Head

A Short Story

Caravaggio, David with the Head of Goliath, c. 1610. Galleria Borghese, Rome.

Very very many thanks to Gamourtian, Babylon The Great who was kind enough to beta-read this story!

---

1.

Light flashes on, must be automatic, and we go stepping down, my one clammy hand in another’s, and the door is pushed clang and I’m pulled into the stale ureal fugue, stepping around pools of dim reflections, and he keeps me moving through another door’s clanging lock and I barely get a look before he goes down fast, leaving me eyeing a crowd of thickly sharpied scrawls on walls and doors, and I feel my trousers fall and hear them go a-buckleclang to the floor. I look down and see him looking down with a smile, a lipturn peeking up at the corners and there waves a little whorl on his crown, an eddy in the curly blonde sea. G-, his name an old fashioned one but he doesn’t seem old-fashioned with his hair styled like that, the curl waving back and forth, back and forth, when he was bouncing down the stairs, and now crashing on the beach now pushing his hand up under my shirt, and the other? Squeeze and peel off, the waistband was pinching and I didn’t notice it until now and he smiles again-

Gasping, stubbleburn on my thigh, I look and see milkwhite on blonde along with tan and reddy pink and pale hairs from kneepoking torn jeans and I see, just the once, him looking up with eyes blue like a gap in the clouds and he takes a taste. I want to hiss, softly softly, to let him know that’s what I want, where to go, like I am saying without having to say the words Yes, just there but he doesn’t need me to because I can feel him moving like he wants to, serpentining, tasting maybe thinking as I am doing of when he grasped my hand like he is doing with me now and he pulled me like he is doing now, pulled me down (fly you out) into the belly of the beast, its dull thrumbthrumbdrumb coming through the walls (big hottub i’m gonna), and when I saw him for the first time but I am sure he saw me first as I was turning away from the dancefloor, one last sip in my drink away from leaving, and he was standing there and he looked very tall and he said ‘hello, my name is G-’ and I almost laughed at him the way he said that old old fashioned name in that northern accent but I didn’t and I bit my tongue to stop because I knew I fancied him right there and then because the night was damned from the start and I knew that it was when I left the house to meet J- because I left for one reason and that was because I was aching for it but all I saw were three exes, none of them I wanted to see, small world blues, and then G- appeared to me like a ghost solidifying and I bumped into him and felt him through his jeans, almost as he was saying ‘hello my name is’. I didn’t know him and that is a rare thing ‘mongst our lot in this town and I don’t think he even offered me a drink but he clearly wanted me as much as I. O,O. Yes, he did and he’ll do this for a bit and then we’ll swap and then we’ll get an uber and then more of this at mine and maybe breakfast I hope Jesus another go, Jesus Christ I’m hissing again, sounding struggling quiet enclosed in this small world-

2.

Reaching down, his hair is very soft, softer than mine. I can never get it to curl right after I shower, coming out odd and flat. Did I shower right did I do it all? Yea, one two peel back water in then turn one two hands apart soap in wash it all off and dry. Yes. I did it this morning, out of habit, old flames die hard. Did I eat right, not been planning on this when J- dragged me out and I have only had one two three drinks one two pints one cocktail cockntail perfect night but it was him who would would say that, J- would, not that he had any trouble with either, and he was pulling at my hand, harder than I wanted, so I would follow him in and earlier today he was also there blaring through the phone like a siren. Another taste, there he goes Jesus plucked from the tree, trunk and fruit; but the serpent beguiled me, and I did eat. Yes, O I can feel more of it now, he’s letting me in.

God, Jesus. I can’t be feeling unsteady now, only one two three drinks, the third much better than the first - a rushing warmth now that it has coursed from the innards to the parts extreme. I’ll grip a little tighter so G- knows I feel it, but not so tight, remain un-Catulline, gentle gentle and so I hope it’s alright, no faint taste of urine and gizzard, washed all properly. We can get breakfast together, two coffees and two croissants and a loaf should be just under £15, I can pay, it’s okay I’ll say.

Aghaahh, I say at the toothscrapejustgentleenough to wake me up did he just laugh did he do that on purpose? Can’t let it go. I should say Don’t talk with your mouth full.

Yes, he definitely laughed that first time and then this time again, not too loud, but I’m sure it happens like this all the time but rarely with me. Someone has lit up, tongue tastes that there acrid tang, and it shudders me from shoulder to coccyx as always when I smell it strong enough, just like F-’s car, when I was slumped in the footwell slackmouthed huffing like a beast when I’d finished-

3.

Maybe seven years ago my first one like this in a place like this and I was hardly anything then, a stray atom. He’s doing it just like they used to like I always tried, where the tongue flicks around, glimpsing flashes like a knife, flickering lickering. Another stubblescrape on the thigh, sweetburn blossoms, all changed now, beards are out again. Petals fall and we all feel this way, the turning wheel once you hit an age. What age is G-.? He can’t be older than me, no way. Knows his way around. O. Yes. The music is getting louder, this room busier. Shall we? Should we? Yes.

Yes I feel it giving me

giving me

giving me

give give give

it goes and he goes urghrk and I go quietly softly mouth agape in Teresa’s Bernini scream no one can know jesus mary and his hands are tighter on me, a finger nibble on the right and a harder one goes bite on the left, and he’s holding me like this very still and he won’t look up but I am looking down and watching and waiting for him and then he comes up for air, a [sucking out the and then sucking in of air] turn upwards with his eyes and the flood’s sudden rush a fire-light a glowing blaze shining brightly on the ceiling reflected in the blue and he takes back in again the battle-flame unbite the edge failed the man in his need and he was back in seized but not pierced in the warm-deep hold.

That warm-deep hold, handlike mouth, anuslike throat, and I am borne upwards from the depths, recovered in-recollecting. Once upon a time lying there no phoneglow with eyes clenched shut and trying to assemble that which would conjure the sight of his once-fleshy back viewed from above as it would have looked if he were above me, my hands splayed and fingers a-digging flesh ribs all a-flex genuflexing atop. I am there now the same play with a different cast and I see those curls crashing back and forth O and I crest his shoulders clutching to the mast tossing the stirring currents-oh he is kissing me as he does it-please don’t wash me ashore leave me high and inland, only a-winnowing fan. I can see it on the horizon over there stirring currents within me and I must return home with him where young men are girt with waistbands and taking him thence, we make and in the making door-jambs are shook and the walls do shudder in those early days when the world was young-

4.

He’s releasing, moving elsewhere, weaving with the silver thread on his lips. Christ his hands, thank god I did wash, taking it in his hands and he is looking up at me now, teeth bared and eyes open with dancing blue flame, lambent as the stars, and I finally get a look at him under-around flourescence.
He flatters me, a Sebastian with Pierced Hand gazes up ardent, shining head, or I flatter myself and indoingso flatter him. He has the lip of Caravaggian boys and the general pallor of a Duncan Grant (the lighting) and maybe a pair of Mishiman armpits hiding somewhere bursting with hairy thick musk like one of those stinking flowers and his wrist twisted and holding my thigh Donatello-ly, or maybe Praxiteles-y, or one of the other countless faggy Greco-Italians who flirt with me in marble and bronze, and a pair of flexing Hockney legs flashing white somewhere misterly beneath stretching, yawning, waking denim. He’s holding me there as I look at him and he looks at me, as if for the first time, and maybe I am looking golden under the light as he makes his assessments and I see it all shining back at me once again and he starts over again and I go O once loudly, surprised, but yes covered by the door slam or toilet flush or some other, obscure noise bustling in from the outer dark.

And there is the feeling of his hands, one before and another after, smooth and rough on smooth as it goes and goes and he smiles but not too hard and I make an O and breathe out hooo (quiet quiet) one more hoooo and big gulp and back under. I squeeze on his shoulders, pink bloom white, and he goes on and anon squeezing, fingers like eels to serpentine and spiralise, squidlike. Tighten and he is trying to wring it out of me pull boys pull pull me hearties, lean in close, and ask me to pull (wet breath on the skin) harder on sighting that white back bursting from the pregnant waters. A golden Moctezuma nailed to the mast for me and next to this one firm harpoon spears a drop of tar, twanging hard on wood as it finds the mark, and another firm harpoon thrown singing for that back sighted white on wine-dark, that firm harpoon to split so I roll spouting black blood.

And yet he relents, slows and slackens from fast to loose and I am back in sight. I see in his fist, one dry knuckle-cracked, and he looks up at me and I ask myself what is he looking for and has he found it-

5.

He has found it, yes, one digit fingersnake salivaslicked while I wasn’t looking to serpentine within ring, promised, yielding, down on both knees, O, slipping past and still tight around, pierced singly with a single graven spear. Push, lightly, one flex and then out, pushing my legs up and pointed arched ankles and where is he moving now o I see tongue touch all moving so fast I need to keep my legs, but push and lift and I am spun, trainer squeak and hand braced cold on white tile once again sharpie thick and stickerclad finger left brushes up against call gino 076849…brushes painted hips around a grasp gasp and pushing again, this time warm and wet speaking without words against, golden headed within touching distance of the aureole and golden mouthed, Chrysostom, holy holy holy he chants under there and I chant with him but I can only utter an o o o and biting down I silence.

He’s not letting go and he’s moving it again but my hands have nowhere to go finger splay and futile tipgrip on nothing but nailbite clean enamel pulling myself up and up towards that light and he’s moving both in one, up and down up and down, mingled in one essence and in his hands and under his tongue I am needle-like quivering hot and heated yielding pushed in and out out and out further inwit surface to enter somewhere else in schoolyard spoilage overflow and changing-room socks rolled below ankle glimpsed edges of underside shirts we sit around Lynx-smoke fire at the centre of the room sharing in ancient communion as those feet (!) frightfully obscured I turn away (cold tile turning warm under finger breath) and let them see only my back and so I turn left right glimpse glimmering underside white like ice cream lick it lick fleeting treat let it melt under your tongue in the summer sun and I held you once by the legs as I am held now and I held on and held on never letting speak its name the feeling that sprouted out of from undergrowth within the deepest dark of blooming from refuse and we both fell to the squelching sucking wet black earth and the game went on around us in happy shouts of yoretide and I go O once very loud (blush squirts hot red) as you find what you were looking for grasped somewhere at the centre of things-

6.

Pulled round surrender, facing and raised flag salute white blazoned on red, back under warm-deep hold recurrent knuckledeep throatdeep deep on both sides surrounded bucked up and I like it like this the way I am taken bridal and bridleheld I like it so much in fact I like it so he will do what thou wilt while I am tensed like a volcano, stretched like form of man splayed across unbending stone made to bend under the shaping hand and held there by the pushdown flex in gravitational patience unto the coming of-

all things are possible I am holding this cup for thee holding it here as he holds me very still but I am moving somewhere unseen the swimming magmic ocean ‘neath in reddening flows hot in hot motion thundering towards a flash of white on black behind my eyes and I flash forth white bolts in a thunderclap a new testament shed for you alone to fill thine cup to brim-

all things are possible and all the world is spinning forth born anew in this moment as he takes me in one at a time-

and I see myself through an others eyes and I am held in an others grasp I see and I am him feeling that skin made membranous veins overfull with porous affect pours through one vessel into t’other touching mine own hip-bones, a jutting point, with a strangers hand as I quivering, trilling, awaiting, watching mine own screwed shut eyes and thrusted out jaw and voided open mouth and gripped white finger bones and I am taken back to where I was seen wandering alone in a crowded room with an emptied bacardi and coke head turned down and something tickled/s me/him both in that moment and this one too and I/he reached out to pull this forlorn wanderer up and out and to dwell forever on this eternal island, dwell in the spinning loop where each action each feeling led inexorably to this one and around again in one swift motion from birth to death to birth and again death, death, death.

7.

I am let loose and he stands and looks at me with both eyes and for the first time we are truly eye-to-eye and he shuts his softly and leans into kiss and releases it all back, everything truly everything back.

I taste it, I taste the sea, the aqua aeterna wash in with all the first prokaryotes falling top over tail in the endless undifferentiatedness each spitting out a tiny little breath of oxygen in the billions and trillions and in their largesse they are smitten and poisoned by their own waste and I taste the first plate tectonics and the first fungi sprouting like cathedrals long before the first shoots of green plants but they arrive too in clustering cities birthing ozone swaddlecloth and I too taste small Cambrian combs and sponges and the fish and the ferns and the lichens and mosses and the first footprints appear scuttling across sand dunes crablike and all the great reptiles and apes quickened in the sweeping ages and the ecocides continually fluxing like a giant breathing out death taking sacrificial hecatombs and again life and we are ourselves breathed out onto the earth, the wielders of sacrificial knives, and after so much silence there is so much noise and I swallow it all in a single gulp and the taste lingers and it will linger until the stars have gone dim and the world returns to sea and to the time before we could remember anything other than its swell, its crushing bottomlessness, and the quiet of voiceless ages. In the lingering, a slick dancer across my teeth and tongue, he has poured all life and all self back into myself and (breathing out one time I have been holding my breath for hours and hours) my cheeks glow and I feel that lighted candle which he has lit within me and so I allow a little fantasy of tomorrow morning breakfast time and maybe another time after that and after that. My hand touches his chest, and he squeezes my arse and turns to go and I pull up my trousers and follow him out into the nighttime din.

8.

Through the light and dark and light and dark I, limb loosened, follow at his heels with my eyes fixing on the back of his jeans. I consider reaching out with my hand to take his but he is moving too fast through the surging waves of dancers. He turns, phone in hand, as we reach the doors and I look to find whatever light that there was in his eyes in that cubicle now faded here amongst the multitudes as he taps his screen without looking up and speaks:

“My uber is here, maybe I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah. I-”

I say, and I let him go while one hand stays outstretched, almost close enough to grasp his left one hanging lazily, and, as he pushes on the door, face still turned away, I feel the wave of cool air and a flash from headlights on rain-slick pavement, which, beaming, makes me wince, but I still lean out to watch him and he doesn’t look back as he pulls open the backdoor of a silver Toyota and, sitting down, he is taken away in a quiet woosh and glimmering light.

I will come back here, I say, maybe silently and maybe aloud, I will return to this place again and again. And then I let the doors close and the dark comes to take back what is left of the night.