Want

Several years ago I wrote a trilogy about Depeche Mode. This part, 'Want', is the second, from 2012. When I finished the first, 'SPAL (Sex. Pain. Angel. Love)', I thought that Alan's character was left uncovered, looking a typical anti-hero. But stereotypes are something I do not like, so I decided to show the situation described in SPAL from Alan's viewpoint: what and who he saw as right or wrong, with the benchmark switched.

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8. Chapter 8

I want to be there when your hot black rage rips wide open. 
I want to taste my own kind. 
I want to be wrapped in cold wet sheets to see if it`s different on this side. 
I want you to come on strong. 
I want to leave you out in the cold. 
I want the exact same thing but different. 
I want some soft drugs...some soft, soft drugs. 
I want to throw you. 

  The sun was shining bright, maliciously and impudently breaking through white metal strips of blinds in the studio, causing attacks of sickening migraine with its frightening cheerful optimism. Alan groaned with a strange cheek pain, and after a few seconds he realized that he had apparently fallen asleep on the toggle-switches during his work late at night yesterday, or rather early in the morning today. 
 “Crap! Charlie, it`s 2 o`clock already! The guests are coming!”   
 “Huh?.. Guests? What guests?” Alan asked. Well, he was asking jokingly. Rhetorically. He believed his spouse would understand his humour. Actually, he loved her mostly because she was able to understand his humour. His life experience had taught him that cohabiting with another person with no lethal threat to your own life is possible only by mutual sense of humour. That was the reason why he so fearlessly decided to cast his lot with her. Because she laughed at his jokes, and more of that, to her credit, she could guess the right places to laugh at.  
  She understood his humour. Usually. Obviously not this time. In response to his clumsy attempt to make amends for his own mistake, he heard that she was tired of being the only male in their house!
  “Who`s banging whom in this house?!”  
  “Ha-ha-ha,” Alan was shocked by his own reaction. Good thing she didn`t understand his humour again. Well, in any case it was far better than what he was about to answer.
  “Yesterday you swore you`d put up the tent aside of the pool!”
  “Oh, good God... Hep, I had a lot of frigging work. I intended to do it...“ Honestly, he forgot about the sodding tent. Did he have to remember about all those freaking tents in the house like there were no other problems? “Actually, you could remind me again!”
  “A lot of work!” Hep grabbed an empty bottle of vodka and a sticky glass of muddy mixture of melting ice and soda squeamishly. “You`re, seems to be, a work addict, aren`t you?” She picked up another bottle at the door. “Twelve hours in a row, raising your glass up and putting it down tirelessly...”
  Guiltily Alan rubbed his bristly cheek with the reddish imprint of the toggle-switch where he had conked out yesterday. 
  “Can I have my tea, missus?” he said rather timidly, though.
  “Water is in the tap, so you can help yourself, Sir!” Hep slammed the door shut. 
  Alan instantly felt relief when Hep was gone, as if she took away a thundercloud. Even the headache seemed gone. He breathed out a sigh of relief, because there were no casualties, and stood up. It was like Hep could feel it - the door opened again, and she sternly reminded:
  “The tent.”
  “I definitely need to shave and to take a shower...and... oh, I`m yearning for my fucking tea…”
  “Now!”
  “Yes, Boss.”
  Alan stepped outside, blinking, shrinking and rushing away from the sun that burned his skin. He felt the same as at the best times of the Devotional tour when they had to leave hotels in mornings: like an unhappy vampire pursuited to be killed. The life nastily blazed on the lawn of fresh-cut grass and succulent green leaves. Fucking birds were chirping pathologically cheerfully, and light clouds were slowly drifting across the sky. Immediately Alan became ashamed of his unwashed head, stale shirt and unshaven face. He wanted to go back where it was cool and quiet, confident and calm, into his half-light with his booze. Inside of his half-light and with his booze, he felt at home, but here on this fucking fresh and clear air he felt like someone with his skin taken off and with his guts exposed. 
  He was a god in front of his musical equipment where he breathed soul and life into the ocean of sounds with the hand of the Creator. However, under the merciless sun, he was an unshaven boozehead and patresfamilias, long past his best - like everyone else.
  The reality was disappointing. 
  He dissolved in the Universe that existed beyond time. It was created back then, ten years ago, but yesterday when he immersed in it, he felt it born and revived again under his touch. Martin was damn right, having honored Alan`s Holy Right to his universe and refused to let anyone but Alan in. Alan suddenly felt a sharp surge of infinite gratitude to Martin Gore for that. It seemed he started to recall something unbearably good and right in this person, despite his lovingly fostered resentment against him. Perhaps it was good that he had accepted his proposal... although first he feared that such intense scratching of his old wounds would definitely kill him.
  The kids were scampering on the lawn near the pool, and Alan, lost in his reflections, did not notice that he almost approached his house.
  “Paris! You can`t catch me!”
  His son and daughter started to run around him after each other, like playing around a tree. 
  “Stanley! Give my shoe back, you lil` moron!!!”
  On the fiftieth circle, Alan felt dizzy. He caught Stan, pulled the shoe off his hands and handed it to Paris, then gave Stanley a hearty slap upside the head and proudly entered the house, knowing he had fulfilled his paternal debt.
  “The tent is done, isn`t it, Charlie?” He did not meet hospitality in his own house.
  “Blimey!”
  After two and a half hours, he finally assembled the bloody tent. Evidently, as it happens every time, some parts of the construction suddenly failed to suit each other, and some of them had been lost and then found between the jaws of a porcelain dog by the fireplace in the living room after some vicious half-hour scandal. Alan was swearing like a devil, and Stan was rolling with laughter on a fluffy ultramarine carpet. The joke seemed extremely funny to him. Alan forced his son to help him with the tent for pedagogical purposes, but the boy was not offended at all and even assembled his part rather quickly. Of course, Alan criticized shortcomings on that side, but Hep stroked her son`s head.  
 “I think I`m done with this tent! How long should I overrun myself? High time to buy a new one!” Alan said indignantly, heading for the shower.  
  “Well, then go and buy it,” Hep grumbled. 
  “I`m working!” Alan said and didn`t turn around. 
  “Over the last ten years, we assembled this tent more often than you worked,” Hep said vindictively, “despite the fact that we hardly assemble it once a year before your birthday!”
  He slammed the bathroom door furiously, showing the only argument that would not let her find an answer!
  “And don`t slam the door that hard, Charlie, you make the tiles fall off the bathroom`s walls!” Hep shouted back.
   Guests warned that they would come up soon. Alan ruffled his hair and decided to go outside in order to artificially increase the sense of love for humanity taking the appetizer with his father-in-law, who had arrived early - or more precisely, to dull the pain of communication with representatives of the human race by using improvised means.
At that moment, Hep came out of the bedroom, wearing an open dress with shoulder straps and radiating the fierce scent of aggressive powdered lavender. 
  “How do I look?” she asked, pouting her lips outlined with shiny deep-red lipstick. Hep was obviously flirting with him. “Am I sexy?”
  “I believe you`d better wipe it off,” Alan grimaced.
 “Alan, you`ve never been a ladies` man, but today you`ve outdone yourself!” Hep got offended.
 “You might be aware I despise red lipstick in general.”
 “It looks hella good on me!”
 “Did I miss something? We`re having a brothel evening instead of a warm family party?”
 “Oh, Charlie, how nice of you, dear…So, you do mean you`re jealous,” Hep laughed. “I wonder for whom? Maybe for Paul? Or maybe for my sister`s husband John? So, Mad Othello, tell me what you will do to me if I flirt with Paul?! Mmm?”
  Hep was mocking him, but Alan was not in the mood to joke about it. She seemed to be flirting with him, and therefore he automatically, but rather because it was appropriate, playfully smacked her ass to soften the rudeness of his behaviour and his words.  
    “I would still want my wife look more decent, no matter what,” the words were very acrimonious and unflinching.

***

  Oh, that lipstick of fucking red! How many nerves it wrecked him. This lipstick caused idiosyncrasy in him from those times when they lived together with Aint-Saint Martin in Berlin.
  Back then, he didn`t like that Martin wore his make-up like a woman of pleasure. Not because he didn`t like make-up or those women but because Martin was a man, in his expert opinion. Alan tried to convey this idea to him, but Martin just laughed like crazy.
“I despise gender stereotypes,” he replied. 
“I despise when everybody is looking at me and pointing fingers,” Alan said.
“They`re not looking at you,” Martin replied as usual. “While I am happy with everything.”
“Lord, give me the strength,” that was the end of his attempts to expostulate with Martin, in a best-case scenario. At worst, Martin ended up dressing even more provocatively. Soon Alan realized that even if he was very dissatisfied, it was better to keep silent in any case. So it turned out less painful for him. 
   In the Eastern edge of West Berlin, in Kreuzberg, where they lived and where all more or less self-respecting outcast kicked up heels, it was generally inappropriate to dress normally and not to stand out from the crowd. It was also improper not to have dark circles under the eyes in the daytime after a sleepless night spent at the club. It was as indecent as coming to work sober and without bottleache in the morning. It was as improper as not taking a couple of ecstasy, or as unreal as refusing to smoke the goofy-butt. That is why they went to the club every night. Martin did not fail attracting attention, even among the most prominent freaks and thugs of West Berlin. It took some time, though. But he tried very hard. He would always try very hard whatever he was doing. And he succeeded.  
   Alan was kneeling near Martin`s head; he was passionately fucking Martin`s mouth juicily coloured with the scarlet lipstick. Martin was lying across the bed almost naked except for...black ladies` stockings with elastic suspenders on his widely spread legs. Alan gasped and didn`t know what to look at - either at the sensitive skin of his own cock turning red by the second because of his arousal and the lad`s lipstick smudging all over it, or at Martin`s cock strained on his belly and trembling in accordance with each tight movement of his lips along the surface of Alan`s dick. On one side Martin`s cock was surrounded by the happy trail of blond hair, and on the other were those murderous old-fashioned black-laced ladies` stockings. It caused an absolutely blood-curdling explosion of contradictory emotions in Alan. On the one hand, he found it a completely disgusting and unnatural combination. It was ugly, effeminate, unaesthetic, and even seemingly not erotic; it was somewhere out of vulgarity. When Alan first saw it, he felt everything just squeeze in his pants. That was why he had to take them off immediately: he was scared the pressure of the clothes down from his waist would cause an asphyxia and the brain death due to the lack of oxygen. He was fucking Martin now, and he clenched his teeth and groaned in his desperate desire to keep the nuclear explosion from tearing him to pieces. It was burning out somewhere between his thighs, inside of his balls, though he gently cupped them in his palm, guiding his cock into the mouth beneath that was doing its job with great enthusiasm.
   The more Alan endured and fucked Martin`s mouth, the more the idea to pay him back with interest took shape in his mind. All the more, the opportunity to have your cock sucked by Martin Gore lying between your legs in ladies` stockings is not an everyday option. God, he didn`t know whether to cry or laugh at his own thoughts, but for sure this idea mesmerized him as dangerously erotic. 
   It seemed the warm, gentle, affectionate embrace of Martin`s wet lips began to cause pain in his cock. Alan literally abruptly took it out of Martin`s mouth in an incredible effort of his will, whimpering of the inability to endure. He sadistically smudged the remnants of the red lipstick with his thumb over Martin`s cheek. He wanted to do this publicly every time he saw those impudently coloured lips, but he was afraid of something in Martin`s eyes, so he would never actually do it. Now he didn`t give a damn and did it - and almost came on those iridescent stains mixed with the rivulets of mascara, which showed the depth of the efforts Martin made to gratify him and the depth of the efforts Alan desperately made to shove his cock deeper into Martin`s throat. Alan threw his second knee back over Martin`s head. He crawled away from the lad`s mouth on his trembling hands, trying to recover a bit and to postpone the inexorably forthcoming ejaculation. He felt whacked-out and deadly drunk at the same time, although he hardly drank a couple pints of beer that day. His forehead was burning; his heart was throbbing painfully in his both temples, inside his chest and lower abdomen, sending more and more obscene fantasies to his mind and continually strengthening the tension that was tearing his brain apart. He just wanted to extend this crazy erotic intoxication as long as possible, but he barely could. 
  Martin tried to grab Alan`s thigh. Alan sobbed:
  “Don`t touch me...just, please...Martin…don`t touch me…I mean...I`m not kidding... Don`t!”
  Alan tried to imagine himself from the outside. Something like at his grandmother`s Christmas dinner together with his family dressed in evening gowns and watching him crawling in somewhat doggy-style position on his trembling hands and knees, wearing  a shirt only without any pants, with his desperately sticking-out shiny coral rock-hard cock. But even this image that usually brought terrifying cramp to his jaws was not enough to get rid of the understanding that he probably would cum now if Martin only looked at him.
  “Are you all right?” Martin asked wonderingly, raising on his elbows.
  Alan nodded slowly, thoughtfully looking at his throbbing cock, and suddenly giggled.
  “Oriflamme*,” he said instantly with a French accent and giggled even more. “I feel like I am some sort of Tennessee Williams` protagonist...”
  “Al, you`re out of your fucking mind or what?” Martin inquired friendly. He turned on the other side and was curiously watching the same thing as Alan, scratching his belly thoughtfully.
  “Oh, the heroine…she, she…” Alan laughed, “was looking for a...perfect...you know... the perfect shade of red. Not carroty...not cherry... not brick colour...”
  “You are completely buggered up, soulmate,” Martin stated wearily.
  “No, you have to know this. The purest of scarlet...you know... the perfect red colour. The colour of the Oriflamme. So I...” Alan sat up on his knees, laughing. Fortunately, the attack of fun worked better than the thoughts of his grandmother`s face at Christmas dinner, so he was able to continue. “I ...think...I`ve found this colour. And it is just perfect, don`t you think?” he scooped up his cock with his hand and thoughtfully raised it in the air.
  He was waiting for the air in the bedroom to be cut by that painfully familiar «heh-heh-heh», but Martin was pathologically serious. He turned on his back again, threw back his head, and licked his lips a bit nervously. He wasn`t satisfied with Alan`s idea to take a break, and he didn`t really understand what the hell they were doing altogether.
  “Liberté, égalité, fraternité,” he pronounced gloomily in almost clear French. 
  “Pardon me?”
  “Drop your vermilion banner of French revolution and come for me,” Martin said not trying to hide his irritation.
  “Oriflamme is not the banner of the revolution...it is a...”
  “Sure enough I don`t give a cunt suck…”
  Sure enough Alan didn`t give a cunt suck as well. All he cared about was enraging Martin. In fact, it was the first time he succeeded. That was the very core of the reason why it was so enticing. Martin was obviously pissed off by his external indifference, and it started to turn Alan on again.
   “Have you read the book, old boy?” Alan asked. He obeyed Martin, though, carefully climbing on top of his body again - now from the side that was more conventional: above him, face to face, and watching up and down his body enthusiastically. 
   “No,“ Martin replied firmly. 
   “Mmm,“ Alan said, his voice all milk and honey, while he smiled mockingly, “what a shame!”
   Martin suddenly narrowed his lids. Alan felt an instant hit of cold almost physically. Martin understood that Alan was scoffing at him and definitely didn`t like that. It infuriated him. Alan didn`t intend to scoff at him, by all means. It just happened, because only here, half-naked, in the half-light of blinded curtains, in dark grey Berlin winter whether morning or evening, among the crumpled sheets - only here he felt his real, live emotions, such...normal and human...you know…it was painfully touching. It was worth it. It was what is commonly called intimacy.    
   Alan leaned and gently as he could touched Martin`s forehead with his lips, as if assuring that he was not going to hurt him. Martin froze. It seemed like he even stopped breathing and instantly leaned toward him. Alan groaned with tenderness. 
   Then he moved back again to catch the breath. He was so touched and realized that he might melt into tears. 
   “Does it come off satisfactorily?” Martin suddenly asked, running his fingertips over Alan`s cheek, and it took some time before Alan understood what he was talking about. Martin`s hand went down to his chin, then moved to the other cheek, teasing Alan`s effectors with light delicate touches and making him think that he did have a couple of other erogenous zones in the most unexpected places. Martin`s fingers settled at his lips, more precisely over his lips, not touching, only covering with his warmth.
  “Nothing could be further from the truth,” Alan murmured, making his lips caress Martin`s fingers slowly. They burned his skin at once, but he started missing this touch right after it parted.
  “The consummation was not satisfactory at all. I mean, probably the consummation was…Bollocks!  All died.  This story is a sad one. Sorry, love,” Alan said.
  He could not clearly pronounce the last words, because Martin not just touched Alan`s lips with his fingers but gently and firmly stuck the tip of the middle and the first fingers into his mouth. Not too intensively, just a bit touching his lower lip, but obviously prompting him to take both fingers in his mouth voluntarily.  
  “Why on earth?” Martin asked, as if nothing had happened.
  Alan started to feel noises in his head, which mixed the feeling of tenderness with a resurgent echo of the quieted-down exaltation. He remembered about his cock again, and, frankly, he was not very interested in world literature any more. He shrugged, closing his eyes and clasping Martin`s fingers with his lips.  
   “Not saying I detest sad stories,” Martin said, “but there has to be a bit of hope in the end…which, I believe, can be a satisfactory come-off.”
  Alan comprehended the idea of Martin`s mind, because Martin`s fingers were now fucking his mouth slowly, reminding him what Martin actually wanted from him. Alan was willing to give it to him, but once they began to tease each other, he could not stop. He chuckled and slightly bit the fingers.
   “Ah, screw it!” Alan said when Martin hissed and immediately snatched back his hand away from his bite. 
  After that, he was condemned to stare with his mouth open, hypnotized by Martin`s wet fingers drawing circles on his own dark nipple. Then he couldn`t stand the ineffectiveness - in his subjective opinion, of course - of the process, poked Martin`s hand away and pinched his nipple between the thumb and the first finger, forcing it to taper immediately and making Martin hiss whether of pain or pleasure, which in this case was not so fundamentally different in their way of working.
   Without allowing Martin to come to mind and forcing him to moan again, Alan immediately went down, digging at the soft skin of Martin`s chest. He slid lower, caressing the lad`s belly with his lips and scratching it with his teeth, forcing Martin to squirm under him. It was so good that it was just unbearable. Unbearably good. He felt Martin`s fingers grab his hair, the ring of the leather bondage bracelet hit his temple. It was unlikely Martin was trying to push him away - he was rather encouraging him to continue. Alan moved down, putting Martin`s leg in that frigging stocking on his shoulder, and quickly took Martin`s cock into his mouth as far as he was able to; he even tried a bit too hard, so he barely coped with dizziness and broke out with the panic that he wouldn`t be able to breathe.
  “A-a-a-ah!” This sound ripped Alan`s ears once again and forced him to move faster. The feeling of the very touch of his lips and of Martin`s leaning toward his mouth now made Alan get the cramps of pleasure in his thighs. He smelled and felt the nylon on his shoulder. Probably, it was the only way to feel truly alive outside images and sounds that absorbed his fantasy, outside the art, outside the music and the studio. The only common thing in all of that was his desire to enjoy every second of the process. He yanked off his shirt and remained completely naked; he had to feel the weight of Martin`s body with his bare skin.
  The thick old-fashioned lace was scratching Alan`s shoulder and cheek, flavouring the sensation of the large cock in his mouth with the feeling of the total brain decay and decadence. He only wanted to suck, but goddamn, those thighs spread on his shoulders forced him to think further than that. Alan already imagined those not too masculine hips after the nice shagging, fallen down apart in exhaustion, delicious and charming with the beauty and the ideality of the shape of milk-white drops of their cum bawdily shining on the old-fashioned feminine lace of the stockings.
   Alan straightened up abruptly, not even trying to take Martin`s legs off his shoulders, just holding his hips at a convenient angle. He was looking into Martin`s eyes and breathing heavily; the whole world depended on HIS glance now, only on HIS word, because Alan would never do anything HE didn`t want. Everything just lost its meaning. There was no reason to do anything HE didn`t want. Alan only remembered those words after which he lost the sense of time and found the taste of delight and pain, and the point of his existence.  
  “I want you. Now.” Martin whispered.

***

  Alan recalled Dave had once stated, “Berlin has spoiled us. But more than anything else we wanted to be spoiled.” That`s what he said about their sojourn in Berlin.
  Kessler was telling the story about how a couple of days ago Frankie Goes to Hollywood outdid them with their “Relax” on the dance floor in the club. The fact was they had been fussing over their track about Master and Servant, polishing it in all possible and impossible parts, terrified of how it could be accepted by the local clubs... and eventually, they forgot to record the drums and bass tracks.  
  “And then there was some enchanting story,” Kessler said, shaking his leg, giggling and holding a cup of coffee with both hands, “everybody just jerked away from the dance floor when they heard the first sounds... It would be better if we just sank into the earth immediately!”
  “Oh, dear!” Miller covered his face with his hands. It was both painful and funny for him. It was painful and funny for everyone except for Martin. It seemed like he didn`t care. This damn song didn`t bother him at all. He didn`t care a flying fuck about it. He was concerned of so much more epic thoughts. It was hurtful to look at Martin, and yet, it gave rise to some completely sick joyful emotions. He looked like he was wearing a stone mask; he was sitting there, covering the lower part of his face with his hand, and his eyes were glistening above his gnawed manicure, expressing all the suffering of the Holocaust victims or something. It seemed like his eyes faded for an instant, lost their smutty colour of green. Alan rarely could see Martin in shock. While Martin was shocked. He looked a little discouraged by himself.
  That was understandable, though. Alan thought that it would be hurtful for him or he would feel ashamed as well. Somehow, it seemed incredibly funny. No, definitely, he didn`t want to be in Martin`s place. In addition, of course he could not, because he would not be able to tear to bits like that, so the Universe did give everybody what they deserved.
  Meanwhile, all of them in the studio had planned how to finish their spoiled hit and were sneering now at how they would come to the club and say, “Hello again!” The conversation gradually moved on to the other songs.
  Miller had been explaining them something for half an hour; he even drew something with a felt-tip pen on the plastic board that was hanging in the corner. Daniel was in obvious inspiration; he was dishevelled and unshaven, but his eyes were insanely sparkling through his thick glasses, and thus it meant that the producer was inspired by some new idée fixe. In the first stage, it was necessary at least to look at him and to nod occasionally, pretending that you were interested. Otherwise, he could become furious. Martin was sitting right in front of him. Martin`s exterior didn`t show any signs of intelligence. He was just sitting and staring at one point.
  Fletch was also staring at one point, his arms folded, and looking into the emptiness over the glasses, but he had a much more reasonable face expression and nodded occasionally. By the way, Fletch did not talk to Martin that day. It was just amazing: last night was definitely successful, and Alan was delighted.
  “Martin?! Are YOU listening to me?”
  “Why?” Martin flinched when Miller barked to his ear suddenly.
  “You!” 
  “Why…w…why me?” Martin asked.
  “Boy, can you speak English? Huh?”
  “Ah, can I?” 
  “You surely can!”
  “Oh, I`m sorry…I have a terrible headache...”
  Dave was drugged-out with marijuana. He behaved as nutty as a fruitcake. He was laughing aloud derisively.  
  “He has a terrific headache! Haaa-haaa-haaa...haaaa…” Dave couldn`t calm down.
  “YOU CAN`T HAVE A HEADACHE, MARTIN!” Miller yelled exasperatedly.
  “On what ground?” Martin asked, pulling his finger out of his mouth.
  “BY DEFINITION!” the boss barked.
  Dave was literally crying with laughter. Miller hadn`t been with them the day before, but Dave agreed with him. Jonathan Kessler was wiping his tears off in the corner of the room. He had been there, although didn`t see some details. Alan also covered the lower part of his face with his palm to hide a smile and not to enrage Miller by starting to laugh aloud, because Dave`s hysterics was no less enchanting than Martin Lee`s coma.
  “You can`t have a headache, Martin Lee Gore, because you haven`t got a head!” the boss continued furiously. “IT`S IMPOSSIBLE TO HAVE AN ACHE OF SOMETHING THAT DOES NOT EXIST, BY DEFINITION! IT`S IMPOSSIBLE.”
  Martin immediately glared at Miller and at giggling Dave who was hanging around hither and yon before his eyes, and something just pissed him off suddenly. He unexpectedly snapped viciously: 
  “I could say that I`ve got a butt-ache, but I could not afford it in the presence of ladies.”
  Alan howled and rolled out of the chair. He did not know whom exactly Martin meant, but the joke turned out to be too effervescent, because Martin was the one who was wearing his most famous dress under his jacket.
  Dave cried and moaned the muffled:
 “Fuuuuckmesideways...” nuzzling into Fletch`s shoulder. Fletch also tempered justice with mercy, and his body began to twitch with laughter. Alan held his stomach, getting back on the chair; he really did run out of air and was afraid of suffocation from laughter. Miller also began to smile, but only Martin didn`t laugh. 
  “Could somebody kill me, please?” he asked humbly.
  “Ma...mar…tin, we can`t,” Alan couldn`t  answer on the first try, “you see, Martin, the mere possibility of the observation... of your...your...uh...let me put it that way... moral suffering... is so morbidly exiting that…it seems like it...causes some pre-ejaculation-like feeling inside.”
  “Pre-eeeee-e-jaculation...” Dave whimpered - he definitely liked the word.
  Martin stood up silently, looking at neither Alan nor Dave, and gravely headed for the door.
  “Where are you going?” Miller asked. 
  “To kill myself,” Martin answered.
  “Don`t you dare until you finish the song,” Miller said from behind his back. “I`ll get you from the crow road, asshole!”
  “Since you are so persuasive,” Martin said friendly, “then I`ll go to pee while they are neighing.”
  Dave wiped his face with his hands.
  “What have you done to him, bastards?” Miller asked sternly and for some reason looked at Dave strictly.
  “Nah…We just went to the club, ya know,” Dave replied, innocently flapping his long eyelashes and blowing his lips with an unfailing charisma of a nice little Jewish baby-boy.
  Miller`s heavy gaze moved to Alan. 
  “As a matter of fact, we behaved as we always do,” said Alan, “and did nothing MORE unnatural than usual! I will answer for us both.”
  It would be nice if Dave wasn`t giggling so viperously.
  “FLETCH?!”
  “I will abstain!” Fletch said firmly.
  “By the way, Fletch also abstained yesterday!” Dave said quickly, getting knocked on the head with a rolled newspaper by Fletch. “He was the only person who…abstained…actually.”
  “God... I can`t take it anymore…” Alan stood up and walked to the balcony; he just did not have the strength to laugh anymore, and it seemed like he forgot how to cry at the moment. “Dan, I have to go to the balcony, otherwise I`ll die before the end of the day.”
  “Alan, are you going to smoke?”
  “Why? You haven`t got your cigarettes, Dave?”
  “Don`t be greedy, Alan!”
  Alan shrugged and handed him an unopened pack.
  “Got a light?”
  “Give someone an inch, and they will take a mile...” he kindly teased Dave with the folk wisdom.
  “Cunt,” Dave replied angrily, asking himself whether umbrage at Alan`s rudeness was worth giving him back a cigarette proudly and never bumming a smoke today; then he realized that it wasn`t because he had already bummed the last one from Martin, and the latter definitely wouln`t care to go to the nearest store soon.  

***
  It was easy to tell what had happened last night, but none of three of them could ever understand why it had happened.
  “I can`t get no satisfaction,” Mick Jagger`s voice was hoarsely screaming inside some Berlin bar. Alan was sitting at the counter, sniffing the glass edge of a beer mug thoughtfully and looking at the ranks of Jägermeister with acute fascination. Actually, he had been drinking his beer for half an hour. Exactly since he had lost Martin at the bar; so, he had already started to get bored. Therefore, he fell into a light slackjaw, hiding from himself a fair share of anger that was drilling him from the inside. 
  Unexpectedly, Dave laughed cheerfully right in his ear. It was Dave`s smell - the smell of sweat, alcohol and weed. It was not the smell of the lawn weed, which was extremely predictable.
  “I love you, Alan...” he said, breathing hot in his ear. 
  “What`s happened this time? I hope someone died?” Alan asked with sadness in his voice, and the reader should not accuse him of hatred, because Dave`s joy was so suspiciously unexpected that Alan felt like his guts ripped off and crumbled down. 
  “Nah, dontcha worry,” answered Dave, “I just wanted to be nice with you. Ya know.”
  “I`m so touched, Dave. What do you want from me, old boy?”
  “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Dave laughed happily, climbing a wooden bar stool near Alan for the third time. “I have everything I need,” he laughed again at his own joke.  
  He smiled sweetly in return to some bearded German gay with bare muscular greyish hairy chest, because he clumsily fell on him all three times. The kind Berlin bearded bear deftly helped the thick-lipped dope head to sit on the stool, almost with the same pleasure as he would mount him on top of himself.
  Alan deigned to look at Dave and squeamishly pointed at the collar of his white shirt. 
  “Since you`re a newly married beginner in this sphere, so to speak, I`d tell you out of kindness that if I were your wife, I`d start some vile and disgusting scandal,” Alan said dejectedly. “Because of the reason that the whole collar of your shirt and, by the way, even your neck are smeared up and down with a vulgar scarlet lipstick.”
  “HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Dave laughed out loud, throwing back his head and shining with his unshaven face with red stains and red swollen lips, “I`d tell her: you silly woman! It`s MARTIN GORE!”
  “Indeed. I recognized this unique shade,” Alan said dejectedly still, looking at the ranks of Jägermeister. “Liberté, égalité, fraternité.”
  “Da fuck was that?” Dave asked.
  “Liberty, equality and debauchery or better to say harlotry,” Alan said through the clenched teeth.
  “Hahaha,” said Dave, “you are too funny, Alan. How do freedom and equality come into the picture?” 
  “Yes, you got it, for it is neither freedom nor equality, it is a Harlotry. Harlotry is everywhere,” Alan said gloomily.  
  “What`s wrong with you, mate?”
  “Forget it,” Alan squirmed, “just forget it, Dave. Relax.”
  “I`m relaxed,” Dave said, “I a-a-am completely...hahaha...” he decided that it sounded ambiguous and laughed, “…relaxed. You look too strung-up, chuck. You two had a fight?”
  Alan looked at Dave. At first he thought he was jeering at him and wanted to punch Dave in the face. However, Dave`s face expression was so sincere, and it seemed he worried about him, so Alan hissed through his teeth:
  “Listen, I don`t even know what to tell you. Where is he? When I saw him last time, this shit,” he pointed to the French Combat Banner`s shades on Dave`s collar again, “was still on his mouth. Therefore, that means you were the last. Although, that is the question whether you were the last.”
  “Haaaa...” Dave was not impressed with his hints, “over there, be guided by Fletch,” he said in the voice of an experienced pathfinder, “he`s tall, red-haired, and he laughs all the time because he has overeaten ecstasy – you can see him or rather hear him from afar. He looks like a sick pedophile maniac.”
  Fletch was really slobbering over the swirling crowd like a float and shone. It took some time to find Martin, but the resolved crowd facilitated Alan`s task. Martin was sitting on the chair, lightly throwing one leg over the other; he was wearing that legendary dress that looked more like a long tank tee with long cuts right up to his hipbones on both sides of the skirt. According to the legend, he borrowed it from his legendary girlfriend Christina. Alan did not really believe in both those legends. Spending every night at the club and at least half of each day in bed with Martin, he guessed that their relationship had unlikely moved from Platonic phase more than a couple of times, and it was very doubtful that such a decent girl could dress up like a whore. 
  Martin was sitting on a chair and shooting the breeze with someone. He was totally undeterred by the fact that he actually showed his completely naked thigh to all the humanity, and with the length of the cut he clearly gave others the understanding that he probably didn`t have any underwear on, aside of that idiotic garter and those black thick stockings till the middle of his thighs.
  “Clusterfuck,” Alan said to Dave, but when he turned he realized that Dave had suddenly vanished into the air. The club was just bewitched. All his band members would just appear and disappear all of a sudden.  
  “Noch ein Bier, bitte!**” he asked a bartender to give him another beer.
  And it was not the end of miracles, as when the bartender gave him another beer, Martin suddenly materialized next to him grabbing his mug.
  “I missed you, baby,” Alan said with the utmost sarcasm.  
  Martin preferred to pretend that he didn`t understand the sarcasm. He put away the half-empty mug and kissed Alan right into his mouth, not really concerning about his own beer moustache. Alan came off the stool, because with Martin`s height it was uncomfortable to kiss in such a shrivelled pose. Alan wiped the beer moisture imprinted from Martin`s face. He snuggled Martin into the bar counter, firmly hugging him across his belly, so he really could not move - he could only turn his head to meet Alan`s kiss, and that was what he actually did.
  It was quite usual for a gay club of this rate, and the bartender immediately ceased to pay attention to what they were actually doing. And that was pretty damn good. In fact, no one cared about what they were doing there; it was noisy, stuffy, dark, and they were not the only couple to be making out in the club. Still, it seemed a little extreme for Alan at first. But after having had stood there for ten minutes with his raising boner bumped into Martin`s naked arse barely covered with a thin cotton cloth, he certainly did not forget about the world around, but the critical assessment of his own behaviour considerably decreased. Alan nestled his cock against Martin`s ass and reminisced about the colourful stripes on Dave`s shirt. All those facts filled him with rather strange emotions. He didn`t want to free Martin from his bear-hug, and Martin was obviously happy about it. However, Alan wanted to take revenge for his humiliation so badly but was unable to figure out exactly how. He could say: “You fucked Dave, cunt, didn`t you?”  But it seemed amazingly corny, and his cock objected to such a statement of the question, aware of the fact that he could spend the night drowning in sexual frustration, because yes, Mart obviously did that. Moreover, it was obvious that Alan could not accept it that easily - it would require the extraordinary exertion of all his moral and emotional strength. Alan was too tired. All that he wanted was peace and regular sex. 
  Holy Crap, Heaven, do I really ask that much?
  An ancient wisdom says: Lord, give me the strength to change what I can change, the patience to accept what I cannot change and the wisdom to distinguish one from the other. The wisdom was on Alan`s side this time.
  He slipped his hand under the slutty cut on Gore`s thigh as if he was the owner, suddenly realizing that Martin was not THAT stupid in regard of wearing this kind of dress – rather it was him who`d been stupid and not tried its benefit before. He grabbed Martin`s dick which was no less strained than his own, and from the outside it looked a little bawdier than a nice hug. However, the incitement that pierced both of them was the one that told them there was no turning back. Of course, Martin liked that Alan was quietly stroking his cock under that stupid skirt - who would question that. He really liked what Alan was doing; Alan even dared to suggest it was the only thing that his mate was yearning for lately. Obviously, Alan wanted to do things Martin desired, but he also wanted to do something for himself.
  He stuck his hand back, forcing Martin to spread his legs wider and protrude his ass further back. Everything was as he expected: on the inner surface of the thighs, in the rear where he slipped his hand between the lad`s legs it was a little more wet than the natural skin moisture was supposed to be. Martin realized immediately WHAT Alan understood and strained, frightened. Ah, hell, Alan was not going to make it easier for him. 
  “Hmm, some Good Sam has left me the best lubricant inside of you for tonight, for the sake of good order,” he told Martin through his clenched teeth, while he was not a gentlemen with his arse, though. 
  “What the heck, Alan?”
  “If I were you, I would shut the fuck up,” Alan replied tenderly, letting Martin know that he gave him a choice. His hand was still clutching him behind, hocking up the dress; with the other hand he pulled down the zipper of his own pants, took his cock out and put it directly where he had planned to enter at that exact historical moment.
  He did not expect it, but Martin really shut up, although from the tension of his body Alan understood that he was in a fit of completely uncontrolled horror. It reconciled Alan with the current situation and made him feel compassion for his partner - just because he didn`t like violence itself but was so close to it at the moment.
  “Who was it, Martin?” Wilder asked harshly, continuing, however, to stroke him where he needed, confusing his damn brain with the feeling of excitement and fear.
  “A-a-a-al...” Gore`s voice was pleading. No matter what demon had forced Martin to let Dave fuck him that day, he was desperately asking for Alan`s mercy now, and it was the fact that reconciled him with everything that was going on. Martin never called him Charlie, though. Only Alan and Al. Sometimes.
  “Who. Was. It. Martin,” Alan`s finger entered him, and he realized they wouldn`t need any lubricant in this case. “Was it Dave?”
  “A-a-a-w…” Martin could only exhale desperately. 
  “You`d better say it was Dave,” Alan insisted, “I am not really eager to fuck you right after the act of your unjustifiable unprotected kindness to some local aborigine...”
  It seemed like he underestimated how much Martin was turned on for now.
  “It was Dave,” Mart sobbed under him. It looked like he was terrified more than anything by Alan`s possible reluctance to fuck him right now. He was so easy to manipulate that it was almost boring.
   “So, Dave did fuck you,” Alan said, pressing his cock right into the entrance of Martin`s body. He could have sworn that the row of the Jägermeister`s bottles were playfully winking at him now. Of course! Standing at the counter of the crowded bar, in the middle of the goddamn Berlin city, he was carefully inserting his dick straight into Martin`s ass, without any effort, nearly invisible to others, hoicking up his dress. This fact fascinated him, as well as the fact that Martin didn`t have any valid argument to object to him. 
  “Just don`t tell me that you regret it, my sweet whore, because you have no fucking regrets,” Al put his cock inside him, feeling Dave`s sperm help him, and he just completely lost the ability to think. The way his cock was clutched now just didn`t allow him to think; nevertheless, he didn`t want to cross the line of decency now. The fact that frightened Martin was on his cock was enough for him to send him over the edge.
  He began to move, roughly turning Martin`s face to himself, because it was more interesting to fuck him while kissing on the lips - this was the exact level of cynicism Alan was looking for at the moment. However, Martin did not spoil his evening: he immediately began to fuck back in physical and moral sense, moaning right into his mouth and showing that he liked being fucked over Dave`s cum.
  Alan also used the moment and told Martin everything he thought about his friend`s behavioural pattern in public places in some extremely exciting and simple manner, because everything betrayed the fact that Martin liked the fact Alan was using and punishing him in such a way. And in the sex context, he could hardly be satisfied better that day.
  Still, the most satisfying thing for Alan Wilder personally was the discouraged face of Fletch who did not suspect anything wrong. Andy came closer, rejoicing that he had finally found his comrades, and saw Martin moaning right into Alan`s mouth, as the latter was perfectly and frankly fucking him from behind; so, it was impossible not to notice standing right next to them.
  Darn, the horror on Fletch`s face totally satisfied him when he came somewhere between Martin`s balls, smearing his own cum and mixing it with Dave`s. The moments like those were worth living for.

I want you to know I know.
I want to know if you read me.

 

Notes:

* Oriflamme - Tennessee Williams`s story (from the Latin aureum - gold, flamma - the fire) red-gold banner of the French kings.

** One more beer, please! (Germ.)

 

 

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