By Dangeris F.A.G.
(We may have lost count, but this is about the fourth short story by Dangeris on Roman & Clay on this site. The stories are ordered by temporal sequence, and if you follow the "previous/next" links below, you'll get them in the intended order).
Clay is late to the club. He has his band back together, Buff Bataille, the featured act tonight. He’s dressed kinda fascist in dirty leather and buckled boots, topless but for a studded halter designed by the world-famous leather artist Felix Moronta. No tats. Why doesn’t Clay have tats? Mainly because everyone has them, and also he can’t think of a design he’s comfortable being buried in.
|Clay is late to the club|
Tonight it’s a master/slave event – they’d started having them in this scummy rathskeller in the city called The Toylet -- a long, black cavern that lets in no daylight and reeks worse than the subway, if you add in the fumy smell of poppers. Still, the shock lighting helps obscure what takes place in the shadows. Clothes optional, but creatively appointed leather, chain metal and rope are encouraged. Far off and pretty much out of range is a special, sealed off place designated SCAT. Torture rules: none. Yeah, men and boys cum from all over to use The Toylet.
Buff Bataille is big here. Their noise can make blood come out of your eyes. Clay’s instrument is vocals and he’s the main writer, his lyrics intended to make the most ardent in the audience drop to the sticky cement floor for mercy. It sometimes works. The rest of the lineup is negligible. Buff’s bass player’s alright but he always brings his fat girlfriend to gigs, even to rehearsals, and that makes Clay sick, so he’s seeking a new bass player.
|Yeah, men and boys cum from all over to use The Toylet.|
Clay’s act is what the Toylet’s Mafia manager -- a quaint, aging insect who goes by the name of Goliath -- calls “kinetic.” It’s valid, though, in that Clay dances out of his outfit to display his unforgettable stuff while taking enormous strides across the stage and muscling out of his way the freak-fans who would rush the bandstand to touch him. Tonight’s no different, except the hungry are dragging behind them these servile captives in all their pasty humiliation.
Ah, but Clay has a surprise for them all tonight: when he removes his ruby-studded chaps he’s wearing, below the waist, nothing more than an inserted butt plug with a long horsetail attached, which he fashioned himself and which he twerks spectacularly in the faces of a salivating throng of aroused spectators.
Why Goliath pays Clay double what the other players make.
When the set wraps, and after Clay’s shared some piss with a number of boys at the back, he re-emerges wearing his minimal Moronta gear: same spiked halter with a leather jock and zippered codpiece. He’d unplugged the swishy horsetail and stuffed it in his wardrobe bag.
Surveying the crowd of flesh through the fog he spots . . . Him.
Who is that boy? From here the figure stands out laudably, so Clay must move closer. He shoves some zombie wannabes out of his way to get to Him. Nothing could stop Clay obtaining this objective.
The boy is even more stunning when Clay gets through. And the attraction seems mutual. Thus they face off regarding each other in awe.
Who is this boy? Clay has to repeat to himself.
Doesn’t he warrant a thoroughgoing examination? He stands a little above Clay wearing an ancient Roman style tunic in white linen ending at the very top of his muscly legs, where the garment is edged with gold and black filigree and belted by double strands of white rope; further, the tunic’s open at the front to expose his olive-bronze ribs and hairless, bony sternum, which brings to Clay’s mind a shiny lobster tail. Bracketing this is a gold chain necklace bearing an amulet just above the navel of . . . what’s that? A cutout swastika. Bare feet bound in Roman sandals latticing up the calf in narrow leather thongs. And finally, atop his dark head an ivy wreath. His teeth gleam, his black eyes blaze.
Chained to this vision is a naked, bearded dwarf cowering on all fours.
No question of addressing each other orally, not under the din of all those invisible speakers hammering out classic punk. No, nothing left to do but close in on an airtight kiss – which is what they do. It’s fraught with meaning and lasts a minute and 23 seconds. Time and space dissolve while they’re tasting each other. What’s going on? A moment in history? Love of a sort? Even love?
|It's fraught with meaning.|
They finally separate; Clay looks down. Then back. He yells in the tall boy’s face: “Lose the midget!”
Never mind: Clay bends over, unshackles the dwarf and kicks him over. Nobody seems to notice. Next he fastens the collar to the new boy’s neck, taking possession of the leash. Now Clay’s the new master in control of this extraordinary, moveable chattel. And in that office he conveys the beautiful thing to the exit, where they’re finally free of this cesspool, The Toylet.
First thing to do is just fuck and get it out of the way. They both need it.
So they find themselves naked and ready in Clay’s shared art studio on campus. Some skinny guy named Dooley is hanging around. He begs to watch, and they both tell him, “Sure.”
|"What's your birth name?"|
The kid’s nude body is a revelation! Clay bottoms first. It’s a perfect fit, and the boy pounds him crazy with his huge battering-tool – the way Clay likes it, if he has to bottom. And Clay’s cock stays super-hard through all the positions – whether favored or unnatural. But the boy has a tougher time hosting Clay’s thick wherewithal. He eventually loosens up and his penis grows into a big, rigid bratwurst. Finally, in their frenzied conclusions, the boy’s ass smacking down all the way to Clay’s balls from above, Clay sends his smoldering mayonnaise deep into the kid’s amazing, slippery, sweaty, smelly butt hole.
|His body is a revelation|
As if on command, the kid and Dooley nut all over the place, chiefly all over Clay.
The effect is stupefying.
“Wow,” Clay congratulates him, “nice flow, dude. I think I wanna know your name.”
“Roman,” he answers.
“Get lost, Dooley,” Clay commands.
Dooley hangs his head and does.
Back to the sexmate: Clay still wearing the boy’s cooling cum – in fact he’s finger-painting his ripped torso with all that spent jizz, mixing it with his sweat, now spiraling it around his left nipple: “Yeah, I get the costume, man, but what’s your, you know, birth name?”
“That’s it. Roman. Don’t you like it? I’m half Italian. I was born on the Isle of Corsica.”
“Oh, that isle? Really?” mocks Clay. “Like Napoleon and all that.”
“Yeah. Know where it is?”
“Of course. I’m not stupid. Tell me more about your Corsican ass, Bonaparte.”
“Well,” says Roman, “Mom’s French and my dad’s from Rome. He named me Romano, but after they broke up Mom and I moved to Paris and she changed me to just Roman. The French variation.”
“I thought so. So how come you don’t sound French?”
“Cos we moved here when I was, like, I dunno, maybe third grade. I can still speak French though, but writing it’s a bitch. What about you?”
“Clay,” says Clay. “That’s enough.”
But their continued conversation reveals that they’re bored by the same things:
• Social media
• Anything with the letters LGBT attached
• Waxing/shaving butt hair
• College dyke feminists and all their insipid writing
• Middle-class pseudo-anarchist hipsters
Sexually, though, they agree on everything. They’ve both read a lot, maybe too much, and their sexual instincts run in a decidedly transgressive direction. Each sees the other as charming in his own peculiar way. They’re, i.e., “artists” where it matters. Best thing: Roman plays the bass!
So from now hence, Roman & Clay are going to be good friends.
<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 are forthcoming.