Free Loaded by Christos Tsiolkas Page B

have sex. Bloodand semen; these days the liquids go together. I turn into the alley, slowly, walking into the dark landscape of a dream.
    He is pissing, a thick stream against the boards. I come up next to him, unzip, take out my dick, conscious of it looking small and shrivelled from the speed. I don’t pretend to piss, I stand next to him masturbating until I get a hard-on. He finishes pissing, plays with his thick dick, watching me from the corner of his eye. I look down at his cock and reach for it. He groans, a slight murmur. I smell piss, smell alcohol on him. I masturbate him and try to guide his big hairy hand onto my cock. He resists. Instead he pulls down on my shoulders and I squat and take the head of his cock in my mouth. I taste drops of urine. He thrusts against my throat and I keep pulling on my cock, trying to avoid getting on my knees because of the piss on the ground.
    I’m off-balance and I try to get up. He pulls down harder on my shoulders. Don’t spill any of it, he whispers savagely in Greek. I don’t want him to come in my mouth, I fear the disease that might be floating inside his body. But he pushes his cock hard into my throat. I’m caught between two desires, to gorge on his cock, to take him inside me as deep as he can go, or to get up on my feet, push him against the wall and hurt him for debasing me.
    Time, time betrays me. Before I can make a decision I feel the hot sting of liquid in my mouth. He pulls away and I spit out his semen, his stench from my mouth. He dries his cock on a handkerchief, zips up and starts to move away. I’m up on my feet, I grab his arm and push him against the alley wall. I stick my hard cock into his hand. Pull me, I bark out in Greek. He groans, but I have one arm against his chest, holding him back and he doesn’t turn away. I hate him now and I don’t let him leave. My cock feels like iron. He pulls at it and I look into his eyes, two shining glints of light in his dark, unshaved face.
    He looks pained now, the strength I saw in him, the strength which attracted me to him, is spent; spilt on theground, diluted in the urine. I keep watching his eyes, not allowing him to turn his face away. He hates what he’s doing, feels no desire as he mechanically pushes my foreskin across my cock. I rub my free hand inside his shirt, weaving my fingers in the hair of his stomach and chest. I feel that I’m about to come. I lift his shirt above his nipples and my white flashes of sperm land on his stomach and down around his feet. He pushes me away, wipes himself and glaring at me tucks in his singlet. I spit into my hand and wipe my cock. He walks back to the pub and I lean against the wall and light a cigarette.
    My breathing seems loud to my ears. I allow the night breeze to tease my body, to cool me down, and I piss against the alley wall. I tuck my T-shirt into my jeans, tread on the cigarette, mixing the tobacco in with the come and piss on the ground and walk back through the car park and into the backyard of the pub.
    Spiro is waiting for me. My brother has his arm around a tall, beautiful woman in a black sweater and a short skirt. Her painted face is pale white, her curls tight and black as night. This is Ariadne, Peter introduces me. I shake her hand, I smell expensive perfume. Just a touch; a pleasing scent. I pull the packet of speed from my pocket and offer it to Spiro. He winks and slips sixty dollars in my hand. He hardly looks at the amount of powder in the bag. He trusts me. In the pub the band have begun to play rembetika . I sway to the music.
    â€“You enjoy dancing. I nod to Ariadne, though it doesn’t sound like a question. She can see I like dancing. This is a beautiful song, she continues. Bring me a flagon of wine so I can forget the pains that poison my life . We Greeks embrace our pain, don’t we? She looks around at the three men standing before her. Shall we dance? She grabs my brother’s hand and