ACT ONE:Hector traps the cylinder between his pout. Gently gripping the filter the way you would hold a lover’s earlobe between your teeth, applying just enough pressure to communicate your desire. The flame of the lighter teases the end of the cigarette to life, like the tip of a quivering tongue, tracing the lines of a lover’s lips to stimulate a hungry response. He inhales sharply, with a sexy little hiss. Smoke fills his lungs, like tiny whimpers of pleasure echoing into the sensual cavern of his wicked mouth. He arches his back slightly and tilts his head to one side, exposing the muscular curve of his vulnerable throat; exhale...he smokes slowly. Each time he tilts his head back to exhale, his mouth stays parted in a small O shape, like he’s frozen in a moment of orgasmic passion.
My hands tighten to fists. I gnash my teeth and dig my nails into the flesh of my palms. It’s all I can do to stop myself from pouncing on him… and licking the residue of nicotine from his lips and fingertips.
Like the carcinogens slowly swirling through the room, my passing days with him are both intoxicating and delightful. He becomes my habit.
When I slid most of my cock out I could feel the breeze of the ceiling fan blowing on it, cool from the drip he coats me with. Then back in, deep, and finally warm again. He clings to my neck and I kept one hand on his hip and one under his ass, spreading him open. I pushed up and into him while he presses down and into me and this is us - fucking, sweating, kissing, all tensing muscle and slight corner-smiles. Hector takes my earlobe between his lips when he squirms in orgasm, and when it’s my turn he rolls onto his back and places my cock to his mouth. With me on my knees over him, he jerks me off until the thick white bursts out my head and flops onto his face and waiting tongue. He swallows my cum and my cock and I fuck his face for a moment while the rest seeps out. I fall back spent and we lay there looking at the ceiling fan, trying to make it spin backwards with our minds.
“Buenas dias.” He says.
“Good morning.” I blink groggily up to him.
I feel you. I see you. I taste you. Through the hollow stillness I reach out my hand and gently press my fingers against yours. Elysium greets us with the old familiar smell of swirling white asphodel. The wind tickles the trees and scatters the playful leaves. I open my eyes and look down at my arms. In this waking dream the skin is smooth, no scars. In this waking dream there are no scars. For now, no more blue tomorrows.