Return to Winthrop St. - Part 8

Awake didn’t mean fully functioning. He was groggy. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. The sleeping pill-and-a-half mixed with the cough syrup had sent him straight into a nightmarish world that left him less than rested and more uneasy than he cared to be. He stood and looked around the floor for his shoes. Through heavy-lidded, half opened eyes he found them at the foot of the bed. Having slept in his clothes he needed only slip them on and then slip out the door. He didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t want to be inside his room. Anywhere else was better than his room. He wanted air, fresh air. He thought that being outside, walking and breathing, might wake him up; might shake free the dark images of Kinlin and Bobby that curled through his thoughts like black smoke.

Standing in the elevator of his dormitory he closed his eyes and swayed, like a heroin addict stuck on pause, as it slowly glided down to the first floor of the building. When it stopped, the ding of the opening doors followed by the brighter light of the lobby slowly reanimated his swaying body. He opened his eyes, feeling a little more in control of himself, but just barely.

He made his way across the small lobby, past the sofas where unexpected guests waited for admittance, past the reception area that seemed to have no purpose at all, and walked through the doors. The cool California night air hit his skin and the nerves of every exposed area tingled and came alive. His lids became less heavy. Each step became more energetic. His brain settled on his next move.

“Coffee,” Atwood said to himself in a beleaguered exhale. “I need coffee.” If I can’t sleep I might as well be fully awake he thought to himself. 

About a block from campus stood a 24-hour convenience store that he knew could be counted on to have coffee—black coffee that had probably been sitting for hours evaporating toward black sludge, strong and undeniably caffeinated. An island of neon and fluorescent lights sat like a carnival funhouse that could have been part of the fucked up world he’d just awakened from. Moths buzzed around the lights at the doors. Too many moths—and other bugs—drawn to the light, flying into the glass, unable to get through, unable to stop trying, desperate for entrance to the kingdom of light.

Once inside, he noticed that there was only him, the clerk, and one other customer; a guy, maybe a couple years older the he was. The chiming of the door had caused the customer to look toward the entrance when Atwood walked in.

He could see the food section in the back left corner of the room—over cooked hot dogs spinning under an orange heat light, nachos that allowed a person to cover the chips with too much cheese, frozen slushy style drinks in jumbo cups that would give even the most tolerant sugar addict a buzz, black gold in a clear pot. Atwood made a beeline toward the whirring frozen drink machine and the sound of sizzling meat.

Large cup, four sugars, and lots of cream made the coffee tolerable. It was as he’d suspected, old from hours of sitting unwanted in the middle of the night. 

Taking his second sip before placing the lid on the cup he glanced around the room and noticed the lone customer quickly averting his eyes. Atwood felt a mix of uncomfortable and excited. He didn’t know if he was being checked out or scoped out. Being checked out would be nice considering what he’d experienced in the last few hours. It would be a boost to his ego. Being scoped out was something he just couldn’t deal with at the moment. He’d done nothing to draw attention to himself; he’d walked across the room to get coffee. Some people just wanna hit somebody and he didn’t want to be that body.

He briefly looked in the direction of the solitary customer and noticed that he had moved a row closer to where Atwood stood. Atwood’s heartbeat quickened. The man then shyly smiled at Atwood before looking down at whatever Combo’s style pretzel snack or motor oil brand happened to be on the shelves of the aisle in which he stood. 

Atwood hadn’t smiled back until the man had looked away, but he smiled nonetheless. He walked to the cash register and paid for his coffee then threw a glance back in the direction of the silent man whom he felt certain was checking, not scoping, him out. The man saw the glance and within moments of leaving the convenience store Atwood heard the chime ding indicating that the door had opened again. 

Without turning around Atwood heard the steps behind him. He was walking slowly as if instinctually giving the man time to catch up with him. He didn’t know if it was the drugs in his system mixing with the two sips of coffee, but he wasn’t scared. He was alive. The foot steps got closer prompting Atwood to stop and turn around.

He stood shivering slightly. The chill in the air was enough to warrant a jacket, but with his abrupt departure from the room of his nightmare he hadn’t taken the time to think. He brought the coffee to his lips and took in the hot liquid, holding the cup with both hands in an attempt to warm both the inside and outside of his body.

The man stopped in front of him.

Atwood smiled. The guy smiled back. There was an awkward moment of staring at each other before the stranger spoke.

“I’m Patrick,” he said.

“Atwood.”

Patrick smiled. “Nice to meet you, Atwood.”

“You, too, Patrick.” 

In the glow of a nearby streetlight Atwood could see that Patrick was indeed around his own age if slightly older. He was handsome like a man, not pretty and twink-like. His features and body language were manly and bold. The streetlight reflecting off his brown hair showed it was on the lighter side and parted on the left. He had a horseshoe mustache that shouldn’t have worked on anyone in this century, but if possible, made him look even hotter. Atwood couldn’t quite make out if his eyes were blue or green, but they smiled when Patrick smiled. He exuded sex appeal. It surrounded him like the invisible fragrance cloud of a spicy cologne; dark and musky, filling the olfactory senses with messages of desire that exploded in the brain sending sparks to the necessary body parts. Atwood looked at Patrick’s lips. They were perfectly shaped, almost meaty in their fullness. He wanted to kiss them and without thought to prevent himself, did so.

Patrick pulled Atwood to his body as the kiss deepened on the deserted sidewalk. Atwood felt his body engage. He wanted to fully embrace Patrick as well, but the coffee he held in his hand prevented him. He threw it to the ground, toward the curb, away from their bodies. He registered the splash of liquid as it hit the pavement.

It was Patrick who pulled out of the kiss first, staring into Atwood’s face. His smile made Atwood hungry for those lips again on his own, on his body.

“Do you live around here?” Atwood asked.

“Yeah, in a dorm room, but I have a roommate and he’s home,” Patrick replied.

Atwood scanned their surroundings. There was an alley between the convenience store and the building next to it. It had no security lights and there were large metal trash containers. Large objects and darkness would provide plenty of cover. His brain was working quickly for someone who’d just been jolted awake from a drug induced nightmare. He seductively bit his lower lip.

“We could go over there,” he gestured his head toward the alley, “it’s pretty dark and private.” He looked at Patrick, waiting for a response. Patrick smiled and took Atwood’s hand and then lead the way as he walked the two of them into the darkness.

Rapid fire sensory explosions of fear and anticipation shot through Atwood. Absorbed by the darkness, Patrick pushed Atwood against the wall of the convenience store between two of the trash containers. Pounding hearts and throbbing cocks. Touching, kissing, groping. It was dangerous. The danger made it thrilling. The possibility of being caught heightened the drama. The potentiality of someone in the darkened building next door watching from their window increased the excitement. 

Patrick let Atwood go down on him first. He moaned and thrusted, but didn’t seem to be as into the blow job as Atwood had expected. Finally, Patrick pulled himself from Atwood’s mouth and put his hand under Atwood’s chin, gently lifting him to a standing position. He kissed Atwood then lowered himself to his knees.

Immediately, Atwood could tell what Patrick had been waiting for. He seemed to have an insatiable thirst that could only be quenched by Atwood’s cock. Not even Bobby had sucked Atwood with so much ferocity and vigor. Atwood’s breath quickened. He couldn’t stop himself from cumming. He barely had time to warn Patrick.

“I’m cumming,” he said through shallow breaths, mere seconds before exploding. His knees nearly buckled under him as Patrick continued to suck his dick. With each thrust into Patrick’s mouth he unloaded. Patrick took it all. The wet mouth spilled nothing. Atwood could barely withstand the sensitivity of his cock as Patrick’s tongue and lips continued to tease him.

Patrick could feel Atwood’s body shuttering. He heard the sharp intake of breath as he slowly worked his lips to the head of Atwood’s cock before releasing it from his warm, wet mouth.

He stood and faced Atwood. Their faces moved toward one another and their lips locked. Patrick parted Atwood’s lips with his tongue and Atwood reacted to the salty substance that entered his mouth. The realization was immediate. Patrick had shifted Atwood’s own cum into his mouth as if it were nothing more than swapping gum.

Before his could do anything Patrick pulled out of the kiss and said, “Hold it.”

Something in Atwood’s brain tried to make the act disgusting, but something else overrode the feeling because nothing in his sexual life had been hotter than that moment.

Patrick leaned in to kiss Atwood again and without warning pulled his lips a fraction away from Atwood’s and whispered, “Now swallow.”

Without thought Atwood swallowed his own cum. He could feel Patrick’s smile before their mouths become one again.

The two men emerged from the dark shadows of the alley, spent and sexually satiated. They parted ways at the sidewalk. No numbers exchanged. No last names. No backward glances.

©2012 Michael Rohrer