Champagne

Champagne and poppers
Gurmit S. Sidhu
1315 words

When do you think our parents will stop asking us to refrain?
What if you only had one condom that had to last for a whole year; how
would you choose when to use it?

In the fridge I found a magnum of champagne, pickled gherkins and two
bottles of jungle juice. I determined to inform him of my displeasure
at this trio of unrelated products as soon as he got home. They didn't
even sit together on the same middle shelf as they should, thereby
providing a utilitarian unity to justify their presence in the fridge.
Why were these three items scattered - champagne lying on the bottom
shelf, gherkins near the freezer where I'd hoped to find some vanilla
ice cream and jungle juice propped in the spaces made for eggs? Now,
choice was upon me.

Perhaps I would dip the gherkins in jungle juice, coating them with a
heady potency. There would be no need to touch the champagne then. I
didn't want him to think I was helping myself to everything in the
flat.

"It's just...a little crush, everytime I think of you."

From the 20th floor you could see all over the South Bank. One side of
the living room was nothing but a vast glass panel looking out on to
several nondescript office towers. In the distance were global
headquarters of multi-national corporations. I sneaked a look from
behind the curtains. The afternoon sun was intense. Several cars
circled the roundabout. I made a cup of coffee. While waiting, I looked
in on the fridge again.

I suppose the clamps came in handy. I had been training with them for a
while, and soon got used to the cold steel against my skin. When the
boy arrived, my nipples were puckered and pink. Drained of spunk
earlier when watching the cops training video, I sipped my coffee as he
inhaled the jungle juice. A heavenly aroma pervaded the air. I didn't
want to know him. Why make the effort?

"Can you see the Shell tower?" The man from the 33rd floor had joined
us. His contribution was a generous Dom Perignon. I got out the
champagne flutes as he bent the boy over the ledge looking out onto the
grey city. The cork popped and warm fizzing bubbly spilled onto his
hairy butt. Some things are better best forgotten.

I experienced dilation on a daily basis. Slowly, with each puncture
into my soft fissures, I forgot easily how tight fisted I was when just
starting out. I only knew the man casually, having exchanged glances in
the lobby. His callused palms on my neck that first time in the
elevator were all I knew him by. Soon he was inviting himself and his
pals to our living room on a regular basis. I wasn't bothered at
first.

I suppose the money came in handy.

The boy was easy. Practically gagging for it they would say in porno
talk. His little butt wiggled in the air, a mysterious advert for all
sorts of dirty desires. I craved a jelly donut, some sweetness to repel
the smells and tastes bouncing off the cold white walls. Boston cream
pie or rhubarb and custard. Scones with clotted cream. In the last five
days I had the privilege of champagne on a daily basis. Often more than
a glass.

Soon Mr. Black Rod came out. Ribbed, greased and thirty centimetres
long. The man asked me for batteries. I wished the asshole brought his
own. Why did he always make me the accomplice? Surely he could afford
two AA batteries. He always insisted on Duracells. I put jazz FM on.
Drowning out his sickening, routine commands was the only option left
to me. I had heard 'em enough.

"I put a spell on you...'cos you're mine, my baby"

I sniffed some myself, standing naked in the kitchen. I remembered we
needed some potatoes. We're out of ice cream as well. I wrote them on
the white board. I had to call and cancel that reservation to Tenerife.
Tom wasn't up to it anymore; he wanted to be with his new toy boy.
They'd met last week and now, I was out of a travelling companion. And
someone with whom I thought sex meant something.

"Have you got those batteries?" he bellowed out. I approached them,
furious how he always took over the situation. It was my place after
all. I suppose a new boy always came in handy.

This one was young smooth and blond. Eighteen, I think. It wasn't the
same old routine with the young ones. There was time to educate,
instruct, inspect, and explore. Sometimes just an afternoon, often a
whole day. His eyes looked old. Still he wasn't exposed yet. And that
was good. No piercings no tattoos no stretching. Yet.

The man wanted us to pose. To do a series of still lifes. Young guys,
one black, one white. One dark skinned, one pale. One a curly mane of
blond spangles, another a short spiky dark army crop. I wasn't going to
set up the equipment. It would mean hauling out the camera stand,
putting up the screen, adjusting the lights. I couldn't be
bothered.

He handed me his Polaroid. It was sticky with cum stains. The boy stood
holding my champagne flute with a raging hard on and Mr. Black Rod
dangling from his butt. Click, click.

My intensity as the sensitive artist is heightened with subliminal
pleasures. In my dreams the sequence always began with a nice long swim
in the Atlantic off the coast of Miami that screwed up city of losers,
poseurs, and hangers-on. I swam on and on for several miles and climbed
on deck Howard Hughes' yacht, sinking into his jacuzzi as we plied the
oceans calling at Barbados. I, accompanied exclusively by my turquoise
Speedos. Each fine hair on my frame just freshly shaved. Mr. Hughes
insisted I serve him champagne accompanied by dry roasted peanuts. And
he made me pose for nudie piccies for suburban American housewives to
drool over while they wet their lips.

"My loneliness is killing me inside."

I couldn't care if blondie wanted to be crucified. He was the man's
toy, only too eager to be abused today. And maybe again on Friday if
the schedule permitted it. Maybe I'd take him along to my date at the
sauna if he proved himself. In the aftermath of his body stood a wasted
barren soulscape giving up sans resistance. The man from the 33rd floor
made him lick the curly tendrils on his protruding belly while he
jerked off.

Why don't you join us? The evening light is weak, its glimmer barely
penetrating the glassy surface that revealed us three. Minions scurried
about their desks, photocopying, faxing, checking voice mail, sending
e-mails downloading software, making instant coffee, having water
cooler banter to while away the 15 minutes to 5 p.m. In a minute it
would all be over, and I could check how my stocks performed today on
Wall Street. I think the Dow Jones was heading towards 10,000 and I
felt like making a killing today.

Even Turkey was no longer an option for a holiday now. The bombing
campaign had begun.

5:15 p.m. I put the toys away and had 5 minutes to myself. I meditated
before I readied myself to go off to work at the Yazz bar in an
hour.

A whiff of champagne and a sniff of the juice would hold me up just
long enough to serve till 11 p.m., then clean up before I came home to
him. I hoped he wouldn't invite the man from the 33rd floor down to
ours tonight. Otherwise I would have to pretend and lie through my
teeth that nothing had happened in the day. Better if I just serve Him
in a collar and cuffs myself.

THE END