Gay Expectations IX

Gay Expectations IX

It was the Night of the Forbidden Dead—I’d been hijacked and shanghaied aboard “The Wake of the Red Witch.”

I’d been cursed with Forbidden Yearnings—and shameless Unbecoming Urges. But now it was time— for my secret High Seas Denouement.

I had to actually crawl outta the hammock—and check out what the fuck was going on. It seemed like Forever and a Day since way back when—I’d been floating on Cloud Nine for quite some time.

Followed by Cloud Ten—and Cloud Eleven and Twelve. The hammock in Magwitch’s captain chambers was quite the seductive magic carpet—I could’ve drifted there much longer it seemed to me. But I simply had to get up...

Somehow I’d managed to ooze my way from Ah Sing’s opium parlor back in London—clear over into this new high seas den of inequity. Without even trying—without even blinking an Eye.

Now I was way out there—sailing on the High Seas!!! What an Adventure for a nelly little London fag like me—wobbling around without my sea-legs yet. Gawking at everything...

Not having learned the trick of bending my knees—and going with the gentle rocking back & forth swaying of the huge swift Clipper spaceship.

I peered outta the window in the Captain’s chamber—through the tinted panes of elegant stained-glass panels.

The sweeping deep-blue vistas that I could see as I clinged to the windowsill—it was all so breathtaking and beyond compare. I’d never been on a Clipper ship before—I’d never set step aboard such a sleek fast craft. I’d never ever felt the tug of wind and sails pulling me forward—the silent-running and hissing-slicing through the turquoise blue-green whitecap-foaming sea.

Edwin Drood was still passed out—sleeping away in the Captain's hammock. It was different than Ah Sing’s opium parlor bamboo hammock. It moved and swayed with the creaking timbers of the ship—the reassuring movement forward almost felt like we were flying.

I’d heard of "The Flying Dutchman"—and the exciting exploits of other Clipper ship adventure stories. But to actually feel one under your bare feet and to lean with the motion this way and that wat—it was really very soothing and exquisitely homoerotic for me.

Things were busy onboard The Wake of the Red Witch—the crew knew exactly what they were doing. They seemed happy to be at sea again—away from that dark damp rainy London with all its crummy landlubber crowds crammed into that stinking cesspool of a city.

I felt like surely my final demise had finally caught up with me—the Love that had no name seemed to have a name now. It was called The Wake of the Red Witch—and with it and through it and because of it, I would never be the same.

Nor would I ever come back to London—or see my beautiful England ever again. My new life aboard this ship had taken on a whole new meaning for me—and my love for Magwitch and Edwin I sensed would never ever be quenched or satisfied.

I couldn’t help myself—I had a whole new set of gay expectations. I slowly crawled back into the soft comphy hammock next to the long naked lean eighteen-year-old Edwin Drood. I stealthily felt him up with trembling fingers and was more than pleased to discover him erect and waiting for me.

Was Edwin still slumbering—was that why his ten inches seemed eternally, shamelessly erect? Or was he pretending to be deeply, unconsciously asleep—out of it completely like we were still back there in the Chinaman’s den of homoerotic heavenly bliss?

Edwin was always coy and clever—I never knew whether to take him seriously or just tongue-in-cheek. I think he was playing games with me—to see just how much I wanted him.

There’s no doubt about that—it was like picking up from where we left off back in that louche highway parlor of sailorboy sin and exquisite degradation. It was impossible for me to not want it, to not want to be even more denigrated—disgustingly so and all the way once again.
"Light the pipe," he said.
We lollygagged in the hammock and soon Queequeg's clay pipe with its long stem got us there again. Surely this was how Ishmael of "Moby Dick" must have felt, that night in bed with the giant headhunting, savage harpooner of Melville's gauche novel?
Edwin harpooned me to death all morning long.
For breakfast on the high seas—I pealed back the tight swollen flesh of my captive sleeping mermaid boy. He was covered with Neptunian blue-green shiny scales—and soon I had an anchor halfway down my gulping throat. I gagged, I choked, but I wanted more. I was queer for my Queequeg sailorboy.

Edwin got it down deeper inside me—by flexing his nice tight ass. Grabbing my ears—he made sure he got it all deep down inside my wise-ass glib gullet. And up my goosey, girlish ass.

I’m sure Edwin was thinking—“There that’ll shut-up that insolent smart-ass little cocksucker. Let’s see how he handles a real man this time—ten inches twenty thousand leagues beneath the sea...”

Oh, dear me. Talk about tingling, tantalizing Tonsillitis!!!

Slowly Edwin let his cheesy harpoon tip slip in & out, leaving its funguloid manly mucous smearing my pouty, wise-ass lips. Then he slipped it in deeper and further down my throat—until his tight wiry pubes became my new virile moustache, cramming his groin up against my pursed pouty lips.

My youthful peach-fuzz dainty moustache fled—instead my naughty lips merged with Edwin’s manly pubes. I could smell him with my trembling erect nostrils—I could feel him holding it back not wanting to lose it right away.

The way he pulled my curly locks out by the roots—and thumbed my burning ears inside-out. Working his forefingers down deep down inside my ear canals—weaseling them all the way deep inside my brain. It made me feel like a busy bee-nest honeycomb—full of frissony gauche goosebumps going crazy.

I almost fainted it got so intense—surely I was beyond the humanly possible "point of no return." It was like a sudden nocturnal emission out of the adolescent blue—a bruising wide-awake wet-dream that turned me into a hopeless spastic child idiot. And idiot savant starved for love...
Edwin took advantage of my newfound nelly vulnerability—the way I was going spaz so helplessly there in the slow, swaying, patient swinging hammock. My sprained neck bent over the edge of the abyss, cross-eyed with forbidden love. He smirked and butchyly flipped me over on my stomach—even as I gazed helplessly into his cruel blue-green eyes.

Edwin had the cold cunning look of some kind of insane Jack the Ripper—it scared the holy shit outta me. But there was nothing I could do—he bit me hard on the neck. It hurt me so bad I wanted it some more. Back & forth went the hammock of pleasure and pain—up & down undulated the Clipper ship on the Skull & Crossbone turgid waves.

It seemed to last forever—it was more than I'd bargained for. Taking turns with Edwin and Magwitch—getting nailed down deep every day and night. Deep as Davy’s Locker—deep as Captain Nemo. They were both surpised by how needy I was for Capt. Nemo's lean & mean Nautilus "Up Periscope!!!"

The Wake of the Red Witch sailed on & on—leaving behind us the jetsam and flotsome of so many lost moments and memories. We were surrounded by nothing but the cold North Atlantic going on & on from horizon to horizon. Later things warmed up in the hot humid Tropics—sailing down by the Hawaiian Islands and up through the Pacific warm breezes.

Had I ever once upon a time been a naive country boy—sulking around there in Miss Havisham’s moody haunted mansion? Had I ever been a silly spoiled little Fop—moiling about in the great dark labyrinths of mysterious London? Had I ever really been myself as I was now way back then—before I hooked up with Magwitch and Edwin Drood, his stunning young brother?

And so we sailed the High Seas higher than a kite—Magwitch’s sleek Clipper ship slicing through the foamy waves. As we sailed on & on toward destinations unknown—not even Magwitch knew where or whence. I didn't care one little bit.

I didn’t care where we were going—nor did I worry about poor Pockets back in London probably worried about me for awhile. Jaggers probably told him the whole sordid story. I'm sure Pockets smiled and nodded knowingly.Nor I was especially worried about myself or where I was going—surely I wasn’t meant to be so happy? But I was and that was the important thing.

Herbert Pocket would simply have to get by—and take care of himself back there in London. He was good at that—much more nonchalant and practical about things than me. I'm sure he missed me but then for only a minute or two. He had gay expectations of his own. We all do...

Actually I enjoyed not knowing anything at all—not knowing was like taking a vacation from myself. Not knowing made for such an ad lib and spontaneous adventure to be had. It was full of impromptu feelings—feelings I’d never had before. I got to know some of the other sailors—there were plenty of hammocks down there below deck.

I didn’t miss reading newspapers—or spending nights by the fire with books. Something else had taken over. I suppose you could call it Foolishness. Or perhaps get hoity-toity and get your knickers in a twist. Negative capability, my dear?
The time went by so quickly—there was always something or somebody to do. The Chinese cook kept us loaded to the gills—I spent lots of time with Edwin getting off and on. Magwitch approved: finally his truant younger brother had found his match. He winked at me and I winked back. We'd come a long way since that churchyard tryst...

I got my ear pierced with a gold earring—and the First Mate tattooed my right shoulder with a nude mermaid who had a nice smile. The other sailors tolerated me; some even liked me.

The times of being totally surprised and shocked never seemed to end—Magwitch with his tongue halfway down my throat. His long oozing, muscular, python Tongue—that I’d wrap my tight lips around when he came. Feeling him ream me with it—all the way down my greedy gullet to my protruding bellybutton.

Oral sex and kissing was nice—but Edwin preferred it the other way around. He liked to sink his big Vampire fangs deep into my nelly twisting neck hard and hold me extra-tight when he lost it and lost it some more. He smoked like a fiend—and then he’d want it some more. I confess I fell for him hook, line and sinker—Edwin dropping his veiny young anchor so many times down inside me. That I felt like The Titanic going under.

Between Magwitch’s huge exquisite Tongue—and Edwin’s touchy, thick Torpedo Tool. There was nothing else that I was interested in. There was nothing else between us—except maybe for the Deep Blue Sea that went on forever.
Forever and a day—forever and a night...

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