A Reborn Bastard's Sacrificial Gift
A/N: This story is inspired by a person I read about in my journey of learning LGBTQ history. Rest in peace, William Dorsey Swann (around 1858-1925) - the "Queen of Drag." And for those with language barriers, the term "lawd" is "lord" written and pronounced in the African American Vernacular English/Southern United States dialect. :A/N
The atmosphere seemed to have a threshhold feeling, similar to the fragrance of petrichor or the chill of a pre-autumn breeze. The night's urgency was yielding to the imminent sunrise, much like a ticking time bomb hidden in the thick, cloudy darkness of the sky. Paolo and Enrique were strolling together, simply talking and enjoying each other's presence.
Paolo was youthful, scruffy, and compact, with his wiry, small body covered in a thick coat of hair, which he called his "fur." He wore a studded collar and a thin t-shirt under an open zip-up hoodie. The man he was holding hands with was 46 years his senior. Much taller than his companion, standing at over 6 feet tall, he exuded elegance with his long, lean figure. He embodied the phrase "willowy" in a ethnically rich, song-chanting way.
To call Enrique "sophisticated" would be an insult to his true level of class. He kept his long, tidy, salt-and-pepper locks bound with a dark red, thick ribbon tied in a neat bow. His large palm dwarfed Paolo's tiny, pale hand, which had chipped dark nail polish on every nail and always felt clammy.
He was squeezing hard this night, but Enrique accepted it and sent his loving energy through their hand-tight embrace.
"I told you to wear a thicker jacket," Enrique scolded. Paolo kicked a pebble on the sidewalk they were walking on.
"I'm not cold, I'm fine. All I need is a larger bladder."
"Me too. That latte was worth all this discomfort I'm feeling, though."
"What was the name of that café again, do you remember?"
"We'll check on our way back."
"Okay."
Paolo gazed up at Enrique and offered his sweet, bashful smile. Enrique chuckled. "I worry that one day you won't look at me like a coveted pair of shoes you've been pining for to enhance your athletic pursuits."
"It'll never come to that."
"Really?"
"You'll always be my coveted pair of shoes, Ricky." Paolo said with flair.
"Oh lawd, you're trying to one-up an old Queen? You know you're going to lose at that, right?"
Paolo laughed. "Perhaps. But won't I get points for my audacity and boldness?"
Enrique raised an eyebrow. "You really want to challenge me, don't you?"
"Admit that I'm delightful and cute in an inescapably adoring manner, that you succumb to my engaging presence," Paolo responded with dramatic flair, then rested his head on Enrique's arm, making the latter tip his head upward to look at the face he loved upside-down. Enrique looked back with a reserved grin.
"Stop being cute when we're not in a secure location for me to eradicate that teasing look from your face," Enrique teased, his voice radiating dominance that made Paolo tremble slightly.
"It's impossible, Queen Ricky," Paolo said. "You should know this by now. You've lived with me for half a year out of the year we've been together, savoring the ever-present pleasure of my friendship and company. Haven't you learned anything?" Paolo shook his head, feigning disappointment.
Enrique faced away from the love of his life, stopped walking, and concentrated on a wrought iron fence. "We're here."
"What?" asked Paolo, his voice laced with a smile.
This was a tradition. Each year, this was Paolo's relationship test. He'd never had a relationship pass this test. He was hopeful that Enrique would be different. If it didn't go well, he might renounce relationships and return to casual sex. Paolo started walking toward the fence, his gait imbued with quiet determination, as if he'd walked this way many times before. He continued moving forward, within the grounds of the cemetery. He strutted with a quiet single-mindedness, like being summoned by some errant spirit, which he had done many times before. Enrique folded his hands in his pockets and lengthened his stride to shadow him, keeping Paolo's spirit protected from any paranormal intruders.
In the end, Paolo stopped at a grave marked by an angel crying on a large tombstone. The name of a man was written there. The date of death was less than a decade ago. The surname was the same as Paolo's former name. He told Enrique his former name but not the other one. The elder man understood never to use that name, but was unsure why he was being told it at all - now he knew why. He would comprehend this moment. He stood there motionless as Paolo just glared at the tombstone.
"This is the man who made me," Paolo stated, his voice wavering with emotion but the volume was low and clear. The night became still as if in respect for the moment as well. The clock ticking towards the dawn - it seemed to be paused, somehow.
"Meaning that's your biological father?" Enrique questioned, his tone solemn, blank, but kind. Paolo nodded, taking in a troubled breath.
"And my abuser."
Paolo's anger showed as he swiftly unzipped his pants, lowered them a little, and twisted around to urinate straight at the gravestone. Enrique dropped his head as if in reverence. He clasped his hands behind his back.
"How did he abuse you, Paolo?"
While the stream continued, Paolo straightened up and faced Enrique, this tall, elegant man, who was so composed and beautiful in comparison.
"He used derogatory terms towards me. I felt helpless every day. He beat my mother. Excessively." Paolo paused, almost in a moment of silence for his mother. "She never had much of a maternal instinct, which is why she had no problem leaving me with the bastard. Thus, he raised me into the anxious, worthless life I currently lead until I, one day, was sick of his abuse and I left as well. Another mother like -" But his voice broke, and he averted his gaze from Enrique's attentive stare.
"Son. Another mother, another son." Enrique commented simply. And Paolo broke down, sobbing angrily.
Enrique maintained a quiet watch, listening without interruption. He didn't walk forward to offer affection or to utter a perfunctory apology. Some part of him knew on a deep level that an apology would sound hollow to someone who had really endured such pain. And someone who had been abused didn't always welcome being touched, especially when the traumatic memories were fresh and vivid in the mind.
"Do you know what it's like, Paolo, to harbor this sort of pain?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"I was born in an older era, remember? My great-grandparents were enslaved. I was lucky enough to hear the stories and learn my history from their actual words shared with my grandparents. From there, my parents passed down the stories to me. Their firstborn son, their only surviving child. I am a part of a nearly extinguished generation of history, of time. No textbook will provide you with the sort of history lesson I learnt from listening to the words of my grandparents describe their upbringing or my parents recount their struggles after they departed. Such pain cannot be found on Google. It is passed down verbally as a grave tradition, endlessly swallowed and spit back out as 'going thru it'. It makes light of the severe internal turmoil that it is to be born different. To so many people, I was just a quiet Black boy in the rural South. So many tried to erase the gay out of me with slurs and drugs."
He paused, inhaled a soft shaky breath, and continued with a shaking head, "It didn't work. Still gay. Still here. Alive. Prospering. However, I harbored hate in my heart for so many years." He broke down in sobs.
Enrique remained silent, showing empathy. Neither of them spoke. Dawn was approaching as the darkness faded, birds singing in the air, their voices blending with the energy shift as Time stretched, waking up with the sun making one corner of the sky orange, and purple tinges touching the faded blue and gray of the cloudy sky.
"Kneel, Paolo," Enrique instructed softly but firmly. Paolo looked at him, bewildered.
"Why?"
Enrique unzipped his pants and replied, "So I can baptize you."
Gradually, Paolo contemplated intuitively what was about to happen next, before sinking down onto one knee, followed by the other. He looked up at Enrique, who stepped closer to douse his golden stream of pee all over his partner. It was heated warm in contrast to the crisp early morning air. No holy words were spoken, just the hiss of the stream bursting out onto Paolo's fur-covered face, and the sprawling lawn that covered most of the cemetery. There were only soft sighs of pleasure and bliss coming from Paolo.
The stream continued for what felt like a lengthy time. Paolo began rubbing his face and hair as if bathing in the consecrated golden shower. This whole situation held a strangely holy vibe, as one seasoned gay man baptized his younger gay partner with his urine. Once it trickled to a stop and shook off any residual drops, Paolo was about to put it away when he reached out with a hand on Enrique's wrist.
"Can I have a taste?"
Enrique exhaled loudly, but then he smiled. "Sure."
Moving even closer until on his knees, Paolo approached Enrique's crotch and took the flaccid dick in his mouth, sucking gently, respectfully, humanizing more with each suck, enjoying each taste, and sensing the girth expand as Enrique's shaft hardened in Paolo's mouth.
"Shit... that's it, you know how I like it..." Enrique groaned softly, and tilted his head back for a second, stifling a shout as best he could, as his hand reached down to rub Paolo's face, and grasp the scruff of his hair. He spread his stance a bit wider, completely hard and started slowly thrusting into Paolo's mouth.
Dawn was brightening in the sky when Paolo was swallowing the sticky semen down his throat. He had considered spitting the cum on the headstone but no. This was his. His first communion, and his ambrosia. His blessing. He swallowed every last drop, then gazed up at Enrique with a face gleaming with piss and sweat, similar to defiled consecrated oil, as he wiped saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand. And beamed.
Enrique was trying to regulate his breathing from cumming aggressively just seconds before. "Curl me up and stand - reborn," he uttered.
Paolo leaned in and curled Enrique's flaccid genitals back into his pants, zipped them up, and embraced a significant kiss over the fabric, then effortlessly stood up without employing his hands to push himself off the ground.
He gazed at Enrique, beaming. "Thank you."
The older man simply nodded, still trying to regulate his breathing. Despite being healthy for his age, that climax was a potent one as climaxes go. "Of course."
"Shall we depart now? It's going to get hot soon with that sun fully exposed in the sky like it is; feeling like a blistering noon all day long. You know I don't fare well in this summer weather."
"Oh, I'm just sugar, my dear cherished King Ricky!" Paolo returned to his flamboyantly humorous self.
"That's it, I must have cool, refreshing weather to preserve this sweet psyche of mine."
They began walking out of the cemetery at a leisurely tempo, Enrique walking more slowly to allow Paolo to keep pace as he had a longer stride.
"Or you'll transform into a moody old curmudgeon?"
"No, never me. You're the curmudgeon."
"That's correct, a reborn curmudgeon."
Enrique stopped and bent down to kiss Paolo on the lips for an extended period, then reached for his hand, leading the way back to their shared apartment, stopping at that Latte Café place to remember the name to check it out when they were open since it was closed by the time they passed by.
And the entire journey, Paolo could not stop smiling.
Read also:
- Yes, Darling
- Anna and Jason: A Tale of Love and Trouble
- Justine's Amour
- Western Tail: Rear End of the West
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