Barred Love
By Ellen Mackintosh

I can’t remember much about that night all those years ago. When I close my eyes during the day, letting my mind drift back in time, all I remember are separate details, the darkness of the alleyway surrounding me, the sound of angry voices, fear that grips me tightly around the throat and won’t let go and then the sudden flash when the streetlight catches on the blade of the knife.

But at night time it all comes back to me and my dreams are filled with it. Then I recall how it all began, how one moment of stupidity cost a man his life…and both mine and John’s besides. It started out as nothing more than a silly argument over a spilled drink. One thing had lead to another and suddenly everything had spiralled into a heated exchange.

Blows were thrown until we were pulled apart and quickly found ourselves out on the street. If only it’d stopped right there. If only they’d just walked away. But neither of us could leave it be, pride and anger taking charge, pushing reason into the back seat. That’s why they’d followed us into the alleyway. That’s why neither of us had been wiling to back down. That’s why, when John had seen the knife, lashing out in my direction, he’d instinctively reached down to pick up a shard of glass, ripping it through the other guy’s hand, spilling rivulets of blood on the ground.

The knife had fallen to the floor with a clang and after that everything seemed to move in slow motion. One minute, it had been in John’s hand, the next it was buried in the other man’s gut, streams of red gushing out, splattering my shirt.

What followed was nothing more than a blur. I only remember how John and I stood there and stared. Didn’t move even when the sirens could be heard in the distance and the blue lights flashed across our faces, didn’t fight when the cops clicked our wrists together with the metal cuffs and manhandled us roughly in the back of the police car, didn’t speak until John broke down after hours of interrogation. “I killed him.”

The trial didn’t last very long either. John repeated his admission and I lied on the stand. I swore on the Bible, then told everyone who was willing to hear that I’d helped John commit murder. I didn’t even have to think about it and have never regretted it since. After all, there’s only one thing worse than John going to prison for life. And that’s me not being with him.

***

Sometimes it seems as if we’d always been friends. Just friends. Mates that hung out together, got drunk together, even chased girls together. Neither of our hearts was in it, but rather that than suffering the indignity of losing face.

But that night was different.

We’d been to this bar at the edge of town, a bit of a rough place, where we’d spent the evening shooting pool and making lewd comments to the barmaids, with Steppenwolf issuing his battle cry in the background. We weren’t blind drunk, but too intoxicated to get very far, so we’d decided to spend the night at my place, because I lived closest.

Having crashed out on the couch as usual, I remember waking up the next morning in a tangle of limbs, wrung out, hung-over and reeking of alcohol. Nothing out of the ordinary. What was quite unusual, though, was the unexpected sensation of John’s hand creeping unconsciously over my hip in his sleep, my sudden and irrepressible erection pushing into John’s stomach and John flinging his eyes open, blinking in confusion for a few seconds, before leaning in and closing his mouth over mine.

Whenever I think back on it, the whole scene reels itself off like a film in my mind, the way we peeled each other out of our filthy slept-in clothes and the way warm lips crept over my skin, raising goose bumps. I remember feeling the same lips wrapping themselves around my cock, how it felt better than it ever had before, and I remember my own first taste, to which I’ve since become addicted.

We didn’t fuck that first time, but we did just about everything else that was physically possible, using our hands and mouths and tongues to create sensations that were at once overpowering and familiar, like coming home.

It’s a feeling that never really went away.

***

When you’re inside, the advantage of being in a relationship with another man might seem obvious, but it actually makes things a damn sight harder than you’d expect. In many ways, it’s easier to have your lover living miles away from you than it is having him close by all the time and not being able to even touch each other.

Being gay in prison is not exactly looked kindly upon and for the sake of self-preservation, there had been an unspoken rule between us from the start not to mention or even lead on to the fact that the two of us were together. Of course we were ‘together’ most of the time, in the sense of being in each other’s physical presence, but we counted ourselves lucky if we were able to as much as brush our fingers past each other’s clothed thighs, when sitting and talking together out in the courtyard, or slyly sneaking kisses on laundry duty, partially hidden by piles upon piles of dirty linen. It was far from ideal, but considering the situation we were in, we’d take anything we could get.

Luckily, we’d snuffed out in no time how the prison system worked. Tit for tat was the main axiom inside and it didn’t take us long to discover that a sufficient amount of cigarettes and one or two bottles of your alcoholic beverage of choice, could get you just about anything. Including a short time’s use of the hospital ward, which, when empty, was one of the few places in the entire prison where you could well and truly be alone.

***

I’m sitting on one of the pristine hospital beds, my legs dangling over the side and slightly open, allowing John to stand between them, edging as close as physically possible. John’s hand is gently stroking the nape of my neck, adding a slight squeeze once in a while or momentarily dipping down in between the fabric of my shirt and the warm skin of my upper back.

I burrow my head against John’s chest, shivering despite the heat. My arms encircle John’s waist and one hand is inside his prison trousers already, digging my nails into his bare buttocks, then running the pads of my fingertips over the marks soothingly and shifting closer to the hardness pressing against my stomach.

Without warning, John eases his thumb and index finger underneath my chin and lifts my head, not wasting time in bending down and pressing his mouth to mine, lovingly and lingering, unmoving lips savouring each other’s taste, suspended in time for a few brief seconds. I break free of the kiss after a few moments and lift my eyes up to John’s. Gauging by his reaction, they are unable to mask my increasing desire.

“We don’t have much time.”

My voice hoarse already, rasping, needy, reminiscent of nights of heavy drinking in a smoky bar, topped off by desperate sex on the bedroom floor. John leans in and kisses me again, more urgently this time, accepting my tongue and entwining it with his own, the hand fisted in my hair pulling me in even closer.

He smiles as he pulls back, but the sadness-tinged gravity in his eyes unmasks the façade.

“I’m in here for life, John. We’ve got all the fucking time in the world.”

I know that’s true, but I refuse to think about that now, refuse to think about the years ahead of us, with the number of cold nights without each other far outweighing heated encounters like these.

“Don’t talk.”

I whisper and swallow John’s retort with another kiss, tracing my tongue past John’s swollen lips as a means of distraction. I bring my hands down to unbutton my shirt, but John swats them away almost violently, taking over the duties as if they were a divine right, which falls to him only.

I watch him with awe, while every inch of fabric is parted with reverence, every bit of exposed skin unwrapped like a heavenly gift. John can’t keep his eyes off my body, leans in to lick and taste with unwavering idolatry until the entire expanse of my chest is glistening and moist, each part claimed as John’s own.

I reach up, desperate to return the favour and renew my acquaintance with my lover’s body. But again I am pushed back down and instead of John, I find myself the centre of attention once more, trousers parted and discarded with experienced ease.

I’m hard, rock hard, cock pointing through the fabric of my briefs. John extends a hand and rubs the palm of it flat over my length through the material, once, twice, three times, applying enough pressure for me to squirm slightly, emitting whispered moans until John finally hooks his fingers under the elastic of my underpants and draws them down with one quick motion, my cock springing free with demanding urgency.

John smiles a wealth of emotion and I can only swallow and stare as my lover leans in and presses soft, loving kisses on the tip of my cock, while his hand dips even lower, cupping my balls and acknowledging them with a tiny squeeze. John’s tongue traces languid patterns over the shaft of my erection, two fingers dipping just that bit lower and curling until the knuckles press against the spot behind my balls, rubbing back and forth tantalizingly.

The sudden pleasure momentarily robs me of all faculties and all I can manage is a strangled “Christ”, tightening my grip on the sheets, their blankness contrasting with our heat-flushed skins.

I finally manage to draw myself up on my elbows, staring down open-mouthed over the length of my torso at John suckling gently on the head of my cock, his fingers having moved to my lower abdomen where they paint invisible lines on my skin and through the course hair below it.

“I want to see you.” I croak out, and for the first time John looks up, trying to suppress surprised amusement.

“Can’t you see me now?” he whispers, hands moving upwards and alighting on my chest, but I only have eyes for John’s face right now.

I shake my head slowly and put one hand on top of John’s, balancing on one elbow, fingertips tingling with the softness of John’s touch. I grip his hand, fingers tentatively interlacing, and squeeze just once, amazed as always at the sudden intimacy of such innocuous gestures. More so than words. More than any other kind of physical contact. But then I’ve known for a long time how entering someone’s soul can be so much more powerful than physical penetration.

“I want to see all of you.” I shudder out and John doesn’t argue, merely pulls his hands away from underneath mine and starts unbuttoning his shirt casually, then easing it to the floor like a waterfall of fabric.

I watch. Watch as John’s hands fall to his trousers, watch as they nimbly pull the fly apart and push the garment, together with John’s briefs, over his hips. As the last bit of material pools down around John’s feet, I find myself revelling in John’s nakedness and I reach down to touch myself, because, honestly, I can’t bear not to.

“Come to me?” Is it a question or a command? I can’t be sure, but it doesn’t really matter, because I’d answer to either. I get to my feet and fall straight into John’s arms, hands deciding of their own accord to explore John’s body anew and I go along with it, from shoulder blades to lower back over the smooth curve of John’s buttocks and back again. I can feel John’s erection pushing in between my parted legs, the tip caressing my balls with increased pressure as I draw him closer, our tongues dancing improvised routines in each other’s mouths.

I pull back, shift and turn until I’m behind John and John’s head has fallen back on my shoulder, exposing his throat for my hungry lips. I drop my hand down and edge it in between the cleft of John’s buttocks, gently probing until my fingers find John’s opening, then pressing against it gently. I feel the muscles relent slightly and instantly want more.

Dropping down to my knees, I place the palms of my hands on John’s arse cheeks, kneading them before pulling them slightly apart, giving my tongue enough room to slide into the cleft, the tip of it moistening the muscle until it relaxes and opens up for me, allowing me to slip in with ease. I push further in, twisting and turning until John slumps forward, one hand steadying himself on the iron railing at the side of the bed, the other reaching behind him, pushing me as close as physically possible until I’m forced to resist and have to come back up for air, my panted breaths almost drowning out John’s mewls of protest and the whisper-sighed curses that die on his lips.

I lean in again, want to be inside John again, but before I can do so, John has turned around and is pulling me up by my arms, twisting us both around and pushing me backwards until I’m pressed up to the bed, while he attacks my mouth ferociously, drinking up his own taste.

He grips my hips tightly and lifts me onto the bed. My thighs part without encouragement as John tumbles down in between them, body full on top of me, and I tremble under John’s licks and caresses, needing so much more than either of us could ever give.

But as soon as my desire builds so does my courage, even though I can’t even look at him. And when I speak, I know he must have trouble making the mumbled words out.

“Thank you.” I can feel John’s lips curl upwards against my neck.

“No need to thank me. I quite like this myself.”

I turn, facing John now, prompting him to lift his head and do the same. I know he can tell I’m not joking, because he looks at me earnestly, brow furrowed questioningly, thumb ghosting over my bottom lip until my eyes flutter close.

“I never really thanked you.” I whisper, keeping my eyes shut to achieve the same effect as before, but somehow this is easier than just facing away.

“What for?”

I swallow. This is harder than I thought it would be.

“For…that night…all those years ago. For…for saving my life, Johnny.”

“Now you listen to me.” My eyes fling open at the stern tone of voice, sharply contrasting with John’s still soothing touch. “You listen to me, okay? Don’t you know…I’d do anything for you, babe. I’d kill the whole damn prison for you if I had to. Put that fucking bastard in front of me again, let him try to fucking hurt you and I’d fucking do it all again. For you.”

***

For a while the air in the room is filled with poignant stillness and we draw each other in close, so much so that anyone who’d be watching us would be unable to make out who’s who amid the flesh-coloured mass of tangled limbs, embracing each other like legs of a spider, encircling and trapping their prey. Though, in this case, neither prey is looking to escape, but, on the contrary, we burrow closer to each other, rubbing lazily together, tongues wrestling sloppily for dominance with neither of us wanting to give too much and neither of us wanting to be solely on the receiving end.

Quiet sounds escape us, exhalations of desire, moans of surrender, gasps of acceptance, external reflections of the heated passion inside.

Until, driven by need, John slides on top of me, my legs encircling his waist, feet pressing down on his lower back and hands fisted in his hair, pulling his head back amid a groan of desperation.

“Fuck. Get the fuck inside me, Johnny. Now.”

***

John presses himself up slightly, effectively tilting my hips, then quickly spits on his hand to slick himself up and enters me with one quick thrust.

We set ourselves a steady pace, quickening occasionally, John alternating between hard, almost angry strokes of his cock and slow, leisurely motions, allowing me some time to compose myself as he gently massages my blood-red erection.

Time freezes and nothing really exists anymore outside the little bubble we have created. No prison, no life, no death. Just souls linked together in wave upon wave of physical pleasure.

We can’t bear for it to end, but we both know it must soon. John can hardly stop himself from forcing his cock inside me with reckless abandon and mine looks and feels as if it’s ready to burst.

John places his hands on either side of my face, braces himself and fucks me dryly, no other touches than the ones basically required, but in his eyes there’s something hidden that’s far more powerful than the orgasm building up inside him and he keeps them open for me to see, despite his mind trying desperately to close them.

In the end, I have to look away, John’s thrusts following one another up so quickly I can hardly tell one from the next, until suddenly I can’t feel anything anymore, nothing but blazing heat and blinding sensation and, somewhere vaguely in the distance, the warmth of my own cum spreading across my stomach.

John follows soon after, groaning once and finally letting his eyes fall shut before falling flat on top of me, letting my arms surround him.

We stay like that for a while, a while that seems like an eternity, half hoping it will become eternity if we just hold on long enough. Finally, John rolls off of me and settles down beside me and I turn until my back rests against his chest, settling comfortably in my lover’s embrace.

Eternity is an ambiguous concept anyway.