These Violent Delights Read online

  I reach for the vibrator, but I don’t turn it on. I’ll get to that later. First things first; I have to see if I can take it.

  It goes straight in. One small push and it just glides inside of me. I cry out at the sudden, dirty thrill of it; something is in my ass and I like it. No, I love it. It’s like I grew a whole new set of nerve endings, tickling my balls and stiffening my cock from the inside. God, why did I ever say no to that girlfriend who wanted to get busy with a strap-on? I’m so close already.

  Once again my brain skips ahead. I’m walking into his office, closing the door, dropping the blind. Fuck me, I say, unbuttoning my jeans. I know you want to. And he’s looking at me like that again, all hot and hungry with a world of desire in his eyes. Bend over the desk, he says, and some muscle ripples inside me, nudging the end of the vibrator against what I guess must be my prostate, but I’m in no shape for an anatomy lesson right now. I come and come and come; it seems to go on forever, pumping out from deep in my balls. I can feel every single muscle contraction, inside and out, and if Ed came in when I wasn’t paying attention then he’s getting an earful, because I am howling in here.

  Oh my God. Holy fucking shit.

  I lower my shaking legs. The vibrator shifts its angle inside me and nudges where I’m still way too sensitive. I give the tiniest twitch, but that’s all it takes sometimes. Just the smallest things can send the world to hell. I feel the vibrator slide deeper and it feels good, until the moment where I realize it’s in. All the way in.

  Oh shit.

  5

  Tom

  It’s quarter to six. I could leave now, pretend it slipped my mind, but I know that’s not going to fly. Not with him. I know next to nothing about him, but Milos strikes me as the kind of person who gets what he wants, either by looks and charm or any other means necessary. If Simon taught me anything it’s that beautiful people can be the most ruthless, and I couldn’t be in a worse position right now. While it’s not technically illegal to sleep with a student it doesn’t reflect well on anyone involved.

  I gather up my things, part of me still toying with the idea of making an exit, but I don’t get the chance. There’s a tap on the door, and through the Venetian blind I can see that mop of dark curls. He’s early. Oh God.

  “Come in.”

  Milos yanks open the door and practically throws himself inside my office. He closes it quickly behind him and stands with his back to it, breathing too hard. Dramatic, even for him. He looks absolutely terrified.

  “I have a vibrator up my ass,” he says, or at least that’s what I think he says. I get as far as forming the ‘wh’ of ‘what?’ with my lips, but then it’s as if my brain refuses to complete even that simple question.

  “Right,” I say. “Run that by me again?”

  He scrubs a hand over his face. His cheeks glow red. “A vibrator,” he says. “It’s in my ass.”

  “Good. That’s what I thought you said. And why on earth are you telling me this?”

  “Because I can’t get it out!” The look on his face is pure panic. It’s then that I realize he’s shaking, genuinely afraid. Oh dear. It’s an old story; straight boy decides to get into a little anal exploration and ends up in the Emergency Room. Figures he’d run to the nearest gay man for help.

  “Is it…stuck?” I ask.

  “It’s inside. Like, deep inside. It just kind of…sucked it in. I don’t know. What am I going to do?”

  I fight the desire to laugh. The poor kid is clearly distressed, but my doctorate is in English Literature. Right now he needs someone with the letters MD after their name. “Okay. Can you push it out at all? How big are we talking?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s too far in.”

  “Well, maybe you should go to the Emergency Room?”

  Milos overflows. That’s the only word for it. He doesn’t burst into tears so much as spill. “I can’t,” he says. “What if they cut me open? I can’t have surgery. I can’t. I don’t have time.”

  I hear footsteps outside the door and someone’s shadow moving as they slow, inevitably drawn by the sounds of distress. This is no place to freak out. “All right,” I say. “Do you want to get out of here? We’ll go back to my place and you can have some privacy and relax while we figure out what to do.” He has to relax. I may not be a doctor but as the lifelong owner of a working colon I know mine doesn’t perform all that well under stress.

  He nods and I wait for the shadows to stop moving outside in the hallway before I grab my bag. “Okay, come on,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  This is not how I planned this meeting going. I’ve rehearsed it a hundred times or more, about how I was going to quietly but firmly explain to him that I’m very flattered, but there is no way this can happen between us. But then he crashes through the door and announces he has a sex toy lost up his bum, which rather puts a cramp in my style.

  I’ll say one thing for him; he’s not boring.

  It’s a ten-minute drive back to mine. He sits gingerly in the car seat the whole way and a couple of times I have to ask him if he’s in any pain, but he shakes his head and looks all the more anxious for my asking.

  “How big are we talking?” I say. “Before we crack open the prune juice. Seven inches? Eight?”

  Milos jabs at his phone. “Wait, I’ll find it online. It wasn’t big, but…”

  “But it probably wasn’t meant to go up your arse. Next time buy one of those buttplugs with the big, flared base.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, right. Next time.”

  “Oh, you will. Direct prostate stimulation is not a bell you can unring.”

  He’s half-laughing and half-crying by now, which is better than outright crying. “Oh God,” he says. “How the fuck did this happen?”

  “You bought the wrong sex toy. That’s how.”

  “No, I mean all of this,” he says, as we pull up in the drive. “This. You. Friday night – I mean, what was that? Did we…did we have sex?”

  “Uh, what?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know how it works with guys. I’ve never…like, was that sex or did that just count as fooling around?”

  “Oral sex is definitely sex, Milos.” Oh my God, he doesn’t have a clue. This is just getting more and more messed up by the second, and the most appalling thing is that it only makes me want him more. Am I the only man he’s ever had? Under that swagger he seems very naïve.

  “Come inside,” I say, against all my better instincts. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I can see him looking around as we walk in, checking out the pictures on the wall and the magnets on the fridge. We go through to the kitchen and, once seated, he returns his attention to his phone. “Here,” he says, and holds it out. “It was this one.”

  He shows me the Amazon listing. It’s for a five inch vibrator that was obviously intended for women, but clearly Milos decided to disregard the instructions on the grounds that smaller was better. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be too much of a problem.”

  He stares up me like I just sprouted an extra head. “Are you kidding? It has a battery inside it. What happens if I can’t get it out and the battery leaks?” His eyes fill up once more as he begins to panic. “If I need surgery I am fucked. They’ll slice me up and my core strength might never recover, and I’ll get kicked off the production for some flat-footed understudy–”

  “–shh. It’s all right. Calm down.”

  Milos sniffs hard and takes a couple of ragged breaths. “Sorry. I’m trying not to freak out. I really am.”

  “It’s okay. You’re doing great. What production?” Anything to keep him from thinking about it. He needs to relax. Let everything do what it does naturally.

  He runs his fingers through his curls. “Romeo and Juliet.”

 
The other shoe drops. No wonder he knew it so well. “You act?”

  “Dance. The ballet.”

  “Of course you do,” I say, trying not to think about those hard muscled thighs under my hands. No wonder his body looks like a work of art; it is one.

  “What am I going to do?”

  I turn on the electric kettle. “Well, the first thing you’re going to do is take a deep breath and relax, because there is no way you’re going to poop that thing out if you don’t. I’m going to make us some strong coffee and we’ll sit back and hope that nature takes its course.”

  He swallows. “And if it doesn’t?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I say. “But if it’s the model you showed me then I’m sure it’ll pop right back out. Come on, you’ve probably taken bigger dumps than that. I know I have.”

  To my intense relief he laughs. “Oh my God,” he says. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “Yeah, well. You and me both. I’ve heard of pastoral care but it doesn’t usually extend to…butt stuff.”

  “Sorry. This must be really awkward for you. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  He looks uncomfortable. “What about your boyfriend? Is he…around?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I thought…”

  I shrug. “No. There is no boyfriend. I’m very single right now.”

  Milos flushes. “Shit. Sorry. I just thought…well, I was talking to a friend, you see, and she said–”

  I nod, knowing what comes next. “–that Simon had cancer and I patiently, tenderly nursed him through it and now he’s in remission?”

  “Sorta, yeah. Is he not in remission?”

  “No, he is. We’re just not together any more.” I suppose it had to come out sooner or later. These are not the circumstances in which I saw myself telling the ugly truth, but life has a way of springing these surprises on you. “I haven’t told anyone at school about that because…well.” I sigh.

  “Because it’s fucking depressing?” says Milos.

  “Yes. That’s it. That’s exactly it.” The kettle boils and I take out the cafetiere. Thankfully I still have some of that scorching Italian roast in the coffee jar. “It is fucking depressing.” It still hurts to admit, and I’m sure he can see it in my face.

  “Professor Moore,” he starts to say, but I cut him off.

  “No, please. Call me Tom. I’ve sucked your cock, for God’s sake. It’s weird.”

  He puts his fingers to his lips, trying to smother another one of those inappropriate smiles. “Is there anything about this that isn’t weird?” he says.

  “Nope. Not as far as I can see.”

  There’s a real warmth to his smile, but he straightens his lips before I can bask in it. Just as well. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

  “About what? Friday night? I thought we’d covered that.”

  “No. Your breakup, or whatever.”

  “Right. That.” I set the coffee down to brew on the kitchen table and take a seat. I haven’t talked to anyone about it yet, beyond a few very close friends, who are sworn to secrecy and are maybe – if I’m very honest with myself – a little too understanding of Simon for my satisfaction. “It’s hard when people put you on a pedestal. You’re constantly looking down, seeing how far you have to fall.”

  Milos raises an eyebrow and I scramble to justify myself. “Oh, it’s not a brag,” I say. “It’s just how it was. People were always telling us that we were an inspiration. People love people who beat cancer; they give them hope. Just look at the language they use. For over a year our lives were so full of bravery and battles and fights that it was practically Homeric. We were heroes. We were supposed to lop all the heads from the metastatic hydra and ride off into the sunset together, flying the rainbow flag.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “Nope. And now if I tell people that it didn’t work out, that he survived the cancer but we didn’t…well. That bums them out. It’s like I’m taking a hammer to their hopes.”

  He frowns and chews the corner of his lower lip. I’ve seen him look surly and I’ve been disarmed by his smile, but thoughtful – this is new. And just as charming. He has a wonderfully expressive face to go with that body, and I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out until he told me. He would have to be a dancer, with the way he can convey a world of emotion with just a shift of his hips. “That sucks,” he says. “But since when was it your job to make other people happy?”

  “Oh, it’s not. I know it’s not, but it’s awful how easily you get drawn into it. It can be strangely addictive, being everyone’s good luck totem. And like most addictions it’s bad for you.” All those cakes and casseroles and smiles, and most of all not having to worry about whether you were a good person. I pour the coffee, ashamed that I ever let myself believe it. “I had terrible thoughts, sometimes.”

  Milos leans forward on his bare, white elbows. His arms are all muscle, bone and tattoos. A heart, a rose, a birthday, a wolf. “Like what?” he asks, and I’m afraid of how beautiful I find him, even in this farcical situation. Worse, I want to confide in him, because the things I’m burning to say I even kept from my therapist.

  “I saw…possibilities,” I say. “At the worst times you can imagine. We’d always talked about going to Italy, and there were times when I’d be sat there with him, in a hospital room that smelled of puke and poison. And we’d talk about it. About walking around the Uffizi and around the hills of Tuscany. Holding hands on the Ponte Vecchio. And then there was one night – he hemorrhaged. All that throwing up and the shit they pump into you during chemo – it tears your digestive tract apart. Sometimes the skin just sloughed off the inside of his mouth, or he’d get fungal infections inside his mouth and throat…”

  Milos looks horrified, and I wonder if I should go on, but he doesn’t interrupt.

  “…he’d get these esophageal ulcers from all the vomiting, and one night one of those fuckers burst. Blood everywhere. He just cleared his throat and it poured out of his mouth. And it kept going. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. They said his pressure just dropped through the floor and there was a moment when the doctor took me aside and said I might want to prepare myself. Call his family.”

  He reaches across the table and touches my hand. I don’t react. Let him hear what else I have to say before he decides if he wants to keep on touching me.

  “And do you know what I was thinking about in that moment?” I say.

  “No. What?”

  “I was thinking about the cathedral in Florence. Botticelli’s dome. Remembering the last time I walked under it and looked up into it, when I was your age. Maybe even younger. Before Simon. Before any of this. And I saw myself there again – alone. Bereaved.” I meet his eyes with some difficulty, because I should be far more ashamed of myself than I really am. “And I felt nothing but lightness in that moment. Nothing but the possibility of being free.”

  He doesn’t let go of my hand. His thumb strokes my knuckles and I shiver. There’s a sort of feral quality in his dark eyes, like he can’t be expected to be bound by human niceties. Maybe that’s why I feel safe telling him these awful things.

  Milos chews on the corner of his lip again for a moment. His thumb rubs back and forth. “I think,” he says, deliberately. “That if you never, ever felt like that even once, then something really would be wrong with you.”

  “Perhaps. But I went to a lot of trouble to keep those feelings hidden. And when everyone was telling me I was good and kind and brave…well. Some days I believed them, when I could forget I’d had those thoughts. I kept thinking that one day someone was going to see through me, see what a monster I was inside.”

  “You weren’t a monster,” says Milos, with a hard certainty that I can’t tell is either a symptom of youth or something like wisdom. “You were just a person going through something really, really hard.”

  “Maybe. So
metimes I think he saw through me. Saw I wasn’t nearly as tough as I was trying to be.” I finish the dregs of my coffee and top off our cups. “Maybe that’s why he started looking elsewhere for support.”

  “Another man?”

  I shake my head. “I wish. No. He turned to God. And Simon being Simon he couldn’t do something sensible like join the Unitarians or something. No, he had to go and find the worst, most cult like church in New England. I humored him at first, but after about two sessions of listening to bad music and watching people fall over under the influence of the Holy Spirit I told him straight that this would just have to be his thing. I’m English, I said. We haven’t done religious fervor since the seventeenth century; we have Charles Darwin on our money, for fuck’s sake. And besides, he was doing well. The test results were looking good and it was nice that he had something of his. We’d been joined at the hip all through his ordeal and at the time I thought nothing could be better or healthier than for us to have some separate interests again. I had my gardening – which he hated – and he had his church, which I cheerfully loathed right back.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” says Milos, withdrawing his hand to lift his cup.

  “You’d think. That was before I found out he was glad I didn’t want to go with him, because then he wouldn’t have to keep explaining that we were ‘just roommates.’”

  He blinks. “What?”

  “Like I said, there are hundreds of churches he could have gone to. Kind, tolerant, Christian churches, but no. He had to stumble across this one, complete with a faith-healing shitweasel of a so-called pastor. And he bought it – hook, line and sinker. Started thinking God had saved him. Never mind all those dermatologists and oncologists and nurses and researchers and well-wishers. Not to mention me. We were suddenly all chopped liver or whatever because – oh look – the man upstairs has wrought a miracle.”

  Milos stares at me, his mouth hanging half open. I have to admit, it’s satisfying to see someone look as disgusted as I’ve often felt with the whole sorry situation.