A Sticky End (35 page)

That thought sustained me through the long, flat rail journey from Calais to Paris.

I had telegraphed ahead to warn Vince of my arrival; perhaps he had some little Parisian bed warmer to get rid of. Perhaps he had appointments, and would meet me back at his hotel.

What I did not expect—but should have, should have—was that he would be waiting on the platform at the Gare du Nord to meet me. That his expression would change from one of anxiety to one of sheer joy, like the sun coming out from behind a dark cloud, the moment we saw each other. That he would run to me, put his arms around me, kiss me, and say, “God, I'm so glad you're here.”

“Me too.”

“Couldn't keep away, eh? Missed me that much?”

“Damn right.” My sore ass and weary cock told a different story—but if Morgan could put the past behind him, so could I. “I love you, Vince.”

He took my case. “You came all the way from London to tell me that?”

“Yup.”

“Gosh. The conference must have been even more boring than you expected.”

“Ah,” I said. “The conference.”

“Was it ghastly?”

I was about to say, “Yes, absolutely,” but at the last minute
I changed my mind. “I have to tell you something,” I said as we walked out of the station, into the bustle of taxis and newspaper vendors and beggars and pickpockets and tarts.

“Yes,” said Vince, looking around for a free taxi, “I rather thought you might.” He whistled, and a cab pulled up. “Could it possibly wait until we're in private?”

“Okay. When?”

He looked at his watch, made some calculations; I assumed he was going back to work. “Oh, about ten minutes, I should think, depending on
la circulation
. It's not far.” He gave the driver an address, and we were off.

 

I am kneeling on a mattress in a small, elegant hotel room in Paris, just off the Rue de Rivoli, near Place des Vosges. In front of me, Vince is lying on his back, his legs pulled back, holding himself behind the knees. His ass—that hairy, muscular ass that I've fucked so many times—is open. I spit into my hand and rub it over my cock, getting it wet and slick. Vince's ass is already wet; I've spent the last ten minutes with my tongue up there.

His face is wet too, and so is mine, from tears and kisses. We have talked for—how long? An hour? Two hours? More?

I have told him everything—about Frank Bartlett, about Morgan, about the arrests and the subsequent celebrations. And more than that: I have told him that there never was a medical conference in London, that I had traveled there as I have gone before, solely to see Boy Morgan and to spend the weekend fucking him. I have told Vince that Morgan at first put me off, kept me at a distance, because he was busy getting it from someone else—that he only called me when that someone else lay cold and dead in a pool of his own blood.

I have told him about all that Morgan has meant to me, and all that was said at our last interview.

I have told him that Belinda has forgiven Morgan, and
taken him back—on condition, I assume, that he breaks utterly with “the past” and all that it means.

Principally me.

I have done all this with no expectations, no hopes other than the vaguest and craziest hope that Vince will find it in his heart to give me another chance.

Vince has cried, and I have tried to comfort him—I, the very person who has hurt him so badly.

And he has told me that he knew—has always known, ever since we first met at Drekeham Hall so many summers ago—that Morgan would always occupy the first place in my heart. That Vince, whatever else he gave to me or meant to me, would have to settle for second place. He struggled with it, and then accepted it, and tried to forget it—succeeded most of the time, and when the fact tripped him up in the middle of the night, he consoled himself by counting his blessings, being grateful for all that we had in our lives together—for the part of me that he did have, even if he knew that he would never have all of me.

Now it is my turn to cry.

And so we go, crying and explaining, explaining and crying, until there are no more confessions to be made, no more tears to be shed, all that is left is the future, whatever it holds for us.

We have made no decision. It is too hard.

And finally, when words run out, we start to make love. I would like to say that we express in the act of love what words cannot express, but I think it would be truer to say that we both seek oblivion in physical pleasure, that we are exhausted by talking, exhausted by each other, and want only to stop.

So here I am, holding on to my hard cock, about to stick it into Vince's tight, wet ass, hoping that if I can give him the greatest fuck of his life, he might look more favorably on the idea of our future. That he might think, taking everything
on balance, that I am worth holding on to, even if he can never trust me again.

His eyes are closed, his brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, as if anticipating pain. And then, as he feels the first touch of my hot, hard cock against his hole, he opens his eyes and looks straight into mine.

“I love you, Mitch,” he says.

“I…”

“It's all right.” He smiles. “You don't have to say anything. Just fuck me.”

And there, dear reader, you must leave us, on the brink of an uncertain future, on the brink of what I hope will be the greatest fuck of my fucking career. If my cock can express all that my words have failed to do—my love for Vince, my remorse for the past, my faint but desperate hope for a future that I know I don't deserve—then, perhaps, all the practice that I've had will be worth it.

Because right now, all I want in the world is lying before me on a mattress in a small hotel off the Rue de Rivoli, looking up at me with kind, unwavering eyes, his lips parted, and then, as I press gently into him, whispering the only word I want to hear.

“Yes…”

 

THE END

The winner of the 2008 Erotic Award for “Writer of the Year,” James Lear is an internationally bestselling author whose titles regularly appear at the top of Amazon rankings. His novels are “elegantly orgasmic,” rip-roaring good reads that receive accolades from
Time Out London, XX Magazine
, and
BOYZ
.
A Sticky End
is his sixth novel; other titles include
The Back Passage, Hot Valley, The Low Road, The Palace of Varieties
and
The Secret Tunnel.
James Lear lives in London. Find out more at
www.myspace.com/jameslearfiction
.

Copyright © 2010 by James Lear.

 

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

 

Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,
2246 Sixth St., Berkeley, California 94710.

 

 

eISBN : 978-1-573-44546-7

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

 

PR6069.M543S75 2010
823'.914--dc22

 

2010004487