Brooklyn [The Wanderer Series]

This is the first of a series that will be intermittently popping up around here that tries to capture the feel and texture of different places I’ve been. It’s tentatively titled the Wanderer series, but that could always change. This one is about Brooklyn, NY. I’ve lived there before and maybe will again someday. I hope you enjoy it.

The sun is coming down, but the heat is not. The thermometers have capped at some unreal degree and the dogs can’t close their mouths. There’s a dark brown man playing a drum solo on an empty paint tub with his whole body.

You head to the best Thai place on Washington Avenue and drink a Thai iced coffee that tastes like the condensed milk was squeezed from some holy teat. The food is good, too, but the red peppers bring the heat even closer; it cradles you like a head-sick lover, cooing hot breath in hot words that make no sense.

So you decide to pack it in, get a drink. The bar is full of people with colorful tattoos, a carnival of dyed skins. They wear denim cutoffs and little hats. They drink hand-crafted beers with wry names and pick at french fries fried in American oil. The waitress says her name is Shell and you believe her. She smiles in a sad, lost way.The dark is never that dark in the summer. Neon jumps up from the jukebox and people’s bodies glow with a queer inner light. Suddenly there’s a DJ. Suddenly there’s a disco vocalist cooing velvet about how the DJ saved her life. So people start getting up and kicking off their shoes. Some girl you’ve never seen before takes your hand and pulls you onto the floor. You start dancing, moving together as inevitable as bodies are. You’re laughing, the song splits, another, you’re still dancing, then you’re breathless and you say something into your dance partner’s ear. She laughs, flicks her hair. You step back to the bar and get another drink.

Someone touches your arm. Gentle, but firm. The hand lingers. It belongs to a handsome smile which belongs to a man with dark eyes and last weekend’s five o’clock shadow. He saw you dancing, likes the way you move, he says this in an accent that’s as sultry and hard to pin down as the city itself. You smile back and toast to summer. A good toast he says and drinks.

There’s mischief in his eyes, something that tugs and insists on another drink. It’s five drinks later when you stumble out of the bar, your arm around his neck and the both of you laughing deeply in the heat. You stop at a Chinese takeout and eat chicken wings that are too hot to touch with sauce that’s almost too sweet to eat. The two of you get into a cab and head up to his place.

You lay with your head against the door and gaze out the window as things flash by: tail lights, store fronts, parks, stoops, headlights, couples, dogs, empty liquor bottles, oak trees.

You get to his place and you get out (or fall out) of the cab. He takes you up the stairs and you enter a dark apartment that smells like the apartment of any anonymous city dweller. You find the bedroom.

He becomes a dynamo of kisses. His mouth is on you in a hundred places it seems and your clothes melt away as the two of you crash down to his mattress laid across the floor. The only light in the room is coming from the streetlights outside and they cast a diffuse and noirish pall. His lips are perfectly shaped, a sensual mouth with just a hint of red. His pink tongue slips out and teases yours as the both of you kiss. He reaches over and pulls down your briefs. Your hardness springs out and tastes the open air for a moment before he devours it. He sucks it lovingly, reverently. He puts pressure on the head and eases his way down the shaft as you moan half-formed words into the almost dark.

You look down and watch him. There are shafts of light coming through the blinds and they cut across his skin. He looks like he was drawn into this scene, too perfect to be real. You stroke his short, curly hair. He slips his clothes off without taking you out of his mouth, but the feeling stirring in your balls forces you to slip your hips away from him. It’s too soon. He grins, understands.

He leans over the bed and presents a bottle of lube. The good stuff. You smile and he smiles. You push him down gently and he moves with you as you climb up to your knees. A truck stops outside. It blasts an old, romantic song that was written before you were born as you wet your fingers and slip them inside this man, this stranger, who wants you so badly. His back arches up from the bed as you first penetrate him. His nipples are hard and his body is as warm as the night.

He’s begging without speaking, pulling at your hips, grinding his hole against your fingers, tensing and tensing against your fingers, pushing back against your fingers. You find a condom, pull it on carefully and then —with that out of the way— you no longer have to be careful. You fuck him the way you can only fuck a stranger: it’s rough and tender, you are so fucking hard and he wants it so bad. He shuts his eyes tight and claws at the bed, he spits phrases at you in a language that is too alien from your own to discern meaning, but you know what he means.

You flip him onto his stomach and you fuck him harder. You slam deeper and he moans a steady unbroken noise for minutes on end. The love song outside stops and starts again. The light from outside catches on the beads of sweat gathering in the small of his back. You growl something unintelligible, but you are both beyond words. He pushes back a final time. You thrust forward. Both of you cum simultaneously, chests heaving, voices carrying down to the street.

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