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For Bruce (mm)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Subject: For Bruce, by Mercury (M/M Love)
Date: Tue, 18 Jul 1995 22:06:33 UTC
For Bruce * * * by Mercury, 1995.
When they played "Do You Remember?" by Michael Jackson, over
the radio, I remembered Bruce. That had been our song. I still
remember the times we spent together. . .
We are cruising along a highway that is deserted except for us
on a late night with no stars and no Moon, only pleasant darkness
modified by street lamps and billboard signs. I have the windows
down to capture the cool breeze that contrasts delightfully with
the hot, hot hands on my body and the warm mouth around my cock.
While I drive the car, he drives me to a state of bliss, and this
deserted stretch of Nowhere on US 61 transforms into Paradise.
Do You Remember the Time When We Fell in Love?
Do You Remember the Time When We First Met?
A crowded nightclub. People are dancing, or doing what passes
for dancing, to the loud muzak. I am 21 and handsome enough, I
suppose, and he is this cute 19 year old boy standing across the
bar, waiting for... someone. Our eyes meet. He smiles. That is
invitation enough for me. I walk up and introduce myself. The
muzak is too loud to carry on good conversation. My opening has
to be short and simple. First I tell him that I like his shirt.
It's long and colorful and catches the eye in the darkness. He
tells me he just bought it yesterday. I also like what's inside
the shirt and I tell him that too. He smiles again. He likes
what he sees as well.
He is a work of art. Surely he stepped out of a painting for
a bit of fun tonight while the museum was closed.
I tell him that I have to be getting back home and would like
to call him tomorrow. He nods his head. Ah, success! He writes
his number down for me on a scrap of paper using a pen that the
bartender provides and tells me to call him tomorrow around noon.
I remember to tip the bartender. That scrap of paper is worth more
to me than all the money in my wallet. I place it carefully in my
pocket and as I leave the bar I touch it, just to make sure it's
still there.
These Sweet Memories Will Always Be Dear to Me,
And No Matter What We Said,
I Will Never Forget What We Did.
Do You Remember?
It is Valentines Day. By now my love for him is strong. We go
to the bar again. He is mine, and I am his, and everyone knows this.
I could dance all night. I do not need to sleep, not now or ever.
It is obvious that I will live forever.
We sit down to rest. His hands are warm as a summer afternoon
as they massage my shoulders. My eyes almost close. I perceive
pleasure in the absolute; it is serene delight, completely
focused, without distractions of any kind.
A guy I went out with once, Ron, passes by and stares at me
for just a moment. He does not look happy. I want to talk with
him, but cannot move while under the influence of this spell that
Bruce has cast upon me. Soon Ron is forgotten--just another face
in the crowd.
And then. . . and then. . . and then. . . five days later,
it all stopped. The years piled on top of the years. One day we
will be molecules scattered throughout the cosmos. . . But while
we loved each other, it was sublime and powerful, and if our love
had lasted any longer, we should have ascended to the stars. Maybe
it's fortunate that did not happen. I hear it is cold in space.
Do You Remember When We Both Were Young?
We'd Stay On The Phone From Night Til Dawn.
Do You Remember All The Things We Did?
It Just Seemed Like Heaven, Now Didn't It?
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