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Story 1 in 'Dancing with the Devil' WHEN ROMEO WAKES ~ In an apocalyptic nightmare, can obsession keep you sane? ~ *excerpt* A siren screams in the night. My eyes cut to the window. An eerie face stares back. I click off the light and it’s gone. As the siren fades, my eyes shift back to the blood-splattered floor. I know this isn’t me. I’m only watching this shit. Your sexy ass lying on my kitchen floor is not my doing. It couldn’t be. The slow rise and fall of your chest tells me you’re not dead. Exhaling, I thank God for this tiny fucking favor and my hand returns the gun to the belt cinched around my waist. An old Daily News, now filthy and illegible, litters the floor. Can you hear me, Romeo? You know how sorry I am about all this, don’t you? Still gripped by that same sense of unreality, I feel like a svelte Rambo, dragging you across the green linoleum past the others. You’re heavy as hell, boy. What a man you’ve become. I can hear the newspaper crackle, can feel your boots against my palms, can see the white dust. But this still isn’t me. You have tiny feet for a guy, as small as mine. The basement door closes with a weighty clunk-ching, followed by a chorus of slam locks after you come down, feet first, head lolling and thudding against each step. My poor baby ..... |
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Story 2 in 'Dancing with the Devil' BREEDING SEASON ~ Two high-school boys fascination with tropical fish belies an allegory on the survival of the fittest. *excerpt* I gulped my drink, lounged back on his bed and allowed my thoughts to wander that secret passageway reserved for all things Ray. There were memories, sensations, scents, and sounds from the two years I’d known him, drifting about in my head like those Polaroids on the bed, pleasure frozen in time. The two of us in Exotic Aquatics, searching for some rare fish he insisted we acquire, the scent of aquarium water in my nose and an African Gray Parrot shrieking “Fuck you!” randomly . . . the two of us lying in his bed when I spent the night, staring at the fish, talking about death-defying feats we wanted to do and all the little girls we wanted to screw . . . the two of us with the blanket over our heads in that same bed, masturbating in the dark, seeing who could finish first . . . or the times we did it over the phone late at night in our individual beds, racing to a hushed mind-blowing climax. “Yeah. That’s it.” He clicked and clicked. “Now unzip your jeans. Show some pubes.” ...He adjusted me so a little of my asscrack was exposed, even making sure the white comforter was aesthetically rumpled . . . then told me to lick my lips. Click. He kept adjusting and arranging me. In no time at all, I was completely naked, lying on my stomach to hide exactly how into it I was. Click. Ray was more breathless than ever, circling the bed like a Mapplethorpe wannabe, biting his nails, in the zone. “If you show these to anyone,” I said to him, “you’re so dead.” “Shut up.” Click. “Arch your back.” Click. “Do something else.” Click. “Like what?” “Use your imagination for once. Damn, Danté, do I have to tell you everything? Just go wild.” I drained my drink, looked at him, and something overwhelmed me. I started grinding my hips into his bed as I watched him watching me.... |
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BENEATH PARADISE ~ The spiritual anchor of the collection, with Danté, the recurring narrator, telling of the struggle between two Jehovah's Witnesses, while testing the bounds of truth in religion, discover what they're "turning into". *excerpt* The banner over the podium served as a constant reminder: Preach, preach until you drop. My eyes crept down to Brother Freeman, his silvery hair contrasting with his dark, leathery face. He was asking for strength in these "last days." I knew he'd go on and on before we'd be allowed to exhale "Amen." The scent of death was in the air. My tie was too tight. I glanced around at the sea of bowed heads like I always did during long, boring prayers. Nothing had changed. Sister Simon had always been at the front of the Kingdom Hall, as if being there brought her that much closer to Jehovah. The seventy-year-old Witness was one of the "Anointed," after having received the call in a dream long ago. As a kid, I thought the anointed were strange and scary, 'til my mother assured me that being amongst the 144,000 who shall rule from Heaven made a person nuttier than a Snickers bar. Scanning dark suits, dresses, and fashionable younger sisters in the last throes of devotion, my eyes zeroed in on the crispt white shirt, silky ebony skin, and dimpled cheeks of Malik Williams. I hadn't seen him in three years. As the voice droned on, memories began to blot out the prayer. I could scarcely remember a time when looking at him hadn't made me warm, or when his voice over the phone hadn't inspired unimaginable things. And then, either two summers or two lifetimes ago, warm had turned to hot, thought had turned to action, and simple had turned so, so complicated .... |
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Story 4 in 'Dancing with the Devil' PRETTY YOUNG GANGSTERS ~ What's the downside of coveting youth and beauty? *excerpt* I heard a vague thumping, probably my neighbor in the penthouse on her exercise-bike again. Ignoring it, I watched my hand glide toward his cheek, anticipating the erotic sensation of fair skin and fiery stubble. He sprang up, “Yo, put on some music.” Without waiting for my reply, he picked up the remote and turned the TV to that video soul station again. Keyshia Cole was strutting and wailing that she just wanted it to be over. “This used to be my shit,” he said, turning the volume way up and dancing with his back to me. My eyes mapped his torso—every flex of muscle, every dimple and ripple that narrowed down to a waist where his shorts hung on, barely, riding muscles that made me salivate. I sat up, reached out and slipped a finger in the crevice between the muscles. He spun around, expressionless. "Yo, whatchu doin'?" "You ain't got no drawers on," I informed his nipple. He made a dismissive sound. "I like my shit to breathe. He started moving again, dancing like countless stripper boys I'd seen atop countless bars, only he wasn't wearing a thong and I wasn't luring him with a twenty. Still, he was being playfully seductive, no need for pretense anymore. My hands gripped his hips and I heard myself say, "Well, let it breathe for real...." |
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Story 5 in 'Dancing with the Devil' DANCING WITH THE DEVIL ~ How far would you go? *excerpt* I’d been spotting José for a couple of years, never knowing his story, never caring that he always seemed to be around during normal working hours or that he always wore the same clothes. I did notice lean chiseled features, a long black ponytail, the mischief and the worlds of pain in his dark-circled eyes. And some nights, alone in the dark, while pleasuring myself, I’d fantasize about fucking him: cuffing him to the headboard and dripping candle wax until he begged me to stop; putting him on all fours, spanking him, yanking him by that ponytail, tossing him to delirium with my tongue, then riding him, doggy-style, ‘til he cried. All sorts of fantasies filled my head, with José always the star, ones that if we remained strangers would stay there, unfulfilled, forever in my mind. Fuck that. I tried desperately to meet him, detouring from my normal routes. Eventually I’d spot his lean frame and ponytail, two, sometimes three blocks away. I’d try to come up with a line, a clever intro, something that would begin our friendship and end with us naked in bed. But my mouth would go dry, my mind void of wit, and all I could say was a whispered . . .‘Sup? Jersey City felt like Fargo the night I said more.... |
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