The Carma Klown 1

© 2013 by the author

—In our age, every record, every image, every bit of data, every memory, is suspect. Even an individual’s sense of self is fluid and malleable. With the right software, the right drugs, the right indoctrination, one can change anything and anyone. Whimsy rules. Nothing is permanent. Nothing can be trusted. You may not be the person you were yesterday.

—The Carma Klown

Chapter 1

Monday, ca. 7:00, June 7, 2010

The sound of water running in the shower tugged Jeff away from sleep and into a drifting consciousness that mixed elements from a half-remembered dream about a muddle at work with the current reality on the other side of his eyelids. For a moment a minor character from the video game he was working on refused to proceed unless—there was a waterfall to cross, but Michael was using up all the hot water, and the character wanted something—and he would have to deal with the problem today but he had lost the thing—he needed something, but what was it? Or who? Did Michael have it?  He must remember to ask Michael if he knew where he had put it.

As Jeff’s eyes opened, the digital clock on the nightstand changed from 7:06 to 7:07. The door to the bathroom was open, and he lay in bed on his side, the sheet pulled up to his chin and his hands pushed under his pillows, watching Michael. The blankets were bunched up against his back where Michael had tucked them in to keep him warm while he went for his morning run. Michael often did that. It was odd. Jeff knew that the pressure and the warmth against his body weren’t Michael, but he found them comforting, as if Michael had left physical reminders of himself to linger in the bed.

The shower stall had two walls of translucent pebbled glass, and the bright, early morning light coming through the bathroom window glistened off a thousand water drops. Michael’s body shimmered in a hundred refracted images as he moved beneath the spray of water. He must have just gotten back, thought Jeff. Michael usually jumped in the shower immediately, barely interrupting his stride to toss his running shoes and socks and shorts on to the floor of the hallway leading to the bedroom. Apparently he hadn’t closed the door to the bathroom securely, and the draft from the steam being sucked up by the ventilation fan had pulled the door open.

Jeff watched Michael as he lathered soap onto a washcloth. He raised an arm and for a moment a hand rose above the shower stall, golden-bronze in the light. The distortions in the glass offset Michael’s body so that the hand appeared unconnected to the rest of Michael’s arm. Seven years of being with Michael had imprinted his body on Jeff’s mind. He remembered more than saw how Michael’s backside looked. The well-defined muscles that ran on either side of his spine, the indentation over his backbone, the swell of his buttocks, the deep cleft between them, the always surprising reality of his thighs. They were suddenly present to him in a palpable way. He could feel them firm and smooth beneath his hands.

Jeff’s morning hard-on twitched, and in one easy movement he lifted the sheet, swung his legs out, and stood up. In five quick steps he crossed the bedroom, opened the door to the shower, and entered it.

“Wha—?” Michael turned around in surprise.

“Let me wash your back.” Jeff took the soapy washcloth out of Michael’s hand. Michael smiled in anticipation and turned around. Jeff’s hands glided across Michael’s body, lubricated by the soap. Michael’s body was so solid and dense, golden where the sun had tanned it and a pale ivory around the hips and upper thighs in the area covered by his jogging shorts. Jeff massaged the muscles with his eyes closed. He didn’t need to look at them. He knew them from memory, and he wanted to isolate the sensations coming to his mind from his hands—the familiar yet still fascinating flesh warmed by the shower, firm and pliable, the smooth skin slippery with soap. He lowered his hands and began washing Michael’s buttocks. Their curves filled his hands, deeply concave at the sides and swelling to tight, compact mounds of flesh near the center. He lathered up his hands and ran his fingers down the crack, working soap into it and gently touching the sensitive area between the anus and the balls. Michael groaned and his buttocks shivered as he contracted them and then relaxed them. The area between Michael’s thighs was always so surprisingly hot. Jeff ran his hand slowly back and forth between the thighs. Michael gasped and his head titled backwards.

Jeff knelt on the floor of the shower. He ran his soapy hands up and down Michael’s legs. When he tapped Michael’s left foot, Michael raised it and Jeff washed the foot, sticking a soapy finger between each of the toes. “Turn around,” he said. When Michael complied, he washed the right foot in the same way. Then he moved his hands up the front of Michael’s thighs, slowly stroking them. When he reached the groin, he washed Michael’s cock and balls, pulling on them gently and cupping them between his hands. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around the base of Michael’s cock and held it tightly.

Then, still kneeling, he kissed the tip of Michael’s cock. The water ran down over his head, plastering his hair to his scalp and turning it a darker brown. He ran his tongue over the head of the cock and then up and down the shaft. With his left hand, he reached around Michael’s body and pulled him close. He took all of Michael’s cock into his mouth and began sucking it while insinuating a finger between Michael’s buttocks until he touched the anus. He vibrated the finger against Michael until he relaxed and the tip of the finger found its way into him. Michael’s cock grew even harder.

Above him, Michael began to shake. He placed his hands on Jeff’s shoulders and started to knead them. He held each breath until he had to take another gasping breath, and then he groaned with effort of restraining himself. Finally he could hold out no longer and began mindlessly thrusting his cock in and out of Jeff’s mouth.

When Michael came, Jeff ceased his motions until Michael settled to rest, his cock, now growing flaccid and limp but still swollen, in Jeff’s mouth. When Michael signaled with a deep, rasping breath and a pat on Jeff’s shoulder that his orgasm was over, Jeff stood up and turned off the water. He opened the door to the shower and grabbed a towel off the rack. He began patting Michael’s body dry from head to foot. When he finished, he wrapped the towel around Michael’s waist and give him a push toward the bedroom. Then he pulled another towel from the rack and dried himself off.

When Jeff emerged from the bathroom, Michael was already getting dressed. He paused long enough in buttoning up his shirt to hug Jeff and say, “That was wonderful. Thank you. What was the occasion?”

“No occasion. Chalk it up to just simple lust.” He finished buttoning Michael’s shirt and smoothed it over his shoulders and chest.

“Three cheers for simple lust then.” Michael smiled as he pulled on his pants. “I’m always up for that. Next time you have another attack of simple lust, feel free to use me.”

 “Oh, I got your shirt wet. There.” Jeff pointed to spot on the right arm.

“It’s okay. Something to remember this morning by. Don’t worry about it. It’ll be hidden by my jacket, and it will dry soon enough.”

“Are you off then?” Jeff tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice.“You should eat some breakfast at least.”

“Can’t. I gotta go. I don’t even have time for coffee. I got a text from Altmann while I was out jogging. He has some video that he wants me to look at.” As Michael spoke, he pulled on his shoulder holster and buckled it into place. Then he reached into the closet and opened the safe. He pulled out his gun and inserted it into the holster, snapping the flap over it and adjusting it so that it rode inconspicuously on his left side in the hollow beneath his chest muscles.

The gun safe was a concession to Jeff. He hated waking up in the morning and seeing the gun sitting on the dresser or on the night stand on Michael’s side of the bed. It reminded him too much of the dangers of Michael’s job, and he didn’t like the casual way that Michael treated it. He would have preferred that Michael not bring it into their home at all, but departmental regulations specified that every officer had to have his gun within reach at all times. When they had bought the condo, they had compromised on the safe in the closet. It would be, Michael had joked, the only thing hidden in the closet in their apartment.

Michael pulled on his sportscoat and adjusted his tie. He patted the top of his hair to flatten it, but as soon as he turned away from the mirror, it sprang back up. He embraced the still naked Jeff and kissed him. “Mmmm, I love you. I am so lucky.”

Jeff smiled and replied, “Not as lucky as me. I love you too. Will you be back for dinner tonight?” Again, it was an effort not to let too much longing creep into his voice.

“As far as I know. Altmann probably needs information on this video before he goes to some meeting. That’s usually why he calls me in early. If I’m going to be late, I’ll let you know.” Even as he spoke, Michael was putting his keys and phone into his pockets and picking up an assortment of coins to take with him. He patted his pockets to make sure that he had everything, picked up the case with his personal laptop, and aimed a smile at Jeff as he left.

If I hadn’t woken up and seen Michael in the shower and then joined him, thought Jeff, I wonder if he would even have spoken to me. He probably would have let me sleep. He could hear Michael now, “I didn’t want to wake you. I know you were up late working again.” That was the pattern lately. Their schedules didn’t seem to match any more. Jeff had to time a lot of his work so that he could discuss projects in real-time with the illustrators in the Mountain View office of Jacoby and Greene in California. The people he worked with there had an elastic notion of flex time. None of them seemed to get to work until early afternoon California time, and they kept at it until two or three in the morning New York time. It wasn’t difficult for Jeff to stay up. He had always been a night person. Michael, however, was a morning person, and his job schedule called for him to show up by nine. Most of the time Michael was already asleep by the time Jeff made it to bed. At night he had to be careful not to disturb Michael’s sleep, and in the morning Michael had to be careful not to disturb him. That seemed to be the story of their relationship now. They tiptoed around each other.

Some days they hardly had a chance to speak, let alone have a conversation. When they had first met, the excitement of having someone to talk to in a way that you couldn’t talk to other people had been the starting point of their relationship. It was what made them both sure that something special was beginning. Staying up until two in the morning and talking happened almost daily. They usually went to bed only because the talk led to touching and kissing and clothes being pulled off and minds becoming aroused and bodies overwhelming them with an urgent physical need for release. Suddenly it was just necessary to be in bed, and that led to sex, and exhaustion eventually led to sleep. In those days when they took a shower together, Michael didn’t rush off as soon as it was over.

Michael still wants sex, thought Jeff, at least when I remind him that sex is an option. He hadn’t, after all, said he didn’t have the time this morning and pushed me out of the shower. No, he had waited until I had finished servicing him. And “service” felt like the right word for what had happened. But neither had he wasted any time once the shower was over to get away.

Worse, Michael didn’t even seem to be aware that there might be a problem—that I might want a few more minutes with him and a bit of reciprocity. Maybe not an orgasm, but a little physical enthusiasm, a little regret that he had to dash off. Jeff shook his head. I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself, he thought. The relationship was still strong. They were even talking about formalizing it, and the discussion was progressing from Should we get married? to When and how should we get married? They had bought the condo. True, it wasn’t large—just the bedroom, a fair-sized living room, a room barely larger that a closet that he used as a home office, and a small kitchen—but it was in a decent neighborhood and had some of the things realtors said were important like closet space and plenty of light. Moreover, both of them, without needing to discuss it, knew that buying the condo was a sign that the relationship was permanent. And their families and friends had known that as well. The condo was littered with housewarming gifts that had been presented to them with smiles and congratulations.

But their jobs, especially Michael’s career ambitions, were beginning to intrude more and more into their daily life. Jeff understood Michael’s need to be successful, and he wanted him to succeed. Still, he missed the maelstrom of the early days, that whirlwind engulfing them and sending everything else spinning away. And he missed the conversations. Perhaps no relationship could remain at that intense level forever. At least, there was still a relationship. For which, he reminded himself, he should be thankful.

Jeff walked naked through the apartment, stepping around Michael’s jogging clothes (he would pick them up later), and into the kitchen. He put bread into the toaster and made coffee. Maybe the dampening of ardor was a good sign, a sign of comfort in each other’s presence. The extraordinary had become routine, and they had settled into an equilibrium. Married life rather than crazed, passionate romance. At least that’s what I’ll keep telling myself, he thought.