Shaun Levin
The Whole Bloody Story of My Life from Beginning to End

Just listen to this. You're not going to believe it. I was on the tube, right, coming home from the studio, right, and there was this guy on the train. We were eyeing each other like fucking animals. And I just knew something was going to happen. I could tell he was really into me. I could tell he really wanted me. I knew exactly what I was wearing, and I could tell it was making him hot. He was so fucking gorgeous, and he just couldn't keep his eyes off me. And I let him, fuck, I let him stare as much as he wanted to, right. And then he got up, and it was like he had some fucking dog collar around my neck. He yanked me out of my seat, and I was off. After him. We were way past King's Cross, past the Angel. But I wasn't going to let this one get away. He was fucking gorgeous, and I was shaking, I was, I was so fucking nervous I thought I'd shit in my pants. In these new fucking cords. I thought I was going to die.

Anyway.

His place wasn't far from the station, but I could tell I'd never be able to trace my Way back later. I could tell there was no way I'd find my way back to the station. It's not like I know my way around London after all these years. Take me to a part I've never been before, and every house and street looks the fucking same to me. Identical. But I was being led by him, right, fucking dragged along like a dog. His boots were thudding on the pavement as if they were saying: fuck you all out there. I don't give a fuck what you all think. I live here. This is my fucking street. I've never had that, you see. I've never had that feeling in any place. So it was like I could feel it through him. Fuck, I could have carried on walking behind him forever.

But then we got to his house. Just this regular fucking house. He opened the front gate as if he didn't give a fuck whether I was behind him or not. He unlocked the front door, and we walked up to his flat on the first floor. One of those converted houses with about six fucking flats in one house. He said his brother owned the whole place. He said his brother felt sorry for him. He said he felt sorry for him and let him stay in one of the flats. And then inside. Inside there was no light. The blinds were down, and he kicked the door shut behind him, and there was this dead fucking silence. Like: Shut the fuck up, nobody talks from this point on.

I knew he was going to turn round and lash at my face with a fucking knife. I knew it. I thought, This guy's going to whip out a fucking chain from his back pocket and fuck my head in. And I thought, What the fuck. There's no way I'm going to get out of here so just fucking enjoy yourself. And did his place stink. Fuck, that place smelt foul. Cigarettes and dirt and smelly clothes, and I just thought, You English are so fucking grimy. You're all fucking slobs. And that was when I knew this guy would never hurt me.

He came at me, grinning, grinning like some fucking evil fuck, but I just kept my eyes on his. I let him play his game. His face was this close to me, this close, and he put his mouth on mine. He held the back of my neck and pushed my mouth open with his tongue as if he wanted to dig through me. He was quiet, not a word, and I wasn't going to risk saying anything. I wasn't going to make a fool of myself by saying something really stupid. Then he bit my bottom lip, here, look, look what he did, left his mark on me, and then he stepped back. He stepped back to look at me and started to undress right there in the fucking living room. In that fucking pitch-dark living room that stunk of wet ashes, armpits, and shit-stained underwear. He knew I was watching him. He took his time taking off his jacket, unbuttoning his white cotton shirt, massaging the hair on his chest, pinching his nipples. He stood there in his boots and jeans, and I knew with every pore in my fucking body that this guy was going to fuck me and it was going to be so fucking good.

He was like a fucking animal, I'm telling you, thick and hard and covered in dark red hair. He left his clothes on the floor and walked into his bedroom, sweat glistening on him like fucking dew in a spider's web. You can't imagine what it was like. I just wanted to go down on my knees and lick his whole fucking body. I did. I was ready to lick the fucking floorboards his shoes had stood on. I imagined looking up at the fur on his shoulders and his chest and stomach and him pulling me to my feet and saying: Boy, I'm going to fuck your pussy.

Fuck it, you know how smooth I am. You know how sometimes my body feels as soft as a cunt and I'll do anything to get a man to fuck me. I'll follow him into his bedroom and beg him to stick his cock inside me. I'll call fucking strangers on the phone and leave the door open for them to come in. That's what was going to happen here. But no begging this time, right. He was fucking hot for me. He was going to fuck me like a fucking wolf, and there was nothing I could do about it. I took off my All-Stars and my cords, then my T-shirt. I left them lying there in the hallway and went into his bedroom and lay back on the bed, just watching him take off the rest of his clothes. He stared at me while he undid his trousers and scooped out his cock. He looked at me as if he could kill me and he said, "I want your arse so fucking badly. Show it to me. Lie back like that and let me see. Let me see where I'm going to stick my fucking cock."

And I did just what he said. Fuck. He was so fucking hot for me.

"I'm going to fuck your arse," he said. "I'm going to fuck it so good. I'm going to fuck your arse like it's the only thing in this fucking world."

This guy couldn't get enough. Can you picture it. Can you picture him there talking to me, saying, "I want to be inside you, man. I want to fuck you so hard and long and sore. I want to fuck that soft smooth cunt of yours. Come on, show me. Spread your arse like that. Yeah. Let's see."

By then I'd propped myself up on his pillows, holding my arse open and watching him pull off his boots, then his trousers and socks. He wasn't wearing any underpants, and his cock stood out like a fucking flagpole, jerking up and down every time he said "fuck" as if his prick was some fucking worm-monster waiting to get stuck into my fucking arsehole.

He came at me with a vengeance. He did. He pushed those cushions off the bed and jerked my legs over my head and buried his tongue up my arse like there was no fucking tomorrow. I wanted his whole fucking face in there. I wanted him slobbering all over me, making noises with his mouth so it'd feel like the sounds were coming from inside me. His tongue pressed against the lips of my arsehole, and I lifted myself up and held on to the back of his shoulders and pulled him into me deeper. And he made those noises, those fucking animal noises, as if he couldn't get enough. Like a mangy fucking mutt caged and starved for days. He whimpered and growled and chewed into my arse as if he didn't care what was going to happen.

And his bed was like ice. Believe me. I'll never forget that. Like ice. Sheets like a fucking ice rink. But smelly. Fuck, did they stink. Damp and creased and smelly. I could feel the fucking cum stains melting under my back. And his hot tongue between my legs.

"Open up," he said. "Open." And I swear I could have screamed or fallen in love between each syllable. "Come on, baby," he said. "Come on. Open up for me."

I could have ripped myself in two for him to be inside me. I pulled my arse cheeks apart and felt his face push further into me. I don't know if you've ever felt this way. I don't know if you've ever trusted someone like that. Have you? Have you ever trusted someone to do to you whatever they wanted, and you knew they'd never hurt you?

And when his tongue wasn't enough, he tucked his shoulders under my knees and brought his cock to my arsehole. He stared at me without blinking and slowly made his way into me, chiseling his cock inside, jerking it back and forth. He was in. He stopped. He closed his eyes and let out this gush of air that was a scream and a sigh. Then he drew his cock out to the tip and slid it back in and kept whispering, "Open up, open up, open up." And I watched him moving in and out of me, and he looked so fucking tormented. Fucking deranged, believe me.

He was sweating like a pig, right. And grunting. Every time he stuck his cock into me he'd snort like a pig, like a desperate fucking animal that had lost all control. His body became darker as the sweat made his hair a damp mat on his skin. My legs were aching as if I'd been holding them up in the air for fucking ages. I needed to lower them, so I slid them off his shoulders and made them a ring around his back. I put one arm around his neck and clung to him like a baby. I pulled myself up and filled my mouth with his hairy nipple. I sucked on it and drank sweat out of his fur and told him to fuck me.

"Oh, God," he said. That's what he said. He said, "Oh, God, I'll fuck you. I'll fuck you. I'll fuck you so hard. I promise."

With my other hand I wiped the sweat off his back and rubbed it into my chest. My skin was already slippery from the sweat dripping off him. He pushed me onto the bed and stared at me. His face was beautiful. I touched his cheek and stroked his forehead and ran my fingers through his hair and traced them down his spine. His body tensed as if he was about to pounce. I clung to his arse cheeks and drew his cock deeper into me, slowly, reassuring myself. I wanted to say: Look. See? I've got all of you inside me.

Are you listening? Are you listening? Can you imagine this? Can you imagine what this was fucking like? In the middle of fucking nowhere with this stranger inside me, and I knew it was going to be fine. I knew that all he wanted was to fuck me. That he wanted me to lie there and take his big fat red-haired cock up my arse.

Then he said. He said, "You like it, don't you?" He said, "You love me fucking you."

"I do," I said.

"You do what?"

"Love it." I said. "I love it."

"What do you love?" he said.

I said, "I love you fucking me."

And then, just like that, he lifted his hand and slapped me across the fucking face. Hard. The pain shot from my cheek to my arsehole like a dart ripping through me. Then he just grabbed my legs and yanked my body down onto his cock and hugged his arms around my knees and shoved his cock into me and used my body to pound into as if I wasn't there and he pulled my arse toward him over and over. And I just let go. I just closed my eyes and let go as if I was doing some fucking yoga exercise, some kind of meditation, right. Fuck, I don't know, some mind and body split. I was looking down at myself and thinking: Fuck, this is amazing. I'm nothing. I feel nothing, and I'm fucking loving it. And then he fucking snorted up this big wad of gob from the back of his throat and spat into my face.

And I could feel again. I could feel how soft my arse was around his cock. I could feel how tight his arms were around my knees. I could feel the fur on his chest rubbing against my legs. And I wished he'd slap my face again. God, I fucking prayed he'd hit me before he came. Because I knew he was close. I knew by the way he was grunting and roaring and then his cum shot into me and dripped from my arse down to my back and he just dropped my legs and fell on top of me.

My face was under his armpit, drenched with sweat, and fuck knows how long since he last washed. He was gasping like he'd just run some fucking marathon. I put my arms around his back and stroked him. His skin was coarse and slippery. I ran my fingers up and down his back, combing his hair, until he rolled off me, slowed down his breathing, and just stared at the ceiling.

"Okay," he said. He said, "Okay. Okay." He said, "You can fuck off now."

I was lying there and there was nothing inside me and I thought, How the fuck am I going to get out of here. I wanted to ask him if I could stay. I wanted to say to him: Let me be here with you. Let me stay here at least until it gets dark outside. Then I can go. I don't want to be out there where everyone can see me. Please, I'll lie here and be still. And when it's dark, I'll go. I should have said that to him. I should have. All I wanted was to be near him. But I kept quiet, I kept hoping he hadn't meant what he said, or that he'd fall asleep and forget. I should have said to him: You don't have to be afraid. You know that. I don't expect anything from you.

But he got off his bed and moved into the living room. He gathered up my clothes and walked with the bundle to the door. He opened the door and chucked everything onto the landing. I walked past him and was going to ask if he really wanted me to go but he stared at me with such disgust I couldn't bear saying anything to him. I couldn't but I still wanted to and I felt my cock go hard and I just said, "Let me stay with you. Please. Let me stay."

His face wrinkled up as if I was the juice at the bottom of the rubbish bin. I should have said: I can love you more than anyone in this world. I can love you like nobody can. But I didn't. He held the door open with his foot and stood with his arms folded across his chest. I looked up at him, at that red fur covering his chest, at his massive nipples above his hands. Then he grabbed his cock and wiped my arse juices from it and onto the wall outside his place. He stepped back inside and slammed the door. And that was it.

I put on my top, hoping someone would come up and see me naked. Fuck, maybe he was even watching me. I tied my laces, my trousers still round my ankles, my arsehole facing his door. I walked back the way we came, looking straight ahead, making sure I didn't see the street name on the corner wall. I know what happens when you come back for more from these guys. I took a left, I think, I think it was a left, and I kept walking. The sun was still out but the air had turned cooler. I love this kind of weather, the kind of weather we've been having lately, that crisp brisk-walk kind of weather. It reminds me of when I was a kid. Going fishing with my grampa. Sitting in his boat at the mouth of the river before the sun came up.

I wandered around for ten minutes before I saw the cafe. I was sure I'd been there before. The name looked familiar. Maybe they'd done the place up since I was there last. It was bright. Yellow and orange walls and this bright blue furniture. The guy behind the counter stared at me. He just stared at me, and I thought, Aren't you open yet? Was there a sign on the door I didn't see?

"You alright, mate?" he said.

"Could I just have a coffee," I said.

"Anything else?" he said.

Because I remember him asking that. I remember him asking if I wanted anything else. And I remember him calling me "mate." I think he did. I think he said, Anything else, mate? Because when he said that, I knew I had to get out of there. I knew that if he asked me one more question I'd answer him the way mad people do when they latch on to you at a bus stop. I'd end up telling him the whole bloody story of my life from beginning to end.

I said just tell me the way to the tube, and he frowned and said, "Coffee's on the house, mate." He said, "Stay. Drink it before you run off." I said I had to be somewhere. I said I'd forgotten that I had to be somewhere. And I did. I did have to be somewhere. I had to be here with you, didn't I? The ride home's a blur now. Maybe because I kept my eyes shut on the train. Maybe because no one ever looks at you in this city.

I had a quick shower at home and changed into some clean clothes. When I looked at myself, in the mirror everything seemed fine. I looked fine. I hadn't eaten all day, and my face always looks better when I'm hungry. More defined and chiseled, right. I like the way I look sometimes. Jesus. Thank God for that. I never have to worry too much about going out and looking a mess. And then I came here. And here we are. And I'm fucking starving. So let's order some food.

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Shaun Levin lives in London. He has stories in The Gay Times Boo\ of Short Stories, Quickies 2, Best Gay Erotica 2000, and Slow Grind, as well as in Much, Indulge, and Harrington Gay Men's Fiction Quarterly. He runs Gay Men Writing, a creative writing workshop for gay men. His e-mail address is [email protected].

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"The Whole Bloody Story of My Life from Beginning to End," by Shaun Levin, © 2000 by Shaun Levin, first appeared in Best Gay Erotica 2000, edited by Richard Labonte and selected by D. Travers Scott (Cleis Press, 2000). Reprinted by permission of the author.