Wardrobe Emergency

“Jeemme, is broken.” Kristian stood before me with one shoulder strap dangling behind his back, and the front of his costume hanging loose..

“What happened?” I asked, rushing to the emergency sewing supplies.

“I not know...It got caught.”

“How long before you go on?” I examined the damaged garment, trying not to notice the beautiful acrobat that it no longer quite covered.

I came to the circus through a friend, expecting nothing but a brief tour, and a good paycheck. I knew little of this world populated by clowns, animal trainers, and acrobats, and it was not an easy fit for me. The only person I knew was the stage manager, and she stayed aloof. Whether this was misplaced professionalism, or a lack of social skills, it left me on my own surrounded by strangers. The only other gay man was the company manager, who was in a long term relationship, and even if he wasn’t, fucking around with the boss is never a good idea.

No, it promised to be a long and lonely winter. The only solace I had was the Russian acrobats. They were each of them beautiful in his own way. All of them were muscular and fit, without an ounce of fat to be found between them all. And flexible, the postures they could adopt without even a little bit of effort, it just staggered the mind providing ripe material for my fevered imagination. If nothing else at least I would have a ready supply of eye candy this winter.

Most of them were married and brought their families with them. Kristian and Dmitri were single and always shared a room to save money, as did many of the American performers. The Russians kept to themselves, for the most part, only socializing with us over their nightly gallon of American whiskey.

“Is almost time!” He pushed me away, beginning to undress, “You fix, Hurry!” Before I knew what was happening he had stripped off the sequin covered unitard and was standing before me in nothing but his dance belt. “Jeemme, you fix.” He thrust the sparkling garment into my hands and closed the wardrobe room door.

This didn’t surprise me. The Russians were usually very modest. Despite wearing costumes that made them look naked, they were, in truth, usually covered from head to toe in multiple layers of flesh colored spandex. They always kept their dressing room doors closed, and never ventured out in anything less than full and finished attire, always noticeably more respectable than the Americans in their rumpled tee shirts and torn jeans.

I began the task at hand, hurriedly deconstructing the still warm costume. Kristian sat close beside me and watched intently as I removed the damaged stitching. “You have much skill in your hands,” he said, and seemed less hurried.

“Years of practice,” I replied without looking up. I couldn’t look up. My heart was racing at this unexpected intimacy. The sweaty scent of his costume now mingled with the odor of the man himself, The warmth of his bare flesh so close, more flesh than I had yet seen from any of the acrobats, dangerously close and vital, and his rapt attention on my now shaking hands all proved to be quite unnerving. I didn’t want to embarrass him by getting too excited, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself, after all, I had to work with him for the next six months. I didn’t know where to look.

I tried in vain to focus on my work, but how could I not watch his left hand as it absently caressed his right thigh. His skin was smooth and without blemish, with the softest hint of almost invisible blonde hair on his forearms. As his palm explore his inner thigh his arm rested on the tiny bit of lycra that protected his modesty, now crushing it against his body, now pushing it upwards or to one side.

Despite my best efforts I found myself staring at this wonderful spectacle. All at once I realized that I had stopped sewing. I looked up in terror, only to find his eyes fixed on mine.

“What are you looking at, Jeemme?” he whispered with a crooked smile.

I could not respond. Words had become strangers to me, replaced by the thunderous pounding of my heart in my ears. I could feel myself flushing, overwhelmed by a warm wave of embarrassment and excitement. After an eternal moment of silence I managed to mutter, “Umm...nothing,” and tore my eyes from his to return to the safety of my sewing.

He laughed softly, and with one finger under my chin brought my gaze back to his. “Is not no thing, is big thing.” He smiled at his own humor, a gentle smile that came from the depths of his very soul and reached across the intervening space to call me out.

To my surprise I smiled back. Words were still beyond my grasp, but the joy and peace in that smile unlocked something deep within me, and the fire in his eyes gave me courage. This was freedom, permission, even blessing.

Hesitantly at first, then with the appetite of a starving man I began to allow my eyes to explore his body. Despite the athletic nature of his chosen profession his form maintained a softness. He was muscular and well defined, yes. But he had not crossed the line to a harsh over muscled physique. His stomach was flat, and all his abdominal muscles could clearly be seen, but it still remained a belly. His chest was perfect, allowing the eye to follow its gentle curves until it rested on the most exquisite pair of nipples that I had ever seen, subtle and spare. The effect was like velvet, inviting every caress.

I don’t know how long my mind was thus engaged, but suddenly I was wrenched from my reverie by the muffled sound of applause and laughter. “Shit! You’re on!” I sprang up and began a frantic search for safety pins. “You’ll have to go on in pins, there’s nothing for it.”

Again he laughed that quiet chuckle, unmoved by his imminent entrance. “Jeemme, you so stoopid. I get Rolf to go on for me. He like this act.”

I didn’t understand. Again I was reduced to silence. “I pull my costume apart on purpose, to make you look at me.” I looked more closely at the damaged portion of the unitard. The fabric was not torn. The threads had been cut cleanly to make it look like it was damaged. Then I realized that this was his back up costume. I looked back into his face only to find his eyes smiling at me.

“Marina take the thread out for me, and Rolf take my place. They help me be alone with you. You too shy.”

He leaned forward and softly kissed me. For the third time I fell into silence. This the deepest of all. More profound and more powerful than the grave, for I found in this silence that I was not alone. His gaze never wavered. It was constant and all encompassing, falling with me into the abyss, yet not afraid. No darkness could dull those eyes, brighter than the midday sun. They would illuminate the darkest depth, transforming it into the Promised Land.

“Is ok,” he said, “No one will come in.” He took my hands and placed them on his chest. “I want you to touch me.” He guided my hands along his chest and neck, bringing them to his face. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his cheek into my palm. I had never seen such serenity. I had never known my touch to bring such bliss.

Then suddenly Kristian opened his eyes. Fire! Dangerous and unpredictable. He pushed me up against the wall, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. Then holding my hands over my head, he kissed me again, hard and deep. I couldn’t breathe. He pushed his body against mine, writhing in passionate pleasure. Finding his voice, he began to utter the most guttural of sounds, emphasizing various syllables and words with sharp gestures and flashes of lightning from his eyes.

I felt like I was being consumed. He released his grip on my hands and began pulling my clothes open with wild abandon. This time buttons popped and fabric really did tear. Laying my chest bare from neck to navel, he set his tongue loose to explore this new territory, expertly navigating as if he had created my body for his own personal pleasure.

I was lost, spread open and bare, and he had done little more than open my shirt. He must have sensed my intoxication. Slowing down, he once again brought his gaze to my eyes. There was no less fire, but a gentle kiss proved the mastery of his passions.

He became deliberate, caressing my face, kissing each eye, all while pressing my body against the wall with his. We had both long been hard, pressing our throbbing dicks against each others thighs and hips, but as yet no hands had ventured below the waist.

Kristian’s gaze fell downward. He then returned his eyes to mine and smiled. No words were needed. It was the clearest invitation that I had ever been given. I allowed my hands to slide down his chest and over his belly, arriving finally at his swollen member.

His eyes rolled back in ecstasy as I traced its outline through his dance belt. “How do you say cock in Russian?” I asked, squeezing it hard.

“Chlen,” he whispered, and with a moan he unleashed his tongue once again, this time in my ear. The unexpected invasion sent a shiver through my whole body.

“You like having me inside you?” he asked mischievously.

“God, yes.”

He chuckled again, “God? Here?”

“Why not?” This time the fire was in my eyes, “After all, this is heaven.”

He laughed out loud. “You are funny.”

“Good, I can make you laugh.” And with that I pinned him against the wall, grinding my hips against his dick. “And you’re still hard.”

“You make me hard many times in the past, you just not see it.”

“So, let’s make up for lost time.’ I instantly fell to my knees and jerked his dance belt to his ankles. And there, the most beautiful dick that I had ever seen was bobbing in front of my face. Once again we entered a realm without words or ideas. This was pure flesh, beyond good or evil, eternity incarnate. It was flesh purified and essential, smelling of piss and sweat and musk and shit, unapologetic, unashamed, and vital.

I licked and kissed and teased and nibbled. It drove him wild. Then it was his turn to surprise me. Suddenly his hands were holding my head in place and he was fucking my face for all he was worth. Mostly I was surprised that I could take it. Swollen chlen was never my strong point, but I suppose it depends on the chlen.

He kept going until he was about to cum. He pulled out and began to beat off. I grabbed his hands and stopped him. “No,” I said,”Not yet.”

He looked at me from deep within his passion, far away and absolutely present. Now it was his turn to be without words. “Not yet,” I whispered. “How do you say fuck me in Russian?”

He looked lost. “Fuck me?” I stayed with his eyes and watched him struggle to find the words.

‘Trahat menya,” he managed with great effort.

“That’s what I want,” I said. “I want you to trahat menya.”

“Yes, I want to fill you up.”

“And this is just the chlen to do it.” I laughed, giving his dick a little tug. He gasped. He was so close. “We need to cool you down,” I said, kissing the tip of his nose. “The show’s almost over. Let’s find some food, and then we can pick up where we left off.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I want to be inside you. I want to cum inside you.”

“Tonight,” I whispered. “Right now I have to fix your costume and you have to help me find my buttons.”

“Fuck the buttons,” he said. “Gaff tape!” and before I could stop him he had pulled up his dance belt and run out to find one of the electricians.

I began to pull myself together, scouring the floor for the missing buttons. Then I thought, “Why bother? Everyone will know about this, it’s undeniable. And besides, I can always get another shirt. He’s right. Fuck the buttons.”