Tangled Sheets (2 page)

I
t's the heat that wakes me up, sticky wet ribbons that flutter at my face and trouble my dreams until I rise up out of them into semiconsciousness. The night is uncommonly hot, simmering with the kind of heat that arrives only in the last days of summer when the fading season closes in and holds the city close in its grasp, refusing to let go. My hair is wet against my neck and my throat burns with thirst as I fumble for the glass of water on my bedside table. The rattling electric fan next to my bed provides only the slightest of breezes, and it has been barely three hours since I fell into a fitful sleep. Outside it is oddly silent, the usual summertime noises of sirens and sidewalk chatter absent.

The sheets are soaked with sweat and wrap around me like the thin walls of a cocoon. I feel like a dead man trapped in a shroud and kick them off anxiously so that they fall onto the floor and I am lying naked on my bed. The room is only half-dark, the strange pale shine that always seems to rise from the city at night pouring in my curtainless window and filling it with a gloom that settles over everything like mist. I can see the outline of my body clearly, while the details are dim, the feet and hands disappearing in shadow. I have a hard-on, and it presses painfully against my belly as if it is too full of blood and my nuts are sore with the ache of holding too much cum. For some unknown reason I want terribly to jerk off, to feel the thick length of my cock slip beneath my fingers and then the shudder in my hand as my cum spatters across my belly.

My hands move in and out of the pools of light as I run them over my chest lightly from my hips to my throat, shivering at the touch of my own fingers on my flushed skin, my breath drawing in sharply when I twist my tender nipples. Lifting my arm behind my head, I turn my face and press my nose into the wet patch of hair there. The smell is familiar and arousing, and my tongue slides lazily along the skin, soaking up the bitter taste and feeling the heavy muscle of my bicep rise and fall against my cheek.

My hand wanders down my stomach to trace the curve of my balls and thighs while I think about the many rooms in the city around me where men are making love to one another, their bodies slick with sweat as they wrap each other in their arms and their mouths meet, tongues slipping between soft lips and hard teeth. The heat moves around me as my fingers caress my nuts like a lover's lips, gently tugging and releasing. Drawing my feet up I spread my knees and my hand slips into the crack of my ass, the hair there damp with sweat as I finger my hole roughly, my wrist pressed tightly against my cock and ballsac as I imagine some unknown man sliding his prick deep inside me as my legs press against his sides.

Before I can begin to stroke my prick, I hear a car turn down my street. Not an unusual occurrence by any means, but this one stops outside my building and the motor turns off. I hear a car door open, but do not hear it close. I close my eyes and try to jerk myself off, but my mind races from one image to another too quickly and I am not able to concentrate on any one long enough to bring myself off. Several times I feel the familiar rumbling in my groin begin to well up, only to have it recede back into stillness. Frustrated, I give up and lie back against the pillows. My prick lies against my skin, hard and unsatisfied.

Rising from my bed, I go to the window and look out past the iron boundaries of my fourth-floor fire escape. At this hour the street is deserted, empty even of the usual inhabitants who come out after the rest of the world has gone to sleep to resume whatever business they are forced to end with the first shimmers of sunrise. A quiet babble of muted voices floats over the rooftops, and I think that probably they too have been driven by the heat into the cooler shadows of the park in the next block, where they can sit with their feet in the fountain while they reinvent their pasts for one another and anyone who will listen. Other than the rustle of their conversations, the city is dead.

The car is parked directly under my window, its front half submerged in the pool of light created by the streetlight, the rear swallowed up in darkness. It is a big beast of a car, the kind driven by boys who learned at an early age how to service its engine themselves. The drivers of these cars are very often found in small towns where life is played out in factories and local pool halls, the supporting roles being assumed by girls with teased hair and red-lipsticked mouths who willingly give in to the men whose rough, grease-stained hands caress them in backseats on Saturday nights.

My sister's first boyfriend had a car very much like this one. He would roar up to the house after his shift on the construction crew ended and she would run out, laughing as she bent in the window to kiss him. On warm nights he would bring the hose from around back and spend an hour or two washing his prize, Led Zeppelin blaring from the 8-track tape deck as he lovingly went over the shiny metal skin from top to bottom while my sister sat in the grass painting her nails. I would stand behind the curtains and watch him, mesmerized by the way the thick muscles of his shirtless chest and arms moved as he worked the sponge over the black paint. Once, when it was very hot and he was wearing only his boxer shorts, my sister turned the hose on him, soaking him so that the material clung to him and I could see the shadow of his bush and the outline of his cock as he chased after her. That night I jerked off into my hand, thinking about what I'd seen while I listened to the sound of his voice coming through the screen door from where they sat on the steps talking.

The car door on the driver's side is open, and a young man is sitting with his feet resting on the sidewalk while the rest of him remains inside the car. Another man is sitting on the sidewalk itself, his knees drawn up in front of him. He is holding a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette that sends threads of smoke into the air. While the face of the man in the car is hidden in shadow, I see that he is wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and heavy work boots. The man seated on the sidewalk is dressed similarly in jeans and a white T-shirt, although he is wearing black motorcycle boots. He is dark haired, and his arms are well developed. I imagine him working in a warehouse, his hands encased in thick gloves as he carries boxes from one place to another, never thinking about what might be in them as his mind looks ahead to the time when he can fuck his girlfriend again.

“I can't believe we drove all over looking for those stupid bitches,” he says, his voice low. “Wasted all damn night and they're probably sitting somewhere wondering why we never showed.”

“Don't really matter,” says the man inside the car. His accent is heavy with the flatness of someone who has spent a lot of time in southern New Jersey. It is a sound I hear often on the streets of my neighborhood on the weekends, when carloads of young men like this one come in to spend their paychecks in the local bars. “We got beer. We got the night to ourselves. Might as well enjoy it.”

They drink in silence for a quarter of an hour, the sidewalk sitter's cigarette glowing hotly as he inhales and blows clouds of smoke like an offering skyward. I feel strangely guilty watching them, as if I am some intruding spirit spying on them from the heavens. But the scene is oddly entrancing, both because it is unexpected and because it is out of place here on my empty street so late at night, and I stay where I am. I am surprised to find that my cock is still hard, and I stroke it idly while I watch the two men sit in the stillness. Then the man inside the car speaks.

“It's too fucking hot,” he says. “I'm sweating like a bitch here.” He pulls his shirt over his head in one quick movement and tosses it into the backseat of the car. Framed by the doorway, his chest is broad and powerfully muscled, his nipples large and his torso tapered at the waist. It is the body of a man who has spent many hours at the gym. His pecs are two fleshy mountains, and his abdomen is striped with lines of muscle. There is no hair anywhere on him, and his smooth flesh shines warmly.

“That's better,” he says, stretching back on the seat so that all I can see is his flat stomach and what is below it, the large soft bulge in his jeans. He runs his beer bottle over his skin, leaving a wet trail, and lets it rest between his legs.

“It's too bad we didn't meet up with those two,” he says, grabbing teasingly at his crotch. “My cock could use a little action right about now.”

His friend takes a long swallow of beer, emptying his second bottle. “Use your hand when you get home,” he says, standing up and unzipping his pants. “It'll do the job just fine and you don't have to buy it a drink or pretend you like its perfume.” He moves away into the shadows and I hear the gentle pounding of piss hitting the ground.

“Can't wait that long,” the man says. He sits up and fumbles at the fly of his pants, his fingers awkwardly pulling the buttons apart. When they are undone, he pushes his pants down until they are just above his knees. His half-hard cock, long and fat, lies across his thigh. I can see the clipped bush around its base and the heavy sac that rests on the seat between his legs.

“What the hell are you doing, man?” his friend says when he turns and sees what is happening. “Someone's gonna see you.”

The man laughs. “They're all asleep. Besides, what do you care?”

He grips his prick lightly in his fist and begins to stroke it slowly. After a minute it stiffens in his fingers and stretches out to its full length, the wide head resting on his stomach somewhere an inch or two above his navel. He pushes his pants down farther so that he can spread his legs wider and starts to jerk off in earnest, his hand sliding along the shaft in easy rhythm.

The man on the street, perhaps made more bold by the alcohol he has been drinking steadily, laughs nervously as he watches. “You are one crazy fucker,” he says.

The man in the car continues to play with his cock, stroking it harder now and holding it in his fist so that it stands straight up from his groin. “Why don't you give me a hand here,” he says. “Feels pretty hot.”

“Fuck you,” comes the answer. “I ain't playing with no guy's dick.”

“Why not?” the man taunts. “Bet you'd be pretty good at it seeing all the practice you get with your own.”

The man on the street starts to protest, then stops suddenly. Putting down his beer, he crosses the few feet to the car, stopping when he is in front of the door. He kneels between his friend's legs, one large booted foot on either side of him. Trying not to look his friend in the face, he puts a hand on each knee, his hands gripping them lightly.

“Yeah, that's it,” the man growls. “Help me out a little bit like a good buddy.”

A hand moves up to touch one bare thigh, hesitating momentarily as the fingers move from the rough blue jeans to the smooth feeling of flesh on flesh. He continues on until he reaches the base of the cock, his fingers closing around the thick shaft. As he does, the man stops playing with himself and lets his friend take over, putting his hands behind his head as the other man begins to stroke him in hesitant movements, fisting the unfamiliar prick.

“Just like playing with yourself,” the man in the car says. “Do it just like you was doing your own dick.”

With this new turn of events, I want to get a closer look. Climbing onto the windowsill, I crawl out onto my fire escape, making as little noise as possible. The night air surrounds my naked, sweating body as I sit on the stairs going up to the next floor and position myself so that I can see what is going on below me. The metal of the stairs is warm and presses roughly against my ass and the bottoms of my feet. The two men have not heard or seen me, and I have a perfect view of the car and what is happening in it. I look into the black face of the windows across the street and pray that no one turns on a light.

The man on the ground is stroking the big cock in his hand more smoothly now, running from the base to the heavy crown and wrapping his fingers around the head. His other hand is exploring the man's stomach and chest, feeling the hardness of the muscles. When the man puts a hand on his head and pushes him down, he stops his hand motions and begins to lick the fat balls that sit in front of his face. I see the back of his head move in slow circles as he runs his tongue over the warm folds of skin that hold the ripe fruit. I imagine what it must be like for him, tasting his friend's balls for the first time, so solid against his tongue, so warm in his mouth. I rub my own nuts as I watch him, stretching them out in my fingers and letting them fall back and swing below me.

The man inside the car jerks on the head of his tool as his nuts are sucked, every so often gripping his cock tightly and slapping it against his belly, the soft thuds barely audible four stories above. Louder are his groans, which roll from his throat like raw silk and fill my ears with their sound. After a few minutes he puts one huge hand on the other man's neck, his wide fingers pale against the dark hair, and draws him up. Pressing his lips against the solid shaft he says, “Suck my big cock.”

The kneeling man's head rises up momentarily as he takes the other's dick between his lips. He slides down the fat tool slowly; it is obviously his first time with another man's prick in his mouth. His movements are awkward at first as he learns quickly how to breathe with so much flesh in his throat. But soon he is sucking on the big crank, his back and shoulders moving in rhythmic waves as he moves up and down, his hand following behind his lips as he works more and more of the thick shaft into his mouth.