Page 51 - Titanic: The Untold Tale of Gay Passengers and Crew

Titanic 37

to dickhead, came v-shaped from left and right to rape my
willing mouth.
Edward once had worked his sculler’s fist all the way
into my mouth and my passion for him had let me take the
pleasure of his hard-knuckled fullness, my teeth wrapped
tight around his thick wrist. My shipboard lust was no less
for this anonymous pair of silent, brooding, insistent seamen.
I was no more than a nine-hour virgin, having shot my load
the night before watching the Stoker fuck Edward, but that
was five hours more than I needed to reload fully, especially
fueled by the sight of their big bodies, pronged with their
pair of absinthe-slick dicks, closing in on me.
All the giddiness of Edward dubbing me “Queen
Michael” and Molly crowning me with her embar rassing
Hapsburg tiara was forgot ten in the serious business at hand.
I had cock to suck.
I thought.
But I was wrong.
Brice and Max weren’t seek ing sucking.
They were fuckers, face-fuckers.
I was their face.
I was incidental.
Their unspoken-lovers’ game was feeling their two dicks
rub bing together, slip-sliding in and out, each revolving
around the other, the way two athletic men clasp sweaty
gladiatorial hands, gripping fists, intensely face to face, in
the kind of pub arm-wres tling so popular throughout Brit-
ain, so scorned at Cambridge, so practiced at Oxford—arm
wres tling introduced by the Romans centuries before. Never
had I wanted to be a stranger in the world. Edward loved my
American sense of exploration, and Brice and Max were new
territory I took to with no map but my hard cock.