Surrender

The train ride was smooth, the carriage seeming to glide along almost soundlessly. "This is a smooth ride," he said, "Like going up in a hot air balloon. Have you done that?" he asked.

Matt grunted, glancing up from his laptop's screen, hand's poised, flickering fingers momentarily stilled before he looked back.

Outside the train window the grey day and dusky green and brown of the bush flowed past , seemingly endless.

"So?" he asked.

"Umm," was the only answer, and a hand briefly touching his knee. Reassuring physical contact.

They passed a shallow lagoon where clumps of thin grass like reeds were standing erect in the water, reminding him of islands. Some congregated into large masses, others alone, small outposts in the still grey water.

"So what did you think?" he persisted.

Matt looked up, a touch annoyed at being dragged away from his work.

"It's small. Nice location, but hardly room to turn around. You know I like space and comfort."

Matt returned to his work and his lover looked out of the window again. Something catching in his throat for a moment and swallowed. He liked cool days, days like today, not hot, not cold, cool. Everything. It was the first and last time Matt went to his house.

At first he'd thought that Matt was playing with him, had little need of him. He'd suggested things they could do together and Matt would say they were on his list, but never seemed to get around to that part of his list.

Then they would meet and he made Matt arch, writhe, moan and sigh as he made love to his still nearly perfect body. Until it was Matt's turn to devour him. In those moments Matt would be there as he never was otherwise, exploring him, making love to him. But saying occasionally, as a casual observation, things like, "It's a shame you're so small," stroking and sucking his small cock as Matt's own filled again to it's full 8 inches.

So there were other men, and in the first heat he'd shared Matt, giving it little thought. Sucking him while some muscular well-hung man plowed Matts arse, and he moaned and gasped. "Yes more, God that's good. Turn, yes. Like that. Oh yes." And he wondered why he seemed to remain while the well-hung golden bodied men moved on in a slowly passing parade.

Matt did little to build anything between them. It was he who'd needed the daily contact and established the phone calls as a pattern Then he discovered one day that Matt had become accustomed to them like some mildly addictive drug.

He had been surprised and suddenly overcome by the discovery that he really was wanted. And he'd wondered what Matt wanted, making a great effort to discover it. But with no change in Matt's manner to him he gave up. In the end he realized that he would get what Matt gave him, and could only give what it was natural for him himself to give.

They lay in bed one day and Matt said, "I'm getting a bigger apartment. There'll be enough room for both of us."

Matt said it looking into his eyes, but matter of factly. A statement, not an invitation.

He'd said nothing, not sure if Matt was actually asking him to move in, and stunned to blankness by the remark.

Matt had moved in and soon after he'd asked petulantly, "When are you moving?" A forgone conclusion . Now he was being slow and inconsiderate not being there.

"I wasn't sure you were serious," he'd replied, confused, pleased, lost.

He'd thought of one thing though. The only time he'd been there at night they had spent the night together, Matt cupped into his lap.

"We sleep together," he'd said.

"There are two bedrooms," Matt replied, frowning.

"If I move in we sleep in the same bed."

Matt shrugged.

He moved in, keeping his clothes in the other bedroom. Matt's own wardrobe was extensive with his clothes overflowing into the second bedroom, but Matt had cleared a couple of drawers in the chest out for him, and complained when he didn't use them. So he moved his underwear in there, into the chest in their bedroom.

The well-hung bronzed gods continued to pass through, leaving their impression briefly in Matt's stretched and well stroked arse.

One day he came home to find one of them there again, plowing Matt as they kissed deeply and he'd gone cold seeing them. Suddenly terrified that it was over, that something he'd never known for sure he'd had was gone.

But Matt had turned his sex drugged face and signalled him over, pulling him to him and taking his mouth, moving a hand inside his pants, moaning as Jeff continued to plow him.

Then Jeff was gone and Matt had plowed him as if he never wanted to stop, the sky beyond the glass wall turning dark with a golden moon and a million stars hanging in it like Christmas ornaments. And at some time when his lover was resting inside him, subsiding from the last fuck, Matt had whispered in his ear, "I love you."

It was almost as if Matt's words had escaped during a lapse in concentration and they rolled about, occupying his mind, until they turned into a phrase he had read once 'Life isn't coherent, and it doesn't fit into neat boxes'.

And he wondered if he had the courage to truly surrender himself to it.

*

I owe the line 'Life isn't coherent, and it doesn't fit into neat boxes.' to Glen. Perfect inspiration.