King Perry (11 page)

I turn his head and pull him back to me, kissing him deeply, grabbing his nuts with my free hand, feeling his body jump at my touch. He would protest this course of action, the insanity of it, but arguing requires words, and he can’t afford an argument right now, not with me stealing his every breath.

Breathe, Perry. Let the air become you, and then leave you. Forgive each breath because although it abandons you, every single time, it also brings you life. A man who cannot forgive the air has no chance of living.

My insistent kissing forces Perry to take large, gulping breaths. These gulps make no noise, but I feel his chest heaving, his heart pounding. His jeans remain bunched around his ankles.

I coil my spit-soaked hand around his balls, tugging downwards, forcing his still mostly hard cock to bounce. It doesn’t take much to get his dick back to battle-ready status—a few wet bounces and my tongue down his throat.

The footsteps draw closer, perhaps down our galley row.

I feel my saliva ooze between my fingers as I stroke his wet dick.

Perry clenches.

The guard’s boots strike casually, I’m sure, but each stride sounds like iron boxes slamming the floor. I pull away from his lips. If Perry screams, so be it.

He breathes in unison with me.

The loud footsteps draw closer.

I stroke his hard cock and use my other hand to tweak his left nipple with some extra pressure. Perry’s body throbs, head to toe, with power, with life, with fear. He can’t maintain this much longer. He’s going to have to release something; he can’t keep straddling the middle. Will he scream out his mouth, surrendering to fear? Or scream out his fat cock, his instrument of love?

The Alcatraz guard walks directly in front of our cell.

I suspend my jacking, squeezing hard instead, keeping the damn thing quivering and bloated.

Time to use those wings, Perry.

The retreating footsteps are only a few feet beyond us when, vibrating his inner ear, I whisper my demand, “Come.”

Perry squirts, strong and fertile. I don’t see it, of course, but I squeeze so hard that each pulse blasts through my grip before it reaches air. Everything goes out his cock: sound, light, intention, everything. I’m no longer worried about Perry making noise; I don’t think he’s capable at this moment. The only proof of his release is a wet splat that wouldn’t normally be heard, but right now, I swear it echoes as it hits the floor.

The fact that his mouth isn’t screaming doesn’t mean the rest of his body keeps quiet. His head spasms hard, bouncing against my collarbone, which I should watch out for. Can’t let him knock either of us unconscious. Both of his hands clamp my arm, working me like a jackhammer as he continues to shoot.

From your desolation, my son, create yourself anew.

I’d say Perry just did that.

He inhales, which sounds loud but isn’t.

I push my head against his, use mine to slow his thrashing.

Perry comes back down the mountain. He slumps backward, and I catch him in my arms, hold his torso as he heaves the big breaths, coming back, coming down. He can’t completely relax and let go, because he must also remain silent, so the compromise means spurting a few extra times, tension and release, tension and release. I can feel more of him drip over my knuckles.

Wow, that worked well.

A few minutes later, another door clangs open and shut. Perry whimpers, daring to make sound. The nameless guard should roam outside for another fifty-five minutes, checking smaller buildings and walking the winding trails. Now would be a good time to leave.

Easing myself out from behind, I turn and face him, allowing him to lean back against the wall. He wheezes as I pull him close to me.

“Prison break. You in?”

He makes no reply, but his head nods against my shoulder.

I am so fucking happy right now because I finally get to say those words. I have always dreamed of bringing a man I love to Alcatraz as part of his King Weekend. Tonight, that dream is realized. Poor Perry. His nightmare is a years-long fantasy of mine. He is my Alcatraz King!

Focus up. I need to hear his voice to make sure he has returned.

“Dude,” I say, adding a sense of urgency. “Escape from Alcatraz. You in?”

Now that I’ve teased him for using the word
dude
, I should start using it. That ought to drive him a little nuts.

“Yes,” he says, the word sounding crumbly. “Yes, please.”

“This might go easier if you pull up your jeans.”

I give him space and soon I hear the distinctive jingling of a belt buckle. Every prisoner in Alcatraz knows that sound. Perry takes my hand, and I navigate us around the door. When we reach the moonlit galley, we rub our sore eyes in irritation and appreciation.

I kiss him deeply, and he kisses back. Perry’s so excited by what happened that right now he can’t be angry. It’s like a magician who rips up your twenty-dollar bill, but the trick is so cool you say, “Wow, do it again.”

Does Perry know what happened just now? Does he understand? Probably not yet.

I take a few moments to fix the flooring so that no one else will see which piece I’ve altered. Tomorrow’s tourists may tug at this door bolt hard as they want. It won’t budge.

I’m so fucking happy; I will always love this amazing night.

Perry wobbles around me while I work, occasionally walking down the galley but staying close. He’s a dog off leash, eager to race away but somehow reluctant to stray. I look up once to find him grinning at me, that same shit-eating grin I used on him at the art gallery on Tuesday.

God, he’s handsome, smiling like that. I lunge to kiss him, and he responds with equal intensity.

He wanders behind me, a human helium balloon tethered by my right hand. I walk him to the exterior door that leads to the yard. Perry follows willingly, still drunk.

“Nevada, stop. Let’s put on our ski masks.”

There’s no reason; we won’t encounter the guard for a while. I just think it would be more exciting to escape from Alcatraz wearing ski masks.

I get out the tools to fix the exterior door and pause to study him.

In his ski mask, he nods.

It only takes a moment to make this work right again. I should change out those screws, though, get some new ones and blacken them up. Next trip.

I nod at Perry when I finish, and we join hands. It’s fucking hilarious to do this without words. Where’s Sean Connery when you need him?

My heart soaring, I lead Perry down the metal staircase with its spider web shadows. Speaking right now seems pointless because the ocean shrieks at the top of its lungs. I’m not sure the ocean has lungs. But each individual wave must have its own unique name, and each wave insists on introducing itself at once. The sound is deafening.

Obviously, we’re still adjusting.

Perry and I hold hands as we sprint across the moonlit prison yard and descend the stone stairs, lower and lower, further and further, stone stairs, stone stairs, stone stairs, until 106 steps later we reach the Roman safe house.

Perry moves with catlike energy. The ocean regains its normal cacophony, a word I frequently use in association with an ocean.
Cacophony.
Good word. I wonder how soon I can talk to him about word stuff without freaking him out? Better give it a while.

We stand, breathing heavily amid the Roman ruins, and I take his other hand, pulling us together. In the moonlight, Perry stares at me through his ski mask.

Looking into his eyes, I can see that he has touched the fire.

Five

W
E
SIT
to catch our breath and discuss our strategy for returning to the camp. We sit as we sat before, me leaning against a wall, him leaning against me. We keep an eye toward the path above, waiting for the night guard. We need to know his exact position before striking out.

Perry says, “Can’t we spend the night here?”

“Our alarm clock is in the original camp.”

He nods.

A moment later, he says in a flat voice, “So I’m not getting killed on Alcatraz?”

“No, Sir, you are not. You are getting fucked, however, when we get back to camp.”

Perry leans back into me. “I think I might actually like that, you pervert. You perverted me in there.”

I wrap my arms around his chest and squeeze. “Didn’t take much.”

I feel his body unclench everywhere, even his legs.

“I can’t believe you. That guy was five feet away. He was
right
there.”

We recount our crazy sex game in the isolation cell, relishing the minute details, explaining what we each saw, what we experienced. Perry actually chuckles a few times.

He says, “I thought I was going to die.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, no, I meant, it
felt
like I would scream.”

“But you
didn’t
.”

He turns around and we kiss tenderly, with a new appreciation for each other’s courage.

When we break and pull back a few inches, a beam of light above catches our eye.

Perry says, “He’s back.”

His tone isn’t panicked; he sounds as if he’s announcing our bus has arrived.

We stand and put on our ski masks. I love this night.

“Why does the security guard turn around right there?”

“That’s the bird sanctuary for night herons. He turns around at the gate. We passed it on the way down here.”

“It’s too bad we can’t go through,” Perry muses. “It’s a straight shot. We could get back in about ten minutes.”

“There is a cement path right through the middle. And the gate’s easy to climb.”

“You’re kidding,” he says, blowing out the words with exhaustion. “Well, shit, Vin. Let’s do that.”

“Nope. We take the long route home. It’s one of the Alcatraz rules: can’t fuck with the birds.”

“So, federal laws—”

“Some rules should not be broken. The birds don’t get disturbed, even if it means we get caught tonight.”

Perry snorts and paces away, gazing at a slim corner of the San Francisco skyline.

I give him a minute to sulk before I say, “C’mere.”

I jog across the Roman safe house to one of the empty cement window frames, reach beyond it, and from the rocky ground below, drag up first one, then a second backpack. I hand the smaller one to Perry and keep the one with the frame for myself. He accepts it instantly, without surprise.

I could have hidden these Wednesday night in the Hammock, but where’s the fun in that? Tonight, we are adventurers.

He says, “Is that a sleeping bag attached?”

“Yup.”

“Won’t we need two sleeping bags?”

I shoot him a grin. “Nope.”

When we reach the bird sanctuary, he looks longingly in that direction, but only for a moment. Huh. I expected more of a fight than that. I point to where the guard’s beam of light is moving further away, and he nods when he sees it. I give him the “move forward” hand symbol, and he nods again.

After the guard is a safe distance away, I say, “Boy, I wish I ate one of those hot dogs on the boat.”

Perry ignores me, crouching.

I don’t really get why he’s crouching, but I join him down there.

Our trip back across the island feels different. Perry is now my partner, even giving me the “be perfectly still” gesture once. He no longer complains about the sweaty ski mask, and more importantly, he stopped explaining in hushed tones how if
he
were a night guard on an allegedly deserted island, he would probably adopt a “shoot first and ask questions later” mentality. Forty minutes later, after the guard passes our latest hiding spot and heads back toward the prison, we now have a full hour to ourselves on the south side of the island. We brazenly claim the main path and climb the southern stairs in a relaxed way, as we did many hours ago, holding hands and making small talk.

I wonder if Perry snores. I’m not going to ask; first dates can be so awkward.

Fuck it.

“Hey, do you snore? I hate to ask, because I know how awkward it is to bring up on a first date.”

Perry spit-laughs a gob of drool. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So, yes?”

“No, I do not snore.”

“You look like a snorer.”

When we arrive on the top stair, I take off my ski mask and stop him, turning us both toward the magnificent San Francisco skyline. I need to see his face. He pulls off his ski mask and stares.

Unconsciously, Perry stands up straight. If there’s a single moment I hope he remembers from the weekend, it’s this one, facing San Francisco, a victory moment.

San Francisco does not disappoint. Twinkling blue and orange lights beckon, deceptively near. My hair stands on end, imagining this island’s former denizens listening for New Year’s Eve parties across the bay. I hear nothing but wind. He points out a few landmarks, and I nod in recognition.

Staring at this spectacular skyline feels akin to standing in front of a favorite bakery after hours, delighting in pastries you can see but can’t touch. I’m really fucking hungry.

I say, “I’m hungry. Let’s go make camp.”

Perry says, “Should have gotten a ferry dog.”

We kiss.