Carnal Stings

But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion.
~Iago


"Sean…"

"uhhh… ah… ohhhgod…" Sean's voice is strained and low, breathy, as Marcellus takes him from behind. The larger man surges into Sean with a slow, measured roll of his hips. Sean is mostly on his side, his legs tangled with Marcellus's, and one of his arms is reaching back to tug on his partner's hair.

"Uhhnngg…" Marcellus groans, pressing his forehead to Sean's shoulder and tightening his grip on Sean's slender hip.


I'm standing in the doorway to Sean's bedroom, and I've decidedly had too much to drink. I'm not watching them exactly, so much as taking in the scene; the dim glow of light from Sean's bedside lamp, the rumpled sheets, Marcellus's muscled legs and dark skin obscuring much of Sean's pale form from view. I feel a tightening in my chest, and something else, too. Something I don't want to call jealousy, though it might well be.

Sean croons to Marcellus softly. "Feels… so good…"

On that note, I decide that standing in the doorway is not nearly as good for me as another drink will be. Neither of them appears to be in any great hurry in any event, though by the look of the remainder of the apartment, that clearly wasn't the case earlier this evening. Even in my inebriated state I can follow the path of their passion clearly.

I head for the liquor cabinet in the living room. It all started in here. I know this because the television is on and their shoes are set out side by side, neatly, as if they pulled them off to curl up together on the couch. There's a suspicious snow effect on the screen as if they had been watching a movie, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what that might have been, now does it?

I pull out one of the tumbler glasses that Sean brought with him from the place he shared with Nick. It's crystal, with a solid bottom. The glass rings when the whiskey bottle hits the lip as I pour. I put the cap back on the bottle and grip it around the neck, as I sip from the heavy glass.

They got off the couch in relative decorum it appears, though from there things seem to have spun increasingly out of control. The edge of the rug in the living room is bunched up. Sean's shirt is lying on the floor in the doorway from the living room to the kitchen. One of the kitchen chairs is on its side and the salt and pepper shakers that I am meticulous about leaving in the middle of the table are on the floor. I sip my whiskey and stand in the kitchen doorway imagining what happened. I envision Marcellus lifting Sean to sit on the edge of the table, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. Perhaps he pushed the chair out of the way in order to step closer? Sean pulled him down, lying back on the table and sent the seasonings to the floor.

I can hear them moaning still down the hallway, the wood floors making their voices echo somewhat so that if there were words mingled with the vocal expressions of their desire, they are now obscured and not understood by me.

They must have left the kitchen by way of the side door and entered the hall. At one time, I used to live in California. Our hallway reminds me of the moments following a 4.5 quake. The pictures on the walls are nearly all askew, and one, in fact, is sitting on its side on the floor. The runner, a custom oriental I had made just for this space years ago, has been dislodged and bunched in several places, and in others there are articles of clothing; another shirt, a pair of blue jeans, and boxers that I know can't belong to Sean because he, notably, doesn't wear underwear. I note the Trojan wrapper on the floor just outside Sean's bedroom door as well, and finish my whiskey, only to pour another glass. I probably ought not to drink so much, I tell myself, though why I don't know, and I set the bottle down on the hall table beside a fallen vase of silk flowers.

I make my way back down the hall intending to continue past Sean's open door and on to my own room when their voices stop me.

"Ah! Please… please ohgod…" Sean has started to beg, and the passion in his voice glues my feet to the floor. "Harder… please… ah!" I look over and Sean has shifted to his knees and taken his own erection firmly in hand. Marcellus, also on his knees now, has Sean's hips in both hands and is much quieter, though I'm sure I can hear the barest hint of a grunt escape him as Sean shifts his weight further back. Sean is working himself vigorously, and can't seem to get a good breath, so instead he is panting, the rhythm of his breathing interrupted now and then by his need to swallow, or let out another plea for release. God he's beautiful.

That thought, combined with too much liquor, ironically calls to mind the Bard's play. 'Swounds, sir, you are robbed… his words come to me as Marcellus begins to groan, Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul. Even now, now, very now, an old black ram is tupping your white ewe… and how appropriate Iago's words are, as I do feel a bit like the greatest of all traitors standing here on the threshold of their lovemaking, as if I have a place or right or reason to be here.

"Ah! Sean… "

"Close… I'm gonna… ohgod… harder!" Sean's voice is raised and higher pitched than I am used to hearing it. Keep walking, I tell myself, this is none of your business. I will my feet to move, but they stubbornly betray me. I try to tear my eyes from their fucking but I am unable to look away.

"I'm… right there, Sean. Ahfuck…" Marcellus groans and I can tell he's holding back, but he won't have to wait much longer because Sean starts to slam his hips against Marcellus's thighs and sob loudly. Sean finally throws his head up and comes, shouting a name at the ceiling.

I wince, because the name isn't Marcellus. It's Nick. Suddenly, feet that were glued in place a moment before are ready to move and I hurry down the hallway to my room. I hear Marcellus grunt with his release, but I close my door before I can hear another sound.