Silas had lips the color of cotton candy and they were just as sweet. A goatee framed them. On him it was very Dionysian indeed, for Silas' hair was glossy black. Logan had his tongue thrust between Silas' lips, and he was crotch to crotch with Silas, trembling on the edge of mating--this time not in Unshocked, their favorite club, but in Logan's bedroom.

Untrue. They were in their bedroom. As of today, Logan no longer soloed. Silas' clothing now lived in Logan's closets, not too alien a sight since Silas had spent many weekends here before he moved in. Some photos of Silas' buddies from back home sat uneasily on the nightstand, unsure of their new and queer home. As well as the picture of the cute blond surfer they'd picked up in Key West. A quaintly queer memento of their first threesome. The videotape of that encounter was shelved beneath the big screen in the living room.

The bed was indeed theirs. They had picked it out together last weekend. It now awaited them like a desert waits for the gods to breathe life into it. That divine breath would come tonight--very soon. Logan needed this.

Logan's arms encircled Silas' bare torso and cupped his hard buttocks. Their bodies swayed, remembering the sexy trance beats that Unshocked's spinmaster had delivered. Silas' long, slender cock throbbed through his jeans against Logan's. Nothing surpassed being crotch to crotch with Silas. Watching each other's back, they were a fortress.

I don't want anything else but this, he thought. Forever.

They had been hard for each other all night, grinding and writhing together in Unshocked's chaotic lightshow, riding each other and the music. It had been not merely good music but great music, and Logan had responded on the sexual level. His briefs were soaked with precum and dangerously stretched from his own godlike endowment. Silas, having gone commando, had raised a tent no Baptist revival would ever be held under. Though his endowment was nowhere near as monstrous as Logan's, Silas attracted looks in many other ways.

Silas broke the kiss, pulling away. He stared intently back at Logan. Over his eyes arched eyebrows thick and prominent, but there was no air of the Neanderthal to him. Gold dust had been strewn across his brown irises, and the sclerae were luminous against his maplewood-colored skin.

"You're here," whispered Logan, aching. "Finally."

"Finally," breathes Silas. He began to unbutton Logan's silk shirt.

"Gunter looked disappointed," said Logan. A disappointed Gunter was a rarity. Gunter was the short, muscled, blond buzz-cut bartender down at Unshocked. Logan knew him to be donkey-pronged, to have an eminently fuckable ass, to burn with an incredible libido, and to give away lots of good, fun drugs. Tonight, on this greatest of great nights, Gunter had seen the two dancing and, as he said, been enthused. So he had showered them with free booze, and provided two joints and a bottle of Blue Boy poppers. Not too long before they left he made an indecently immodest proposal. Any other night Silas and Logan would have taken him up on it. But tonight, they had looked at each other ruefully, and in a fit of conventionality decided that, no, it was more important that this night be theirs.

"We'll take care of Gunter later," said Silas, grinning. His fingers danced on Logan's nipples.

Logan's cock surged and throbbed. He quickly stripped. He had been horny too long for much foreplay. Things were moving towards an...inevitability. But they weren't there yet, and Logan needed to make it happen, before the moment dissolved in the acid that was life.

Then Silas was naked in Logan's arms, and he deftly guided that ex-running back into their bed. Logan laid on his back, Silas a pleasant weight on top of him. His fingers roamed the thick, coarse hair on Silas's thigh. Their limbs entwined and their lingual affinity resumed.

Through the window streamed the city's light, lurid on the underbellies of the gravid clouds hanging above. A grayish-orange glow drenched the shopping promenade across the river, while beyond the towers of the business district grew like a forest of steel-and-glass prisms. The glow enaureoled Silas, transformed his silhouette into a presence so ethereal Logan's heart almost broke as he thought of how the convolutions of fate might have kept them from knowing each other.

Like a zephyr, Silas' kisses trailed down Logan's body...between his nipples, past his navel. He took Logan's fat nuts into his mouth, worshipped at the source of those massive loads which left condoms sloshing with spunk.

"Lick me."

Silas laved the heavy sack, his breath exploding in snorts against Logan's perineum. Logan let him work unimpeded until Silas, impatient too, moved his mouth to Logan's cockhead. That brought the inevitable explosion too close. He wanted to juice later, and that made it imperative that Silas pay more attention to his shaft and stop tonguing his plum-colored head. Gently, Logan took Silas' skull between his palms and guided his throat down his shaft. Silas murmured contentedly; he knew what Logan needed.

Silas used to live in some hick town, overrun with Walmarts and Autozones now that the combined efforts of FDR and LBJ were consigned to the History Channel's fervid documentaries. Fortune, by cleverly denying Logan a directional sense, had brought him there; he had left the interstate looking for food, turned right instead of left or something of the sort, and unexpectedly encountered a kamikaze deer, which sacrificed itself for Artemis on the grill of Logan's Navigator. Silas had been a grease monkey in the body shop where the AAA tow truck brought Logan's bloodied SUV. For Logan it had been lust at first sight, always a good sign of something long-term. Conversation had proven easy. Logan had a thing for football players--he was irresistibly drawn, and it had led to trouble. But not this time. Logan's eye fell upon a photo, pinned to a corkboard on his workbench, of Silas as a running back on his high school team. His orange jersey had blazed the number 7 as if it was the length of his cock. Logan made no secret of being gay. Within two hours Silas had a mouth full of Logan's jism, a phone number, and a standing invitation.

Silas slid Logan's rod into his velvety throat. Logan sighed and prayed that, in surrendering to this extended blowjob, he hadn't blown the buttfucking. Silas' throat moved on his cock, and his tongue slithered along Logan's pulsing urethra. He ground his pubic hair against Silas' face, thrusting. Spit made sloppy his thick pubic snatch. Logan fought the urge to surrender to the ultimate pleasure, his fingers curling in Silas' hair and setting the pace to something low-gear.

If it had been any other night, Logan would have replayed over and over again that scene in the body shop's restroom and enjoyed this blowjob as long as Eros permitted. Perhaps he even would have asked Silas to put on his jersey and his jockstrap and service him.

Not right. Not for this tonight. This is just Silas and me.

He pulled Silas off, rolled him over onto his back.

"Good boy," he breathed. The sapidity on his lips must be Silas' saliva. "Too fucking good. I gotta screw you. Now."

Silas lifted his head up. "About fucking time."

On the nightstand sat a half-used bottle of lube, which Logan tossed to Silas. Gunter's icy bottle of Blue Boy poppers, sweating in the night, followed. Logan tossed the bottle to Silas. He dug into the drawer and retrieved a packet of Trojan Magnums. It was between his teeth, unopened, when Silas, quiet, his eyes warm as beacons on a winter's night, touched his arm. Logan felt that a ghost had passed through the room, raising the wolf's hair on the back of his neck.

"Leave it off."

"You sure?" Precum oozed.

"Yeah. Do it raw," Silas pleaded. "We're together now."

His groin quivered in an electric, unearthly way he hadn't felt since he was a teenager lusting for a quarterback. His foreskin fully retracted, revealing an excitedly greasy head. A translucent droplet of dew dangled from his pisslips. "You absolutely sure?"

"Yeah," grinned Silas. "I'm absofuckinglutely sure."

So this is it. He knows it's me. Logan lifted Silas' legs. The furry, hard-muscled calves on his shoulders were burdens he, a modern Sisyphus, was eager to bear. Silas' hand, dripping with lube, took Logan's prong and reverently slicked it up. Another dollop went onto Silas' bright pink and crinkled ring, a succulent meadow in a hairy valley.

Logan fought to restrain his balls, quaking with bursting energy, as he pressed his cockhead into the sweaty asscrack. He felt fertile, brimming with life and energy. He wanted to do nothing more than pour gallons of his juice--his potency, his reason for existence--into Silas. His heart hammered, and the beautiful black-haired vision shimmered below him as if distorted by a desert's heat.

Fortune presents gifts not according to the books. What enigmatic voice had pronounced those words Logan could not recall, but he did remember them, and thought about them often. It was rare and awesome--in the ancient sense of the word, when it was used only when something of the immortal and transcendent manifested itself in the mournful and decaying world--to have someone like Silas. Few things mattered to Logan, but Silas was definitely a thing that mattered very much. Had Logan waited to take the next exit of that interstate, or turned right instead of left, Silas would have been to Logan a poem forever unread, and the joy of this merger would have been something that Logan could only suspect could exist, could never have actually known. Each of them opened doors within each other that had been shut for years. Logan had stayed away from non-scene fags for years, because once he had met a hunky quarterback at a college bar, and had suffered a broken nose after misjudging the amount of Jagermeister the jock had consumed and making an indecently immodest proposal. Silas had defrosted old fears, reminded Logan that his world existed inside a larger world, like those Russian dolls that nest one inside the other.

What am I to him? No need to ask Silas that. Logan knew. Logan had found in Silas some ungerminated seeds of curiosity, immune miraculously to the pesticide of schools, and he took Silas places where those seeds had blossomed. Silas had learned there was a larger world, and he showed his gratitude every time they made love.

As Logan hung in the poignant moment before he thrust--a perfect moment of love and lust, which is all Logan really wanted out of life--he wished he could imprison Silas in amber, like Jurassic insects, perfect and preserved forever.

He thrust. Suddenly his flesh was inside. Inside.

"You're wet," Logan found himself whispering. "You're so fucking wet." Silas quivered, alive, impaled on his cock.

Once, Logan had indulged in psychedelic mushrooms. Sometime during the trip it had been revealed to him that the key to living was moisture. That mucousy feeling lining the inside of a nose was shared by all life even in distant parts of the universe where strange stars gaze from the void. And right now...warm, greasy oysters squirmed on Logan's cockhead. He felt Silas' heartbeat as deeply as if it were his own.

Logan pressed inwards. Silas absorbed his monstrosity, releasing a long contented sigh as the inches burrowed inwards. It was no longer the struggle it had been for Silas to take Logan's cock. It had become natural...the way God intended. Like flesh rutting on flesh.

His eyes. They were dangerous. His eyes. Logan, his cock euphoric with hot, living flesh sliding upon it, sank into the athlete in his bed. Golden dust whirled past his vision like bees disturbed from clover in a high meadow. Inside it was dark and deliciously sinful. There really was no point at even looking at the naked juncture of their bodies. Pornography itself, tactile and tight, twitched on Logan's shaft.

Existing only in the primordial realm of feeling, Logan's animal self, latent in humans insanely rationality, took charge. Potent images throbbed to drums in his heart. Torches flared on the dark tortured landscape inside Logan, and Silas' face peered from each coruscation.

"You're in me," Silas panted.

"I'm in you." He began to rock back and forth. He heard a disembodied groan, ghostly if not ghoulish, but it wasn't Silas...it was himself, praising the beauty of life. The motion on his shaft of the delicate and throbbing flesh, smooth like calf's liver, was his long sought-for obliteration.

The pallid city light gave a zombie cast to their flesh, but it did not matter, for all the beauty in the world was invaded by his raw cock and time was measured only by the slow and ecstatic stroking of his cock inside the body beneath him.

"I'm gonna be in you forever," Logan said.

Silas lifted the bottle of poppers to his nose and breathed its heady jinni. His rectum spasmed on Logan's plunging cock. The fiery-eyed and slack-jawed bliss which spread across Silas' face was something Logan could watch with endless fascination.

And then Silas put the bottle under Logan's nose, and the blood pulsing inside him burned hot as a hydrogen fire, and it seemed pointless to try and moderate what he felt. Their new bed groaned and creaked with the powerful thrusts he sliced into that tightly muscled ass. The wall lent a bass thump, his pounding slamming the headboard against it.

"It hurts," gasped Silas. He again whiffed Blue Boy's alchemical spirit. "So fucking deep."

"You're sweet, baby, so fucking sweet." Logan remembered the first time he'd ever said that to Silas. In a bathhouse, the first night they had hunted for other's flesh openly. It had been Silas' introduction to polyandry, and he was a fast learner. The sling room Silas had chosen as his lair that night, his lust a hydra that consumed sword after sword and grew ever stronger. Logan himself had spent some hours in the back fuck-booths, screwing sweating hot bodies on a vinyl mat. Stepping back in the slingroom he had found Logan, fucked to the point of delirium, with eight condoms sloshing with cum discarded on the floor beneath the sling like so many dead seashells. Logan had knelt, kissed Silas' abused and throbbing ring. So fucking sweet.

After that night, Logan knew--as he'd long suspected--that Silas was equally of the spirit and of the flesh, of heaven and of earth, and entirely his.

Logan rolled his hips, reveling in the bliss of flesh. He kissed Silas with furious urgency. The suction inside Silas--the manifestation of the need his lover had to be fucked--goaded Logan's balls towards unleashing fiery gouts of his potency. His chest was tight. Hot beads of sweat ran down his nose like molten lead.

"Fuck me."

Logan responded, his motions urgent and hard. Had Antinuous stared into the Emperor Hadrian's eyes long ago in the same way Silas now stared at Logan?

"I'm fucking you."

"Fuck me."

"Always."

The slapping of flesh began its crescendo. The headboard clattered madly against the wall. Logan grinned as Silas took another hit of poppers.

"You like this?" Logan whispers hoarsely.

"Uhhh--"

"Hard and fast? Like those guys in the sling?"

Silas gurgled, bucked in the bed against his lover's hard thrusts, beyond words.

"Wanna get a sling? I wanna watch guys fuck you. Here."

"...yeah..."

"You like me fucking you like this?"

"...ah, yeah, like this..."

"Too fucking hot, man. I'm gonna shoot."

"Shoot it in me."

Logan rammed, and rammed harder, his balls slapping stridently against Silas' asscrack. The bed rose, the world rose, everything rose, ahead of them was the blinding light where God dwelt--

A thunderbolt exploded along his spine. Orgasm whiplashed him. He skewered Silas deep. The unbelievable pressure in his balls burst in a torrent, coursed through his urethra, and flooded hot, thick pleasure into Silas' butt. Vaguely Logan was aware of Silas' orgasm--gouts of warm slime drizzled his chest--but there was nothing more important to him, at this moment, than the sperm coursing through his cock, pouring into the man he loved. Four times, five times, six times--and Logan knew each time he had to be firing a teaspoon of cum into Silas. Nine times, ten times, would it ever stop? For fuck's sake he hoped it never would.

It ended suddenly, as if an invisible entity had released the scruff of Logan's neck. He collapsed onto Silas, panting. Sweat dripped, intermingled, became salty rivers running over their pulsing, warm, moist flesh. He'd shot so much jism up Silas' butthole it felt as if his cockhead swam in thick cream of mushroom soup.

"Don't ever leave me. Not after that."

"I'm not leaving," says Silas. "I'm positive."

Logan could hear no better word. He had dreaded it for so long. The weekend before he discovered his paradise, this jockstrapped athelete whose butthole now bubbled sperm-scented farts, he'd found Gunter in the bathhouse's slingroom. The rumors were all true. Gunter was endowed. Gunter had good drugs. Gunter loved to bottom, and had grunted like a pig as Logan's raw monstrosity plunged furiously in his rectum. Gunter liked to talk, and he, too, was positive.