Refractions
A series of short pieces by Clarke Nova
I feel the Nova Heat closing in on me tracking me along
invisible laser beams, seen only through the eyes of the third mind, smelt only by the
sensitised cells of junk sickness, heard only between the gasps of orgasm, squealed out
between gritted teeth. the warm, sharp smell of a penetrated rectum fills the room, a
mixture of KY and shit, with a tang of cinnamon as a cloying after scent. The writer
comes, spurting dream images onto the page, hot gobs of semen condensing to form words and
characters across the blankness of an empty sheet. He pauses long enough to wipe his cock
on a discarded shirt tail, then dresses hurriedly, leaving only a dirty yellow Rx. on the
dresser. "Hang on to that, kid", he states with a twisted, leering grin, like
that of an idiot, "you never know when you might get caught short. A good looking boy
like you could be made to do innaresting things for a shot of good ole G.I. M."
The boy rises from the bed, thin with the thinness associated with the first twitching of
drug withdrawal. Sperm forms snail trails across his firm stomach, and his still hard cock
arches from his wiry pubes towards these glistening strands. He crosses to the toilet
opposite, and shits, the stool liquid and bright with fresh blood. He washes in the bidet,
the familiar smell of carbolic soap, as he guides his hand over the smooth, almost
hairless balls, to the base of the shaft. He grasps it, and it rises, veins standing out
as if carved in bas-relief, the moist purple crown catching the dawn's first rays. A firm
pull peels back the foreskin, and he spurts, once, and then again, the sensation like that
of a hot ball of wax, originating in his throbbing balls, passing through his loins. He
grits his teeth, and then cries out, as his warm jissom sprays into the bowl, forming
white strands, like that of an egg, broken into a bowl of soup. He felt drained, as if
contact with the writer, on what ever terms, was sapping him of his orgones, sucking them
off, the same way that he sucked off the writer. At that thought the boy wretched, and
spat into the cracked, stain basin. Rancid cum seemed to have formed a major component of
his diet lately, blowing queens in a subway toilet for a nickel to score being safer than
selling his wares on the street corners, where the transvestite lizzes hustled the marks.
He pulled on his shorts with a dismissive shrug of his hips, and drew on a pair of corded
jeans. They were maroon in colour, in case his ass bled through on to them. He picked up
his works from behind the bidet, and dropped them into his inside jacket pocket. It
wouldn't do for the owner to rumble a blackened spoon in his room - he'd put down a
deposit for the week. Now all he needed was the money to score.
At the platform, the boy dodged the fares, and rode the train to West-23rd, where he felt
certain he would get the cash for a bag. Here the aging queens hung out, their tired old
cocks eager for a touch of youth. He went to the cubicles and waited, hearing the soft
gurgling of the urinal, the smell of disinfectant strong in his nostrils. At last, a
simpering fairy approached him, a crumpled five dollar bill in his hand.
The boy allowed himself to be lead to a far stall, where he tugged down the older man's
trousers and shorts, freeing his cock. It was already hard, a bead of lubricant standing
out on its tip like a small seed pearl. The boy knelt, taking the shaft into his mouth,
gagging as the prick was thrust hard against his palate. His tongue ran down the
surprisingly silky length, returned to push into the eye - tasting as he did so the biter
pre-cum. the trick drew his breath in sharply, and his eyes rolled back into his sockets,
exposing the blood-shot whites. Hot cum flooded into the boy's mouth, trickling out of the
corners. He stood, and dashed for the door, the bill still clasped in his hand.
He barely made it to the basin, when he vomited up the jissom....
Email Clarke Nova