by Eric Del Carlo
Fable had it that this Halloween night was when old-time rock ‘n roll held its breath: here was the great Incident, the naughty, erotic slip-up, that lightning-stuck occurrence when the two gaudy musical god children got it on together, man on man. Stick Duggs and Elvin de Vries, each bona fide legends. Rock icons who had blistered the flesh of the planet with their puissant sounds. Both men had already assembled acclaimed careers by this time; and they would persist as mainstays of music for decades after this.
But tonight…oh, tonight they were lovers.
What made it so delicious, in Symon Fellowes opinion, was that the two strutting males had over the course of their fames presented as aggressively heterosexual. It was part of the brand, a sign of the times. Even de Vries, who tended toward glam, was a straight-up pussy hound in all his historical press clippings. And Stick Duggs–well, the man was the embodiment of the girl magnet rock star.
Symon had come to witness. To see that fabled M/M fuck for himself.
And what an incredible letdown it was…
First, both men were quite drunk. They fumbled themselves naked, having staggered into the sultan-sized bedroom. Duggs was chubbier than his traditional image suggested, with a rather soft belly; de Vries had some kind of fungal rash on his back and butt. The two were laughing, loud sloppy sounds. They shoved their way onto the gigantic bed. A vase crashed to the floor. They guffawed. De Vries’ uncircumcised cock was at droopy half-mast. Duggs was pulling on his own meat, muttering at it. They groped one another for a while, appearing, if anything, perplexed. They never kissed. There was no fellatio, no anal sex. In fact, nothing that could rightly be called sex. Just a fair amount of slovenly touching, until the pair passed out within seconds of each other. In repose, they did instinctively cuddle, which was kind of cute; but Symon felt that this scene had hardly been worth traveling across time to observe.
As he gaped, vastly disappointed, he became aware that he wasn’t alone in the room. There was another presence. Someone like him. A Witness.
He’d been briefed about the eccentricities of the time prism. Witnesses couldn’t interact with a target environment. They could only watch.
“You can’t always trust the hype,” this other presence said.
Symon strained to see the person in his – it was a male voice – own refraction. After a few seconds the individual became clear. A handsome male, with a wry expression.
Symon asked, “Is this really all that happened?” As if this man knew, like a tour guide would.
He nodded. “Afraid so.”
Side by side now they gazed together on the sodden heap of nude rock star flesh. Word of this Halloween “tryst” would get out (probably somebody peeping into the bedroom, seeing this), and the story would circulate. Twenty years on, Stick Duggs would casually admit to the Incident at a press conference; by that time Elvin de Vries would have succumbed to lung cancer.
This was Symon’s first jaunt through a time prism, and now he felt belatedly embarrassed by his choice of destination. He could have visited the Library of Alexandria before it burned, or seen Archduke Franz Ferdinand get shot, or watched that United States ex-president as he stood for his sentencing.
As if confessing, he said, “This is a trivial historical moment.”
His fellow Witness dropped a gentle hand to his shoulder, which was when Symon realized Witnesses could touch each other. “Don’t beat yourself up,” the man murmured. “My name’s Barker, by the way.”
“Fellowes.” The hand stayed there. And Symon felt a latent stirring, a rising undercurrent. There was something exquisitely freeing about going through a time prism, even to a destination like this. A sense of liberation suffused him. In his own world, far in the future from here, he lived a satisfying and satisfactory life; but there was little edge to anything. Comforts were soft. Adventures were safe.
Symon let out a long breath, keenly aware of the tender pressure of Barker’s hand.
In a self-deprecating tone, Symon said, “I really wanted to watch them fuck.” Barker chuckled quietly, then Symon joined in, and their laughter rang in the oversize luxuriant bedroom.
At its crescendo, Symon suddenly turned and, with an abandon unfamiliar to him, threw himself against Barker. The other was evidently ready for him, perhaps hoping for this very thing. Barker’s arms were around him, and their heads were near; then their mouths met.
The kiss was an electrical jolt for Symon. Desire surged up through him, a crackling erotic energy. Their lips had parted, and now their tongues tangled eagerly. Barker betrayed no misgivings, and Symon’s nervous energy and his unfulfilled anticipation about this time trip focused into a burning lust. He wanted this man, more than he’d even hoped to see the ancient rock legends screw.
His cock stood achingly erect in his silken trousers.
The slavering kiss broke, both men panting. Barker managed, “You think maybe somebody ought to fuck on this bed tonight?”
They undressed quicker and far more efficiently than had the two passed out musicians. Barker, out of his own satiny raiment, was a hale enticing illustration of masculinity: nice muscular definition, a tight meaty ass, a cock as hard as Symon’s.
The bed was huge, capable of accommodating half a dozen groupies at once, no doubt. As Symon and Barker lay down together on it, Duggs’ snoring hitched briefly, then resumed. But even if both famous singers suddenly awoke and stared straight at where the two Witnesses were, they’d see nothing. The refractions saw to that.
Symon barely felt the bed beneath him. But he was more interested in feeling Barker anyway, who was in his arms, their mouths once again glued together, tongues thrashing. Their cocks rubbed together, and pleasure coruscated in him, white tendrils of rising carnal joy.
Hands roamed. Symon explored the firm flesh. He groped that ass. Their kiss broke again, and he was licking Barker’s throat. He moved down to flick his tongue tip across the man’s nipples. A low moan rolled out of Barker.
Sex back home – in his local time period – could be as effortless as this, but it lacked the wicked spontaneity of the scene. Here there were no profiles to check, no automatic security measures in place: these absences whispered of danger, faint and unlikely but present, and that added to the excitement.
Symon shoved further down Barker’s body, kissing a hasty trail down his abdomen. Then he was shouldering open the man’s thighs and laying himself into the cradle of those legs, and eyeing the cock standing rampant before his face. He held Barker’s balls, and dropped his mouth onto him.
The cock taste in his mouth. His tongue caressing the squiggling veins. The ring of his lips sliding down the shaft. Sucking. Swallowing. Head up, drop again; lift, fall; bobbing mouth, dribbles of saliva at the corners, cheeks flattened around the staff. Suck him. Suck him.
He didn’t bring Barker to orgasm. Barker didn’t let him. He was strong, wiry. He pulled Symon off, flipped him over, reversed the whole order of the act: now Barker blowing him. Symon threw an arm over his eyes, his mouth slack around a continual rising cry of pleasure. Barker’s mouth worked him expertly.
But Symon didn’t come yet either. They saved it up. Barker had been right. This grand bed, fixed into sexual legend, deserved some true homosexual intercourse on this night of nights.
They silently negotiated the particulars. Barker got onto his back. Symon climbed atop, set Barker’s spit-lubed cockhead against his waiting hole, and lowered his ass onto him. The penetrative pleasure bloomed all through him. His own cock twitched and drizzled as he set out to ride his lover. Barker’s powerful hands were around his hips. Soon he was thrusting up in tandem to Symon’s downward drops. Symon planted his palms on Barker’s pectoral muscles. His whole body flexed. He felt alive in every cell. He tingled from scalp to toes.
Barker was grunting, then growling, then his fingers were tightening into Symon’s hipbones. The ecstasy overtook Symon, and when he let go his jets of spunk, he felt Barker answering, shooting his hot jizz up into Symon’s ass.
So it was that on his first jaunt through a time prism, Symon Fellowes discovered that a whole network of sexual adventurers were at large in the time stream. Barker belonged to this clandestine society, and was eager to show Symon these temporal cruising grounds.
Eric Del Carlo is a longtime contributor to Circlet Press anthologies, starting with 1997’s Wired Hard 2. His works of erotic speculative fiction include the novels Raise the Red Flag and After the Hell. His mainstream science fiction has been published in Analog, Asimov’s, Clarkesworld and other venues.