Читать книгу Midnight Thirsts: Erotic Tales Of The Vampire - Michael Thomas Ford - Страница 8

“Keep the change,” Philip said as he slid out of the cab in front of his building on Ursulines.

“Thanks.” The cabbie, an older white man in his late fifties with his hair greased back, nodded.

Can this fog have thickened? He shivered as the cab drove off and he dug into his pocket for his keys. He climbed up the five sagging wooden steps, blue paint peeling off in flakes with each footstep. He unlocked the door, stepping into the darkened passageway leading to the courtyard. A cracked birdbath with a naked cherub on its hands and knees stood in the center of the courtyard. Building materials lay in piles around it, the corners piled high with resealed paint cans, blue paint gummily dried down the sides. A wooden staircase stood in one corner, winding around in a squarelike pattern up to the fourth floor. His apartment was a tiny efficiency up on the fourth floor; an oven in the summer, always cold in the winter. He could hear sounds coming from the other apartments as he climbed the sagging wooden steps, one hand on the railing: televisions, stereos, laughter. About the third floor, his legs began to burn a bit, despite hours spent on the stair-climber at the gym. The stairs became rickety the higher he climbed, soft in some places, the railing giving beneath his weight a bit in others. Slightly out of breath when he finally reached the top, he lit a cigarette and stood there for a moment, waiting for the burning feeling in his legs to subside. He walked to the little corridor that led to his apartment. He slid his key into the dead bolt on his door.

“Hey.”

“Jesus!” He dropped his cigarette onto the damp floor. “What the fuck, Rachel?”

Rachel stood in her doorway across the hall from his, her electric-blue hair hanging uncombed to her shoulders. She took a hit on the joint she was holding. She was wearing green camouflage army pants and a tube top that barely contained her large, heavy breasts. Her navel was pierced, as was her right eyebrow, and her nose. A tattoo of a sunburst surrounded her navel. She shrugged. “Sorry, man. Why you so jumpy?” She offered him the joint, and he took it, pushing his door open at the same time.

The little room was frigid. “Fuck,” he said, turning up the gas heater mounted on the wall between the dormer windows, taking two hits off the joint. His lungs burned a bit, and he fought down a cough, blowing the smoke out. He shrugged. “You startled me.”

She sat down on a tattered brown beanbag chair he’d bought for five dollars at a thrift store, pinching the joint out between her fingers. “Think I was a ghost or something?” She laughed. “Chill, boy. Where ya been?”

“Arthur’s.” He shrugged off his jacket. “How was work?” He worked afternoons at the Jazz Café.

“Slow.” She made a face. “Cold as it is, you’d think everyone would want coffee, but the Quarter’s deserted tonight.”

“It was slow as fuck all afternoon.” He shook his jacket off, dropping it on the bed. “Thank God Arthur called. I was down to my last five bucks.”

She pulled a lock of blue hair in front of her eyes, staring at it like she’d never noticed it was blue before. “A weird old man came in, though, and hung out for hours.”

He walked into the tiny bathroom. A broken tile crackled under his feet. He pulled the clear shower curtain open and turned on the hot water. It took about five minutes for the water to get hot enough. He pulled the curtain closed and stared into the mirror. “What was so weird about him?” he called back. There was a small, hard zit forming on his chin. Eyes a little bloodshot, maybe. He grinned at himself and walked out, sitting down on the corner of his bed, and started unlacing his boots. He grinned at her. “Come on, what creeped you out?”

“He looked like he was a thousand years old, for one thing.” She let go of the hair, tapping her fingers on her knees. She shrugged. “Good-looking, if you’re into the grandfather type.”

“Only if they pay.” He took his shirt off, shivering against the cold. He walked over to the wall heater and stood in front of it, letting the warm air blow against his skin. He turned back to her. “So?”

“Yeah.” She shook her head. She relit the joint and took a long drag. “Anyway, he hung out there for hours, until I practically had to kick him out so I could close up, ya know? He just kept staring at me like I was from another planet, and then—get this—he tips me with a hundred-dollar bill, thank you very much.”

“Fuck.” He grinned at her. “So what’s the big deal? A lonely old guy hangs out for a few hours, tips a pretty girl way too much. What’s so weird?” He shrugged. “Arthur pays me three hundred bucks to beat off in front of him. At least you didn’t have to get undressed.” He laughed. “Must be doing something wrong—they won’t pay me unless I get naked.”

She grimaced. “Cute.” She slid her hand into her right pocket and pulled out a business card. “He left this with the tip.”

He took the card from her. It was a rich cream color, thick. In raised black old-English letters it read “Nigel Witherspoon, Nightwatcher.” Below was a phone number.

“Nightwatcher? What the hell is that?”

“Maybe some kind of weird club.”

He turned the card over. Written in spidery handwriting in red ink were the words “Your friend is in danger. Trust your instincts.” He handed the card back to her. “Did you see this?” He felt a chill and turned the heater up another notch. “That’s kind of weird.” He read the words aloud, slowly, his scalp prickling. “What do you think it means?”

“Maybe it’s some weird come-on.” She rolled her eyes. “These old pervs’ll try anything to get in a girl’s pants.”

“You didn’t tell him you’re a dyke?”

“Why get him all excited?”

Steam was coming from the bathroom. “Babe, I’m gonna get in the shower.”

She stood up. “Going out?”

He nodded. “Wanna come with?”

She shook her head. “I’m working on a new poem.” He was hardly an expert, but he thought her poetry was good. “See ya in the morning. Happy hunting.” The door shut behind her.

He peeled off his pants and the jock, tossing them in a basket at the foot of the bed. He stepped into the bathroom, which was now full of steam. Kind of like outside, he thought, pulling the curtain back and stepping into the spray. He stood there for a moment, letting the hot water wash over him and take some of the chill out of his skin. He felt a little dirty, like he had the last few times he’d seen Arthur. I can’t keep doing this; I need to find a better job. He was already, at twenty-four, too old for a longtime client. How long before Arthur started to think the same, saw some pretty young college student jogging shirtless down St. Charles Avenue, and pulled over, offering him what would seem like a fortune, for doing very little—actually, for doing something he would do later back in his dorm room for free? Then the calls would stop coming; the three hundred dollars he could count on every week, to pay his bills and buy his food and drinks and drugs, would be gone. Part of the reason he wanted to go out was to have someone find him attractive without money changing hands, to give himself up to his own pleasure.

He grabbed a bar of soap and began lathering his torso. There was stubble on his chest—he’d have to shave again soon.

I wonder if the blond will be out in the bars. His cock began to stiffen slightly, just thinking about him. He slid the bar of soap over it, under his balls, down through his legs and up the crack, then back up and around to his torso, soaping his torso, running it over his hardening nipples. He closed his eyes, thinking about the blond again, imagining his face, his naked body. His cock got harder, and he closed his right hand over it, sliding it back and forth, the soap making it slippery enough. His left hand came up and started pinching his left nipple, pulling and tugging on it, sending an electric current from it to the tip of his cock. He moaned a little as he felt his balls tighten, the dull ache in his lower abs that meant it would be soon, as his hand began moving faster and faster, each muscle in his body stiffening with tension, his breath coming in gulps, barely audible gasps, until a cry burst from his throat, his body convulsing and jerking with each eruption through the slit at the tip of his cock.

And he thought he smelled, for just a moment, roses and lilacs.

The poem wasn’t coming right.

Rachel gnawed on the eraser of her pencil. She always wrote in pencil. She liked the way the lead would become softer as she wrote; she liked the clean, neat way the words appeared on the page. She didn’t use ink, because scratching words out bothered her; it spoiled the way the page looked, and distracted her from the writing. If she wrote in ink and changed her mind about a word, a sentence, a phrase, she would have to start over on a clean sheet of paper. She looked over the line she’d just written. “Shit,” she said, angrily erasing the entire sentence.

She put the notebook down, frustrated.

Probably should have gone out for a drink, she thought, putting the pencil down and reaching for the canister with her pot supply and rolling papers. She ground the pot up in her coffee grinder to a fine powder, which made rolling that much easier for her. She hummed to herself a Dixie Chicks song, “Goodbye Earl.” She loved the Dixie Chicks. As she finished rolling, she realized the apartment was silent. She always listened to music when she worked on her poetry, getting so lost in thought that she often didn’t notice when the CD ended. Lighting the joint, she hit the Play button on her portable stereo, and soon Beyonce’s voice was filling the room again.

She sat on the edge of her bed, letting the mellowness of the pot take hold of her. She coughed a bit and then fell backward on the bed, staring at the water spots on the ceiling.

Your friend is in danger. Trust your instincts.

She bolted upright, shivering. The gas heater on the wall was blowing hot air right onto her, yet she felt cold; she reached for a blanket.

Can’t be, she thought to herself. It sounded like the old guy was right there in the room with her, but that was impossible.

She wrapped the blanket around herself and put the joint out. Don’t need any more of that, obviously, she thought, reaching for her notebook again.

Philip liked Thursday nights in the gay bars. The crowd was usually more relaxed and laid-back than it would be on the weekend proper. The crystal and ecstasy wouldn’t come out until Friday; no one wanted to risk losing their jobs by showing up on Friday morning at eight coming down from a drug. Thursdays were more about getting tipsy or slightly drunk, maybe hooking up with someone. People were more relaxed on Thursday night—the desperate pressure to get laid, to hook up with someone, wasn’t there the way it was on Fridays and Saturdays. Thursday nights were more about going out with friends to blow off steam.

He walked into Oz just as their weekly Calendar Boy contest was getting under way. Jambalaya Crawfish, a drag queen who towered over most of the bar boys, was standing on the stage with a microphone, braying with her thick parish accent. Her towering blond Dolly Parton wig added at least another foot and a half. She was wearing a black sequined evening gown over her massive bulk. She was a big girl—looked like she’d maybe been a linebacker in high school thirty years ago. Philip walked up to the bar and ordered a longneck Bud Lite, tipping the pretty blond bartender two bucks, and turned to watch the show, leaning back against the bar, tilting his pelvis forward. An older guy, maybe in his early fifties, walked by and stopped, staring.

Not if you paid me five hundred dollars, Philip thought as he turned his eyes away. Go away, Gramps.

“Are you ready to see some dick?” Jambalaya shrieked into her microphone. The crowd on the dance floor cheered. She consulted a napkin. “First up is Johnny!”

Johnny was maybe twenty, with long brown hair he liked to flick around as he danced. He peeled his clothes off in what he apparently thought was a seductive manner, but he couldn’t dance to save his life, which was distracting. He just kind of bounced from foot to foot, wiggling his ass every once in a while, out of sync to the music. There was a cross tattooed on his left pec, and a sunburst around his pierced navel. He stripped down to his underwear, red-and-white-striped bikinis covering a very small dick. No chance in hell of winning. Philip yawned, finished his beer, ordered another. What are these guys thinking?

Philip had won the contest a few years earlier after getting talked into entering by Rachel. The shots she’d bought him to steel his nerve and loosen his inhibitions hadn’t hurt, either. He remembered standing off to the side of the stage, watching the other guys, his stomach in knots, the liquor jumbling his mind a bit. When it was his turn, he’d gotten up. The music had been “Beautiful Stranger” by Madonna, and he started dancing. He’d always been a good dancer, and he figured, The other guys might be hotter, but I can blow them away dancing. He’d peeled off his T-shirt and eventually worked his shorts down until he was just dancing in front of the crowd in his white Calvin Kleins with the blue waistband. The crowd had cheered when they saw his semi-hard dick.

And when it was over, he was the winner and had two hundred bucks in his pocket.

Instead of watching the next few contestants, he scanned the crowds, looking for familiar faces. He recognized some of the guys, faces he’d seen in the bars before. Some of the guys he didn’t recognize were hot: tight, round asses, broad shoulders, bulging arms. He made eye contact with a tall man, maybe about six four, standing in the corner by the stage, just off the dance floor. He was good-looking, maybe about twenty-five, with smooth skin and light brown hair. He was wearing a muscle shirt showing off his nice biceps and the obligatory tattoo around the right upper arm. His jeans hung loose and low off his hips. Philip allowed his line of sight to drift down to the crotch of the man’s jeans. Nice, he thought, nodding and smiling at the guy, who started walking toward him, a friendly, eager smile on his face.

“Our last contestant is Gunther!” Jambalaya shrieked in her weird falsetto, and he turned his head to look at the stage.

It was the blond man from the corner of Napoleon and St. Charles.

Jambalaya towered over him, meaning he was maybe about five ten, maybe five nine. He was wearing a black leather jacket with a white ribbed tank top under it. His black jeans were tight, cupping the bulge under the button fly. Jambalaya moved away from the center stage as the blond began to dance. Philip stared, transfixed, as the blond shrugged off the jacket. The crowd cheered as he ran his hands up and down his hard torso, pinching his nipples.

“How you doing?” It was the tall man, standing next to him now, very close, almost touching him.

“Good.” Philip nodded, unable to stop staring at the blond.

“I’m Steve.”

“Philip.”

The blond had undone his pants, kicking off his shoes. He slid them down, revealing a pair of tight white underwear over thickly muscled legs. He stepped out of the pants, kicking them off to the side, shaking his hips so the big cock flopped under the white cotton.

“Where you from, Philip?”

“I live here.” Philip stared as the blond pulled the shirt over his head in one fluid motion. His torso was smooth as marble, carved and chiseled. The crowd cheered again. The blond turned so his back was to the audience; his back rippled with muscle, narrowing to the waist. Two dimples just above his round ass deepened as he leaned backward, then forward so his ass became rounder and fuller. He looked back over his shoulder, right at Philip.

Their eyes locked, and the blond smiled.

His eyes were blue, a pure, crystalline color.

The blond closed his right eye in a wink.

His eyes, Philip thought, staring back into them from across the room, his eyes…

He started moving forward, leaving Steve behind at the bar as he stepped onto the dance floor, pushing his way through the crowd. Have to get closer; have to get right up there to the stage, get as close as I can to him; he’s so fucking beautiful. He edged around people, never losing sight of the blond, who was turning again to face the crowd, his hands coming down to cup his bulge.

Their eyes were locked.

You want me, the blond’s eyes seemed to say to him. Come with me and I’ll make all your fantasies come true, forever and ever; I will take you places you never dreamed of going, give you pleasures you’ve never imagined, not even in your wildest dreams.

Philip’s cock hardened inside his pants, the crotch suddenly becoming tight and constrictive.

He reached the side of the stage.

The blond came over to him, kneeling down with Philip in between his legs. He grabbed Philip’s head and pulled him forward. Philip reached up and touched the blond’s legs. They were hard as steel, a thick dusting of golden blond down covering their whiteness.

His eyes, Philip thought as their lips came together.

He closed his eyes as the blond’s tongue came into his mouth.

Time stopped.

The bar faded away.

He was on a large bed with satin sheets against his skin. Candles flickered, casting shadows.

Pleasure.

Gunther was between his legs, his long cock probing to find the entrance into his body.

Oh, yes, please fuck me.

Roses—he smelled roses, and yes, the lilacs too, their scent drifting over him, carried by a warm breeze.

He cried out as the huge cock found his entrance and pushed inward.

The blond was sucking on his lip, then bit into it. He tasted blood.

He opened his eyes as the blond began pulling him onto the stage. He didn’t resist; he couldn’t. He wasn’t even aware of the cheering crowd, the sea of faces on the dance floor, wanting to see something different, something more exciting than the usual amateur-night strippers. It was like they weren’t even there—there was nobody there, nobody around; it was just him and Gunther, the two of them alone. All he could hear was his heart beating as the blond turned him around and undid his pants, yanking them down, and then he was grinding his crotch against Philip’s ass.

Oh, yes, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me right here; I don’t care who’s watching; fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…

He felt Gunther’s mouth on the base of his neck, nibbling, quick little bites followed by flicks of his tongue.

Gunther’s cock was huge as it pressed into the crack of his ass.

His body shuddered and trembled.

His balls ached.

I’m going to come, he thought.

No, you aren’t.

He opened his eyes, looking back over his shoulder.

Gunther smiled.

He can see into my soul.

Gunther nodded. You’re mine, Philip.

Philip nodded.

The music stopped, and Gunther let him go. He stumbled just a bit, aware suddenly that he was onstage.

The noise cascaded over him. The crowd was cheering, applauding, stomping their feet as Jambalaya teetered back onto the stage in her stilettos. “What’d you think of THAT, boys? YEAH.” She grinned at Philip, her nicotine-yellowed teeth crooked underneath the garish red lipstick, the thick powder on her face barely hiding the blondish hairs along her jawline.

Philip brought his hands up to his head. Everything was so loud, the lights over the bar across the room so bright. A wave of nausea passed over him, but he fought it.

He reached down and pulled his pants back up. Gotta get out of here, he thought, gotta get down from this stage; what the fuck am I doing up here…?

“What’s your name?” Jambalaya shoved her microphone into his face, leering at him with bloodshot eyes beneath lashes coated with globs of mascara. Her breath smelled of stale liquor, and Philip staggered back a few steps; she looked almost demonic and frightening; why had he never noticed that before about her…?

“His name is Maxi,” Gunther said.

Philip stared at him, into those so-blue eyes. Maxi? What the hell?

I’ve been looking for you for so long, my darling Maxi, and now that I’ve found you at last, again, no one will ever separate us again.

“Let’s hear it for Gunther and Maxi!” Jambalaya shrieked, her voice piercing his brain like a sharpened pencil going through his eyes. He winced as the crowd roared its approval.

The phone rang.

“Goddamn it!” Rachel threw her pencil across the room, cursing herself for not unplugging it. The poem was finally coming to her, and now her concentration was broken; maybe the poem was gone for good. Must be the pot, she thought. She always unplugged the fucking phone when she was writing. Shaking her head, she picked it up. “Hello?”

“Your friend is in danger, Rachel.” The voice was low, heavily accented.

“Who is this?”

“Nigel Witherspoon.”

“How did you get my phone number?”

“Does that really matter?”

“Look, you old freak—”

“Your friend is in mortal danger, Rachel. Philip?”

The hair at the nape of her neck stood up. “What do you know about Philip?”

“I know many things, Rachel.” He coughed. “We need to talk.”

“So, talk.” Hang up, a voice inside her head screamed. Just hang up the fucking phone!

But somehow, she couldn’t.

“I have many things to tell you. Come downstairs. I’m on the sidewalk in front of your building.”

“Are you nuts?” she shouted. How did you find out where I live?

“No harm will come to you. If you care for your friend, you must come down.”

“Okay, okay.” She hung up the phone and grabbed for her coat. I must be nuts, she thought as she grabbed for her keys. This creepy old guy is stalking me, and I’m going to go talk to him? That’s crazy, just crazy; this is how you wind up on the front page of the paper and on the ten o’clock news, Rachel, this is the kind of thing you always get pissed off at in scary movies, the heroine doing something so unfucking-believably stupid…

Then she noticed the cord curled up on the floor next to the nightstand.

She reached down.

She had unplugged the phone.

She felt the scream rising in her throat but fought it down.

She walked out her front door and headed for the staircase.