Lives of the Circus Animals by Christopher Bram

Author:Christopher Bram
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

33

Peach skin. Blond haze. Freckles. The body stretched out before him, nearly level with his eyes, a lion-colored landscape, a Sahara of flesh. The slope of abdomen rose in the distance to the ridge of rib cage. Down below was a belly button like a water hole and, closer still, just under Henry’s nose, a pale briar of pubic hair.

It’s remarkable how sexless sex can be after the first half hour. Henry had to remind himself that the rubbery stiffness filling his mouth was Toby Vogler’s penis. He pictured Toby himself on the other side of his rib cage, head on a pillow, hand behind his head, frowning at the ceiling. The boy was not a terribly demonstrative bedmate, offering little more than an occasional murmur from the back of his throat, like a dog chasing rabbits in its sleep.

Toby or not Toby. That is the question.

Here he was, the Hamlet of his generation, down on all fours between a muscular pair of American legs, trying to make it talk.

Toby lifted his hips, took a sharp breath, and seemed to swell against Henry’s tongue. But no. He was only readjusting his buttocks, as if one cheek were going to sleep.

“Put your hand here. No. Here,” Toby commanded.

Henry had lost his own erection days ago. All he wanted now was to hear Toby groan and see him spurt. Orgasm had become a point of honor.

He was not entirely surprised. He had been caught off guard when they first arrived at the apartment and Toby started dropping hints, as light as crowbars, that he expected Henry to make a pass. It was a bit unnerving, like seeing a chess piece move itself, yet promising. But then they kissed and Henry could not find Toby’s tongue. He had to chase around his mouth before he caught it. When he opened his eyes, wondering what was wrong, he found Toby’s eyes already wide open in front of him, like the eyes of a terrified horse. Toby quickly shut them, suggesting a child feigning sleep, and Henry wondered, Am I like kissing Hitler?

But Toby did not flee. He let Henry take him to bed. He let Henry undress him. But he had looked sexier in clothes.

His trousers, for example, were not as loose as the ones he wore the night they met; the fold in the middle of his bum was smaller, though it too flicked back and forth when he walked, but more quickly, like the tail of a puppy dog. Inside the trousers were underpants, white with some kind of mathematical formula on the waistband—as if his playwright used him as a notepad. Henry had been overjoyed to kneel down, rub his face in white, then slide the underpants down and release a cock as excited as his own. It had been downhill ever since.

If I were his age, thought Henry, and my prick were in Olivier’s mouth, or even Gielgud’s, the history alone would be enough to make me pop. What was

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