After Eight.

Bute park after eight is alive. The gates are locked but that doesn’t stop the men from climbing over, hunting for a fix. Bold as thieves, they stand in the open, one leaning against the railings with his trousers around his shins as the other kneels in front of him, head bobbing, back and forth, back and forth. The other one looks at me, parted lips spilling sharp breaths carrying inarticulate words. He comes as I step onto the bridge.

Not here, it’s too open here. I cross the bridge, turn left, and walk up the darkened path.

He’s blond. “I like it rough,” I tell him. There is enough light that we can see each other by. If I were less attractive this offer might worry him. Then again, maybe not.

“Me too.”

We hide under low hanging branches, enclosed by the womb of the earth. I lean him against the bark, one hand on his back, the other guiding myself inside him. The rubber feels foreign, alien, as do the gloves. He thinks they’re a part of the act, a part of the thrill. As the climax builds, my hand reaches up into his hair, grasping tight. He is masturbating furiously now. I am worked close to a frenzy at the thought of what is about to happen.

“Fuck, I’m gunna-”

He comes. I allow them this one last moment of bliss. I slash his throat, and I come too.

 

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