A gay story: Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 12 Leroy and Tyrone lived in the same building, and Leroy knew exactly where Tyrone’s crib was. It was like his second home; he’d been there hundreds of times. Sure, he could’ve gone upstairs to the 16th floor at any time since Saturday afternoon’s emotional meltdown, but he didn’t want to invade Tyrone’s space until his bro was ready to talk. He’d peppered him with text messages but hadn’t received a response, so he kept his distance, letting Tyrone lick his mysterious, unknown wounds. He knew how moody Tyrone could be when something was upsetting him, and he’d learned that at times like these, it was best to leave him alone until he was ready to re-engage. He hoped he’d eventually get a response to one of his messages, but at the moment, that didn’t seem likely.
But just now, after talking with whiteboi, something deep inside Leroy finally snapped. Fuck it. Fuck this bullshit. If Tyrone had lost his mind over the fact Leroy had checked out a gloryhole, something was wrong, and it was time to make it right. Friendships don’t end over things as petty as this.
He collected his keys, wallet and phone, left his apartment, and caught the elevator to the top floor. He knocked on Tyrone’s door. He half-expected a booming ‘who da fuck?’ before the door opened, and possibly a loaded gun waved in his face.
Tyrone opened his door quietly. “Hey, Leroy,” he said. He was wearing his Bulls cap. His dreads cascaded down behind it. His pierced nipples poked through the fabric of his tight black singlet.
Leroy leaned forward. “Listen, bruh, I know it’s late, but we need to rap ’bout some shit.” He glanced at Tyrone’s bulging biceps.
Tyrone threw his apartment door open in a gesture of passive invitation. He knew Leroy was right. They needed to talk at some point, but he knew it’d be an awkward, uncomfortable conversation, and while he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it yet, he knew it wasn’t wise to keep pushing Leroy away.
Leroy stepped into a room where he’d often felt completely at ease, almost like it was a second home of his own. But tonight, he felt tense, like he was intruding.
Tyrone wordlessly gestured for Leroy to take a seat. He noticed his homie’s juicy, fat, plump lips, and his strong, muscly forearms. Leroy sat in an armchair while Tyrone sat on his couch, spreading his manly thighs wide. They sat facing each other, neither knowing what to say to get the conversation going. They each felt anxious. The tension that existed between them was completely unnatural, yet neither of them knew how to put it right.
Tyrone was grateful that Leroy had held out the olive branch. They didn’t fall out often, but whenever they did, Leroy was always the one to make the first move. This was how it always went down.
“You want something to drink?” the host offered.
Leroy instinctively shook his head, though he desperately could’ve used a tall glass of water. His mouth was dry with nerves, and he licked his lips anxiously. “Nah. I’m coo’.”
They sat quietly for a while before Leroy broke the silence. He leaned forward, looking at the floor. “Seriously, what the fuck is happenin’ to us, brother?” He exhaled. “This some fuckin’ bullshit.”
Tyrone hung his head. He knew his response to Mitch’s gloryhole story was a complete over-reaction. He knew it had the potential to destroy the friendship of a lifetime. He wanted to make it right, but he didn’t know how. Emotionally, he felt paralysed.
Ty’s hands were clasped in his lap, perhaps in a form of silent prayer. He studied them intensely. “I’m… I’m fuckin’ sorry, Lee.” He took a deep breath, and Leroy watched his shoulders and chest rise and fall. “I’m really sorry, my bruh. Sometimes… sometimes I can be my own worst enemy. I shouldn’t have done what I done. I treated you so fuckin’ bad.” He paused again, collecting his thoughts, and Leroy gave him the space and time he needed. “Dude, fuck, maybe I need to see a headshrink or somethin’. Like, sometimes I just don’t fuckin’ unnerstand myself. I mean, I don’t blame you fo’ leavin’ on Saturday, and I know you’ been textin’ me lately and I ain’t responded, but it ain’t because I’m ignorin’ you, it’s that I don’t fuckin’ know what to say to you. Erry single message you sent me, I read, and I wanted to reply, but for some unknown fucked-up reason, I just couldn’t make myself do it.” He pounded a fist into his palm in frustration with himself. “It ain’t right for me to blow you off like that.”
“That’s coo’,” soothed Leroy. He spoke quietly. “I get it. Matter of fact, that’s why I knocked on yo’ door.”
Tyrone desperately tried to put his thoughts in order. “Whiteboi tol’ me he sucked yo’ dick through a gloryhole not too long ago. He said this to me jus’ befo’ you arrived at the bar. At firs’, I didn’t believe him. I thought he was full o’ shit, just tryna crack a joke or some shit, but the look on his face was genuine. And so here’s me thinkin’, me and Lee been tight as fuck ever since when we popped wet and screamin’ outta our momma’s pussies, and I couldn’t work out why I was findin’ out shit about my homeboy’s life from the fuckin’ whiteboi.”
Leroy looked up from the floor, his defiant eyes full of raw truth. “I ain’t never been to a gloryhole befo’ in my goddamn life befo’ that day, Ty. That was the first time I’ ever been.”
Tyrone clapped his thighs in agreement. “That’s exactly what I couldn’t unnerstand, dude. You get so much pussy in Harlem, so like what the fuck you doin’ getting yo’ dick sucked by an anonymous mouf in another part of town. I would’ve thought if you were doin’ this on the reg’lar you would’ve mentioned it at some point, so that’s why it was such a fuckin’ surprise to hear this fuckin’ wack-ass shit comin’ out o’ whiteboi’s mouf.”
“I ain’t got no mofuckin’ secrets from you,” Leroy began, “and I was gonna tell you all ’bout it that night, but I was gon’ wait for us to get a li’l drunk. I thought it’d be a cool-ass story, tellin’ you ’bout me stickin’ my dick through a hole in a wall, but I had no fuckin’ idea it was fuckin’ whiteboi was on the other side of the wall that day until like ten fuckin’ minutes ago jus’ now when he tol’ me all ’bout it on the phone, so yeah, that part was a surprise to me. I’m guessin’ he tol’ you on Saturday jus’ befo’ I showed up, but I didn’t know. I had no fuckin’ idea what you was upset about until whiteboi jus’ tol’ me jus’ now. I seriously thought I be fuckin’ a skanky ho’s face that day, and there weren’t nothin’ to suggest it was a dude’s mouf on the other side of the wall.”
Tyrone nodded, absorbing and believing every single word Leroy said.
“Jus’ stop an’ think about this fo’ a second.” Leroy mused. “Think about the sequence of events. Imagine if we settled in that night, we had a few drinks and I tol’ you that I fucked some ho’s face at a bookstore, and *then* whiteboi says ‘oh shit, Leroy, fuck, was that you that day, ‘cuz I thought that was yo’ dick’, imagine how funny that would’ve been.”
Tyrone nodded and his shoulders sagged as the tension slipped away. He knew it was true.
Leroy took a breath. “So anyway, here’s what happened. And this is what I was gon’ tell you that night. I was in Chelsea that afternoon because I got a cousin from Virginia who’s up in the city on a break from college. We ain’t seen each other for a few years, and she wanted to hook up for a drink. Las’ time I saw her, she was prolly about 16 and she was as curvy as a black matchstick. If she turn’ sideways in a police line-up, the cops wouldn’t see her no more. But, dude, she’ fuckin’ developed outta sight since las’ time I laid eyes on her. She’ fuckin’ fine, you unnerstand? Like, she be fuckin’ stacked. Fuck knows what she’ doin’ wastin’ her time in college when she could make some coin in porn. She’ stayin’ at a hotel on 20th street or thereabouts, so I went downtown to meet up wit’ her. We went out for some drinks, and she caught me starin’ down her cleavage more ‘n once. She had to leave after a few drinks to meet up wit’ someone else, but she got me all fuckin’ horned up. I walked back towards the subway thinkin’ I’d jack off when I got home, but I noticed there was an adult bookstore on the block ahead. Nex’ thing, my dick’s stuck through a hole in the wall thinkin’ ’bout nuttin’ all over my cousin’s fat titties.”
Tyrone listened in silence before responding. “I feel so fuckin’ bad, Lee. I just get so wound up in myself sometimes. I don’t ever need to know absolutely errythin’ about yo’ life, same as I assume you don’ need to know errythin’ ’bout mine, but for a second, I wondered if you was hidin’ somethin’ from me.”
Leroy laughed. “Picture the scene. Homie meets long-lost cousin. Homie surprised by how fuckin’ well-constructed she is. Homie ogles cousin’s sweet fat-ass titties. In desperation, homie dives into an adult bookstore and floods an anonymous mouf’. Fuck, dude, if I was a stand-up comedian, I’d be on a stage right now tellin’ fuckin’ erryone ’bout it, and the crowd’d be rollin’ in the fuckin’ aisles. Why the fuck would I keep it from you?”
Tyrone smiled, knowing his boy could easily turn a story like that into a hilarious tale. “I don’t know,” he replied, “but I’m lookin’ forward to yo’ Netflix special.”
“Fuck, dude, nex’ time Olivia’s in town, I’m gonna innroduce you to her. She’ gon’ like you. We talked a little about sex, and she tol’ me how much she’ into muscled-up dudes wit’ dreads. And she’ gon’ fuckin’ love yo’ huge dick, too.”
Tyrone held his palm up for a high-five, and Leroy grinned as he slapped it.
All the tension in Leroy’s body had dissipated. “Dude’s gonna fuckin’ die of thirst soon. What kind o’ shitty host are you, anyway? Get yo’ guest a fuckin’ beer before he passes out.”
Tyrone felt happy. He stood up, grabbed his bruh by the shoulders in a gesture of friendship and reconciliation before walking to the kitchen. He pulled two cold Buds out of the refrigerator and flipped their tops off. Sure, it was late on a weeknight, but neither of these thugs had an office job to be at in the morning. He sat back down and the two of them drank heartily.
They talked about inane bullshit for an hour, just like old times, and Ty probed a little more about Leroy’s cousin. They were onto their third beer each.
“So, dude, I’ been thinkin’,” said Leroy, placing his bottle of beer on a coaster. He burped.
“Yeah?” Tyrone removed his Bulls cap and ran a hand through his dreads.
“Been thinkin’. ‘Bout us,” Leroy continued. “But wait a second, I need to take a piss firs’.”
Tyrone sat quietly on the couch as Leroy pissed with the bathroom door open. He listened as Leroy’s bladder noisily emptied itself into the bowl.
Leroy flushed, zipped up, washed his hands, and returned to the living room. He sat next to Tyrone on the couch at the opposite end. There was more than enough room for each of them.
“You was gonna say somethin,” Tyrone prompted. He stretched out his legs and opened his thighs to make room for his extra-large cock.
Leroy took a slug of beer, emptying the bottle. “Wait here. Gonna get another one.” He stood up, and Tyrone indicated that he was nearly empty too.
Leroy returned from the kitchen with two fresh, cold beers. He sat back down with a flop. “So, we’ known each other since we was in diapers,” he said.
“Almost,” Tyrone agreed, “but I can’t remember back that far.”
Leroy let the lack of historical record slide. “We tell each other errythin’,” he said.
Tyrone smiled. “Eventually, we do.” He noticed a shocked expression on Leroy’s face, as if the explanation he’d just given him about the gloryhole didn’t land. “Nah, nah, nah, dude, yeah, o’ course we do, o’ course we do. I jus’ be foolin’ wit’ you right now.”
Leroy settled back down again but remained silent.
Tyrone sighed. “OK. We tell each other errythin’, and there’s somethin’ I’ been meanin’ to tell you, but I wasn’t sure how to say it.”
Leroy waited.
“I… I can’t even explain it to myself, dude, ‘cuz I ain’t gay, but I think I got some feelings for whiteboi.”
Leroy waited some more, hoping Tyrone would keep talking.
“I jus’… I mean… he’ pretty cute, I gotta say…”
“He’ got a sweet his mouth and pussy,” said Leroy, “but I don’ know what you mean… you sayin’ you wanna fuckin’ move in wit’ him or somethin’?”
Tyrone shook his head. “Nah, nah, nothin’ like that. But you’re right, he’ got some sweet fuckin’ holes.”
Leroy countered. “But you’ got access to erry fuckin’ hole there is this side of the park!” He leaned a little closer before taking a deep slug of beer. “Holes ain’t love, bruh. Holes ain’t love.”
Tyrone shrugged. “I know… you’ right… but there’s somethin’ missin’ in here,” he said, pointing to his chest. “It’s like I’m a jigsaw puzzle, and I’ been workin’ hard to finish it, but I get to the end and there’s still one piece missin’. I shake the box upside down, I look under the couch, but I can’t find it.”
Leroy scooted a little closer on the couch. “I feel the same way.”
Tyrone sensed competition, and his eyes widened a little as he misinterpreted Leroy’s response. “Wait, you’ tellin’ me you got a thing for whiteboi, too?”
Leroy shook his head. “I’ got some strong feelings fo’ sure, but they ain’t for him. Why the fuck you think I’m sittin’ on yo’ couch right now at bullshit o’clock if I ain’t got feelings.” He paused for a second. “I’ been missin’ that last piece o’ the jigsaw puzzle too.”
It took a few seconds for the meaning of Leroy’s statement to hit home. “Wait a second,” Tyrone replied, backing away mentally. “No, dude. That’s… not what I meant.”
“So wait, jus’ sit yo’self still for a second, an’ lemme tell you what’s been on my mind these past few days,” Leroy began. “You an’ me are more than homeboys. We’ be like fuckin’ soulmates. I feel like I be inseparable to you. I’ been frettin’ so bad ’bout you these past few nights and days. You ain’t got no idea what las’ weekend fuckin’ did to me. I ain’t been sleepin’ right, and it feels like somethin’ seriously fuckin’ important in my life has disappeared, and I needs to get it back. You’s what I’ been missin’. My life don’ make no fuckin’ sense without you in it, bruh. And I needs to be fuckin’ goddamn walls-down honest wit’ you right now, in a way I ain’t never been honest wit’ you before. If we gon’ keep tellin’ each other errythin’, if we’ gon’ keep no secrets from each other, then I need to tell you somethin’.”
Leroy felt nervous. He braced himself as he prepared to say the words that would make or break the rest of his life.
“I fuckin’ love you, my sweet, sweet bro. Like, I mean, I know we’ tight, but fuck, dude, these past few days have made me realise just how fuckin’ much I love you, and it’s scary. Like, if you died, I’d prolly jump in the casket wit’ you, because I’d rather be buried alive nex’ to you than watch your funeral. Dude, I ain’t gay either, but I’m so fuckin’ into you it stabs like a hot fuckin’ dagger in my heart when you ain’t around.”
They each heard the muffled sounds of Harlem rippling up through Tyrone’s windows, but the only sound in the room was two men breathing.
Tyrone looked and felt intensely uncomfortable. “Fuck, dude. That’s a lot for me to take in.”
Looking back, Leroy realised he’d felt this way for a long time, but he’d never found the courage or felt the emotional desperation to say the words he needed to say until right now. He desperately wanted to know his feelings were reciprocated in some way. “I mean, ain’t you been missin’ me lately too, my bruh?”
Tyrone couldn’t deny it. He nodded, then whispered his anxious response. “Yeah. ‘Course I have. But I’ been missin’ my brother, and not… not… somethin’ else.” He exhaled heavily. “We can’t be havin’ this conversation right now. You ain’t never said nothin’ like that to me befo’ and I’m surprised as fuck.”
Leroy waited for a second, barely breathing. “I thought we didn’t keep secrets from each other. I thought we tol’ each other errythin’. I mean, ain’t I right ’bout that?” He sipped his beer; right now, his mouth felt as dry as the Sahara desert. “Ain’t that what we’ both jus’ fuckin’ been through with whiteboi’s shit? You’ been so upset ’bout that gloryhole story, thinkin’ I’ be keepin’ shit from you? Well, I ain’t keepin’ my shit from you no more. I fuckin’ love you, bro. And I think if you look deep enough inside yo’self, you’ll…”
Leroy didn’t finish his sentence, because everything about Tyrone’s body language was all wrong. Without using any words, it was as if Tyrone was pleading with him to stop.
Leroy got the message. The pain in his heart was indescribable. “You… you wan’ me to leave?”
Tyrone had missed his bro like he’d missed a limb, but he needed time and space to process what Leroy had just said. Their previous friendship, as Tyrone knew it, was over now. It isn’t possible for someone to tell a close friend they love them, especially not the way Leroy just did, and for everyone to pretend that nothing had changed.
He didn’t answer Leroy’s question directly. Instead, he stood up, faked a yawn, checked his watch and dismissed everything Leroy had said. “Been coo’ chillin’ wit’ you ‘gain, Lee, but yeah, I might need to hit the sack.”
Leroy couldn’t make any sense out of this, but he knew he was politely being asked to leave. “Befo’ I go, I jus’ need to ask you this. Fi’ minutes ago, you’ be tellin’ me you got feelins for the fuckin’ whiteboi,” he spat, “but after what I jus’ said, you ain’t got no feelins for me?”
Tyrone stood motionless in the middle of his living room. “I don’t fuckin’ know what I feel anymore,” he whispered.
Softly, Leroy closed the door behind him. He pressed the button for the elevator and stepped inside. His head was spinning. He walked out into the 10th floor corridor and let himself back into his apartment. He could barely believe what had just happened. Five minutes ago, he was up in Ty’s crib, drinking beer, kicking back, talking shit, just like old times. For a few beautiful moments, it felt like everything was cool again, but it obviously wasn’t.
They both knew their friendship had changed forever.
A whirlwind of bitter, melancholy emotions swirled up inside Leroy, but he couldn’t make sense of any of them. He felt like he’d given everything he had over the past few days to try to make sense of Tyrone’s behaviour and to reconnect with him, and while he felt the anxiety and tension drift away while he sat on his bro’s couch, it had all flooded back again.
He felt rejected. He felt like he’d pulled his beating heart out of his chest to give to the person that meant the most to him in the whole world, only to have him yawn in response.
He wondered what might’ve happened if he didn’t say anything about how he felt. Sure, they’d still be drinking and talking shit, but Leroy knew his heart couldn’t be contained anymore. If only Tyrone didn’t say anything about having feelings for whiteboi: that was the thread of conversation that dragged Leroy’s confession out.
He sat on his couch and stared at the walls.
His tank was empty. He’d given everything he had, and there was nothing left.
He cursed his mouth and his heart. They’d combined to cost him the friendship that defined his life.
He knew they couldn’t be friends anymore after this. Not like they once were.
He and Tyrone shared a building. They’d pass each other in the lobby from time to time. They might even share an occasional elevator ride. He had no idea how he’d feel sharing space with his lifelong friend after what he’d just said, and after the reaction he’d received.
He took a chilled bottle of vodka out of his freezer and poured way too much of it into a glass. He wanted to turn his emotions off. He wanted to feel numb.
He drank it straight. It burned on the way down. He refilled his glass.
*
Mitch slept restlessly last night. He closed his eyes, prayed for sleep and hoped for forgiveness, feeling almost certain he’d made a bad situation much worse. He rose for work on Thursday morning, not knowing anything about what happened after Leroy ended their call.
He dragged himself out of bed. He dressed and made himself a coffee, knowing this initial caffeine jolt wouldn’t be anywhere near strong enough to get him through the day. He caught the subway to Wall Street and picked up a croissant and a second coffee before riding the elevator to the 30th floor.
He gazed out at the southern reaches of East River while his computer fired up for the day.
He thought back to last night’s conversation. He’d answered Leroy’s desperate text in a vain hope that he could magically make things right, but as the line went dead, he knew he’d failed. He was worried about them both. He felt guilty that Leroy’s friendship with Tyrone was in such a sorry state because he knew he was in largely responsible. He wanted them to reconcile, and he’d do anything to make things right between them, but he didn’t want to butt into anything. He’d already done enough damage.
But someone else had also been on Mitch’s mind lately.
He tried to focus on work, but halfway through the morning, he got dragged into yet another meeting about the fucking Franklin account. He stared out of the meeting room’s window, adding nothing to proceedings apart from his own presence in the room. He fixed his distant stare on the anonymous buildings rising from Brooklyn Heights.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. It wasn’t a message, but a call. He could tell it was a call because there were a succession of vibrations, not just one. He didn’t feel comfortable taking it because he was in a meeting, but at lunch, he headed downstairs to grab a coffee and a sandwich. He checked his phone, and a smile stretched across his face as he learned the missed call came from Brontë.
Mitch was overjoyed to see that Brontë had left a voicemail for him. That was rare these days — most people hung up rather than leaving a message. He held his phone up to his ear to listen. “Hey, dude,” Brontë had said, “I fuckin’ hate leaving voicemails, so consider yourself special. I’m gonna be brief. I wanted to see if you were busy tonight. If you are, no probs, no harm, no foul, and no need to call me back. Otherwise…”
The voicemail ended, and Mitch felt like half a sentence was missing. He played the message again and heard the exact same thing.
He called Brontë, and the leave-a-message serve was returned. A rapidfire scream of words pounded into his ear canal: “Hey can’t take your call leave a message.” BEEP.
Mitch wished he’d mentally prepared something in advance, but he hadn’t, and the time pressure was too great. “Uhh… err… umm… fuck… hey Brontë,” he tentatively commenced, “nice to hear from you again… hey, so I’m just returning your call and no I’m not busy tonight, but well, actually, that’s not strictly true, I was planning to talk to the President about his latest tax proposal, but I suppose I can shift that, what have you got in mind?”
As soon as he ended his voicemail, he wanted to die. Not by the regular method of the ground opening up and swallowing him whole that most people think of, because that’d take way too long. He wished he was standing under a tree in the middle of an electrical storm while holding a piece of metal over his head like he was a human lightning rod. Kill me now.
Half an hour later, Brontë listened to Mitch’s voicemail with a smile on his face. He laughed at the awkward cuteness of Mitch’s words. But by the time he called Mitch back, Mitch’s lunch break was done and he was hunkered down over his desk again. Mitch felt his phone vibrate in his pocket again. He hoped it was Brontë and he reached down to accept the call, but just as he did, one of his colleagues called his desk phone to ask something about the fucking Franklin account. He was on the clock. He ignored the phone in his pocket in favour of the one on his desk.
Franklin-related queries answered, he left his desk and rode the elevator down to the ground floor. He placed an order at the coffee cart in the lobby and waved his card across the electronic reader for payment. It beeped in gratitude. As he waited for his hot brew to arrive, he returned Brontë’s call.
Brontë recognised the number that popped up on his screen. “Hey, Mitch,” he answered, “what’s up?”
“Not bad, just at work.” He collected his beverage from the coffee cart and thanked the barista. “Just grabbing a sneaky afternoon coffee.”
On the other end of the line, Brontë smiled. “I know those sleepy post-lunch feels all too well. Where would the human race be without coffee?”
Mitch tried to think of a witty response to Brontë’s question but couldn’t. He remembered that in the first instance, Brontë had called him, but he still didn’t know why.
Brontë noticed the awkward silence. “Hey,” he continued, “anyway, I’m glad we finally connected. I have something I wanted to ask you.” He remembered Mitch’s earlier voicemail. “I just hope the President doesn’t need to get involved.”
Mitch groaned on the inside. He wished he hadn’t tried to be funny.
“So, anyway,” said Brontë, “The reason I called is I’ve got two tickets to an art exhibition tonight. It’s an opening night for a friend of mine. It’s her first show, and I want to support her.” Brontë was surprised at how he felt right now. Even though his words came out bold and confident, he felt nervous, like he was asking someone out on a date. “I know you’re into modern art, so I thought maybe you might be interested in coming with me. If you don’t like her art, you can always dull the pain with free champagne, and maybe we can catch a bite to eat after.”
Mitch could hardly breathe. He recognised this for what it was. He was being asked out on a date. “Yes,” he whispered. “That sounds great. I’m not busy. I’d love to go.”
“You sure?” asked Brontë. “You don’t need me to tell you anything more about my friend the artist?”
Mitch switched his handset from one ear to the other. “No, I’m good.” He didn’t care. He’d gladly stare at blank pieces of A4 paper as long as it was with Brontë.
“Meet you on the corner of Rivington and Ludlow at 6?” asked Brontë.
“Yes,” Mitch replied. “I’ll be there.”
“Cool,” said Brontë as the call ended. Mitch finished his coffee, headed back upstairs and announced he needed to leave the office at 4.30 today. Family emergency. It was just enough time for him to catch the subway home, change into street clothes, and head back down to the Lower East Side.
*
Mitch made it back to the designated street corner five minutes ahead of schedule. He tried to look cool, but he felt breathless and anxious. It was a warm, vibrant afternoon — people were out on the sidewalk, and at this time of the day, there was a lot of traffic. He wore a Run DMC t-shirt, a dark grey pair of loose, baggy pants, and a pair of black high-top Converse sneakers. Hidden from view were a pair of long, knee-high stripy socks that alternated yellow and pink. His headphones were looped around his neck.
The Lower East Side felt almost foreign to him. He didn’t know much about punk, but he knew this was its epicentre. It took root and grew here, just as rap did in Harlem and the Bronx, though ironically, he had no idea he was currently standing at Beastie Boys Square. He rarely came to this part of town, but the effects of gentrification were clear — there’d be no second coming of underground creativity here.
He pulled his headphones over his ears. He found a playlist on Spotify for New York ’70s punk. He pressed play, and the Ramones assaulted his ears. He bobbed his head up and down in time.
Brontë approached from behind and tapped Mitch on the shoulder. Mitch swivelled around and pulled his headphones back down to his neck in a single movement, looking up at Brontë with a wide-eyed expression. Music continued to spill out of Mitch’s earpieces, and even over the noise of traffic, Brontë could tell what Mitch had been listening to.
“You’re into vintage punk, Mitch?” Brontë asked. “I never would’ve guessed.”
Mitch shuffled his feet. “No… not really… I’m kind of educating myself, I guess. I don’t come to this part of the city very often. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I was here like fucking ever. Obviously my train to work goes underneath this area, and I know the sidewalk is only a few metres above the tunnel, but I never get out here.”
Brontë could tell Mitch was wound-up like a magnet’s coil, just like he was when they met at Maggie’s Place. He let him talk it out.
“Anyway,” Mitch continued, his voice floating above the traffic, “while I was waiting for you, I was thinking about how punk started here and I was wondering what it’d be like to be alive in the city during the ’70s when it seems like even though everyone was destitute and eating garbage and shooting up and the city was broke and there were fires and riots and crime everywhere there was still this deep well of artistry and creativity but I don’t know how that happens in that kind of environment or where it springs from and I was wondering whether I’d have liked to live through that time or not.” He looked up at Brontë. He smiled cautiously out of one side of his mouth. “Probably not. I think I’d be scared.”
“You’re not creative or artistic?” asked Brontë.
Mitch hedged his bets. “Well, I don’t really know. I guess I’d like to think I could be, but I’d struggle living in such a dog-eat-dog world.” He shrugged. “I guess I’m too soft.”
He wanted to drag Brontë into an alley and remind him how creative and artistic his mouth was.
“You look so fucking cute wearing your headphones,” said Brontë.
Mitch nearly swooned. He bit his lower lip and his eyes went wide. Brontë noticed, and his cock twitched.
“Gotta say,” Brontë continued, “your wardrobe is pretty casual and hip for someone who works in the Financial District. You wear that t-shirt to work?”
“I went home to change,” Mitch admitted.
Brontë nodded, looking Mitch up and down, appreciating the effort he went to. “You look good.”
“Thank you,” he squeaked. All he could see was Brontë’s beautiful eyes and his wide smile. “You look good too.”
Brontë comically dusted himself off as if he’d just jumped out of a dumpster. “Well, I do my best,” he beamed. “Anyway, we’ve got an art exhibition to attend. You ready?”
Mitch nodded. “Yeah.”
Brontë led Mitch a block east before they turned left. The gallery was in a building on Essex, halfway between Rivington and Stanton. The exhibition had been advertised locally, but the gallery itself was small. At this early stage of the evening, the crowd was thin, and it would probably stay that way.
“Drink?” asked Brontë.
“Sure,” replied Mitch. Anything to settle the nerves.
A man in a black shirt, black tie, black pants and black shoes was in control of the alcohol. Brontë sauntered over and retrieved two plastic cups of champagne. He handed one to Mitch. “Cheers.”
Brontë took a tiny, delicate sip. Mitch necked the whole glass. “Sorry,” he said, burping back some of the bubbles. “I was a little thirsty.”
Brontë smiled. “Another?”
Mitch nodded sheepishly. “Is that OK?”
“It’s free,” Brontë replied, “so yeah, of course it is.”
After Mitch had topped himself up again, Brontë introduced him to the artist. She spoke with a heavily clipped German accent, and everything about her demeanour looked stern and officious. Her smile was cold. She shook Mitch’s hand with a firm, crushing grip before inviting him to examine and appreciate her artistic output. The artist turned on her heels and began to walk away.
Brontë said his goodbyes and they began to check out the art. “Did you hear what she said?” whispered Mitch. “We’re meant to ‘examine and appreciate her artistic output’. Was I supposed to bring a magnifying glass and a calculator? Is she expecting me to buy something?”
Brontë laughed. “Dude, I asked you if you wanted any more info when we were talking on the phone before.”
They wandered through the small gallery, looking at clinical, efficient representations of two-dimensional geometric objects.
“These look like diagrams from my high school math textbook,” Mitch whispered. He kept his voice down so as not to be overheard.
Brontë pointed at a drawing of a triangle. “What do you see here, Mitch?”
“A triangle.”
“Well, yeah, but… what else do you see apart from the triangle?”
“The paper it’s drawn on. Oh, and the border around it. So I see a triangle, *and* a rectangle.”
Brontë was momentarily stunned. Hardly anyone would’ve noticed the border. “What else is there?”
“A price tag. Five hundred bucks for a drawing of a triangle. I’m in the wrong line of work.”
Brontë laughed.
Mitch looked closer. “Well, the triangle looks like it was drawn with the thin edge of a sharpie, guided with a ruler,” he whispered. “I can’t see any smudges or imperfections in the very straight lines, and each of the three sides are drawn with the same thickness and intensity, so as far as triangles go, this is a good one. I can’t tell whether a protractor was used to estimate the angles the artist wanted. I can’t see any pencil marks on the paper. It looks like an isosceles triangle, and if I had to guess, the angles at the base would be about 40 degrees. But I’m fucked if I can understand why this is art. I could’ve done this myself. It’d take me five minutes to get a piece of paper, a sharpie and a ruler, and do the exact same thing.”
Brontë stroked his chin. “But if you copied the work of another artist,” he teased, “would that truly be art?”
Mitch’s voice began to rise. He pointed at the triangle. “But why is this art in the first place? How is this original? Like, it’s a fucking triangle! Didn’t Euclid invent the triangle like fucking thousands of years ago? If we had a Ouija board, I guarantee Euclid would be losing his fucking shit right now.”
“Maybe it’s art,” Brontë said, “because the artist says it is, and because it’s in a gallery.”
A million pointless counter-arguments zapped through Mitch’s mind. His shoulders slumped. “Fuck, I need another drink.”
Brontë grinned. He was having a good time. “Get me one while you’re there.”
Mitch trudged off in the direction of champagne.
The man in black poured two fresh plastic cups of bubbly. “So, you don’t like the triangle, huh?” he asked.
Was the champagne guy from the CIA? Mitch was mortified. “How did you hear what we were talking about?”
“Dude, chill, I didn’t hear a word. But I couldn’t help noticing that you were quite animated by the artwork, while the guy you were talking with seemed calm. I guess that’s what good art can do. It energises and polarises.”
Checkmate, Mitch.
He and Bronte spent the next hour circulating around the small gallery. Mitch studied the triangles, squares, rhombuses and parallelograms with a vaguely nauseous feeling in his stomach like he was about to fail a math test. He whipped out his phone and googled the value of pi just in case someone asked him what it was. Brontë seemed less concerned. It felt to Mitch like Brontë knew every second person in the room, and he watched and listened as Brontë networked.
Eventually, Brontë suggested it was time for dinner. “You wanna go soon, Mitch?”
“Yeah, sure. Just need to go to the bathroom first.” Mitch raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You stay here. I’m just going for a piss. No funny business.”
Brontë threw his head back in laughter. Fuck, this dude was disarming in every sense. He took the opportunity to have a quiet conversation with the artist before they left.
They stepped out onto the street. “Hungry?” asked Brontë.
“Yeah,” came Mitch’s impatient reply. “You know any good places ’round here? Like I said before we encountered the Bermuda triangle, I’m not familiar with this part of town.”
Brontë laughed. “You fucking hated that triangle, didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say I hated it, but I didn’t understand the point of it as art.”
“That’s valid,” Brontë replied, nodding. “Let’s find a place to eat, and we can talk some more.”
They walked a few blocks before finding a friendly, well-lit pizza place. They ordered a pepperoni and a margherita, along with a couple of draft beers.
Brontë lifted a thick slice of pepperoni. He took a hearty bite, looping the stringy mozzarella around his tongue before pulling the string dead with his fingers. Mitch pointed out that the pizza slice wasn’t a triangle, because the base of the slice was rounded and not flat, and Brontë laughed in response at Mitch’s curiously weird math/art joke. They talked, relaxed, and started to get to know each other a little more deeply. Mitch was still wearing his headphones around his neck. He’d deliberately left them on all night. He’d worked out by now how much Brontë was into them.
They talked a little more about the exhibition, but they also talked about each other’s lives.
The pizzas were huge. They’d barely made a dent in them before they tapped out. A takeout box was required.
Mitch leaned forward, grabbing Brontë’s oily, pizza-encrusted hand, pulling his fingers towards him. “I need to ask you something. It’s important.”
Brontë looked at Mitch. That sexy nose ring, those headphones, and that sweet fucking mouth. He wanted him so bad. “Go ‘head,” he replied.
“Was this a date, Brontë?”
“Well, we went to a show, if you can call a collection of geometric diagrams a ‘show’, and we had dinner together, so yeah, I guess this is a date. Why do you ask?”
“Because I need you to know something about me.”
Brontë waited.
Mitch tenderly weaved his fingers into Brontë’s before looking him dead in the eye. “I’m not like most boys,” he whispered. “I fuck on the first date.”
Brontë signalled for the waitress. “Check, please.”
The uber ride to Brontë’s Harlem apartment was expensively long, but awkwardly silent. The takeout box full of uneaten pizza sat in Mitch’s lap. Brontë’s hand reached across the backseat to touch Mitch’s, just for a brief moment. It felt like sparks flew.
Upon reaching Brontë’s building, they each thanked the driver politely before exiting the vehicle, and they closed their doors firmly but gently after wishing the driver a pleasant evening. Five stars.
Mitch glanced around. He knew they were in Harlem, but he didn’t recognise where they were. Leroy and Tyrone lived on 122nd street, and he guessed Brontë’s building was a few blocks further south, closer to the park, but he couldn’t see a street sign. The streets were bustling, and while Mitch would’ve loved to explore them, it’d have to happen some other time. Right now, all he wanted to explore was Brontë’s beautiful black penis.
“Would you like to come in?” asked Brontë. He swiped his access card and held the front door open for his date. There was no doorman for his building.
Mitch stepped inside. Brontë pressed the elevator button. They stood side by side in silence, waiting.
Ding. The doors opened. They stepped onto the elevator, and Brontë pressed the button for the 12th floor.
No words were spoken.
Brontë showed Mitch out onto the 12th floor corridor. He opened the door to his apartment and invited his date inside.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Could I have some water, please?” asked Mitch. “Also, where’s your bathroom?”
Brontë issued directions, and Mitch disappeared for a few moments. He returned, and guzzled the water Brontë offered him. “Sorry. Mouth was dry,” he apologised nervously.
Mitch evaluated Brontë. He was artistically and musically literate, awesome to talk to, sexy as fuck, had a big dick (not quite as big as Leroy’s or Tyrone’s massive BBCs, but still way big enough to get the job done), and his cum was delicious.
Brontë tried to do the same, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was that made this whiteboi drive him wild. Right now, he wanted him badly.
“Mouth isn’t dry anymore,” teased Mitch. “I know where your bathroom is now, but I don’t know where your bedroom is.” He bit his bottom lip. “Can you please show me?”
Brontë took Mitch by the hand as he opened the door to paradise.
Brontë’s bedroom was dark, but there was enough light bleeding in from the street for them to still see each other. They stood side by side, next to Brontë’s king-size bed.
“You sure you want to be here right now, Mitch?” asked Brontë.
“There isn’t anywhere on earth I’d rather be. Why, don’t you want me?”
Brontë felt conflicted. “I just need you to know, Mitch, before we go too far, that… well… I can be quite dominant in bed.”
Dominance was exactly what Mitch wanted. He wrapped his arms around Brontë’s neck. “You fucked my face in the bathroom at MoMA like you wanted to poke a hole in the back of my neck, and then you fucked my skull just as hard in some stinky Midtown alley. Did I complain? Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t want this?”
“Yeah,” breathed Brontë, “I know what you mean, but it’s easy to treat someone like a ragdoll when you don’t know them.” He took a breath. “Things are a little different now.”
Mitch moved his lips to Brontë’s. They kissed, and Mitch’s tongue forced its way deep into Brontë’s mouth. Their kiss ended, but a thin string of saliva connected their mouths. “I agree with you,” Mitch said, his eyelids droopy with lust. “Things are a little different now.”
Brontë waited.
“I want you inside me so fucking bad, Brontë. Please. I want you to fuck me.”
They kissed again, slowly and languidly, yet forcefully. Mitch grabbed Brontë’s stiff cock through his pants. He sank to his knees, unzipped Brontë’s pants and extracted seven and a half inches of meat. He took Brontë’s BBC into his mouth, but only just to get it wet.
Mitch looked up with hungry eyes. “You got any lube?” he asked.
“Sure. Wait a second,” said Brontë. “But are you sure you can take me? Like, I know I’m not small.”
“Let’s find out,” Mitch teased. “I took you in my mouth, so I think I can take you in my pussy.” Mitch thought about Leroy’s nine inches and Tyrone’s ten, plus the numerous times he’d fucked himself with his plastic BBC that was slightly bigger than Brontë’s fat cock. He didn’t want to boast; he didn’t want to say ‘I’ve had way bigger’. That would’ve destroyed the mood. He kept his past anonymous. “We’re all good, dude. But just go slow. You’re big, but I think I can take you.”
“Can I eat you out first?”
“Oh my god.” Mitch couldn’t believe this was happening.
Brontë lay Mitch down on his mattress, slowly undressing him from the waist down. He noticed Mitch’s sexy stripy femboy socks. “These are cute, Mitch,” he said. “I love your socks.”
Mitch whimpered.
Brontë took Mitch’s femboy socks off, but only because he wanted to suck on his toes.
Mitch lay on his back. His dicklet was tingling.
Brontë looked at Mitch’s dick. It was tiny, but cute. He gave Mitch’s small ballsack a light hug and he heard Mitch gasp in response.
He started with Mitch’s little toes, sucking them into his mouth, teasing them with his fat tongue. Nobody had ever kissed Mitch’s feet before, and he wasn’t sure how to feel or react. He enjoyed the sensation, but his soles were ticklish, and he was trying hard not to laugh or squirm. But by the time Brontë mouth and tongue had made it up from his feet to his thighs, Mitch was losing his mind. His cock was semi-erect, and a thick pool of precum had formed.
By the time Brontë lifted Mitch’s ass up off the mattress and jammed his tongue deep into his pussy, he couldn’t help himself. His dicklet spasmed and twitched as a small watery load of cum dribbled out of his tiny penis. As he looked down at Brontë’s face buried in his ass, he moaned.
“By the way, I love your tattoo,” Brontë said, touching Mitch’s spent white dicklet.
Mitch wanted to hear him say it. “What do you mean?”
“Jack of Spades. I know what it symbolises,” Brontë replied, “and I know what it implies. It implies subservience, but to me, it just means you’re into black dick. I think it’s beautiful. And you don’t ever need to feel subservient to me.” Brontë’s tongue gave Mitch’s marking a loving kiss before returning to his hole. “Fuck, your tender white ass is so fucking delicious and fat.” He gave Mitch’s cheeks a loving slap.
Mitch knew his ass was getting fatter, though he didn’t know why. “It’s all yours,” he whispered, “if you want it.”
The next thing Mitch felt was seven and a half inches of big black cock tunnelling deep into his hungry pussy. It sank into him slowly, like molten lava. He knew he’d taken bigger slabs of meat, but there was something perfectly indescribable about feeling Brontë’s BBC penetrating him for the first time.
As Brontë kissed him, Mitch felt like he was losing his anal virginity all over again.
Their eyes met in the darkness, and they felt each other’s breath.
Mitch felt the warmth of Brontë’s fat black dick inside him… he felt Brontë’s torso lean forward on top of him, enveloping him, suffocating him, weighing down upon him… he felt drops of Brontë’s sweat landing on his chest… he felt Brontë slowly beginning to piston inside him, getting deeper and deeper with each thrust… he felt Brontë’s mouth sucking hard on his neck… “uhh, fuck, Brontë, you feel so good”… “fuck, Mitch, your pussy is so sweet”… “fuck me slow, Brontë”… “it’s so hard, babe, you’re gonna make me lose my shit”… “dude, your cock feels perfect inside my cunt, just hold it there”… “I can feel your hole pulsing around my shaft, dude, have you done this before?”… “I’ll tell you later, Brontë”… “fuck, Mitch, I can’t hold it back, I think I’m gonna cum”… “do it, cum inside me, Brontë, I want to feel you nut up in my pussy”…
With both hands, Mitch grabbed Brontë’s frame and pulled it down on top of him, holding him close, kissing him deeply. He felt Brontë’s body twitch and collapse as he shot load after load after load of potent sperm way up into Mitch’s digestive tract. It felt so fucking good. If Mitch was female, they’d be having triplets in nine months.
Mitch was so fucking close, but he didn’t quite get there.
Brontë breathed heavily, weighing down on Mitch before rolling off. “That felt so powerful, dude,” he said. He’d never fucked someone slow like that before.
Mitch held Brontë close to him. Even though he didn’t cum again, the feeling of connection more than compensated for his lack of a second orgasm.
And then he felt a hand wrap itself around his shaft… and then a mouth.
Brontë’s face was impaled on his tiny dicklet. For a moment, Mitch stopped breathing.
Mitch felt the pressure build immediately, like the wall of a dam about to crack.
“No, Brontë, stop, wait, take your mouth off…”
It was too late. Mitch’s cock exploded in Brontë’s mouth like a firehose going off. The first rope felt like a stream, like he was literally pissing cum into Brontë’s throat. Brontë coughed and gagged in response as Mitch’s load began to spill out of his gaping mouth. Mitch’s cock kept twitching and pumping, eventually drenching Brontë’s face and mouth with six, eight, maybe ten thick pulses of fluid.
As Mitch’s unexpectedly powerful orgasm subsided, he felt the need to apologise. “Fuck, Brontë, I’m so sorry.” The bedsheets were completely soaked.
Brontë coughed and wiped his face with a nearby towel. He couldn’t work out how balls that small could shoot that much nut. He’d never seen anyone cum that hard or that much, like, ever. Not even in porn. “Dude, you could’ve warned me!”
“Fuck, Brontë, like… I honestly didn’t expect that to happen. Usually when I cum, it’s thin and watery. Just like earlier when you ate my pussy. I came, but it was a weak dribble. I only ever cum hard in dreams.”
Brontë blew his nose — there was semen in his nostrils.
“This must be a dream,” Mitch continued.
“If it’s a dream,” Brontë replied, “I’m not sure how much I liked that last part.” He blew his nose again.
Mitch looked down at his tiny, flaccid dick. He could barely even see it anymore. He couldn’t understand what just happened. Neither of the two Harlem thugs had ever blown him, but he wondered what might happen if they ever did.
“Lemme rephrase that last part, Mitch. I loved spending time with you tonight. I loved kissing you, I loved fuckin’ your beautiful pussy, and I loved eating you out. Everything apart from getting drenched at the end was perfect. But next time I put your dick in my mouth, Imma have an umbrella handy.”
Mitch smiled wide. His heart was on fire. He didn’t want to leave, but he had work tomorrow. “I have to go.”
“Wait, dude, wait,” Brontë urged. “Was it something I said just now?”
“No, Brontë. Everything you said was beautiful. It’s just that I need to be back in the office tomorrow morning.”
“You could stay here? I mean, if you wanted to, that is?”
“I don’t have any office clothes with me,” Mitch replied. “Dress standards are a little relaxed on Fridays, but not to the level where I could rock up wearing my DMC tee.”
Brontë understood. “Well, if you have to go, that’s cool. Can I ring you?”
Mitch grinned. “I’d love that. Call me anytime. The three day rule no longer applies.”
Mitch got dressed and they hugged goodbye.
“Oh, wait a second!” Brontë said. “Before you go, I got somethin’ for you. Think of it as a present, but don’t open it until you get home.” Brontë handed Mitch a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string.
“Thank you,” breathed Mitch.
Mitch walked to the subway station and caught the train home. It was close to midnight, yet the subway was still crowded. New York City never slept.
He held Brontë’s gift close to his chest.
He made it home and took a quick shower before opening the parcel.
It was the triangle from the art gallery. It came with a handwritten note: ‘This is so you never forget tonight. — Brontë’
Mitch shed a tear. He picked up his phone and texted Brontë. ‘I’ll never forget tonight. Thank you so much for the gift. It’s perfect from every ANGLE.’ He added a red love-heart emoji and didn’t for a second regret his terribly unfunny joke.
‘No sweat,’ came Brontë’s reply.
Mitch climbed into bed and slept a sweet, peaceful sleep. He’d hang the triangle on his wall tomorrow night after work.