THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF BRIAN AND CURT

This is a work of fiction based lovingly on characters created by director Todd Haynes from his 1998 film Velvet Goldmine, which starred Jonathan Rhys Myers as Brian Slade, and Ewan McGregor as Curt Wild. Obviously I claim no copyright. The film was a love letter to the early 1970's musical phenomenom known as Glam Rock. Brian is based in part on that-era David Bowie, while Curt is based on that-era Iggy Pop (and partly Lou Reed).

If you consider this a warning: the story features loads and loads of slash, ie graphic gay (and even a bit of straight) sex and other things such as mentions of prior drug use/addiction, sexual assault, sex involving minors, and more.

Unlike many or perhaps most slash stories, this one is based on same-sex characters who, in the film itself, actually engage in a (very brief) romantic and sexual relationship, ie I didn't wish this idea into being. The reason for writing this story was to lovingly (and majorly) explore and expand on it, since the relationship in the film ends way too fucking abruptly. There was simply too much delicious potential to let it die there.

Thank you for reading.

Review (please.)

Chapter 1, Adrift and Spasming

THAT BELT BUCKLE.

That demonic, satanic, mephistophelean shiny piece of metal affixed to the front of those leather trousers, with it's curved perfectly rounded edge and precise, pinpoint placement, being driven up and down, up and down, slower and slower, then fastfastfastfastfast, making me completely bloody mental. This was perhaps the simplest and yet most embarrassingly evil of erotic acts I've been, um, I won't say 'a part of', rather 'subjected to'.

I catch sight of us in the full length mirror to my left. There's me, writhing about, pressed firmly into the back of the same door he had kicked shut not 2 minutes before (with a wall shaking slam of course), naked except for my pale blue satin trousers.

Pinned high above my head, he holds my arms in place.

I'm meanwhile squirming and pleading like a bleeding, blithering pansy.

In the mirror I'm being mauled by the most filthily stunning dirty-blonde creature, who is in possession of the wickedest set of heavily lidded "fuck me" eyes the color of seafoam.

The same ones which minutes before had bore into me as he made his way towards this room, wordlessly willing me to follow.

The creature, also topless, is wearing an exquisitely form fitting pair of black leather hip huggers, while making this deliciously lewd, obscenely beautiful forward hip-grinding motion, which is particularly impressive when viewed from this sideways angle. (Somewhere in the corner of my brain I have the vague thought that this would make spectacular porn.)

Oh, the creature? Only Curt Fucking Wild …

An inch inside the room, both of us shaking from weeks of pent upWant, we had lunged at each other, impatient and hungry, our mouthes mashed together sloppily, inhaling each other like tonic, consuming each other's scent and sweat.

My hand quite naturally slid to his zipper and to my surprise, he batted it away. When my hand returned, he did it again, whispering into my neck: "Not yet", and panting out an explanation: "Between out there (meaning the orgy du jour) and in here, I mean … I've been hard for like a fucking hour. You'd better leave it a minute, okay?"

Had I been allowed the room, I would have staggered about and collapsed. Two little phrases, but the control and direction inherent in them, and the deliciously erotic promise they held … phew!

Hardly used to being told what to do, however, I could help myself not, and reached down with both hands this time, in an attempt to quickly unclasp the Holy Buckle.

Before I knew it, my arms were pinned high.

"You don't listen, do you?" he whispered, nose to nose, semi-annoyed.

Somewhere in our struggles, he had inadvertently brushed against me with the Buckle, and noticing it's immediate impact and potential for torment, figured this was to be my 'punishment'.

All of it is exceedingly delicious, and this seemingly dominant thing is not a side of Curt I am at all unhappy to discover, (though when I think about it, it makes perfect sense), but here we are, finally alone in my bedroom, completely free to fuck upside down hanging from the chandelier, devour each other like wild beasts, and instead we've got this teenage dry hump going? (Lewd and lovely as it may be.)

I just wasn't going to have it, I just wasn't, and I fought him, not in a showy, 'let's do a pretend S&M scene', but honest to god struggles to break free of his hold. To no avail. The lad was strong. Those compact muscles, that wiry frame. I wanted to be annoyed, I really did. Instead I was wildly turned on. Plus, you try being pissy with a writhing, thrusting, exceedingly aroused Curt Wild in your face; that perfect jaw, mangled mane, smudged khol eyes … shapely pecs, hard nipples, beautiful flat stomach … shall I go on?

Still, I could at least try to make my case.

"Curt–"

He pressed in closer, kissed me forcefully, and did about 17 superfast upstrokes with that relentless, eerily precise soft curve of the Buckle, which kept and kept and kept hitting it's target. I was panting like a racehorse now, right on the edge.

"What, my impatient little queen?"

The neurons in my brain had sputtered and now weren't firing at all.

Gasp, gasp. "Nothing–"

His impatient little queen! Suddenly in the middle of this dizzying arousal-fog, I had a clear but entirely ridiculous vision: Curt and I out furniture shopping. He, who didn't want to go in the first place ("I don't fucking need any goddam furniture."), now insistent upon an oversized traditional tufted black leather club chair, all cigar-y and masculine, while I'm tittering over the loveseat with the giant pastel flowers.

And then a second, more beautiful, completely unridiculous vision: Curt in the morning, grumpy, stubbly, hair a fright, threadbare bathrobe half on and half off (always), eating his usual morning fare: 5 cigarettes and 4 cups of black coffee. ("Goddamn fucking sick of this fag-ass tea shit.")

I sense a slight shift, and I am brought out of my reverie when, over my head, both wrists are transferred into the sole custody of his left hand, whilst the right has dropped to my top button. I would have squeeled out in delight, had the deepest kiss thus far not immediately ensued, less rushed but much more intense, coupled with a soft palm running over and along the straining satin.

I squirm and fidget towards him. Really, there's only so much a boy can take.

Mercifully, he unzips and reaches inward … only to smirk out a small breathy laugh.

"What ?"

"Um, you are really fucking hard, Mr er, Demon."

"Fuck off. What did you expect, arsehole?"

He begins a moderate upward stroke which quickly silences me, and looks down, watching the motion beneath heavy lids.

He waits a beat, and then speaks haltingly in that same soft, witheringly sexy gravel-tone:

"You're just really, uh … swollen and … smooth …and, uh … beautiful–"

He lands with a thud at my feet, knees on the carpet, sliding the satin down.

Oh my.

I blink hard, gulp harder, and manage to look. I am well swollen indeed, extremely so, and, now, oh GOD his lips are hovering; I can feel soft breath- christ I surely cannot bear this. What happens next, though, is the moment I want to freeze forever, that I know I will replay in my head one billion times:

He is eying the tip, which is glistening with the ooze of pre-ejaculate, when he briefly, simply, and rather matter of factly gives it a single, mouth-open, full, flat lick. Quite obviously done out of sheer curiosity and wonder, not at all for effect or because you happen to be looking.

Tres magnifique.

It is here, this moment, where I fall in love with him. Because it so perfectly encapsulates, I would come to realize, the true essence of Curt: at once, and in his twisted fashion, something unbearably, demonically sensual, and yet so breathtakingly boyish, innocent, and beautiful that you can't get past it. Curt, as himself, as he can't ever help but be: primal, unaffected, genuine.

But there is no time for awestruck, starry-eyed blithering … for I am quickly disappearing behind his lips.

He, of course, throws himself completely into it, head and mouth swirling wildly, slipping me deep, tongue agitating and igniting all that it touches.

In the mirror, I see my fingers entwine in that messy thatch of unwashed hair, my eyes rolling backwards, head turning in agony, begging.

"ohgod … Curt! … ohfuck … ohfuckplease …"

His mouth is indescribably, dizzyingly sweettightsoftwarmWET. Tears run freely down my cheeks.

And then, tragically soon, I am aware of my neck tipping backward, lids fluttering, mind going black, the wave approaching, holding, … and then swoosh-CRASH! 200 storey building out of the sky. I'm unsteady, swaying on my feet, stupid and blind and dumb and drunk with over-arousal, lust and love, adrift and spasming.

What I am next vaguely aware of, seemingly long moments later but I can't be sure, is the sensation of being stripped of my trousers and turned round in place, the door cool against my outstretched hands, and him moving within me. He is rough and impatient as I had hoped, as I had pictured, urgent and hungry, and it is extraordinarily difficult to hold myself still for him, despite the firm grasp he has of my hips.

His grip tightens and he pulls me wider. I rebalance myself against the door, helpless to find an anchor on this smooth flat surface (damned door handle- too bloody low). He thrusts with his full length, alternating with harder/deeper, harder/much deeper, and then shallow/fastfastfastfastfast and I'm completely fucking losing my mind; I can't keep track and have given up hope of catching my breath.

The sight in my friend, the mirror, is, once again, scorching hot, yet stunningly beautiful: planted feet and parted lips resting where my shoulder meets my neck, pale skin, flushed and slightly damp, that especially gorgeous outward curved arch of his lower spine, rolling and turning inward, and our bodies echoing softly on impact.

As a musician, I feel I would be entirely remiss if I did not mention audio. The sound of a fully aroused Curt Wild, fucking, is exactly what you dream of when you beat off, only far, far better. Not loud, but rather a deep, back of the throat, hoarse, crazily sexy raspy grunt, uttered straight into your neck, that is guaranteed to make you want to pull your fucking eyes out. Actually I take it back: You might think you can imagine it, but really, you can't.

I know without looking that I'm rock hard. Mind you, a 5 minute turn around is not something that has happened to me since I was 13.

Another shift as he wraps his arms round my waist, brushes against me, and then, oh no, oh holy mother of god, he is, yes he fucking well is … Gripped firmly in his now rapidly moving right hand, I know, down to the last fiber of my being (god help me- it's true), that I WILL NOT survive this.

His thrusts come harder still, and I redouble my efforts to not be plunged through the wall. He will exactly match the pace of his glorious, stupendous hand, and it will feel so completely and perfectlyright, like he is fucking a deep hole, clean through to the other side of my body, and it will be all I can do to not scream and cry out to the gods in mirth and joy … and then he will differ the pace, throwing me off guard mentally and physically, until I catch up and begin to feel that ahh yes, this in fact is the Full-Through Torso Fuck I've been waiting for all of my entire life … only to have it change yet again. I begin to feel a rising sense of frustration until it suddenly hits me: this is the perfect metaphor for Curt's love of odd, discordant musical time signatures. At another point I may laugh uproariously at the irony of my 'plight', however at the moment, I am not altogether here. I am a small helpless form who has been undergoing a profound, wholesale sexual pummeling.

A few minutes along, when the telltale burning tingle has begun to rise from my loins, when I'm teetering on the razor edge of that indescribably delicious 'just before' sensation, he, the creature, speaks. Into my ear. Two words.

"Fuck me."

I feel a sharp stab in my throat as the breath catapults outward.

"Fuck me !"

Oh no. Oh holy bleeding Christ … I'm, I'm … imploding, eyes roll completely away and back … and, and, it hits, tidal wave, bloody tsunami, and … I'm coming. Rolling once, again, again, again.

In the midst of this mind splitting euphoria, I am somehow aware of his body going rigid behind me. There is a breathtakingly beautiful raspy shuddering cry … and, then, oh holy mother of the gods, my insides fill with the warmth of his seed.

We collapse together into the door, his sweaty arms wrapped round my waist, panting and gasping like fools.

Fuck me, indeed, and fuck me hard, if Curt Wild and I haven't both just come like absolute bloody gangbusters.

Behind me, the panting eventually lessens. He kisses my ear and pulls me limply towards the bed, where we collapse in a sticky breathless heap. I manage to roll towards him. I bury my face in his chest, and we drift quickly away.

Author's notes …

- Admissions:

1) It would probably hurt having a metal belt buckle, no matter how fetching, repeatedly pushed into your privates, so it's probably not terribly realistic, but that's the wonderful world of make believe for ya.

2) Curt's hair throughout this blog is repeatedly referred to as "blonde" when in reality the Curt I prefer in the film is the one earlier in the film, who hasn't yet bleached his hair, and that guy's hair is light brown but … it's going to lighten in the sun. This is a bit of my Ewan McGregor preference showing (Ewan plays Curt in the film)- his hair color changes often and seems to really be impacted by the sun and can be called blonde then, or dirty blonde. Yum.

3) Licking pre-ejaculate from the tip of a penis is hardly "innocent" but that's my failing in writing that bit. Some day I will improve that passage. The idea was supposed to be that Curt did it out of basic curiosity regarding taste, and not to be "sexy", and therein lies the innocence. Of course, it's an inherently sensual and erotic thing to do and yet that is not supposed to be why Curt, in that moment, did it. It's supposed to be almost matter of fact for him. How Brian would know any of this … I don't know. Let's just say he's very in tune with Curt by this point, very focused on him, they are of like mind, and so, he senses it, and is moved by it and by what this says about Curt.

- General notes:

As a reminder, and this is really stupid but … this is supposed to be 1972, long before the AIDS epidemic, and so condoms are not used by these men, ever. Lube however, is, in fact, this may be the only blog entry in which lube is not referenced.

These boys have sex and like to fall asleep directly after which is both realistic and not, extremely, I admit. I guess I just like to end a scene with a bit of intensity and also with release. It's almost like talking would be a moot point- they've communicated all they need to.