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John trolling (1) --- a teaser from This Is Heaven (Part II Green Eyes)

 If you've read Michael Ampersant's GREEN EYES, you've been wondering how the story will continue, how John and Alex will cope with the HEA (happy ever after) of John's dreams coming true. "Michael" we wrote to our author, "how about the long-announced sequel to your Lambda-Literary-Award book?" There were some hiccups, Michael writes by return mail, but here's a chapter that LUSTSPIEL readers might appreciate. John's trolling of course, while the vampire festival is still in full swing, and the troll is Taylor, a youth of barely legal age (it's his 18th birthday). Other complications? Many of course. Worth noticing, perhaps: John's A-level escort service is taking off, and, guess what, Alex has had himself enrolled by said service and will service a client, Prof. Barbette Bienpensant, as we speak. 

By Michael Ampersant

We’re walking to the Atlantic Sands Hotel, which, as you know, is not far. We’re quiet now. That’s fairly typical with a new trick on the way to the venue, you’re either quiet or you talk a lot. It happened barely a week ago under very different circumstances on the way to Godehart’s place, where it ended in an in-flagrante masterclass of Wagnerian proportions. Let’s see what we’re in for this time.

Let's see what we are in for.

The walk takes us along North Surf Avenue, low dunes to left, occasional multistory condos to the right, all stylized as beach holiday homes gaping bay-windowed at the sea. The structures would be pretty if they weren’t too large—comely porches transposed into five story balconies, and the proportions don't work, at least not for me. The condos are prettier than the Sands Hotel, though, which springs right out of a LEGO box. A giant, inverted sign on the roof mirrors its name. I point at the sign (just to make sure). Taylor nods. We enter through a back door and arrive in the lobby from the wrong side, none of the reception people has seen us coming.

The way we look, drained by the heat, shabbily clad (me), untidily (clad) (Taylor), in sneakers, shorts, T-shirt, we may not even own a motorized conveyance, let alone money, they could easily turn us away. Too late. An assistant manager has made eye contact (‘What are you doing here?’). “We need a room,” I say.

She’s more tactful that Luke, though, the receptionist, and doesn’t lower her gaze; instead, she’s casting it at the main entrance where it rests for two seconds (‘has she decided to ignore us?’), but then returns to me (‘has she changed her mind?’). Squeaky footfalls break the silence, somebody has a hand on my shoulder, in passing, and—you guessed right—it’s Alex, in full alpha-mode now, beaming his post-felo-de-se grin at all of us. “I have an urgent appointment with the Professor Bienpensant,” he says. “I'm replacing Mr. John Fletcher of Wichita Falls, Texas.” The receptionist couldn’t care less, of course—a place like this hosts five hundred sex acts per day—but Alex is too beautiful not to evoke second guesses and wistful smiles. The assistant manager keeps her libido in check, however, and asks: “You know the room number?” And yes, Alex knows the room number and disappears squeakily in the direction of the stair well, ignoring the convenient elevator nearby, for emphasis.

A place like this hosts 500 sex acts per day.

We were lucky that Alex showed up so soon, because—would he have arrived only two minutes later, he had witnessed the humiliating scene of an impoverished assistant professor of French brandishing exhausted credit cards which are then, one by one, put down by the booking system of the Atlantic Sands Corporation. I skip a few details—Taylor saves the day with his own credit card. Nobody asks about our age. We use the elevator.

Why is it different, this time?

The room is in the same wing as Juliette’s (and Barbette’s I guess). The view is the same as well; we could see Africa from here if the world were flat. We bolt the door. We stare at the room.

Why is it different this time? Is there anything beyond sheer sex that holds us back? I mean, John, please, be realistic, how many emotional punts have you placed inside a week, more than you placed during the rest of your life, practically. And now Taylor? All this while Alex is viciously banging the Bienpensant downstairs? Or upstairs?

I turn my ears to the left wall, the right wall, the ceiling, the floor.

Like so many characters in this soap, Taylor can read thoughts, at least this one. We’re both listening now. This is a thin-walled structure from the poorly insulated ‘70s. It resonates with clanking elevators, children’s shrieks, flushing lavatories, banging doors, passing footfalls on the gallery outside, connubial disagreements upstairs, and a connubial agreement downstairs, something banging against the wall, a bedhead, presumably.

“Let’s have a shower,” Taylor says.

"Let's have a shower."

Good idea. We undress. Shorts, drawers, shirts, they don’t drop on the floor but are folded away on the luggage tray next to the wall desk. Half-boners come into view. Taylor looks at my thing and affects a coughing laugh. His junk has been treated to a fairly thorough bikini wax since yesterday, all pubic hair is gone. It’s quite okay, his body, nothing too small or too large, the slender features of a belated twink---not much in the way of definition, of course, very white, the body, not much beach time apparently for this ambitious nerd who has put his spectacles away and squints at the world like somebody just waking up.  He isn’t Hollywood material, but even-featured enough to run for office or have full sex with an impoverished assistant professor of French. His dark hair is very thick and completely unruly; several cowlicks point in all directions---his strongest point, his hair, physically.

There’s this folklore out there, dating back to the frustrated days of Sigmund Freud possibly, when everybody needed to loosen up with Jack Kerouac’s dick up his ass. Taylor should be a good test case.

“With a bit more chutzpa,” I say, “I would now take my dinger and wave it at you.”
“Why don’t you do it, then,” he asks.

I grab the thing and affect an unconvincing undulation. Taylor coughs another laugh and disappears into the bathroom. I put in another glimpse of Africa before following him. This is an old-style hotel bathroom, the shower integrated into the bathtub. Taylor has already stepped into the tub and turned the water on, which is too cold, of course, and then too hot, and so on. There’s a lot of water pressure, fortunately, the shower head is gushing. Should we enter a wet embrace? Where’s the shampoo? Two tiny samples of hotel-branded soap idle on the wash basin table. Soap, right, soap will do it. I exit the tub, unwrap both “bars,” step back into the tub, and hand one to him. “We both need a good rub,” I say (which is true).

We both need a good rub

Truth is a universal lubricant. So I begin to lather the body of my newest lover, first where he needs it, the back, shoulders, arm pits, neck, pecks, torso, and then where he needs it more, between his legs. I proceed in all innocence, despite his erection. He reciprocates in all innocence, despite my erection, our arms tangled up in crossing, each fondling the other’s junk for sanitary purposes. Did we ever do this before? I mean, Alex and I, for example?

‘Alex,’ I think while reaching for Taylor’s rear, how often did we had sex? Including Albert or not including Albert? Including the Sunday morning penetration through which I slept (through)? If it ever happened, his Maltese shot, perhaps Alex made that up. How about the hand-free sex of last night? So we had sex three times at minimum, six times max. No---seven times, don’t forget the second dune fuck, after the walk on the beach, that was serious material. We’re both versatile, luckily.

‘Anything I forgot?’ (I think), while working the rest of the soap into Taylor’s ass. Taylor has turned his back to me, water dripping of his cheeky butts. He seems to like the lathering, widening his stance, stooping a bit to let me deeper inside. Soap suds slide along wet skins. Water on skin is always sexy, we should do this more often. We embrace. Dicks connect like crossing daggers. I grab both dingers, press them together. “Try,” I say and hand them to him. He joins both dicks with both hands. “One hand,” I say. “Feel it?”
“What?” he asks.
“Touching both kin in one go, one is yours, one is mine, sensing yours in two ways, mine in a different way, this hilarious sense confusion.” He tries, he strokes. “Yeah,” he says. We make eye contact. We couldn’t be harder. We kiss a soapy, bitter-tasting kiss. Yak. We spit. We agree.

We exit the tub. The unbranded towels are second-rate (“I’m a faceless towel, no need to pinch me”), it doesn’t matter, I rub him dry, he rubs me dry. We proceed to the king-sized bed. I remove the cover. We make eye contact again, embrace again, kiss a formal French kiss that feels superfluous. “Lie down,” I say. He sits, reclines, athwart the bed. “Turn around,” I say, “I have an idea.” He doesn’t ask, turns around, lies prone on the bed now. I have another good look at him, the curves of his back, the line of beauty there, the silty hue of his skin, the streaks of wet hair on his neck. I touch myself, it feels just great (my erection). “Where are you,” he asks. “I’m here,” I say---I’m on my knees already. He spreads his legs. My tongue enters his crack, works its way down the crease to his perineum, then back up again---my fleshy taste muscle forcing its way through the butt cheeks, up and down again. Up and down a few times. He’s patient. He knows---which 18 year old hasn’t seen millions of porn flicks, and the rimming part---if done well (which it rarely is)---is especially telegenic. Now, there, my nose between the crack, my lips on his sphincter. I suck, I suck, I suck. He moans obligingly.

We exit the tub.

I disengage. “Feel it,” I asks. He moans.

I’m back at work, my tongue now rimming his anal ring. How did Alex call these muscles? PC-group, something? Doesn’t matter. It’s fun. It’s fun for my obliging tongue, but more so for my willing brain. We feel how it feels, on the other side, on the inside, or wherever Taylor is at the moment. “Oohh,” he moans, “Oohh.” I’m keeping a steady pace, probing, licking, sucking, playing with the tiny caldera of his sphincter. “OOHH,” “AAHH,” “AAHH,” “OOHH.” This goes on for several minutes. This cannot go wrong. Rimming is never bad sex, especially on the receiving end. “AARGH,” he moans. “AAGH.”

He gasps. I disengage. “The electricity,” I say, “feel it?”
“This is what sex is all about,” (I say).
“Your nerve endings?”

Back to work, the tip of my tongue inside his ass, inverted French kissing. “AAGHH, AAGHH.” More of this. Deeper. “AAGHH, OOOHHH.” He feels me, feeling him, feeling me, lapping, slurping, lapping, tickling, kissing. I know how this will end. “I’ll be rimming you to death,” I say.

“Do it,” he answers. And there he expires: his butt jerks, he jolts, he’s upside-down, tele-transported, falls back on his back, his dick gushing thick ropes of goo.

"I came,” he says, “shit.”
“You are still coming,” I say----his dick is still pulsing, jizzom flying.

“Count the contractions,” I say.
“Hands-free,” he answers. “Shit.”


“Your jizz,” I say.
“My jizz,” he says.
“The jizz on your tummy.”
“The jizz on my tummy.”
“Let’s maintain standards,” I say, bend over, and undertake to lap up his goo, the creamy globs around the belly button, the globs on his pecs, the string of drops leading up there like a trace from a Pollock painting. A bit salty, his milk, nothing special about the taste, and yet. I feel like a much-appreciated pet.

“A bit salty, your milk, nothing special about the taste, and yet,” I say.
“You never drank you own goo?” I ask.
“You’re right,” he says.

There is another silence.

“Shit,” he says again, reclining, stretching, his head on the pillow. “Shit.”

(I’m thinking). ‘Alex,’ I’m thinking, ‘what would Alex say?’

“Time for a cigarette,” I say. 

“Time for a cigarette,” he echoes and gets up, dick still standing. He ambles over to the luggage tray, fumbles with his shorts, and produces a lighter and a pack of Marlboro's (the only cigarette brand left standing as far as I know). He hands a cigarette to me, my first fag in years. We smoke. We blow smoke rings. His rings are prettier. There’s no ashtray. He rises again, enters the bathroom, returns with a tumbler. I touch myself. He touches himself.

“And you?” he asks with a glance at my boner, “you don’t want to come?”

(This is a cliff-hanger, hopefully? Continues here.)

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Michael Ampersant

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