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30 November 2010, 10:00 am 2 Comments

Co będzie Twoją przygodą?: Gay Ghost Story (NSFW)

This post was submitted by Jude

FICTION

“In the Ramble”

It was rare for young Avery to find himself on a piece of New York City he’d never been to before. In the six years since moving there, he thought he’d come to know every inch of it. He’d been to Central Park enough times, but the good thirty-something acres making up the Ramble were completely unfamiliar to him until that night. Peering in from the 81st Street entrance of the park, he could make out only the lit path as it snaked its way in and disappeared. On the other side of the street, the natural history museum sat dark and dormant. During the day, it watched this block of Central Park West fill with school buses, carrying children on their field trips, with sack lunches they would eat on the steps next to Teddy Roosevelt’s horse.

Avery had just spent the evening having dinner with his boss at the West End Avenue apartment he shared with his partner of thirty-five years. “You’ve never seen Robert DeNiro in Cruising?” his boss had asked, stopping a spoonful of pumpkin soup inches from his face. The film was out for five years before Avery was even born. “It’s probably on Netflix,” his boss’s partner said. “Yep. It is.” His MacBook was opened toward him on the counter.

“No, don’t watch it—it’s a joke,” Avery’s boss said. “But you’ll get an idea of how things used to be for gay men in New York. When guys went for a blow job in the park and got a baseball bat to the skull instead.”

“It happened to a friend of ours from Columbia, right there in Central Park, in the Ramble. I want to say 1978. And it was this time of year, too, just before Halloween.”

“Fag-bashers almost took his head right off,” Avery’s boss added.

Avery would cut through the bottom left corner of the park, to get to a Q-train at 57th Street and eventually home to Brooklyn. Though his iPod had died on the way uptown, he kept the earphones in, only listening to his own muffled footsteps. Each passing lamp post kept him from being swallowed by the black that such a moonless night provided. A shriek cried out from the backseat of a taxi as it flew by. Probably drunk college kids, coming in or out of the city, but it was just enough to startle him. He also thought he heard a cackling—maybe from the cab, maybe somewhere else—as he continued on the path and the lights of Central Park West disappeared behind him.

It was not just his own footsteps Avery soon began to hear. He stopped, yanked out his earphones, and listened. Nothing. He tried to pick up the pace, only to stop again. It sounded like heavy boots, with each step having the rattle of a chain or spur. There was nothing around him but the twisted trees, and whatever lived among them. He could see a tunnel up ahead. Perhaps it had just been some kind of echo.

The wind picked up as he neared the tunnel, like heavy breathing at the back of his neck. It almost seemed to call out to him. Averyyy… He heard the footsteps again, this time directly above as he crept his way into the darkness of the tunnel. Heavy boots, and that metallic rattle. And though he knew the tunnel was completely empty, he felt the stare of many eyes on him as he went through. He heard the whispering, the soft moans and belt buckles of the many men once there before him. As he came out, he craned his neck out to look up, but saw no one.

Avery spun around. A man was now there, standing at the other end of the tunnel. He could not see a face. The man began to walk toward him, the familiar clap of his boots coming closer and closer, until he was cloaked in darkness and Avery could no longer make him out. Then the footsteps stopped and the tunnel was silent.

Before even realizing he had stopped walking, Avery heard the sound of a zipper above him. Then he saw the black boots, a silver spur at each heel. The man from inside the tunnel was now standing on top of it, his hand digging into the open fly of his pants. He wore a leather vest, opened to show the rippling of his stomach, and the downward curve of his hip. He couldn’t have been that much older than Avery. A faint chloride smell began to permeate the air around them, the smell of soil soaked by a century’s worth of cum. His dick was out, the purple head pointed right at Avery.

Without thinking, Avery climbed up to the man, knelt before him. It was as if his limbs and mouth had been possessed, pulling the foreskin down in his teeth, running his hand up the light fur of his torso to a cold, hard nipple. The man grabbed Avery by his hair, pulling him up to his feet. He wore a leather hood, its mouth zipped shut. Avery reached up, took hold of the zipper and drew it across. A steady stream of hot blood poured out. The man pulled Avery in, and planted a violent kiss. Avery struggled to free himself, tugged at the mask until it finally came off. There was nothing underneath. No face, or head, at all. The figure, too, had disappeared before him, leaving Avery alone in the dark, his lips still buzzing and the copper tinge of blood lingering in his mouth.

A siren cut the air. It was an NYPD cruiser racing through the park, its red strobes reaching all the way to Avery before speeding off toward the east side. And the Ramble was silent once again.

Photos courtesy of my boyfriend (c)Guillermo Riveros

Check out the new guillermoriveros.com for more


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