Gulp
by T Williams
Warning: Contains descriptions of sex, consumption of inanimate objects, alcohol consumption
A text from Terry buzzes. Already, Aidan is at attention. Terry’s opening is as aggressive as it is subtle: “Got a six-pack of Stella. Your favorite.” Aidan can’t resist the offer of free Belgian imports. He replies in seconds, “Sure.” After a twenty-three-minute bus ride, Aidan shows up in front of the rooming house Terry lives in, the place where the basement tenant’s awkward drug deals go down and the mail of absent residents piles up. Aidan glances up to the porch. Terry spots him between the unpainted beams. A motorcycle flies by. The neon sign in the window of the corner store across the street buzzes. OPEN.
Aidan zips up the creaky steps, each footfall raising a wooden moan. That enthusiastic quickness, almost enough to embarrass. Terry meets Aidan’s eyes on the evenness of the landing. Both can sense what’s happened between them, that they are in the midst of a weeks-long seduction. The moves of the dance began simply, like so: Aidan unfolds his pocket knife. Terry eyes it, recognizing the quality of the brass and wood of its handle. Terry nods in approval and says “Nice knife.” Terry is almost three years older than Aidan, enough to suggest greater authority over the world of mass-produced bladed objects.
Terry: “This is my knife. A leatherman multitool.”
Aidan: “My dad gave me mine.”
They get into the contest, hassling each other a bit. Making banter.
Aidan: “Only one function? Fuck you, man. You can do, like, ten different things with a sharp edge.”
Terry can respect the paternal symbolism of Aidan’s suboptimal tool. He must like his dad, or at least he doesn’t not like him. Terry can guess.
Aidan once described himself as “bicurious” on OkCupid. Terry has always liked it when a guy acts straightish. Is there anything hotter than ignorance? How could a man be so clueless about what his body might mean and to whom? The -ish was important. The -ish was the horizon. And yet Terry knew he should squash this juvenile desire for what you’re not allowed to have.
Call the knives an invitation or a synchronization. Then the first real moves begin. Aidan joins Terry at the train tracks, a section of rail nestled between power transformers and liquor stores. On the railing of a bridge that raises the railroad over the pavement, Terry sets up a Coke bottle, a Jarritos bottle, and a can of Moosehead. All are empty and still wet with spit.
Terry: “Okay.”
He hands a piece of the basalt trackbed to Aidan, dusting both their hands.
Terry: “Throw it.”
Aidan’s nerves squirm with a muted sense of risk, of failing a challenge, of scraping a passing car with a shard of glass or ripped tin. Realistically, the stakes are low. That’s what matters. Terry puts his hand on Aidan’s shoulder, his fingers pressing the spot above the collarbone where sweat binds textile and skin together.
Aidan: “Sure, dude.”
Sure. They’re having fun. What’s wrong with fun? Aidan hits the beer can. The hollow ting is squashed by a satisfying crunch of tires smashing metal. Terry grabs Aidan’s shoulder tight, almost bringing him in close. Their laughter rings out, as loud as any train car.
Terry and Aidan catch one another’s rhythm well. As usual, Terry takes the lead. The two of them are strutting through an abandoned lot. Their bikes sit locked to a chain link fence, the gate left open by negligent property managers. Aidan kicks at debris and squats to watch the scum breathe atop a pool of stagnant water. A water strider leaves tiny ripples on the surface.
Aidan makes a note to himself: watch out for mosquitos. Warn Terry, maybe.
Terry: “Look at this!”
Aidan passes a metal barrel and a shattered pallet as he comes to gawk at Terry’s discovery. It’s a few metres of black vinyl tube, warm to the touch from a whole day of exposure to light.
Terry: “A plumber must have forgotten this here. It’s kinda pricey to leave behind.”
Of course Terry is an expert on plumbing supplies. Aidan picks up one end of the hose, giving it a little wiggle. Intrigued, Terry grabs the other end. The smoothness of the tube is pleasing on both their palms. The length of plastic gives to bending but not without force. Gravity drags the tube’s middle towards the ground, as if it wants to lay back down for a nap. Aidan swings the hose one way, Terry the other. It writhes as the ripples cascade through it.
Aidan: “Look!”
Yes, the sight is invigorating. The tube is coming alive. Though Aidan started it, he’s almost intimidated by the new energy of the creature that stretches from his arm to Terry’s. This is their temporary child. It challenges Terry too, to keep swinging, to extend the moment doomed to popping by its strangeness and intimacy. Each has lost his words, so they use none. The tubing dances, dances, losing energy. Aidan glances up at Terry, for a moment losing focus on the repetitive work required to keep life in the hose. The tube feels a palpitation. Its old age is coming. Weakening joints, poor vision, the works. Aidan stops. Terry gives the black serpent one last, epic shake. Its body whips out with a whizzing, hollow sound. Then, he drops it. Dust jumps up.
Those episodes were days and days ago, and yet their impression feels near. Aidan is still making his way towards Terry. His boxers ride around his hips, peeking above his jeans. His brown hair looks greasier than it really is in the evening light. If Terry smoked, he’d offer his friend a cigarette. Wordlessly, he passes Aidan a beer instead.
Predictably, Aidan plays up his enjoyment of his favourite beverage.
Aidan: “Fuck that’s good beer.”
Terry eggs him on: “Yeah man?”
Terry runs his fingers over the freshly shaved sides of his head, watching. Aidan takes appreciative, drawn-out sips. Yes, Terry groomed for this. He just happened to. Stubble remains, a faint trace of a practiced dishevelment. The sunlight, increasingly perpendicular, sloshes over the neighbourhood, casting the shelter of the porch in a warm darkness. As he lowers the can from his lips, Aidan begins to detect the presence of a wobble. Yes, there is something off-putting in Terry’s composure, in his swagger. That he is so fun is the biggest problem. Can you feel too good? Aidan can’t begin to ask that question. And worse, there is more in Terry’s posture: a sense that there is a test and Terry’s cheating.
Aidan and Terry have had beers on all the porches and in all the abandoned lots and by train tracks and derelict buildings and unlit underpasses. Where else have they to go? Terry is sitting right beside the door. So obvious. Aidan’s waiting for Terry to say it.
Terry: “Do you want to come up?”
Prediction does nothing to combat hesitation. Terry tenses in the two beats before Aidan answers.
Aidan: “Okay. I’ll carry the drinks.”
Upstairs, Terry’s roommates are puttering around, getting ready to go out for the night. Dua Lipa, playing quietly. The heat rises. The nights have stopped getting cold. There’s no AC.
Terry: “My room?”
Aidan: “Totally. Sure.”
The one window is open all the way. The wind exchanges hot air for slightly less hot. Aidan sips his beer again as his sweat starts to bead. It’s small in here, so small. The distance between them is almost nil. Terry steps forward, touches Aidan’s hands, and wrests the can from him. He puts his lips where Aidan had just put his. Terry, acting more intoxicated than he is, presses his forehead against Aidan’s. Wetness and wrinkles of young skin slide against one another but find purchase. The foremost plates of their skulls are millimetres from joining. Trying to slow his racing heart, Aidan stiffens. Terry feels the change and relents.
Terry: “Shit. Sorry.”
Aidan: “That felt good.”
Terry: “Can I?”
His arm moves closer to Aidan’s waist.
Aidan: “Go ahead.”
Aidan’s waist is warm. Half of his birthmark, the one that looks like an archipelago, pokes up where Terry’s fingers land. He is touching the highest islands, pressing them like buttons. Terry puts the beer down on his nightstand so he can hold both of Aidan’s hips. Aidan’s breathing comes slow as he steels himself to reach out with his own arm. He decides on Terry’s left shoulder. It looks solid. The plan is working. Yes, the shoulder is exactly firm. Terry does not collapse from the impact. Aidan’s hand does not catch on fire and his flesh does not melt off. Instead, Aidan’s hand rests there and he feels compelled to move lower to Terry’s bicep. Aidan squeezes. The muscle flexes, resisting him with its mass. Terrifying. Terry smirks as he basks in Aidan’s dawning awe.
The whole universe is blind to this exchange. Finally, Aidan lets go of the sense that he is being observed. Aidan and the stars close their eyes in tandem. The wind and the creaky floorboards take their cue to rest. Terry tugs Aidan closer but he doesn’t budge, partially lost in the texture of Terry’s ligaments and bone. The motion Terry initiated makes its way up to Aidan to bring him back to attention. Not a jolt—the feeling is more like waking up. And Terry is still so much. So much sweat. So much intention. Aidan brings one foot towards Terry and then two. Their bellies meet. Aidan has totally forgotten that he has a dick. This entire time he had been neglecting to notice it and now it must be remarked upon. His dick is hard, hard enough to melt. His hips are alive and they have a purpose. A single half-step is all it takes for the relief to arrive.
And then Terry kisses him. Aidan’s forgotten how to use his lips. Terry is trying to teach him by example. Subtly, Aidan feels insulted. He feels in no position to be taught. Tongue, he’ll use his tongue and show Terry who knows what. It’s messy and gets caught on Aidan’s teeth and Terry’s teeth, like neither of them can open their jaws wide enough to accommodate so much enthusiasm. Their two pairs of hands are scrambling over each other. Terry’s hips push Aidan towards the bed in the corner of the room, unmade and still messy with laundry. Aidan is thrown down on the soft landing with such grace that he feels like he’s being subjected to a wrestling move known only to faggots. Terry plants himself in Aidan’s lap. Weight, pressure like a lake above you when you dive in. Aidan’s brown curls are loose, shortish. A fine texture on Terry’s fingers.
They keep kissing. Aidan is wondering where this is going because it really seems like the journey is begging for a destination. Terry, at least, knows where the end is. Their cocks are pressing together through denim. The wet cum is agitating inside. There are bigger things than the obvious on Aidan’s mind. What after? What after? What after? If Terry and Aidan fuck now, will they fuck again? Will they watch a movie? If they make dinner, who will cook? A spool of possibilities is unwinding. Dating. Tension. Breakup. Cohabitation. Marriage. Shared closet space. One bed. Adopting kids, maybe. Aidan is searching for an assumption to make. None of these possibilities are supposed to happen.
Terry drags his hands over Aidan and to the bottom hem of his own t-shirt. He pulls it up, showing off his confidence in his midriff. The sweat is stale on his belly button. Light red impressions linger where his belt and waistband have pressed into his waist. The shirt rises higher. Terry barely has abs. The outline of his ribs peeks through his skin. A final surge of effort lifts Terry’s shirt over the width of his shoulders. He is slim, twunkish. The whiff of performance catches Aidan. That flaunting energy. Those well-practiced moves. There’s no denying that this is a fantastic show but Aidan’s left feeling like a member of the audience. As Terry reaches for his pants, Aidan squirms. Aidan is retreating into the mattress. Aidan is spooked.
The hesitation in Aidan’s body is not beyond Terry’s notice. Yeah, it’s tough to jump into fucking a guy as if it’s already habit from a position of never having fucked a guy. Why was it so smooth before? Terry is making a constellation of his imagination. A knife. A bottle. A tube. The image of two blades pressed together catches his mind. He licks his lips. Still, he figures that’s way too explicit. An opening on a man’s mouth. The fuzz on his lip moist already. Okay, maybe. That’s another piece to work with. Hands wrapped around a cylinder, two sets of them at each end. Now that was sexy, that was something else. Terry sees the fingers slither down the shaft and touch at the tips, pad to pad. His register shifts from image back to perception. His eye fixes on the almost empty beer car. Suddenly, there is a plan.
Terry reaches for the beer, leaning away from Aidan briefly. Even that small adjustment is enough to make Aidan miss him. Aidan perks up, raising himself, as if to ask “Where are you going?” with his body. Terry grabs Aidan’s arm, passing the can into his palm. Both their fingers close around it. The tin is still chill but warmth is spreading through it quickly. The liquid shakes around inside. About an eighth left. Terry adds energy to the circuit he’s made between him and Aidan, a slight force toward his partner. Not trying to overpower Terry, Aidan forces back. Their action is imploding the can. Seconds pass before they feel in sync. Terry makes eye contact. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. With incredible intention, the beer moves towards the gap between Terry’s lips and teeth. He drinks his share, his one-sixteenth. Terry nods. Aidan understands. They reverse the line of motion. The grace and gratitude that warms Aidan as he sips is overwhelming. “So cool. So fucking cool,” he thinks.
One notch of tension in Terry’s shoulders is released. Finally, Aidan is in the mood again. A better mood, at least. Terry retries the approach. He selects a more direct method.
Terry: “Should we fuck?”
Though turned on, Aidan takes a moment to seriously consider the question.
Should they fuck? His head is heavy with uncertainty. Aidan listens to his dick and his gut, those two wise advisors. At first, his cock gets in his thoughts. Terry’s naked torso invites Aidan’s fingers closer. Aidan wants to roll his hips forward and reach at the source of greater friction. Terry must be so slick and so firm and so perfect—wait. Now is the gut’s turn. No. Aidan’s gut contains a void of reasons, as if it were a cavity and not a purse. No.
The gut’s negative reaction reaches Terry right as he readies himself to get lost in the moment, the one that has eluded him and carried him for weeks. No ripples in the air. Aidan averts his gaze from his partner. The hands that had risen to grab Terry reach his flesh but seem to be pushing him away. Terry dismounts. His own unmade bed welcomes him back. Aidan touches his elbow. Fuck that. Now Terry is conflicted too. Frustration and sympathy bounce together at his temples. Terry’s next idea comes with a flash of anger. Enough to make him scowl for a second. Enough to make him act.
Terry grabs the can again. The shape of the tin tab is calling to him with its sleekness and finesse. He locks his finger into the top hole and wiggles. Still exerting pressure on Terry’s elbow, Aidan is worried. Terry’s focus on his task is intense. He wrenches the piece of metal free and turns to Aidan again. In Terry’s imagination, glorious vistas of submission and insertion bloom.
Terry: “Open your mouth.”
Aidan, in shock and exhilaration, does just so. Terry puts his hand in the opening, holding the metal bit between thumb and forefinger, exploring the soft interior with the rest. Aidan almost pulls away but the sensation of fingertips on the inside of his cheek is too good to relinquish. Then Aidan feels metal on his tongue. Terry’s hand slips out. He clenches both hands around Aidan’s jaw.
Terry: “Swallow.”
Terror. Bliss. A sharp sensation. The movement of Aidan’s throat. Gulp.
