Geoff Ryman - Lust

VIP免费

2024-12-04 0 0 699.6KB 250 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

By Geoff Ryman:

Lust

No Harm Done

Geoff Ryman

Version 1.0

ISBN 0 00 655207 2

Also by Geoff Ryman:

253

THE CHILD GARDEN

WAS

UNCONQUERED COUNTRIES

para o meu Txay

Um livro dedicado a ti deveria ser intitulado Amor, ou no minimo: Sem Escandalo. Eu prometi

que nele tu nao te encontrarias, mas tu estas em todo lugar.

'In the bend God created the hen and the education. And the education was without founder, and

void; and death was upon the falsehood of the demand. And the sport of God moved upon the

falsehood of the wealth. And God said, Let there be limit; and there was limit.'

A text produced from the Book of Genesis using a method invented by Jean Lescure in which

each noun is replaced with the seventh noun following it in a dictionary.

As reported in Oulipo Compendium edited by Harry Matthews and Alastair Brotchie

Acknowledgement:

The experiment with chicks described in this novel is loosely based on a real experiment

described in The Making of Memory by Steven P. Rose.

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (1 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

By Geoff Ryman:

Part I

So how does it start?

Michael was happy. It was the first day of his research project. His team waited for him outside

the gates of the lab, in the March chill. Ebru, Emilio and Hugh all smiled when they saw him.

It was a new lab, in rooms within arches under a railway. Michael had the keys, leading his team

into one beautiful new room after another. They moved their desks and wired up their computers.

They arranged staplers, pens and envelopes in drawers, determined that everything would stay

tidy.

Ebru had brought flowers and a traditional Turkish shepherd's cloak to hang on the wall. She was

one of Michael's students, doing a doctorate of her own, and had been hired to help administer the

project. Ebru had bet Emilio a bottle of champagne that his new network would crash. Instead,

the network came triumphantly to life, and they exchanged chiding e-mails, and raised glasses of

champagne to the start of their brave new project.

'To continued funding,' toasted Michael. They all laughed.

The first shipment of eggs arrived in a box marked fragile computers. This was to fox the animal

rights activists. The eggs were packed in grey foam like recording equipment. Ebru and Michael

laid them out in the darkroom, on straw, to hatch. Everything was in place.

'This is going to work,' said Michael.

In the evening Michael went to his gym. He saw Tony. Tony was a trainer and Michael had a

crush on him. Tony was tall and sleek and so innocent in his manner that Michael's nickname for

him was the Cherub. Tony had a radiant announcement to make.

'I decided to take the plunge,' Tony said. 'Jacqui and I are going to get married.' He had the eyes

of a happy schoolboy.

'Aw, that's fantastic. Well done!' said Michael and they did an old-fashioned hand slap. Tony's

hair was cut short and dressed in spikes. Everything about him took Michael back to his youth.

Tony talked a little bit about how he had realized he didn't want anyone else. 'It'll mean moving

up north, but hey, she's worth it.'

That's what I want, thought Michael. I want a beautiful love.

Inspired in his heart and in his belly, Michael decided to visit the sauna in Alaska Street.

The smell of the place — hot pinewood, steam and bodies — produced an undertow of

excitement as if something were pulling insistently downwards on his stomach. Naked men

circulated in the steam in early evening.

Stripped of his glasses and lab coat, Michael was tall and athletic. A young Sikh with his hair tied

at the top of his head in a bun saw Michael and did an almost comic double take. He was hairy

and running slightly to fat, but the face, Michael suddenly saw, was smooth as marble. This was a

young man with a fatherly body.

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (2 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

By Geoff Ryman:

Michael followed the Sikh into the steam room with its benches. The Sikh looked at him with a

teasing smile. They moved towards each other.

Michael didn't trust kissing. He knew people often brushed their teeth before cruising. Brushing

teeth always produced blood; blood carried the virus. When the boy leaned towards him, Michael

turned his head away and pressed his cheek against his. Michael gave him quick, dishonest pecks

on the lips, pretending to be romantic and playful instead of merely safe.

Even this was enough for the young man. They sat down and Michael leaned back on the bench

as they embraced. Briefly they made a shape together like a poster for Gone with the Wind. Then

the Sikh slipped lower and went to work (work was the only word for it) on Michael's cock.

Michael's cock stayed dead. All the young man's ministrations only made it worse. It retreated

further, back up and away. Not again, thought Michael, not again. It always happened, and it was

always worse than Michael remembered. It was always worse with someone he liked. Most

especially it happened with people he liked. The Sikh stopped, and looked up. He turned down

his mouth in a show of childish disappointment.

Michael asked, 'Are you too hot? Would you like something to drink?'

It was a way of saving face.

On the mezzanine, there were free drinks in the fridge and smelly beanbags on the floor. Michael

poured them each a glass of spring water. Perched on a beanbag like a Buddha, the boy shook

down his long glossy hair and began to retie it. Michael wanted to take him home and watch him

wind it in his turban.

Michael passed him the water and the young man gave him a sharp little smile of thanks. When

Michael lay down next to him, the Sikh stayed seated upright. In his heart, Michael knew what

that meant, but yearning and hope persisted.

The young man talked politely. He was a medical doctor, a specialist in tropical diseases. He had

been working in Africa and was back home to see his family. His name was Deep.

Michael asked him: did he work for Medecins sans Frontieres?

'No, I don't like those organizations. They are too Western. They go there thinking they will show

the natives how to do it. But, you know, they have no experience of infectious disease. I apply for

the same jobs as the local doctors. I learn more that way.'

He was pleased to talk about his time there. The lack of roads, the digging of wells. Suddenly

Deep lay back and let Michael rest his head on his fatherly bosom. Deep's breath smelled of

liquorice. 'You know, I was working in a hospital in Malawi, by a lake. I was sitting out by

myself drinking a beer. And I could see the animals come down to drink. The deer and the lions.

And I could watch the deer as they kept watch. They kept flicking their ears. There was a moon

on the lake.'

I'd go there with you, thought Michael. For just a moment he glimpsed another life. He was by

that lake with Deep and they were together and Michael was doing... what? Michael was binding

an antelope's broken shin.

Michael ventured forth. 'I, uh, have a boyfriend, but he won't be there now. I don't live very far

from here.'

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (3 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

By Geoff Ryman:

Despite his size, Dr Deep's face was thin, slightly cynical, and it did not respond to the suggestion.

Michael endeavoured. 'Would you like to come back with me?'

Dr Deep shook his head. 'I'm not what you're looking for.'

Oh, oh, but you are, thought Michael. 'You're sure?' he asked and tried to engineer a winning

smile.

Dr Deep was sure. 'You know, I have been very tired and tense coming back here to see my

family. I'm about to change countries again. So I just came here for the sex.'

They kissed and parted company. Deep was one of those perennial boys who only like older men.

Over the next 45 minutes Michael watched Dr Deep kneel in front of one middle-aged man after

another, his head bobbing away and then abruptly withdrawing, like a bee gathering honey. A

medically trained bee who must know the risks.

The last Michael saw of Dr Deep, he was standing utterly alone, having sucked off every older

man who wanted sucking. Dr Deep held up his towel, masturbating on show. Only one person

was watching, but Dr Deep was looking pointedly away from Michael.

It's all you want, Michael thought in disappointment. And if I'd been able to give you that, would

you have talked to me? Gone out to a movie with me? Become friends? Do you want to die that

badly, that you can't even take time to talk? No one ever even talks. No one ever rings back. Is a

hard dick really that important to you faggots?

How could I be stupid enough to get emotional? I know the score; I can't get it up, so I either put

up or dry up. I know what will happen, it always happens and I always forget. I always keep

thinking it's not that bad. But it is that bad. It's like I think it will clear up by itself if I leave it

alone. Like a sock that loses its other half. You put it back in the drawer, hoping it'll find the

other half by itself.

Well, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I look like such a big butch man who'll slap you and then fuck you

silly. I'm sorry that I got a bit romantic. I won't do it again. I keep forgetting what you guys are

like.

Michael dragged his ass back into his underwear and out to Waterloo station, and on the

underground platform. He cursed sex. He cursed the need for it, and how men wanted it. He

cursed being gay. He cursed all other gay men. He cursed his dick and he cursed himself. As all

the day's happiness crushed around him like ruins in an aftershock, he prayed, or came as close to

praying as he could get.

Michael pleaded for all the weary dead weight of his sexual desire to be taken from him. 'Look,

just castrate me, get rid of it, please, please just take it all away!'

Was a train coming? Wind blew along the platform; a newspaper rose up by itself into the air.

And Michael noticed that his gym instructor was standing a few feet away. Oh Jesus, not now,

thought Michael. He didn't want to see happiness; he didn't want to see joy. He looked at Tony

and thought: all I want to do is see your dick.

There on the platform, with fifteen other people, Tony pulled down first his tracksuit bottoms and

then his clean white briefs. The Cherub stood still and exposed, his bovine thighs and brown

pubic hair on display. His stare was as blank and disconnected as a sleepwalker's.

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (4 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

By Geoff Ryman:

The people on the platform looked disconnected as well. A greying man in a tan checked jacket

glanced sideways and began to edge closer, eyes flickering. A woman searched her purse with

immense concentration.

Then Tony sat down on the platform, and rolled onto his back, sticking the perfect bottom into

the air, like an animal about to be spayed.

Oh, Jesus, thought Michael. So much for innocence. Bitterness and rage were countered by

another thought: Tony must be in trouble.

Michael walked towards him. He saw the chords of muscle on the inside leg, and the head of the

reasonably sized uncircumcised cock. Michael looked and then was sorry for looking. Tony

gazed up at him, eyes unfocussed, dim with a half-formed question.

'Fancy a portion?' the Cherub asked.

Drugs, Michael decided. He doesn't normally do drugs, so he's gone and got what he thought was

E only it was speed, plaster of Paris and battery acid.

'Tony. What are you doing on the ground?' Michael felt the eyes of the other people on the

platform. His ears burned. He wanted them to know his intentions were honourable. The Cherub

blinked, his head haloed by the grey and white patterns of the platform paving.

'Stand up, come on.'

Michael didn't want to touch him in public. Tony rolled to his feet. He stood without adjusting his

clothes, facing the woman with the handbag. She looked like she might pull it down over her

head.

Pull your trousers up! thought Michael, and immediately, the Cherub bent down and nipped both

layers of clothing back into place.

'Did you take anything? Do you remember what it was?'

The mouth hung open, the lips fatter when they were not smiling. Tony's brows clenched, trying

to find an answer. 'I didn't take anything.'

'Are you sure? Try to think. What was it called?'

Tony nodded his head solemnly, yes. 'Diclofenac,' he said. 'For my knee.'

Michael was a biologist. Diclofenac was a powerful anti-inflammation drug. Did it have side

effects?

'Have you taken it before?'

Tony nodded yes again, like a child.

The wind blew. Like a friend showing up, the train rumbled out of the tunnel. 'This is my train,'

said Michael, trying to keep the tone conversational. 'Where are you going, Tony?'

The Cherub replied as if the answer were obvious. 'With you.'

It wouldn't be right to leave him. Michael looked up at the handbag lady and she looked away

hastily. The greying man looked miffed that Michael had got there first. Michael pushed his way

onto the train as others were getting off, and Tony followed him. Michael clenched the handrail

almost as hard as he was clenching his teeth, and looked around him.

Two teenage Indian boys were talking about cars or computers in a jargon he didn't understand. A

woman turned over a page of her crinkly newspaper as if toasting its other side, and sniffed

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (5 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

By Geoff Ryman:

delicately. None of them had seen the banquet of Cherub laid out on the platform. Very suddenly,

normality closed over them. The doors rolled shut. The noise of the train provided an excuse not

to talk, as if it were embarrassed for them.

Tony simply stared, the flesh on his face slack, like old Hush Puppy shoes. There was definitely

something wrong with him; he squinted up at the advertising, looking as if ads for Blistex were

beyond his mental age. As the train approached Goodge Street, Michael wondered what on earth

to do.

'Look, Tony. I get off here. Will you be OK?'

Tony nodded yes. The train stopped and the doors opened. Michael got off. Tony followed him.

'Do you want to see a doctor?'

Tony shook his head, no. Michael could think of nothing else to do, so he headed for the way out

sign and the lift. Tony started to whistle, in a kind of deranged echoing drawl.

I don't like this, Michael thought. He said airily, 'So. Do you live around here, Tony?'

'I live in Theydon Bois.' Theydon Bois was at the end of the Central Line. This was the Northern.

'So,' Michael ventured. 'You're meeting someone?' A coldness gathered around his heart.

'No,' said the Cherub in the same numb, faraway voice.

'So where are you going?' Why, Michael thought, does the underground always smell of asbestos

and urine?

'I don't know. I don't even have a ticket.'

They had reached the lifts. The windows in the metal doors looked like empty eye sockets. This

was getting weird. 'Look,' Michael asked him, 'if there's something wrong, I'm not sure I can help

you. Do have a phone with you?'

'I don't think so.' Tony patted his tracksuit pockets.

Michael began to be afraid. This guy can bench-press 130 kilos. The elevator arrived filling the

two windows with light as if they were eyes that had opened. The doors beeped and gaped but

Michael did not get in.

'You don't want to go this way,' said Michael. 'You want to go back that direction.'

'What I want doesn't count,' said Tony.

My God, thought Michael. He hasn't blinked, not once.

Stand clear of the doors please said a cool, controlling voice. Michael decided it was best to get

upstairs where there were people. He got in, Tony followed, and the doors trundled shut. They

were alone.

Tony slipped his fingers under the spandex waistband, and pulled down both trousers and

underwear, businesslike, as if finishing a warm-up.

Stop! thought Michael. Tony stopped. 'Pull them up!' said Michael. Tony did. The Cherub looked

back at him, scowling slightly as if he couldn't quite hear what was being said.

Jesus, thought Michael, this is what you get for fancying some guy at the gym: you chat away,

you're nice to him, and suddenly you've got a psychopath following you home. There was sweat

on Michael's upper lip. The lift did a little bounce and stopped, mimicking the sick sensation in

Michael's stomach.

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (6 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

By Geoff Ryman:

The doors opened and Michael swept through them, fumbling to pull his season ticket out of his

jacket pocket. He strode to the barriers, slipping his card into the slot like a kiss, nipped it free

and pushed his way out and away. He could feel Tony's eyes on his back as he escaped.

Michael thought and then stopped: you know he's in trouble. It might be an insulin reaction,

something like that. You can't just leave him. He turned around. Tony was standing dazed behind

the ticket barriers. What if he's too ill to even know his way home? Michael sighed and walked

back.

'Is this something that happens to you sometimes? Are you diabetic, are you on any kind of

medication?' Michael was thinking schizophrenia. The ticket barriers were hunched between

them like a line of American football players.

'No,' said Tony, as if from the bottom of a well.

'Well look, the Central Line is back that way,' Michael said. 'Go back down and change at

Tottenham Court Road.' Michael glanced sideways; the guard was listening.

The guard was a young, handsome, burly man whom Michael had once halfway fancied, except

for his unpleasant sneer. The guard was looking the other way, but his ears were pricked.

Tony said, mildly surprised. 'Don't you want to fuck me?'

Michael said, 'No. I don't.'

The guard covered his smile with an index finger.

Tony looked bruised. 'You do,' he insisted.

Michael began to talk for the benefit of the guard. 'I'm sorry if you got that idea. Look, you're in a

bit of a state. My advice is to try to get back home and sort yourself out.'

The guard suddenly trooped forward, his smile broadening to a leer. 'Bit off a bit more than we

can chew, did we, sir?'

'I think he's on something and he's been following me,' said Michael.

'Must be your lucky day,' said the guard. He began to hustle Tony back from the barriers. 'Come

on, let the Professor be. He probably can't afford you anyway.' The guard had the cheek to turn

and grin at Michael like he'd said something funny.

'He's not well,' said Michael. Gosh, did he dislike that guard. But he needed him. The guard

herded Tony back towards the lifts. Michael saw Tony look at him, with a suddenly stricken face.

It was that panic that frightened Michael more than anything else. The panic meant that Tony

needed Michael. For what? Something was out of whack.

Michael fled. He turned and walked as quickly as he could, away. He doesn't know where I live,

Michael thought, relieved. If I get away, I find another gym, and that's the end of it. Michael's

stomach was shuddering as if he had run out of petrol. The tip of his penis was wet.

It had been raining, and the pavements were glossy like satin. A woman bearing four heavy bags

from Tesco was looking at her boots; Michael scurried to make the lights and bashed into the

bags, spinning them around in her grasp.

There was a shout from behind him. 'Oi!'

Michael spun around, and saw the Cherub sprinting towards him. Michael knew, from the way

his athlete's stride suspended him in mid-air, that Tony had jumped the barriers.

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (7 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

By Geoff Ryman:

Michael backed away, raising his arms against attack, terror bubbling up like yeast.

Keep away from me! Get back, go away!

And the street was empty. Tony was gone.

Michael blinked and looked around him, up and down the pavement. When he looked back, he

saw the guard hobbling towards him, pressing a handkerchief to his face. He'd been hit.

'Where did he go?' the guard shouted at Michael, strands of spit between his lips. 'Where the fuck

did he go?'

'I don't know!'

'Bastard!'

Michael tried to look at the guard's lip.

The guard ducked away from Michael's tender touch. He demanded, snarling, 'What's his name,

where's he from?'

Michael did not even have to think. 'I've no idea. He just followed me.'

'Oh yeah. Just followed you, did he? If I press charges, mate, you'll bloody well have to

remember.'

The guard pulled the handkerchief away and looked as if expecting to see something. He blinked.

The handkerchief was clean, white and spotless.

This seemed to mollify him. 'You better watch the kind of person you pick up, mate.'

Then the guard turned and proudly, plumply, walked away. For all your arrogance, Michael

thought, in five years' time you'll be bald and fat-arsed.

Michael stood in the rain for a few moments, catching his breath. What, he thought, was that all

about? Finally he turned and walked up Chenies Street, mostly because he had no place else to

go, and he began to cry, from a mix of fear, frustration, boredom. Christ! All he did was go to the

sauna. He didn't need this, he really didn't. He looked up at the yellow London sky. There were

no stars overhead, just light pollution, a million lamps drowning out signals from alien

intelligences.

Michael lived in what estate agents called a mansion block: an old apartment house. It was

covered in scaffolding, being repaired. He looked up at his flat and saw that no lights were on.

Phil wasn't there again. So it would be round to Gigs again for a takeaway kebab and an evening

alone. Involuntarily, Michael saw Tony's naked thighs, the ridges of muscle.

He clunked his keys into the front door of his flat. The door was heavy and fireproofed and it

made noises like an old man. Michael dumped his briefcase on the hall table and snapped on the

living-room light.

The Cherub was sitting on the sofa.

'Bloody hell!' exclaimed Michael, and stumbled backwards. 'What are you doing here?'

Tony sat with both hands placed on his knees. 'I don't know,' he said in a mild voice.

'How did you get in!' The central light was bare and bleak.

'I don't know,' Tony said. He still hadn't moved.

The scaffolding, thought Michael. He climbed up the bloody scaffolding. 'Get out of here!'

Michael shouted.

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (8 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

By Geoff Ryman:

The eyes narrowed and the head tilted sideways.

And then, Oh God, he was gone. The air roiled, as if from tarmac on a hot day. It poured into the

space Tony had suddenly vacated. There was no imprint left on the cushions.

The Cherub simply disappeared. Not even a flutter of wings.

Michael stood and stared. He kept staring at the sofa. What had happened was not possible. Or

rather it made a host of other things suddenly possible: magic, madness, ghosts.

Michael sat down with a bump and slowly unwound his scarf. He stood up and poured himself a

whiskey, swirling it around in the glass and inspecting it, yellow and toxic. Whiskey had

destroyed his father.

In a funny kind of way, it felt as if Tony was his father's ghost come back to haunt him.

Michael took a swig and then sat down with his notebook and Pilot pencil to answer every

question except the most important.

Who indeed is Michael?

In a very few photographs, Michael was beautiful.

Most photographs of him were short-circuited by a grimace of embarrassment or a dazzled

nervous grin that gave him the teeth of a rodent. If someone short stood next to him, Michael

would stoop and twist and force himself lower.

In other photographs, Michael looked all right. In those, he would have taken off his wire-rimmed

spectacles and combed his hair and stood up straight. By hazard, he would be wearing a shirt that

someone had ironed, and he would have left the pens out of the top pocket. It would be a period

in which Michael was not experimenting with beards to hide his face, or pony tails to control his

runaway, curly hair.

The best photographs of all would be on a beach, on holiday, with something to occupy his

awkward hands. It would be apparent then that Michael had the body of an athlete. He was a big,

broad-shouldered man. Because of the flattening of his broken nose, his face was rugged, like a

boxer's. Michael could look unbelievably butch.

There was one photograph from Michael's youth.

It was hidden away, unsorted. Michael would not be able to find it now. He didn't need to.

Michael carried it around with him in memory. He could always see it, even when he didn't want

to.

His father had taken it from a riverboat in California, during their last summer together. In the

photograph, Michael is sixteen years old and is quite possibly the best-looking person on the

planet. He is certainly one of the happiest.

In the photograph Michael sits in a dinghy. He's laughing and holding up a poor pooch of a dog.

She was called Peaches the Pooch. Peaches gazes miserably out from under a thick coating of

river-bottom mud. Michael's thighs and calves are also covered in mud. Even then he was a big

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (9 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

By Geoff Ryman:

lad, with wide shoulders and lines of muscle on his forearm. His black eyes are fixed directly on

whoever is taking the photograph and they are wide with delight. His face is nut brown, like an

Indian's, and his smile is blue-white in contrast. His black hair has reddish-brown streaks from

constant sunlight. Sunlight glints all around him on the slick, brown water and onto his face,

which is indisputably happy.

If you look closely, the nose isn't broken.

By the time that photograph had been developed and posted back to England, it was winter. That

summer Michael on the Sacramento River was already history. Michael remembered opening the

envelope. There was no letter inside from his father, just photographs, that photograph.

It should have been the moment when Michael learned to love himself. Like every teenager he

had been gawky and spotty. It should have been the moment he left doubt behind, and finally

accepted that he was beautiful.

Instead, all Michael could do was regret. The beauty, he felt, was a mask. He'd been hiding

behind it. It was better now, being ugly. It was closer to the truth. Michael made himself ugly.

The photograph was the last thing he ever had from his father. He knew what his father was

saying: this is who you could have been.

Everything changed without Michael noticing at the time. In the summer, he had been determined

to be a vet. Now he was a scientist, who experimented on animals.

The summer Michael had enjoyed acting; had been in a drama class for fun, and took the lead

role in all the plays. He had a way of conjuring up old ladies, terrified spivs and policemen out of

his own body.

In winter, Michael seemed dispossessed of his own body.

This made him mostly harmless. Women liked him; his students liked him. He always kept a

distance from them. It was not that he was afraid of women or students, exactly. He was afraid of

how he became around them. He knew he could be waywardly funny, exact, truthful. But then

something would happen, and power would withdraw from Michael like the tide. Beached and

helpless, he would fumble and make mistakes and let himself down. He would forget things, like

appointments or his glasses. Uncomfortable, he would grin and grin and grin.

Michael was impotent. If this were symptom or cause he could not distinguish. He didn't care.

Impotency meant that only the most brutal and depersonalized of sexual episodes were safe

enough for him. Only parks or toilets or saunas could hide him.

If his partners had no idea who he was, how could they hurt him? If they could hardly see him in

the dark and didn't know his name, there could be no embarrassment when he didn't get it up.

They didn't care if Michael got it up. They were too terrified of police to notice and too desperate

to come quickly. It all stayed hidden and detached.

But it relieved the pressure. It relieved the pressure of living with someone who gave him no

sexual satisfaction. It relieved a kind of erotic itch, which he could never satisfy, and had not

been satisfied for more than twenty years. Michael was 38 and his very skin crawled with lust.

A quick jerk off in a car park, a slap on the ass in bushes in a park provided cessation and a

masturbatory climax but no satisfaction. So he would have to go back again, to a sauna or a

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Geoff%20Ryman%20-%20Lust%20(V1.0%20htm).htm (10 of 250)8-12-2006 23:50:08

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

ByGeoffRyman:LustOrNoHarmDoneByGeoffRymanVersion1.0Copyright©GeoffRyman2001ISBN0006552072AlsobyGeoffRyman:253THECHILDGARDENWASUNCONQUEREDCOUNTRIESparaomeuTxayUmlivrodedicadoatideveriaserintituladoAmor,ounominimo:SemEscandalo.Euprometiqueneletunaoteencontrarias,mastuestasemtodolugar.'InthebendGodcrea...

展开>> 收起<<

Geoff Ryman - Lust.pdf

共250页,预览10页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Geoff Ryman - Lust

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: