Moore - In Their Arms

In Their Arms

by

Thomas Moore

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Additional Rebel Satori titles availableat:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/rebelsatori

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

QueerMojo

An Imprint of Rebel Satori Press

New Orleans

Copyright 2016 by Thomas Moore

This book is dedicated to the followingpeople for their generosity and encouragement when reading thevarious early drafts of this novel: Michael Salerno, Dave Hilliard,Rebecca Dyer, Kim Davies and Steven Purtill. Thank you so much.

The world is full of warmth...

Six hours later Im asleep in the darkroom. Iwake up when the light turns on. The barman tells me to leave. Ipush against the damp floor and manage to sit up. I struggle to getmy jeans and belt to fasten. The barman pulls at my arm and tellsme to get out again but angrier than the first time. He only workshere because he has to.

The journey home is a blank. Im so blurrythat the world and my interactions with it are too opaque foreither component to illuminate the other enough to form anythingapproaching sense.

Theres no music vague enough to fit the moodthat I wake up in. I opt for silence. Id managed to make it on tothe bed, which for an optimist could just about be conceived as aplus. I let the tap run and listen to the sound while I reach underthe sink for a glass. I let the water overflow quickly and run ontomy hands. Water sprays off around the bowl and leaves an imprint onmy t-shirt.

Theres an ache behind my eyes, liketiredness has swollen and become something solid and tangible. Itry to rearrange my thoughts into something linear tracing backthrough the night. I remember getting to the bar. I rememberwalking around the darkroom to get an idea of who was there. Iremember having to train my eyes to the darkness so I could getused to the movements of shadows, knowing when to avoid old men whoare only in a queer place because their wives have died and theyreable to clearly differentiate a libido amidst their loneliness. Iremember smoking out the back and trying to make the right kind ofglance at the people who interested me or I felt I couldpotentially interest.

It could all be a guess. It could be memoriesfrom anywhere.

The buzz of the iPhone on the table feelslike a sudden attack. I flinch. A photograph of my friend wearingsunglasses, giving a drunken thumbs-up. I silence the call and flopbackwards onto the bed. My jeans are still wet. Sticky denimuncomfortably pulling my leg hairs. I pick up the phone. Myfriends face has disappeared and shes relegated to a banneralongside two more missed calls.

Two minutes later and another buzz, anotherflinch. The water ripples in the glass. A text message: Heystranger are you alive? I guess we could make it dinner if yourenot around for lunch?

When I get my jeans off I realise that thereis a hole torn in my underwear, a flap of material hanging out ofplace.

I run a bath and start to swill mouthwasharound my tongue and gums. The inside of my cheeks sting as Iinflate them. I let the mouth wash linger long enough to starthurting. I spit it out and lick the roof of my mouth. My tonguedoesnt taste as bad as when I woke up.

The bath takes a while to fill. I turn on thecoffee machine that I inherited when someone at work got divorced.I make an espresso and drink it quickly from a normal sizedmug.

I get into the bath and try to stretch. Myneck and back feel sore and I wonder what a massage would feel likeright now. Ive only ever had friends do it when Ive been high orsleepy. I lift my hips and pick at my asshole. I run the tip of myfinger around the rim and then rub it with my thumb, letting theminiscule mix of sperm and dried shit dissipate into the water.

A subtle fog of condensation spreads over thesmall window and mirror. My skin starts to relax. I put a full stopon trying to remember pieces from last night. It feels irrelevant.Itll only make things more complicated. I imagine what drowningwould feel like. For about two seconds Im close to sleepagain.

I log on to a cruising website and check mymessages, using my iPhone. One guy has requested to see my privatephotos and another has sent a message giving me access to see his.I decline sharing my two private photographs both of which arepictures of my face because from the guys description, and thefact that he doesnt have any photos of himself on his profile, Iknow that I wont be meeting him. I click on the link from the guywho is sharing private photos, which leads through to his profile.He describes himself as versatile but mostly top and says that hedoesnt have a preference when it comes to age but that hes mainlyonly into white guys. He has four photos. One is of his torso andcock, taken lying down with his head cut out of the shot, one is aclose up picture of just his cock and the other two the privateswhich he has unlocked for me to see are of the guy in a bar, onewith a friend whose face has been blurred out and another on hisown. I send him a message asking him where he lives, because thelocation on his profile has been left blank.

I check the listings section of the website.I look at the listing for the bar I went to last night. It saysthat the last comment on the bar was eight hours ago. Its fromsomeone saying that they are planning on visiting the bar in thenext few days while hes in town with work, and hes asking iftheres a best time to visit or a particular night of the week thatis busier than others. No one has posted anything about lastnight.

I open a cruising app on my phone, pushing mythumb over the screen to scroll through other guys who are nearby.Theres a guy who I always see on the train to work, but who Ivenever spoken to, on the app or in real life. Hes never messagedme, which is enough for me to surmise that he has no interest inme. If he were to send me a message, I would sleep with him. Theclosest guy on the app is just under one thousand metres away, afew streets from me. Ive met him before. Ive been round to hisplace for sex three, maybe four times. Hes about seven or eightyears younger than me but could pass for more. Hes given medifferent names each time Ive met him, so I lose track of what Ithink his name is. Theres something about him that stops me fromfeeling relaxed; an openness maybe, but that doesnt describe itwell at all Ill try again later. Hes always on edge theres awildness to him. The green light in the corner of his thumbnaildisappears. It says he was online ten minutes ago. I havent methim for sex in about four months.

I make a coffee and pull a chair up to thecluttered table that doubles as a dining area and a workspace. Iscoop together a small pile of magazines and loose papers and putthem under the desk. I put my phone down and pull my laptop forwardand turn it on. I drink the coffee as my eyes skim emails. I openthe messages relating to work. One is from the editor of an artswebsite who has attached a piece that I had sent him two days agowith a list of required edits and suggestions. The editor says thathe likes where my article is going but that it perhaps needs to bemore specific about certain things that I hint at, and also hewonders if I was trying to get my text to match the tone of thesculptures that I was reviewing if this is the case then he sayshe likes that too but I need to make it more explicit.

Theres an email from a friend, reminding meto come to his birthday this weekend. He says that if I can make itI can crash at his place. I look for train tickets, although itsThursday so the cheaper advance deals are gone. I send a shortemail saying Ill be there and that I wouldnt miss it.