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Stop the Fax Machines - Chapter Three (3819 words)
Dear Benfred,
How delighted I was to hear from you and how disappointed in myself that I couldn't write back quicker.
You are quite right that a loving touch paid with favour or pound is not the same as love itself. I didn't mean to suggest such a crude thing. But as men we have certain needs and those needs require some action. I hope I don't offend you, but I always speak honestly about these matters. The same needs can be met with the help of pornographic letters, as lacking as they may be when compared to the real thing.
Imagine, for a moment, a maiden who hears from her lover with a letter. Of course it's not the same as her lover's touch to read from this letter that he wishes to hold her tight and make her call his name, kiss her until her breath is short, whisper sweet things into the space between her ear and her neck. But will it not excite her mind to read such things, to imagine them taking place before such reality can occur?
Now imagine yourself in the shoes of such a maiden. Those of us with no lovers and no letters from lovers must at times rely on the imaginations of others to feel a lover's hand. This forms the market for such letters, bawdy as they are.
I am happy to hear you are not prudish. It's a waste of time, is it not?
Technology is indeed made moral or immoral by the people who wield it. That's why I don't trust Tamfer and his plans. He thinks so little of unintended consequences.
Oh, I should not bother you with politics, my dear Ben. What is your favourite painting? Your favourite poem? Let us drown each other in beauty and its intimacy.
With fondness,
Gardy
*
Dear Gardy,
I long for the land that is not,
For all that is, I am weary of wanting.
The moon speaks to me in silvern runes
About the land that is not.
The land where all our wishes become wondrously fulfilled,
The land where all our fetters fall,
The land where we cool our bleeding forehead
In the dew of the moon.
My life was a burning illusion,
But one thing I have found and one thing I have really won -
The road to the land that is not.
-Edith Soedergran
With burning,
Benfred
*
Edgar opened the letter with unsteady hands, expectant, terrified. Their last few had been simple poems, Benfred's aethereal and his openly sentimental. But something about this exchange of art had left him reeling. They contained truths that he couldn't otherwise access, and didn't even think to try. Benfred wasn't just a boring serious minded accountant, who Edgar regarded as there for the seduction, potentially turned toward the darkened side of passion. He was a beautiful man, with a deep moral centre and a fledgling thirst for poetry, too.
For all he knew now, he suspected Benfred was much like himself. Bored with existence, but not muddled in melancholy. Edgar now liked Benfred, not as mere prey but as a friend, and his letter would take a more confessional tone. He wanted to share some of himself with this man, trust a secret or two with him. Be Edgar, not Acgard, not the seducer, not the libertine and not the politician. He paused, pressing his palm against his desk, next to the typewritten letter. Which other Edgar could he access anymore? Who else was left?
Bloody hell, he needed a drink. A personal failing came to mind immediately, and it made him feel chilled, vulnerable.
He moved to the typewriter, rolling the paper in its place, a sheet with no government letterhead. He focused his eyes on it, his sober mind searching for the story he worked so hard to forget.
Dear Ben,
How beautiful the poems you've shared with me have been. How many planets they have taken me to, how many distant feelings they have unearthed. You called yourself a soul without poetry but indeed you have much poetry within you. Your considerate mind seeks it out, even if you didn't think it possible. Perhaps you could even write your own one day.
Reading the latest one, I thought of a story. It may be too personal to share, as we ought to stick to simple intellectualism, but you did share with me your heartbreak.
A decade ago I was told to marry. After all, there was no reason not to be. Thirnbush, the old bugger, had made it legal and then First Chancellor Gangoly had made it acceptable for the upper crust to take part as well. Men of my breeding would marry their lovers with the same ease as girls of 23 would marry their best gals. It was quite the trend, wasn't it.
Yet a problem persisted. As much as I enjoyed the physical congress with some dear friends, the love was indeed transactional, as you alluded to in a previous letter. There wasn't the depth of feeling, nor the compatibility for a long term matrimony.
I tried to get matched, of course. But the choices were not to my liking. They were men, too, seeking a match, but more concerned with bloodline and prestige than if we could stand to sit across one another over the breakfast scone every single morning for the rest of our lives. Isn't that more important than which ancestor fought in the Allemanian trenches?
So a neighbour of mine, a lovely gal named Lora of the sapphic persuasion, suggested to me an old fashioned marriage, where we would both do our business but raise children and have tea together. Share a household in that way.
How simple it sounded! She was an amazing conversationalist, a musician, a lawyer. How lucky would I have been to have her, Benfred. Yet after my initial yes, I turned the thought over in my head. I knew we wouldn't fit one another. She was so quick to temper, and I'm of the same sort. I cool down just as fast, but what catastrophe could we cause if we put children into the eye of such a storm.
My other hesitation was simple. She didn't admire me. How petty and superficial of me, Benfred. How small-minded am I? But that's what my heart wanted. A man who worshipped me, who told me no when I was being stupid, who made love to me at night, and who set boundaries on the children I would dote in return.
So I withdrew from the engagement and the last I heard in society, Lora is married to a rich lady in the Federates, in one of the ones named after an old king.
To say my family disapproved of my decision to continue bachelorhood was to not know my family. Of course, I was disowned privately. Called all manner of names. But they kept up appearances at first, as they are wont to do. Slowly, they let me go. Even today my mother only calls me on my birthday. My wealth now comes from stocks, something an old friend taught me about.
I am not titled as I once was, my sister inherited all that was once mine. And very well, too, she can have it. She sends me pictures of the children, which I place on the mantle of the country house I bought with my first major stock sale earnings. I call it the family estate, but indeed, which family? My own doesn't exist.
We aren't that old, Benfred. Why does it still feel like life has passed me by? Was I foolish? Of course, but irrevocably so? I’ve had these two shots at happiness, and I fumbled them both, so here I am, just a cad, just a boring ageing libertine.
Why does poetry evoke such emotion? I haven't thought of these things in years. My life is so grand. Don't pity me, dear friend.
With only myself,
Acgard
*
Barnaby read the letter again and again. It moved him, and yet he struggled with how to reply. His empathy was a well he could always draw from, and he wished to share more of himself, yet held back at the same time.
He could tell Gardy about Ram, his own distant affair that was almost on the step of matrimony. Ram was, of course, deep in the past now. The match had been so good, yet some hesitation had remained. Barnaby had wanted to want it half as badly as his brain knew it would make sense to.
Ram, his hair so shiny and his eyes a deep maple color. Ram, with his steady hands and his patient mind.
It would have been perfect but in the end it was nothing, and that's what had hurt him so much. To think himself so incapable of giving love when it was the right thing to do. Ram resided in Brum still, where they had initially met, and he had a husband, perhaps even a family now.
No, he couldn't tell dear Acgard about it. He would hold back, offer sympathy and more poetry, perhaps.
The name Lora was on his mind once more. Of course, the land held millions of Loras. But he didn't personally know of any, apart from his own cousin, who was older and not sapphic in the least. Why was the name feeling so familiar now? Well, nevermind all that, he thought. For all he knew, Gardy had just used a pseudonym, as they did with each other's names.
Dear Gardy,
Your story touched me. I feel similarly, like life passed by without me knowing, and now I can all but look back and wonder. We have all made mistakes but I think you were right to leave Lora to find her true beloved. Two quick tempers make a bad match. I myself am slow to temper but also slow to cool after. I am also too prideful, too quiet among strangers, too judgmental of others. These are perhaps why I find myself alone today.
But not lonely, at least not as lonely as I think I would be with the wrong person. Does the thought comfort me? Some nights, yes.
You wrote about a maiden once, who gets a letter from her beloved, with detail that sends her heart racing. I understood your point perfectly, but never had a chance to comment on it.
Could you write such a letter, Acgard? Even if it was not to a lover you knew already, but perhaps one you wish you knew. The intimacy you would hope for, the admiration you so deserve.
Perhaps that is a poor suggestion but it is the only one that came to mind. You may ignore it, if you wish.
And what of poor Mr Wrights, whom we have so neglected as of late?
With admiration,
Benfred
*
The letter made him blush. But why? He had received many bawdier letters. Suggestions for sexual behaviours so bold and lurid that they would shock most. Yet it was this simple invite from Benfred that brought colour to his cheeks.
Who was seducing whom, Edgar wondered.
He could, of course, pen the letter and tell Ben that he had done so, an unsent letter to a lover who did not exist. But where would be the fun in that? No, he would write the letter and send it to Benfred, and see if he could send the same colours from his own cheeks to those of his pen pal.
Something of the manner the other man had made the suggestion touched him. He had shared some of himself and got back precisely what he wanted, but Benfred was nothing if not earnest. He wanted his Gardy to feel less lonely.
It felt familiar. There was no seduction. Only affection, offered up as a solution to feel better. Just like that night with– no, Edgar didn't want to think of old wounds again.
A fax came through, the machine whirling into action while he wanted to remain deep in thought.
My office tomorrow 8 am.
Attendance not optional.
Mr Gregory Tamfer, HM High Chancellor
Fuck, Edgar thought. The fucking battle summons.
*
16 years ago
Edgar knew the law would pass. The relevant people were all set upon it, determined for it. All parties pulled back their whip orders but they need not have bothered. There were only 5 members of parliament who stood on the wrong side of history.
Thirnbush, the sod. How brilliant was he. The religious amendments were almost diabolical in their craft, their precision. Those with the predilection suddenly became saints in the eyes of God, so long as they should marry, like other honest women and men did.
Edgar hated and loved it in equal measure. Barnaby’s eyes gleamed that night. He was shocked by the events and Edgar didn't blame him. Barnaby had a pessimist side to him, brought on by years of being told no, and not good enough, and that he should not, even if others could. The poor lad needed to be lifted and Edgar was doing his best. Maybe now he would get rewarded for it, too.
They were at the union building, where Edgar worked as an aide, watching the news roll in. The sofas were well worn and too soft, and Barnaby had sunk to Edgar's side, and Edgar could feel the rough of his winter coat against his own bare arm. He had stripped down to a shirt, while Barnaby had just come in from the cold. The mood was tense, and then the tension came undone. People cheered.
Truth was, Edgar has grown to like their relationship in its innocence. Barnaby allowed him a kiss, an embrace, and everything else was up for Edgar's mind to fill in, as it did quite happily. The lack of sex made the connection all the more powerful in Edgar’s eyes. He wanted more, certainly, but being held back allowed them to talk more, and Barnaby was brilliant to talk to. He got so bored of people so easily, but Barnaby was still exciting to him, after years of friendship.
"How very wonderful," Barnaby spoke in awe, as the votes had been announced. "It doesn't seem real."
"And yet it is," Edgar said simply. "How many of our schoolmates will now marry, I wonder?"
"I should think all of them," Barnaby replied. "Now there is no reason not to."
"No reason at all?" Edgar asked, stunned. "There is always a reason. Some people simply don't want marriage."
"Do they also not want to be loved?" Barnaby asked, as if the two were one and the same.
"Silly," Edgar said, unsure if he meant Barnaby or just his idea. "Let's go drink, then."
But only one pint in and something about their previous discussion bothered him, so he approached the topic, fingers slowly spinning his pint around on its wooden coaster.
"I may not want to be married," he told Barnaby, who looked wounded.
"But Edgar," he said. "We are, arent we – together."
"Are we?" Edgar said, smiling a little. "Do you intend on proposing?"
Barnaby looked down at his hands, palms pressed against the cold mist of the glass. "I am only at the beginning of my career, it seems so early. But I do want to."
"Indeed," Edgar replied, nonchalant. "There is no hurry."
"But surely a life of sin doesn't seem preferable?" Barnaby continued, eyes looking stricken.
"Who said we were sinning?"
"I only mean–"
"What do you mean?" Edgar teased, inviting a response.
His dear Barnaby, such a busy head.
"In marriage, there will be such opportunity," Barnaby said with some force, and took a big gulp from his glass, a pronounced bob in his throat as he did. "I could show you, if you like."
Edgar noticed Barnaby’s flush. "Show me, please."
Barnaby stood up, glass half emptied. "My rooms, then, if you would."
He looked more determined than Edgar had seen before. They walked to his rooms in silence, and Barnaby got out his keys, checking the room and pulling off his coat before returning to Edgar.
They kissed and it felt like the first kiss, hunger and triumph all at once, and Edgar pulled Barnaby’s body against his own.
"Oh," he said against the other man's mouth. "This kind of opportunity?"
Barnaby bought into the feigned surprise. "I want to, but I've never–"
"It takes no special knowledge," Edgar assured him. "We will only touch."
He felt Barnaby hard against his thigh and his brain went into overdrive, stripping them both quickly. Barnaby was soft but muscular beneath the softness, tantalising under his fingers. Edgar wanted to go slow, but he couldn't help but pull the other man down to the bed with him, wrapping his hand around the lengthy cock. The velvet soft of its skin, the perfect bounce of its head against his palm. The sounds Barnaby made, full of awe and abandon.
"Have you thought about this before?" Edgar asked him.
"Nearly every night," Barnaby said, a confession to the pillow.
The thought of his gorgeous Barnaby heated at night, touching himself to the thought of them doing this, sent a powerful warmth through Edgar.
"What did I do in those dreams?" he asked, feeling the heat of the cock in his hand as he stroked it, slow, teasing.
"Your lips touched me," Barnaby said, the words vague but meaning understood.
Edgar dipped his head, licking a circle around the top while his hand held the base firmly. "Like that?" A kiss, a swallow, taking as much as he could.
"Fuck," Barnaby whined, an uncharacteristic swear, bucking his hips off the bed. Edgar steadied them with one hand, mouth still engaged.
He longed to hear more such words from Barnaby. Pornographic words, words he could only think, but would never put on paper.
"Please," Barnaby whined.
"And what did you do to me?" Edgar asked.
"I took you," Barnaby confessed as his hand arrived trembling to Edgar's hair. "And then you took me."
"Well, it will be a long night, then," Edgar joked and returned his mouth to Barnaby’s cock, moving his lips down its length. Barnaby’s fingers twisted in his hair so tight he could feel their pull, the wonderful edge of pain it gave him.
"We don't have to," Barnaby told him, sounding like he was completely out of air.
"I want to explore every opportunity, Barns, would you deny me that?"
Of course he wouldn't, Edgar thought as he felt the man tremble beneath him, the salt of his spreading against Edgar's tongue as he continued, hand moving in conjunction with his mouth. He could do this all night, but he didn't want to be a tease, not yet. Not when they had waited so long for this.
"Never, nothing, I'm – Edgar–"
Edgar didn't stop, didn't let up, watching his joyous Barnaby crash over the precipice, crying out, choked and overwhelmed. Edgar felt his own release come so soon around the corner, there was no time for taking of any kind. He was hard and sensitive, keen, ready for the ending.
Barnaby touched him, a hesitant hand around his member, and Edgar kissed him, hand against cheek. He was burning, a moan escaping against Barnaby’s mouth. All the other man had to do was move his hand, and Edgar shattered, rocking against his Barnaby, his dear Barns.
They fall asleep quickly after.
In the dark of the night Barnaby woke for a glass of water and Edgar woke up when a warm body left his side.
"Shall I get you a glass?" Barnaby asked him.
"That's not what I want right now," Edgar said and pulled him close again. "Would marriage be like this with you, every night?"
"I should hope," Barnaby said with a laugh.
They kissed again, and the slowness of the touch morphed into further heat. Edgar was impatient, he would admit it himself. The thought obsessed him. Barnaby taking him. The other way around.
He broke the kiss. "Which would you prefer? Taking or being taken?"
Barnaby’s blush was hidden by the dark but his sharp inhale was not. "Being taken."
"Hm," Edgar said and kissed him again. "I want both," a kiss, "but to see you like that," a peck, "would be incredible."
Barnaby was hard and it took very little manoeuvring to get him to a good position. Edgar had only done it once himself, but he recalled the routine now. Slick fingers, thighs parted, slow, so slow, slower than either of them would want. Barnaby had excellent thighs, firm and patterned with short hair, and touching them sent a frisson through Edgar's spine.
"Can you touch yourself?" Edgar asked him, pressing a hand against the small of his back. His finger continued its work, Barnaby desperately pushing against it.
"No need," Barnaby replied, sounding far away, drifting into the galaxy, drunk.
"I want you to," Edgar said, gasping at the tight hold against his fingers, inserting another slowly. "I want you, Barns," he amended.
"Christ," Barnaby said against the pillow, and he really was far gone, not even noticing his own blasphemy. Edgar smiled, it was exactly as he might have wanted it, only more, only better.
Edgar took his own cock, pressed it against the opening, thrusting carefully, sinking, gasping at the feeling. "Is that–"
"Yesyesyes," he heard muffled against the bedding.
"Touch yourself, then."
It felt so good to guide Barnaby, to give the command, the permission.
Barnaby followed the order and Edgar could see the movement just barely, the gentle movement beneath the width of his gorgeous friend. He closed his eyes, to focus on the sensation and how much he could advance, how slowly, how to not cause his friend the same hurt he had felt during his first time.
"More," Barnaby exhaled at the next thrust and Edgar smoothed a hand against his hip, feeling how close he was to the climax once more. His fingers held on tighter to the hip and his own hips moved to a rhythm he thought was still slow, but should he go any faster he was afraid he might die from pleasure.
Barnaby cried out with pleasure and pushed back against Edgar with one stubborn movement. He was needy and demanding, even beneath, and Edgar loved that, and wanted more of it. But that tiny gesture was all he could take, pulling out at the last second, flipping around the man beneath him and meeting Barnaby’s eyes for the final movement.
"Lord, how beautiful you are," Barnaby said as his hand took Edgar over the brink.
Edgar replied, "Barns," gasped, spent, dying, just barely there and Barnaby held him close in the aftershock.
That night, it felt like nothing could tear them apart, no man, no war, no disaster.