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Sebastian Comes for
Tea was published in Best American American fiction, volume 2, (Little Brown, 1997)
Sebastian Comes for Tea
That he lowers himself down onto me so willingly is
stunning. Onto me. How strange to identify one physical part as the whole. As though the sum of my being
were contained in this rubber encased, blood engorged cylinder. Anyway, what is amazing about this entombment of me
by his sphincter is his previous disinclination to even consider doing it. I think this has as much to do with his fear
of smell as it does with his fear of pain. Fear of smelling himself. Fear of smelling what will come out of him.
Fear of proof; of evidence. He showers at least three times a day. There will be plans to meet, to go to a movie,
a club, wherever, but then there will always be the delay for a shower first. I'm used to it. It's a part of him,
like the color of his hair. I remember the first time I stuck my tongue "up there." How he coiled and
curled and tried to get his butt away from my face. There was no pain involved then. No entrance. No "splitting
open and ripping asunder." No, his discomfort was in having my nose in such daring proximity to the source of his
shit. He wouldn't kiss me on the mouth for weeks after. He often remarks on the body odor of one or another of
his young friends. A pungent scent is verboten. So here he is tonight, squatting, facing me naked, greased and
ready. Or at least, greased and not unwilling.
He grimaces but says nothing. What is there to say but
some stale porn utterances. I can't tell what my face is doing but I can feel the muscles around the bridge of my nose
going in several directions at once. He drops another inch or so then stops suddenly and grips. Quick little intake
of breath. He bares his bottom teeth then continues. Slowly, with not much joy in his eyes. I feel my toes
contract and for a second the pain at the arch of my left foot takes me away from here. The pressure of his weight sitting
full on my pelvis, my entire dick beating inside his rectum, brings me back quickly enough.
There's an awkwardness
of choreography in this position. Missed cadences. Unsure balances. We're not at all like the golden boys
on the video tapes. There's no mind-numbing synthesizer music washing over this scene. The lighting is just what's
here- a string of colored Christmas twinklers in the next room; and from the window, orange/white street lamp, the full moon.
No, the real beauty of this moment comes from the surprise of his maneuver. At once yielding and pliant while at the
same time resistantly in control of the dance.
Maybe he smiles. Maybe he's just stifling a fart. At
any rate he begins to rock back and forth, slowly, insistently, but when I try to arch up into him he spreads a hand down
onto the space between my chest and my belly as if to say, "No, just lie still." I obey. Maybe I close
my eyes. The rhythm of his rocking accelerates. I throb inside him. The whole scene is becoming moist and
messy. Yes, I begin to get faint whiffs of his insides. The rocking stops. If my eyes have been closed I
open them. His hands are wet with his sperm. He made the smallest sound possible when he came. His face
is red.
I need to end this. I grasp the front of his thighs to hold him in place. My pelvis writhes
against his with regular little pulses. His hand on my chest can't stop me now. Spent, he's as flimsy as a dishrag;
as weak as a feather. I drive deeper and harder up toward his core. His face looks miserable. His hair is
everywhere. He, too, wants this to be over. I begin to question what it all means; him giving himself to me this
way. Can't be explained away by booze or drugs or mere attraction. I wonder why he did it, why tonight.
I'm becoming distracted from the task at hand. I grip his thighs so tightly that I'm sure there will be marks tomorrow.
There needs to be one part of him that I know I will find sexy. I focus on his throat and its bobbing Adam's apple.
I won't tell what I imagine, but within seconds I am ejaculating inside him with some appropriate pre-language growl.
In one move he's off me, down the hall, in the bathroom, door closed behind him. I am too drained to stop him even
if I want to. After a long while I hear the toilet flush and the shower run. I peel off our condom. My room
reeks of us. Bits of him and me are drying on my skin. I use some piece of his underclothing to wipe myself.
I try to join him but he has locked the door. I piss into an empty juice container and crawl back into my damp, soiled
and disheveled bed. When he has thoroughly cleansed himself, I hope that he will leave.
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