Brunswick Street boy was, on the tram, all dressed in black. We got on at the same stop and stood in the doorway of the crowded tram. He's an ugly cute. How he fills those pants, though... The Italian brothers have it. You just know what's in there, I think, as I look down. His gaze follows mine. He smiles awkwardly, as my eyes come back up to his. Quizzical. He turns his head to the side and tries to stop a smile spreading across his face, but it spreads none the less. He pulls his body back, as if to say I now know the score. My eyes slide back down to what his mummy gave him as a boy – bunched between his legs, pushing out with more than my imagination. Pushed to the left, lying sideways like a Kransky sausage, covered in worn, black denim. He's blushing, when I look back up – soft, pink, smile. Coy. If I lean forward the 30 centimetres between us and touch it, would you stop me? my smile says.
I think I'd let you, if you didn't tell anyone, his nervous eyes, reply.
I'd make you cum my gaze says.
I want to cum with you, his return stare says.
He has a set of eyes on him, though, deep like pools. You could swim in them, feel them lap at your face, wet your mouth, have them flow down your chest, fill your cupped hands with longing, as his lips, shiny and wet, touch mine..
Pull his shirt over his head, watch his face change from questioning to acceptance, at the first flush of his bare skin. Smooth. Warm. Feel him squirm. Feel him leaven with desire. Reciprocate. The rest of the world fades to black, as my hands slide onto him, warm, soft, dark and hairy.
How warm would his skin be to the touch?
"Excuse me!" says an impatient voice.
A mouse-coloured, rat-faced receptionist standing to my left with a cat’s arse under her nose, is glaring at me. I want to laugh, ask her what the stink is, that has made her face contort so, but she isn't entertaining anything other than her selfish needs. The skin is so tight on her face, fixed in a grimace, I want to touch it with my finger tips. Pointy nose. Pointy chin. She has a waxy, beige sheen. Her eye brows raise and her head tilts sideways. Clearly, I haven't got out of missy's way fast enough. "Exca'use me!" she says again, sighing and rolling her beady eyes. "I would like to be able to get off the tram."
I look over at Brunswick Street Boy, he smiles and looks to the ground.
"Where's the fire?" I ask.
"You are standing in the doorway... after all!" she says, as if exasperated. I think she is too young to be dotting her i's and crossing her t's in quite such a clipped, school maamish way.
"The tram hasn't even stopped, yet," I say. At which point, the tram suddenly puts on the brakes and Rat-faced Receptionist plummets head first into Brunswick Street Boy, who is gallant enough to catch her. I would like to think I would have stepped out of her way precisely at that moment, if I could have thought about it and it wasn’t an instinctual move. She catches me laughing, as she folds herself out into an upright position again.
"You think that is funny," she says spraying on the F, as her lips stick to her teeth, as her eyes turn into balloons.
"I'm not longer in your way," I say. I smile.
She does not.
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