Mandatory Pleasure

The sun doesn’t even have the decency not to hang high in the clear blue sky on the awful Tuesday that an agent darkens the doorstep of 201 Fremont Lane and rings the doorbell with a gloved hand. One resident of that apartment, accompanied by the swaying notes of an achingly gorgeous Mexican love song, opens the door in the middle of a laugh that freezes on his face when he sees the agent.

“Mr. Ray Peña? I’m 157. From the Agency of Mandatory Pleasure. May I come in?” the agent says. The request is genteel. Behind it are teeth and steel.

The resident steps aside, the agent steps inside, the music continues. The apartment is decorated with the warmth of life lived. Six guitars line the small hallway between the front door and the living room which opens up to a wide space where the record player produces the dulcet, clear voice of the singer who’s filled the apartment to bursting with bountiful, fragile emotion. The open floor-to-ceiling windows admit heat and a casual breeze that shifts the flower arrangement sitting on a low coffee table.

“Who was it?” asks a man in the kitchen, dancing at the stove, just through the cut-out separating the two rooms.

“Marcel Wright,” the agent says.

The second resident stops dancing in the kitchen, puts down the spoon he’s been singing into and turns around. His face wears the same in-transit expression that his partner’s did a few moments earlier.

“Oh,” says Marcel. He takes off his apron, turns off the stove and comes around into the living room where the two other men are already standing.

The agent asks if he can sit. Naturally, Marcel says yes. He and Ray stand around, trading anxious glances, until the agent urges them to sit. They take a seat on the couch.

“The music? Should I—” Ray says.

The agent attempts a reassuring smile. It is not reassuring, nor is it technically a smile. “No. It’s lovely.”

“Well, how can we help you, agent…” Ray starts.

“157 is fine,” the agent says, as though a numerical designation were more personal. Though, for all Ray or Marcel know, it might be. “Are you gentlemen familiar with Statute B-65?”

“Of course,” Marcel says, a hair too quickly. Ray, sitting next to him, squeezes his leg. Marcel pauses, then continues. “Of course. The Pleasure rule.”

“The Mandatory Pleasure Act is more accurate, formally. A contented citizenship is our highest priority,” the agent says.

“Do we seem discontent to you? Unhappy?” Marcel asks. His voice has something of an edge. Ray whispers something to himself.

“Your happiness is your concern, Mr. Wright. My concern is the metrics. The numbers,” the agent replies.

At that moment the singer reaches a high note that she holds so long that it feels as though her voice might break. But when she descends again it’s with a graceful flourish that would put lesser performers to shame. She’s always been Ray’s favorite singer. His chest tightens with something besides anxious terror, and he considers it a great relief.

“I’m sure you’re good citizens gentlemen, but there has been an anonymous tip. A concerned party thought that there might be… friction between you.” 157 leans forward. “So we followed up and through the agency’s independent surveillance we found that you’re having sex an average of 0.75 times a week. Very low, gentlemen. Perilously low. Now this is usually where you spool rationales, explanations, alternative ideas about why and how this has happened. But I will tell you gentlemen that I do not care. The numbers. The metrics. They do not lie. People lie.”

The record crackles as the needle reaches the end of the disc. Ray watches the needle put itself away neatly.

“So what happens now?” Marcel asks. He sounds so tired, Ray thinks.

157 flexes the fingers of one gloved hand. The leather creaks. “Reeducation. A month-long internment since this your first offense…”

Ray shivers. Like everyone, he’s heard the stories. Places where every wall is a screen of pornography and the oxygen is laced with something boost sexual appetites. A neighbor recently returned from one of those camps and there was something in his glassy eyes and the strange, magnetic aroma coming off his skin that made Ray uncomfortable. He said he was glad to have gone, to have been ‘corrected.’

“Or, you can attempt to persuade me that our report was in error. That you can be productive, law-abiding citizens. With direct evidence, I could be persuaded to modify the report.”

“By which you mean…?” Ray can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

Marcel reaches over and places a hand on Ray’s jaw, gently pulling his face and gaze away from the agent. “Look at me.”

Ray does as he is told. He stares into his partner’s eyes and lets the soft fingers cradling his face stroke him, placate him.

“It’s all right,” Marcel says, and undoes the first button of his shirt. The second. Another breeze blows in, warm and inviting. Ray closes his eyes and feels transported, briefly.

The agent shifts in his chair and the minute rustling brings Ray back.

Marcel comes closer, puts his hand into Ray’s open shirt. His fingers brush bare skin and Ray’s skin prickles with goosebumps. Marcel inches close enough that when he whispers, Ray can hear. “We’re alone. We’re in bed. I just lit that candle you like. Can you smell it?”

Ray doesn’t want to play along. He doesn’t want to pretend that they’re in an ideal setting or that some government spook isn’t watching their every move, that they aren’t performing for him, but Marcel’s fingers find his nipple and rolls it firmly between them. Marcel's voice drops again into that gravely, hungry whisper. Ray shivers and closes his eyes.

“Yeah. I can smell it.”

“Do better,” Marcel replies. His left hand slides down the front of Ray’s shorts. “Convince me.”

“It smells like lavender and… ah.”

Marcel is not gentle and Ray quickly finds his breaths growing shallow. Marcel is pressed up against him now. “And the bed? Is it soft on your back?”

“It is,” Ray says, his voice breaks a little. “Our sheets feel nice. You feel nice.”

“Good. Keep your eyes closed.”

Ray listens to the sound of the wind and his own labored breathing as opposed to Marcel’s quiet, even breaths. He lets Marcel undress him and fights down the feeling of unfairness that creeps in and makes his throat tight. He knows he shouldn’t be lying back, letting Marcel absorb the discomfort and the effort of being monitored while driving the thing happening between them on the couch. But it feels good to tune out the anxiety and the fear and to feel Marcel’s touch on his stomach, the warmth of him as he presses their bodies together, and his fingers wrap around both their cocks, jerking them in tandem with long strokes made wet by Ray’s own free-flowing precum.

“Look at me, love,” Marcel says, and Ray does. He sees his partner’s open, half-ecstatic expression and the delightful motion of his body: cock thrusting and hips bucking, all impatient energy. Marcel’s hand wraps tight around their twinned cocks as they grind toward the inevitable outcome.

Ray wants to focus on his partner solely, he wants to fall into their easy rapport, but he betrays himself, he looks over at the agent. The man is leaning back in the chair with his legs spread. He's planted his shiny black boots firmly on the ground. He’s unzipped his tight black slacks. He meets Ray’s stare as he licks his palm and applies the spit-slick hand to his massive, bobbing prick. Ray shivers and looks away. Closes his eyes. Retreats.

“Ray.” Marcel presses a hand on Ray’s chest. The warmth of it helps ease the returning tightness. The anger and spite that a moment before threatened to become dizzying, fades… even if it doesn’t empty. “Be with me. Cum with me.”

So Ray focuses, he looks at Marcel, whose body is sweating and writhing atop him and grabs his partner’s hips, pulls their bodies together with as much force as he can muster. The sensations against his cock and the heat they’re generating together suffuse his thoughts. As he becomes harder and more sensitive, he feels like the entire world is at the tip of his cock. He grunts. He cums.

Marcel shoots in the exact moment after Ray’s first shot erupts. They blast together in hard, arcing shots that paint Ray’s upper torso and splash onto the couch beneath him. It takes a long time for them to catch their breaths again.

Ray doesn’t look over at the agent, but from the stifled grunts, he can assume what’s just occurred. Almost as if in answer, he hears a zipper being gradually pulled up.

Marcel climbs off the couch, totters into the kitchen and gets dish towels. He throws one to Ray and hands one to the agent who takes it gingerly. Ray looks over to see the black-clad man wiping at one damp cheek. His expression is inscrutable.

Marcel sits back down on the couch. He doesn’t bother dressing. “So what now? Is that it? We did what you wanted.”

The agent folds the dish towel neatly and sets it down on the armrest of the chair. He stands.

“An impressive display, no doubt. I believe it will look favorable in my report.”

Ray takes a hopeful sip of air… “However.” And just like that, he’s doused in ice water. “One instance can hardly prove your commitment to the statute. I believe further observation will be in order. Unless you’d prefer to skip the formalities and volunteer for a training program?”

Marcel opens his mouth. Ray can see the flush in his partner’s cheeks, the balled fists at his side.

It’s my turn to save us, Ray thinks. He puts a hand on Marcel’s thigh and hopes that his partner can feel his intentions. Marcel pauses and Ray says: “We’ll submit to observation, agent. As long as it takes.”

The agent inclines his head toward Ray.

“With that attitude, citizen, I expect we’ll get this cleared up rapidly.” He smiles. It’s his first genuine smile since he entered their home. Somehow it’s terrifying as he stands in their living room in his black boots with an obscene bulge in the front of his close-fitting trousers. “No more than fourteen months of weekly visitations and we should have you cleared of all potential charges. Good evening.”

With that, the agent leaves. Neither Marcel nor Ray say anything for a long time after, and they never listen to that record and its beautiful, heartbreaking love songs ever again.

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