
    “Hey, man, you alright?”
    Blah blah blah.
    Water off Joey’s dick cascades into Clay’s mouth. He spits: “Help me up, goddamnit!”
    “Dude, you’re bleeding.”
    When Joey hoists him up Clay reaches for his slippery back, then below it. Boom. “I’m alright! Lemme go, faggot!” he yells.

    Which naturally disorients Joey, distracting him from what Clay’s continuing to do with his ass.
    “The fuck, dude.” Joey steps back. “I’m just tryin’ to help. . .”
    “Okay, man. Sorry,” Clay says. “I’ll be alright. Thanks. Just a nose bleed. Sorry, dude. I get them.”
    Now they’re the only naked men left in the group shower – the other guys must’ve finished or else freaked at the blood and fled. Shortly Joey returns to his fastidious rescrubbing, which involves a vigorous re-lathering overall, because Clay made sure to get some blood on him.
    In a minute, nosebleed stanched and body cleansed, Clay comes up with another idea: “Here, man, let me make it up to ya. Turn around, lemme get your back.”
    He expected some resistance. “Nah, man, that’s okay.”

    “No, really, man. I’m good at this.” He gingerly urges Joey to turn by guiding him around. “Come on, I owe ya one, dude. Really sorry I got blood on ya. Hand me that soap.”
    Only after Joey looks around to make sure they’re alone in here does he turn his sinewy back to Clay. Then he cooperates further by reaching his squeeze bottle around his hip.
    Clay starts at the shoulders and works his way down (this is going to be tricky, he knows) till finally arriving at the mark on Joey’s dimpled butt. Carefully he rubs it a little before asking, “Whoa, what is that, dude? On your butt cheek? It won’t come off.”
    Joey gives a little laugh.  “Haha. I know . . .” He keeps peering around to the entryway. Satisfied the coast is clear, he says, “My girlfriend, she kinda bit me---”
    “Girlfriends,” Clay says. “Do they hurt?”
    “---Like two days ago. Dude, like what’re you doin’?”

"No, really man, I'm good at this."

    “Relax. So you like it rough? With your girlfriends? Relax.” Finally Clay gets to soap up Joey’s heavenly crack, meanwhile hooking his left arm around Joey’s neck, not aggressively but super affectionately: “Tell me about it. Tell me the whole story behind this bite mark, dude.”
    “Haha,” Joey chuckles. “Quit fuckin’ with me, dude.” And then, “You tryin’ to fuck with me, dude?” he asks feeling around his back, attempting, presumably, to intercept Clay’s right hand before it goes too far.

    Too late. Clay’s forefinger is already probing Joey’s asshole to the first knuckle. So here comes the really tricky part. What if Joey objects? Turns violent even? In that case Clay’s ready for it -- he lives for risky moments like this. But, holding fast to his goal, he feels Joey’s butthole relax a little and so he plunges in a second finger and pushes both all the way through.
“Ah shit!” screams Joey.

There they rest for a minute, until Clay feels some evident pushback, and when he’s sure of his control over Joey’s body he releases his stranglehold on the guy’s throat to slide his free hand down over the slippery chest and tight stomach and his fingers discover, at the end of this brazen expedition, that Joey’s achieved a brick-hard boner -- just like Clay’s.

    “Ah fuck, dude! . . .” Joey pleads in a sort of whispered agony as his hands venture behind his back again to locate and take hold of Clay’s dick also. “. . . Alright, fuckin’ get me off, dude!”

    “Sure thing!” Clay’s fingers are still wiggling around inside Joey’s warm, silky rectum. And he can feel the walls of Joey’s hole closing in hard as each guy strokes the other’s cock. Clay thinks it would be really cool, as a sadistic anticlimax, to suddenly remove his digits and himself altogether from the shower at this crucial crossroads, leaving Joey all alone to get himself off and reckon with what just happened. But what the fuck -- Clay’s too into this for stupid edging games, so, feeling Joey’s orgasm rising to the surface, legs quaking in spastic anticipation, Clay puts all his final momentum into planting his flag deep in the dirt of this boy’s backyard and immediately firing his seed straight through his guts.

And just as Clay jets his load Joey’s own dam breaks.
He catches Joey’s cum in his fist, and when he next opens his fist, his cock still deep inside and sensing the boy’s constricted butt muscle, it’s to cover Joey’s mouth and face with its dripping contents -- and, big surprise, Joey licks it up. Eagerly no less.



  Denouement: Turns out that in their frantic pursuit of dangerous pleasure they had quite sidestepped the shower. After Clay pops out he discovers a heart-shaped blob of Joey’s shit riding on the head of his dick. Sweet! He then realizes the other showers are running – and so does Joey, as they both turn to witness three guys behind them, all stark staring in wet, naked bewilderment.
    Naturally Clay gives a fuck – he wags his waning, dripping, soil-tipped hard-on in their faces.
    But Joey is plainly mortified. He’s turning crimson.

    Perfect, thinks Clay. Good. Couldn’t have worked out better. He laughs at the others, turns back and gives Joey’s flaming cheek, lathered with his own sticky spunk, a tender, ice-cold kiss.

 <Go here for the previous R&C story, and here for the next one>

Dangeris F.A.G. (his nom de plume) lives deeply and obscurely in the American fly-over, between north and south, where he teaches creative writing at a college and is happily about to retire -- he is older than he oughta be. This is the third part of a short story collection built on Romàn & Clay's character. More will be coming.