Studs: Gay Erotic Fiction by Emanuel Xavier Richard Labonté
Authors: Emanuel Xavier Richard Labonté
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breath.
Part of the deal to rent out the living room is I can’t use the kitchen. Since it’s winter I keep milk on the fire escape. Cereal boxes are up on the bookshelf, all other meals we eat in Chinatown. At work I steal lunch out of the break room refrigerator, or buy a couple of hotdogs off the street. Part of the deal to keep this place is no television, no stereo. Sung lives with me though part of the deal is no one can stay over.
The couple we share the apartment with are students, musicians; they’re extremely unhappy that we are in their living room, but the need to make rent doesn’t give them an option. At first I tried to be friendly, but there is something anemic about this couple. They shy away from words, even to each other; most of their communication is a series of complex nods with their chins and a lot of pointing. Worse, they’re one of those sad couples that have begun to look alike: they both have long, brittle blond hair that coats the tiny bathroom floor. Only the male’s weak goatee allows me to tell them apart. Sung hates them and, as far as I can tell, has never spoken to them. He calls them Hansel and Gretel. At first I laughed, but now I frequently forget their names, lulled into their preferred form of communication when I see them: weary waves, nods, some pointing.
After work we go straight back to the apartment. Sung fucks me, hands on his hips. When he cums he exhales the sound of a collapsing church. I can’t cum until I hear that sound, beams crashing down on me, lying across my chest. I shoot a river of frosting, pungent little wedding cake bells strung right up to my chin, and I open my eyes. Sung is looking at me, panting through an open smile, dry spittle whitening the corners of his mouth, the baroque musculature of his stomach brilliant with sweat. He looks at me the same way I examine his passport photo. Running his finger over points of departure, he smears the semen cooling on my chest in a circular pattern.
He hasn’t said anything to me and I haven’t told him I found the return ticket he purchased last week, hidden among his papers and passport; the date of departure, next Thursday, from JFK.
Snow on the roof spreads an alien topiary garden of crystal mysteries. We take the fire escape up here sometimes to smoke. In nothing but untied sneakers and cap (of course), wrapped in the dirty quilt, Sung sucks warmth from his cigarette, the cherry burning like Mars in a telescope. I took the time to dress and grab a coat. He finishes his cigarette before me and rushes down the fire escape and back through the window. I tap my ash out on the ledge, into the hole Sung made in the snow with his extinguished cigarette butt, hot ash melting snow to water, running off the roof in tiny black droplets. Part of the deal is that I not smoke in the apartment.
Tonight we’ll go for dinner a few blocks east of Bowery, above Canal, a cheap Chinese diner. Imprisoned carp list to one side in the window aquariums, slowly blinking unfocused, molten eyes. Sung and I have a half-dozen restaurants where we can eat a full meal for five dollars or under. Afterward we have a similar number of East Village bars to drink in, but we always go to Boy Bar first. Friday nights I pick him up and we hit a check-cashing place on Elizabeth Street that has the best rates. We go to Boy Bar early to score. And here we divide. I like K, Ketamine. Sung likes coke.
It’s the typical chorus line of hunched expectancy at the bar; we grab our usual booth in the back and order drinks, waiting. Everyone is waiting. In a sad synchronized swivel, every head at the bar turns in unison as the door opens. We always take the back booth, its leather seats held together by duct tape and desperation, to avoid joining the sorry expectancy at the bar. This has earned us a certain amount of favoritism from our dealer, Lonnie. Lonnie’s going for a typical Lower East Side hipster look: rumpled, earth-toned
Part of the deal to rent out the living room is I can’t use the kitchen. Since it’s winter I keep milk on the fire escape. Cereal boxes are up on the bookshelf, all other meals we eat in Chinatown. At work I steal lunch out of the break room refrigerator, or buy a couple of hotdogs off the street. Part of the deal to keep this place is no television, no stereo. Sung lives with me though part of the deal is no one can stay over.
The couple we share the apartment with are students, musicians; they’re extremely unhappy that we are in their living room, but the need to make rent doesn’t give them an option. At first I tried to be friendly, but there is something anemic about this couple. They shy away from words, even to each other; most of their communication is a series of complex nods with their chins and a lot of pointing. Worse, they’re one of those sad couples that have begun to look alike: they both have long, brittle blond hair that coats the tiny bathroom floor. Only the male’s weak goatee allows me to tell them apart. Sung hates them and, as far as I can tell, has never spoken to them. He calls them Hansel and Gretel. At first I laughed, but now I frequently forget their names, lulled into their preferred form of communication when I see them: weary waves, nods, some pointing.
After work we go straight back to the apartment. Sung fucks me, hands on his hips. When he cums he exhales the sound of a collapsing church. I can’t cum until I hear that sound, beams crashing down on me, lying across my chest. I shoot a river of frosting, pungent little wedding cake bells strung right up to my chin, and I open my eyes. Sung is looking at me, panting through an open smile, dry spittle whitening the corners of his mouth, the baroque musculature of his stomach brilliant with sweat. He looks at me the same way I examine his passport photo. Running his finger over points of departure, he smears the semen cooling on my chest in a circular pattern.
He hasn’t said anything to me and I haven’t told him I found the return ticket he purchased last week, hidden among his papers and passport; the date of departure, next Thursday, from JFK.
Snow on the roof spreads an alien topiary garden of crystal mysteries. We take the fire escape up here sometimes to smoke. In nothing but untied sneakers and cap (of course), wrapped in the dirty quilt, Sung sucks warmth from his cigarette, the cherry burning like Mars in a telescope. I took the time to dress and grab a coat. He finishes his cigarette before me and rushes down the fire escape and back through the window. I tap my ash out on the ledge, into the hole Sung made in the snow with his extinguished cigarette butt, hot ash melting snow to water, running off the roof in tiny black droplets. Part of the deal is that I not smoke in the apartment.
Tonight we’ll go for dinner a few blocks east of Bowery, above Canal, a cheap Chinese diner. Imprisoned carp list to one side in the window aquariums, slowly blinking unfocused, molten eyes. Sung and I have a half-dozen restaurants where we can eat a full meal for five dollars or under. Afterward we have a similar number of East Village bars to drink in, but we always go to Boy Bar first. Friday nights I pick him up and we hit a check-cashing place on Elizabeth Street that has the best rates. We go to Boy Bar early to score. And here we divide. I like K, Ketamine. Sung likes coke.
It’s the typical chorus line of hunched expectancy at the bar; we grab our usual booth in the back and order drinks, waiting. Everyone is waiting. In a sad synchronized swivel, every head at the bar turns in unison as the door opens. We always take the back booth, its leather seats held together by duct tape and desperation, to avoid joining the sorry expectancy at the bar. This has earned us a certain amount of favoritism from our dealer, Lonnie. Lonnie’s going for a typical Lower East Side hipster look: rumpled, earth-toned
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