Saturday, September 25, 2010

In the Dark

His hands were fumbling against my belt.

We first met during the night of a full moon.  I was bored and online, surfing through profiles upon profiles of men who seemed to have fit my list of preferred qualifications, when his private message reached my inbox.  I stared at the tiny black number one that was bordered by a yellow burst of color and for a moment wondered if it was really meant for me.  Not being out back then, I did not sport a picture of myself in my profile.  Everyone knows people who did not sport a profile picture rarely received any messages in a social network.  More so in a gay one.

I reached down and offered to unbuckle it myself.  He grunted and instead spun me to face the other way.  With his arms wrapped around me from behind, he slipped the belt free.  I could feel him hard and ready against me from behind.  His jeans did little to conceal that fact.

As rare as it was to get a message, the one he sent was far from conventional.   Most opened crudely with inquiries on one's preferred sexual role: Are you top?  Do you bottom?   His message, while far from the eloquence of Shakespeare, did stand out:

Was wondering if you were bored as I was tonight.  
Hitting a bar and was hoping to drag someone along with me to drink with.  
No promises.  Just company.  

It sounded smug.  Arrogant even.  And clearly, while written to not sound like a sexual invite, clearly implied that the idea was considered but left "on hold" pending actually meeting.   I glanced at the time and realized it was nearly midnight.  It took me barely a second to realize I too was bored.

My last meet up was a disaster.  The guy, while not unattractive, was far from what I had expected to see.  Photoshop seems to be liberally used on profile pictures as of the late, and his showed a greater mastery in the art of smoothening and blending.  His name never lingered in my head.  What did were the craters that marked his face by the unforgiving powers of acne.  But it wasn't his blatant act of deception of his looks or his apparent marked countenance that earned him the label of being an absolute bad night, it was his desperation to convince me to sleep with him.

Barely fifteen minutes into the conversation, Mr. Pimple asked nonchalantly, "So, you are a top, right?"  I was driving and tried not to scowl.  I failed miserably.  "Was that the only reason you wanted to meet up?"  I don't think he heard my reply.  Because what followed was an unabashed admission of how he liked it rough and dirty.

He ran his hands across my body, with his fingers coming to rest against my chest.  I did not have much of a body, I must admit.  Going to the gym was just a recently gained interest of mine.  His body suggested a much longer affair with free weights.    I was about to say something -- perhaps suggest we move to the bedroom -- but he quickly clamped one hand over my mouth and slowly shook his head.  I felt his rough chin brush against my nape as he did so.

I wanted to turn around and face him.  I wanted to kiss his lips and taste his tongue.  I wanted to see his eyes.  But his hand on my face held fast and firm, keeping me from moving.  His other hand pried free the buttons of my jeans and allowed the denim to hit the floor.  My body felt trapped underneath the rest of my clothes.  I strained to move, but his embrace had a power over me.  A control.  And while I knew I had the strength to push him aside, deep down I felt I did not want to.

"If you didn't want to fuck, why did you message back?"  I stared at Mr. Pimple and tried not to sneer at him.  He reached for my pants for the fourth time and I pushed his hands back like I had earlier.  I told him that wasn't what I wanted.  Was it too strange to want to actually spend the first night getting to know one another?  Was a conversation so alien a concept?  "You know, you can just fuck me quick and I'll head home.  At least my night won't be an utter waste."

I shoved him out of my car and left him cursing on the street.

A disaster.

But this time, the message sounded more like what I had been hoping to find.  I ran his words through my head again.  As bored as I.  Drink with.  No promises.  Company.  I quickly typed a reply and stated yes a drink would be nice.  My fingers moved faster than my brain and added how not having sex was fine too, but definitely not off the menu for future meet ups.  Thankfully, my eyes caught up and alerted me from clicking send in the nick of time.  I deleted the last two lines and kept it simple.  There was no need to sound like I was looking too far ahead.  No need to sound too anxious.

"Yes, a drink would be nice.  Where and what time?  I've got a car."

I stared at the full moon as I waited for the light to turn red.  I had a simple pair of jeans on and a plain white tee.  I wasn't much into clothes.  Didn't care for the labels.  He looked like he did.  Or at least his profile picture suggested that much.  Few people who cared little for clothing brands would ever have their picture professionally taken.  His clearly was.

He was standing at the corner where he said he would be, illuminated by the windows of a nearby convenience store.  His hair was longer.  Messier.  His clothes much simpler than his picture offered.  He was tall, just above six feet, and that made him taller than me.  A soul patch on his chin.  A cigarette lit against the night's cold.  I stopped the car and opened the door.  We exchanged hellos.  He waited to be invited in.

We drove to a nearby cafe and ordered something to drink.  We traded stories.   Hobbies.  Anecdotes on what we were interested in.  He shared his recent attempts to find new friends.  I shared my disaster stories.  We were both veterans in the search for friends in a sea that sold only sex.    We talked for hours and yet I barely felt the passage of time.   It was an exhilarating feeling though, to talk and feel like you could say anything freely.   And he gave me that.

I felt him pulling against his own pants.  His hand fumbled once more against the buttons.  I reached back to help.  He pulled my hands away.  I obeyed.  He kicked his pants off and I heard land a few feet away.  His hands grabbed my shirt and pulled it upwards, forcing my hands to rise up with the cloth.  Blind for that moment, I felt him clamp his hands over my chest.  Rough fingers hunted for my nipples.  He squeezed.  I shuddered.  I pulled the shirt over my head slid it completely free.  He squeezed again.   I wasn't sure when he slid his own shirt off, but when he pulled me close I felt his hairy body press against mine.  He was warm.  Comforting.  A heat against the cold of the metal chain around my neck.  In the feeble light, the crucifix reflected nothing but shadows.  

And then he pushed me against the wall.

We met a few more times.  We talked often.  Instant messengers were close allies.  Text messaging more so. Barely a week in, our conversations began to touch on things that were far more personal.  Dreams.  And the roots behind them.  Fears.  And the incidents that left their scars.  He learned of my last relationship.  Of the four long years of lies that I was never blind to.  I simply told myself it was better than being alone.

And he told me of his son.

We went out often, drinking and dancing at times, depending on the mood.  We never kissed.  We never flirted.  But oh, how we danced.  We moved with the music like the world ceased to spin.  We moved and we danced like it was a language we alone could speak.  We danced.  And we never danced with anyone else.

I felt him press against me again.  I felt his breath against my neck.  I wanted to speak.  I wanted to ask where this was leading to.  Was this the turning point?  Was this the time we finally admitted the presence of a growing desire that had been well nurtured those last few months?  Were we finally at that moment when we realized how much we had in common?  How little we had to fear of one another?  Was this the moment when the seed of friendship bloomed into something far more tangible?  Far more real?

I turned around and this time he relented.  He looked at my body, a stark white against the darkness, and slowly began to smile.  I was breathing heavily, uncertain if it was the time for words.  He was dotted with sweat and slid his thumbs behind the band of his boxers.

The rest of the world understood.  Our favorite haunts would open their doors for us when we arrived, together or on our own.  His favorite haunt was this place in Quezon City.  The second floor was exclusively meant for guests of the owner.  And Him.  But each time I showed up ahead of him, I would be allowed upstairs without a second thought.  It felt special.  It felt nice.

Waiters knew what our drinks were.  And the deejays played our songs.

Was I falling for him?  I wasn't sure then.  I was, however, happier than I had ever been.  I felt a connection and felt that was enough.   I felt my company was appreciated and enjoyed and thought nothing more of it.  He never flirted around.  I never felt I needed to.  We were just happy.  We were just together.

It was nearing the end of a friend's birthday party when I decided to ask if he wanted to come over.  I had never asked before.  He said yes.   We reached my house after half a bottle of tequila and a few more shots of Jagermeister.  He asked to use the bathroom.  I locked up and lead him to the closest one.  The lights were out and the windows were open.  The dawn was still an hour away.

We fumbled in the dark.  He stubbed his toe against an unseen chair.  I steadied him from falling.  He clutched his hands around my waist.  His hand found my belt.   He fumbled.

That was a few seconds ago.  

Now, we stared at each other's face.  We breathed in unison, feeling a growing passion that was fanning into a flame.  I think this is how it begins.  How passion grows into something far greater than one night stands. I think this is how one falls in love.

He reaches for his boxers.  I grin, excited to make love to the man who has grown to know me.  I am happy to know he knows me as well.

This was no one night stand.

"No promises."

And that quickly, it was cold again.

In the Dark
a quickie fiction by tobie


Alvin Y.


Na captivate mo ako sa pagsulat mo ah. Good job. :-)



Thanks buddy. Glad you liked it.


Can't believe I just read this now. Galing! :)

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