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From: eli@NetUSA.Net (Eli The Bearded)
Subject: [rae archive] What's the Chicken? {mm mutual}
Keywords: mm mutual

Archive-name: whats-chicken

From: lindsay@kingston.ac.uk (John Lindsay)

Subject: What's the Chicken?

Keywords: mm mutual

X-Moderator-Review: 10: curious title, elegant story. With some
proofreading, IMHO this is publishable.

X-Ava-Review: 10: "When you're lovers in a dangerous time / Sometimes
you're made to feel as if your love's a crime..." Lovely little piece.

What's the chicken?

I was leaning against the balcony of the roof of the Palacio del Valle
looking across Cienfeugos Bay sipping a mojito when Ivory slipped his
arms around my waist. I could tell it was Ivory as the arms were
thinner than Richard's, and I could tell it was not Virgil as they
were lighter. He squeezed me tightly, then slipped a hand into the
armhole of my vest and began to tweak my nipple. I could feel his cock
pressing against my arse and his other hand joined the other nipple
and began to tune me in.

Then a hand ran down the hair on my chest, combing it through his
fingers, down to the top of my shorts, inside and pulled up to my
stomach what was becoming a very uncomfortable erection down the side
of my leg. On the street below children were playing unconcernedly.
Two boys rode by on a bicycle, looked up and broke into a broad grin
as they saw the four armed beast.

There was a period while I was still looking at the view and admiring
the sun passing through the clouds and the shapes of the buildings of
a hundred years of booms and busts, of belle epoche grandeur now
tattered but attractive, more so without people, through the trees.
Then there was a period when his stroking became more insistent and I
began to lose interest in anything except that.

I reached behind to feel his cock, then pulled down his zip and
slipped my in hand . Thus we stood for some long time. Squeezing and
hugging, his nose nuzzling my ear and his tongue stroking it. He
wasn't bad for a straight.

My shorts could easily be slipped down and he could be inside me, a
head shorter so not uncomfortable, but I didn't have a condom and some
sense held.

I wondered whether I could turn round, or if that would break his
concentration and his fantasy. Then he lifted a hand and began to
stroke my beard, long strokes from my forehead right round to my chin.
As I turned, he effortlessly slipped his hand round without losing
grip or pulse. Face to face we fondled one another, noses and cheeks,
beard and chin, faster and slower, tightly, top and bottom.

Actually none of that happened at all: he was sitting talking with the
other two the whole time as I stood looking out over the bay. Then I
walked over to the other side of the roof and looked out over the
town: more turrets, more baroque, streching right up the Prado. Ivory
came over, rested his hand on my shoulder and asked me, in French,
what I was thinking of, and I replied, "the whole world". Then the
others joined us and we walked down stairs to sit on the sea wall

The two hunters had picked us up the previous night, but just after
we'd sorted out our particular and pallidar, a disappointment for
them. None the less we agreed to meet later than night and did. It was
the 30th December and the town was at party: the whole town. We sat on
a step and chatted. Ivory took me for a walk through the crowd and I
had the unusual sensation of towering above everyone, a good head
higher, and much bigger. I'm accustomed to that glance in any town,
face, cock, face; usually with a wince after the first face and the
other two missed out. Sometimes all three then a head turns away. But
here is was different: face, cock, feet. And now the glances stayed
fixed for moments but whether on my cock or my feet I couldn't tell.
My Cats were the butchest and sexiest thing in town.

Virgil, the darker, was an electronic engineer with an interest in
computing and some English, Ivory spoke some French. It took us some
time and many explanations to get across what being gay was, or that
was their game. In any event they weren't into it. We parted at
midnight agreeing to meet the following day to corrupt their
revolution another stage. Richard had discovered the marvels of
tourist dollars in walking into the hotel shop past a long queue
waiting for the chance to spend a year's savings on jeans or t-shirts
as the prices fell at the end so the targets could be met. Thus
everyone waiting. And he'd agreed to take them in, past the queue.

And so they did, successfully I gathered for when I returned from my
walk the next arrangement was that they would help us with our bags on
their bikes to the hotel to meet the bus back to Havana. This they did
and that was how we'd come to be on the roof of the Palace, where
they'd never been before, or so they said, sipping mojitos, them
holding the shirts they'd been given to avoid carrying the weight back
to Havana.

I'd been so taken by the entusiasm my cats had attracted that I
decided a habit of a lifetime should be broken and a photograph taken:
Richard's camera to capture my Lee vest, elasthern revenge black
shorts, beard, chest and cats! But it was Richard's idea that it would
be better with Ivory standing next to me, then with his arm around my
neck, while I slipped mine round his waist, began to stroke under his
arm and tease his nipple, all of which produced a wide grin a tight
squeeze and our whole bodies molded together. Our straight friend was
becoming flexible.

Then I reciprocated in clicking for Virgil and Richard.

The three of them went off, I refilled my glass. It was that moment
which produced the dream of heaven without which we cannot live.

Sitting on the sea wall I was wondering whether I could renew the
sense by resting my hand above his trousers on his back, when almost
telling what I was thinking, he put two fingers to his shoulder. I
leaned over and asked Richard what it meant and he said "Police".
Looking over across the car park by the front of the hotel, there they
were in a car. We sat, the three of them talking, me sitting in
silence, for a while. The car started up, drove out of the hotel, past
us, stopped, reversed then that supercillious flicking of the finger
of policemen the world over. He had a vicious tight face, moustache,
gun, long truncheon which beggered the are you pleased to see me?

The three got up and walked to them. I stayed sitting. I have no
Spanish and therefore could not contribute and I have a bravura
insolence to authority which has landed me in as much trouble as it
has got me out of, so staying clear if possible was the best.

The police looked at the Cubans' documents, talked into their mobile
radios and pushed them into the back of the car, moving over a young
woman who was already there. Were they going to shove us in as well,
and take us off? We'd miss the bus back to Havana, not able to
communicate, stuck in a Cuban prison on no charge, for how long? On
the other side of the island, with all our documents stuck in the
hotel's left luggage. Not a word to us, no request for our passports,
no explanation, no apology, just drove off. The last we saw was the
two smiles and Virgil's wave from the back window. The thin razorblade
road the friends of Dorothy walk, between heaven and hell.

We went back to the hotel and had a coffee. The bus was now more than
an hour late. Sitting there the dark gloom began to descend. Were the
boys going to just have 600 pesos taken off them to be pocketed by the
police? Were they going to be beaten up to confess they'd taken us to
a particular? Were they going to be beaten up to confess that we'd
fucked them? Were the police going to come back and arrest us for
having stayed in a particular and eaten the meal of a pallidar, even
if it was prepared by the wife of a senior party official? Were they
going to arrest us for being mariccones, force us to have tests, find
us HIV+ and accuse us of infecting the boys? I coughed again. I've
never had a test, I prefer not to know, I certainly don't want to find
out like this. Or were they just telling them not to consort with
foreign imperialist queers who were just after their arses and whose
dollars were not worth having and in that the Pope and Paisley would
agree (except maybe for the imperial bit), give them a slap of
encouragement and drop them in town?

Then a police car drove into the carpark of the hotel, drew up, and
waited. No one got out. Did they know we were in the foyer, could they
see us?

Shortly behind it the bus, our baggage loaded and on the way back to
Havana. The yellow brick road between heaven and hell is one brick
wide: heaven never turns out to be what it might, and hell seldom
quite as bad as one's imagination.

John Lindsay School of Information Systems Kingston University KT1 1
2EE United Kingdom url =
http://infosys.kingston.ac.uk/Kingston/ISSchool/StaffCV/LINDSAY.html
_________________________________________________________________

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