Defending the Raven

Bisexual. Married. Man. Open. Read On.

Beautiful Things

I got this email from someone who reads my blog. I find it incredibly cool that someone who read my blog was inspired enough to write something, let alone a fiction story. I figured I’d share it with you all. There are some editing things I might have done to it to clear up some things, but I decided to leave it as is. I certainly do enjoy his (assuming it’s a he) way with words some times.

Hello Raven.  I got the chance to read through your blog.  It was inspiring.  I thought this might strike a cord with you.

Beautiful Things

“Your invite?” he asked. He flashed a half-hearted smile and seemed to enjoy my awkward fumbling as I perused pockets for the postcard sized invite. It was Fall and the first cold snap had me wearing and additional layer. Wool trench over double breasted gray tweed; More pockets and them some.

I found the card and offered it up, but he barely noticed it as he scanned ahead. Possibly looking for a starlet for later fucking, possibly an agent, but I was of little concern. Although he managed a downward glance and my companion’s flawless legs as she passed. Small victory.

Inside the gallery the air was dry. That large space, hardwood floor, no dust and fresh touch-up paint kind of a way. Dry and charged with the eclectic buzz of shmooz.

Large paintings draped from exposed girders, and an inattentive crowd of art adorers milled about with obvious importance. The moved with thick disconnect, a sea of black suit/ black cocktail dress flotsam and jetsam. I watched it ebb and flow from the beach called “Coat Check,” as I waited for my wrinkled cardboard number.

“Drink?”

“Yes,” I said. “Gin, tonic, …you know.”

She moved away into the murky black mass.

Moments later she retuned with two drinks. Some non-descript sauvignon blanc, a gin & tonic. It was wet, not made well, but it worked.

I glanced down at the invitation I’d been dog-earing. Nice workmanship. Good spatial relationship. Helvetica? Yes. Always an appropriate font. Maybe the artist was sleeping with the printer. Artistic creativity through injection. I’d have to mention that to him in our next conversation. Caustic and sarcastic. Perhaps he might glean some shred of truth through the humor. Maybe not. Either way it is entertaining. The art is sincere… beautiful.

Glad to have her again by my side, I raise my left hand to her partially exposed back. I enjoy the feel of her cool skin under my fingertips as I slide my hand down and fall comfortably onto the small of her back. My pinky finding it’s favorite home in the clef of her buttocks. I feel her almost step, as this is the “let’s mingle” gesture, but then she relaxes for it is also the “Your prettier than anyone I can see,” touch. I grin and kiss the slope of her neck from behind.. A reward for her intuitiveness.

She sips her wine and looks away toward the right. She eyes the piece nearest us, and I watch her follow the cables to the girders above. She is possibly thinking of the chances of a fall. A tragic art catastrophe. She is dark. It’s humorous.

My eyes go to the left and I observe the swell of participants. Where did he get this list? Certainly not his crowd. I again blame the printer.

A parting of the black sea, and He is there. I feel a jolt. Fight or flight plays its magic on me. My armpits instantly slick as the bolt of adrenaline pushes sweat out of my pores and through my deodorant. He is here.

Different circles, different interests. This is a situation that was not to happen. I feel my chest expand as I take the breath I apparently forgot to take.

Though not a fan of H G Wells and his time machine, I wax Einstein and am reminded of the theory of relativity. Expanding time, blah blah. I look at him for a moment and think a month of thought. Has time stopped? I take the smallest of steps in a feeble attempt to block myself behind my companion.

I cannot look away. It has been only a week but I am without control. I taste his lips, his tongue. The smell of his sweat after exertion, the intensity in his eyes as he prepares for me to enter him.  I feel my testicles move in my pants. They posture like furry bulls: their matador ahead.

I want him, and the need is immediate. Only the fear of the situation contains my lust; yet this is cerebral. My cock fills slowly as it rebels, despite my best efforts to think of Sister Paul-Mary from Junior year biology. What may happen? I should run. A quick exit. Yet I remain transfixed. My heart begins to beat. Not faster, just deeper. Can he hear that from all the way over there?

I want to leave. Leave now. Leave before I am seen. The feelings are overwhelming, and again I half-step farther from sight.

She is there.

Was it the smell of pheromones? Did I grunt lustfully without knowing? Did my hand caress her ass as I thought of caressing his?

She arches her back slightly and finds my hard-on with a practiced maneuver. I don’t pull away and become enraptured in the sheer deliriousness of the situation. My lips once again find her smooth skin, and I exhale lustfully making the wisps of her upswept ebony move. She turns her head and allows me to find her flawless jawline with a gentle bite. I close my eyes and swim in this moment. I am Buddha. Greetings from Nirvana: wish you were here

Without a word, here fingers gently entwine my own, and she moves toward the coat check room. There is no need to speak. Mouths will be for other things this evening.

She begins to lead slowly through the dense crowd and I follow; A certain hint of melancholy as I feel the space betwixt us grow. I want to speak to him. Mention how the mere sight of him has affected me. How I wish I could share this moment with him so he would understand the dichotomy of my existence. I don’t want to leave him; Yes, I want to be with her. How to make him understand?

I look up. Steal a glance. One more chance.

She is there now.

Now his back is to me and I see her. The first time. She is stunning. Her arms over his shoulders, glass of champagne in hand: her eyes looking into his. She has seen those eyes. The eyes that make my back arch, my chest expand, my muscles tense. The eyes that pull a different masculinity from deep in my somewhere. What, I wonder, do they pull from her?

He moves his hands down her waist and they disappear from my sight. I know where they are going, and I see the grin on her face as they move to her bottom. I can see him push his hips against her, and I know what is growing between them.

The experience is exquisite. I look away, satiated.

There is no need to look back. It is perfect, beautiful. There is no further need to explain or speak or attempt futile foible fumblings. I don’t need him to see me tonight. Our shared experiences are enough for me this evening.

I stand behind her at the coat check counter and look up at the large piece hanging overhead. The piece is magnificent. One of his best. I gaze at it and lose myself for a moment. I must tell the artist this one is my favorite. It will always remind me of tonight. Her, him, …him and her.

She hands me her coat and I assist her with it as the crowd surges, and she is once again pressed against my hard cock. Her response is slightly more animal this time and her movement is more of a grind. Hidden by the crowd I allow myself the pleasure. I close my eyes and move my hand to her hips. Mmmmmm, I purr into her ear.

The crowd swirls around us and there is movement. Touch. Graze. Across the seat of my trousers.

I do not turn around. There is no need. I know whose fingers they were. I gasp and chuckle at the same time, and push against her hips as the fingers move contentedly move away into the crowd.

And as my eyes remain closed I image his grin as he walks away, his smile as he kisses her. They are mixed with visions of my wife’s eyes as we climax, the taste of her skin, her breasts, her pussy. I hear her speak.

“Beauty gets you hot, eh?”

“Yes,” I respond. Beauty gets me hot. 

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September 30, 2008 - Posted by | fantasy

1 Comment »

  1. Here’s a beautiful thang. Christ died for U.S.

    Comment by 4Nfood | December 10, 2008 | Reply


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