I WAS clutched by an angel. My angel wanted to have sex with me when I was sure that nobody on planet earth wanted me. It was the worst day of my life. I was even thinking about suicide, but my angel swooped down and saved me.
Wait, before you say anything, I want you to know that I’m with you. I barely believe it myself, and I was there. It couldn’t have been an angel. It was some kind of mistaken identity. Angels don’t have sex with guys. If they did, it wouldn’t be the kind of angel we should associate with. The only kind of angel that would have sex with a human is one of those “fallen” angels. I mean, I’ve been through all those arguments. I agree with the damn arguments, but I was there. I know what I saw. I know what I felt.
It was a horrendous day: the fifth anniversary of the death of Carlos. Five years had passed since the day that I had gotten blotto on rum and Coke. Carlos was out of his gourd on beer and kick-ass hydroponic marijuana. Carlos and I never fought because we tried to be spiritual. We meditated together and could sit for hours staring into each other’s eyes. We never used chemical accelerants during the week because of school, but Carlos was an expert on ways to turbocharge our weekend adventures. One weekend we might do fresh-picked psilocybin mushrooms, and we’d spend the next weekend on mescaline. Carlos introduced me to psychedelic drugs in college, and he usually preferred those to street crap. For some reason, he decided to do beer and marijuana. I don’t like beer, but don’t tell me that I’m going to be left out of the party. I got out the rum.
We were painting the living room until the fight started. It was my fault. I decided it would be a good idea to put semigloss onto a lampshade. It looked good to me, but Carlos went out of his mind. He said the lamp had been his grandmother’s. That was why it looked so out of date. I told him that he’d love the update. He told me that I was out of my fucking mind. I told him he was an ignorant wetback. My wetback comment pretty much did in the rest of the day.
I knew how to curse in Spanish, but he was rattling things off so fast that I wasn’t able to keep up. Carlos threw an ashtray at me. I threw his stupid lamp back at him. I remember hearing mariconada and cabrón, neither of which you usually heard pass the lips of my lover. Maybe I had crossed some invisible line, but there was no going back.
We were down on the Gulf Coast, and he knew the area. He had plenty of family, but I didn’t know much more than the house and the city limit sign.
Carlos was so angry that he shook as he screamed at me in Spanish. He grabbed his keys, and he stomped out of the front door. I heard him start his motorcycle, and the wheels screeched as he raced down the street.
He didn’t come back that night. He never came back, because Carlos was killed when a drunk driver ran a stop sign. We were drunk and stoned, we fought, and Carlos was killed by a drunk driver. He was riding with no helmet, of course. It was the five-year anniversary of that day when my angel showed up.
It doesn’t get worse than that, right?
Bullshit. It gets worse. Carlos and I dated all through college, and we were setting up our life together. We had dated for years, and finally we were out on our own. Our nest was coming along, and we were ready to ride into the sunset with our picket fence and Lhasa Apso. When he was killed, we had lived together for three days.
Three fucking days as a couple after dating for years. We got drunk and stoned, and you add a motorcycle and another drunk driver to the mix.
One more thing: it was Labor Day weekend. Everybody else is off being happy, but I have an entire holiday weekend where my stupidity is laid out before me. Labor Day weekend. Yeah, I always feel like swimming and cookouts on Labor Day.
Okay, I’m done. That’s the whole story.
I GOT sober a while back, but Labor Day is still there to raise its cruel head. Some stupidity just doesn’t go away, and I carried that awful, horrible day with me. Sometimes I can’t forget or forgive. I remember.
My angel appeared on Labor Day. It was the fifth anniversary of me killing Carlos with our drunken fight.
It was bedtime, and I was coming in the back gate of my apartment. My Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor said that I was having a rough go of it. “Rough go” seems like a clinical way of describing it.
Sharon knew all about Carlos, and she had seen what Labor Day did to me in the previous years. This year would be one of those major milestones: five years. She suggested that I take myself out on a date to my favorite Chinese restaurant. It was supposed to be a “date” with myself, not just supper. It was great until the fortune cookie. When I opened up the cookie, the little piece of paper was blank.
Fucking blank? Has anybody ever gotten a blank fortune before? No! My sponsor said it was a fluke and that I shouldn’t read too much into it. It was a defect in the manufacturing process, not some kind of cosmic message. Sharon told me to get off my pity-pot and go back to the Chinese restaurant. I did, and the meal was awesome again. The fortune said, “You are the… [ink smudge].”
The fucking ink was smudged? I never even heard of somebody getting a fortune cookie where the ink was smudged. I decided to finish the job that I had started. It was clear that I was supposed to die in that wreck five years before. If I couldn’t live with Carlos, I didn’t want to live. I couldn’t face another Labor Day knowing that I had caused the death of the only man that I’d ever loved.
I parked my motorcycle and locked it. Why did I lock it? I was not going to be alive long enough to ride it again, but I locked it. Sometimes I just don’t make any sense. I was going to commit suicide, but I locked the motorcycle. It didn’t seem strange at the time, but I know it is weird when I think back through what I did that night.
My angel was sitting on the top of the back fence. It was a ten-foot wooden fence without any way to get on the top without a ladder. You would have to have a ladder… or wings.
The first thing I saw was deck shoes. My angel was wearing some pull-on tennis shoes with no socks. The stark white shoes stood out against his bronze skin.
He was naked except for the shoes and the skimpiest shorts you can imagine. The shorts were white onionskin. They had a piece of cloth in the front and another in the back. The front and back were separate pieces of nylon attached at the waist and between the legs. The skin of one leg parted the two pieces of fabric. He was street-legal because there was a kind of bag to hold his dick and balls, but there wasn’t much left to my imagination.
My angel’s skin was flawless. He was hairless. He was muscular like he was a swimmer or tennis player. He had black hair and pale gray eyes that peered out from really long eyelashes.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” he said with a grin.
“Can I help you?” I asked. If you ever need a suave pick-up line, let me know. I can always come up with something. I mean, where did I find crap like that?
“I’m here for you, Sean,” he said quietly and smoothly.
There were several hundred things he might have said, but none would have gotten my attention more expertly.
I decided to take the debonair route: “Huh?” I said.
“Come on,” he said as he jumped off the fence. He took my keys and led me by the hand to my own front door. He knew my first name, and he knew which apartment was mine. It should have set off alarms, but he was so smooth that it felt like the most natural thing in the world. When he smiled, the whitest teeth you can imagine appeared under his golden skin.
He looked Native American to me, but the eye color was off for that. I didn’t think that pale gray was the right eye color for a Native American. He opened the door and pulled me gently into my own living room. Once he closed the door, he started working on my shirt. I didn’t fight him. He knew what he wanted, and he seemed to know just how to get it.
For a flash, I wondered why he was doing this to somebody like me. I remembered that it was Labor Day and that I was supposed to be grieving and blaming myself.
“You can cry if you want,” he said, “but I think it may be more interesting if you just take your clothes off.”
He could read my mind? My angel was out of his shoes and shorts in a matter of seconds, and I saw his well-formed body. Everything was just the right size: muscular but not grossly pumped, hung but not so big that you could only throw it over your shoulder and burp it.
Once he got my pants off, he put his hand over my dick and balls and pulled gently.
“Maybe we could go to the bedroom,” he said as he leaned into my chest. “I have something for you.”
“Sure,” I said, continuing my streak of nonchalant conversation.
My angel pulled me by the crotch. He wasn’t rough, but he let me know exactly what he wanted. For some reason, what he wanted was me. He swiveled so the backs of my legs were against the foot of the bed with him in front of me. He leaned, and we both went over onto the mattress. My angel somehow made it so we didn’t just plop onto the bed. We almost floated down, and I had no idea how he managed that.
He lifted me with his arms behind my back and waist and got my head to the pillow. That was amazing, because I was about five or six inches taller than my angel. He was small and muscular, but I was heavier because of my height. It was like I weighed no more than a bath towel.
He stretched out on top of me, and I felt his dick rubbing against mine. It wasn’t that kind of rubbing that my angel really wanted, because he wasted no time in getting his legs between mine. I moved my legs apart, showing him that I was happy he wanted to be there.
My angel kissed me gently as he pushed up away from my chest. I felt that he already had a rubber on his rod, but I had no idea where he got it. Maybe he was already wearing it. He didn’t put it on while we were in the bed, and I hadn’t seen him put it on before. It was a mystery.
I did watch as he got the bottle of lube off my nightstand. He squeezed out plenty and rubbed it on the condom. Whatever was left went against my hole. I groaned a little.
Most guys will survey their partner’s equipment with a finger or two, but my angel seemed to know what I had down there. He knew that I would be able to take him without stretching.
He moved my balls out of the way, and I lifted my knees a little. My angel was going to take me, and he used the only position possible for an angel: missionary. He grinned as he let the tip of his dick rest against the entrance of my ass. He must have been rock hard because he didn’t have to use his hands. He kept both palms on my chest; his hips and knees supplied the pressure. He didn’t pause or hesitate. He made his entrance with just his first stroke.
“Hmmm,” he said, and that made me smile. He knew that he wasn’t hurting me, but my smile confirmed what he already knew. He closed his eyes as he felt his rod go in and out.
If I had to draw my fantasy man, he would look like my angel. If you asked me to describe my ultimate fantasy fuck, it would be exactly the way he made love to me. It was my dream, and I knew it. Having your fantasy come true is one thing, but realizing it while it is happening is mind-blowing. It was more real than my best trip with a magic mushroom. It was more intense than any chemical rush. He and I were together, with no tomorrow and no yesterday. My regrets and self-hatred vanished as my angel made love to me.
It was the smoothest fuck I’d ever had. He lasted ten or fifteen minutes. Most guys change their tempo and build up toward a big climax. My angel stayed calm and measured. The action was done by his hips, while the rest of his body stayed stable. He didn’t shake or rattle or contort his muscles. My angel slid in and out as he grinned and hummed. I could tell that he was enjoying himself.
When I look back, it was kind of a “mercy fuck” where somebody has sex with you just because nobody else will. My angel was there for me, but I know for a fact that I made him feel really good. If it was a mercy fuck, the giver enjoyed it too. His grins and groans were the ideal feedback for a bottom like me. My own dick is barely a sex organ because I am a total bottom, and having a top enjoy me as much as my angel did is marvelous. He loved being inside me, and he was in no hurry to finish.
You can’t imagine how gentle he was. He felt wonderful inside me, and it was nothing like some of the violent tricks I had had. He never tried to start a fire with friction. He didn’t pound my ass, but his every move was strong and muscular and easy.
Nobody fucks like my angel. It was the smoothest lay of my life. He worked my ass like we had been lovers for a thousand years, and he knew every millimeter of my body.
I wanted to close my eyes and get lost in the feelings, but what I wanted more was to watch him as he made love to me. My angel’s chest was trim and cut. The muscles of his pecs made it seem like his chest was smiling at me. His dark bronze nipples peered at me as I lay beneath them. When I reached around to touch his chest, my angel reached out to hold both of my wrists. He wanted to be in control, and I wanted him—I mean, fuck—I wanted him to do whatever he damn well wanted to do. I was in heaven with him calling the shots. He pressed my wrists into the mattress as his hip muscles worked all the action for my ass. He hummed a few times, and I saw him roll his eyes. About every fifth plunge came a sweet smile or grin that told me he liked my equipment.
When I tried to highlight the feeling for him by tightening my sphincter, my angel slowly wagged his finger in front of my face. He didn’t want any help from me other than to provide the venue. I would have provided him almost anything he wanted.
If he showed me anything, he let me see how I could be an enjoyable experience. He wanted me, and he took me. I didn’t have to do much of anything. I had to be willing, but that was it. My angel did everything else. He affirmed my value as a person and as a bottom.
After fifteen minutes, he groaned and slowly pulled out. I saw that the tip of his rubber was full of cum. He was so smooth that I didn’t realize he shot.
He was my Labor Day miracle. He truly was an angel.
“Ummm,” he said as he leaned in to kiss me on the lips. When I started to grab him, he pushed back and told me that he had to go.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” I said.
“You’re right. I didn’t,” he said as he walked into the living room. He put on his skimpy shorts and deck shoes, and he shook his head to toss his hair a little. He ran fingers along the sides of the nylon bag inside his shorts to make sure all the important equipment was safely tucked away. Mustn’t have an angel making headlines after being busted for indecent exposure. Can you imagine the hassles he’d have gotten back at the office from his fellow angels, from the boss?
He opened my front door.
“Rafa,” he said as he stepped into the doorway. “They call me Rafa. You’re a special person, Sean, and I really enjoyed being with you. Remember that you are a special person. Know that I love you. If you ever get in a jam, call me. You have my number.”
He closed the door behind him. By the time I got my clothes on and raced outside, Rafa was gone. I saw somebody behind the apartment building, but he said nobody had come that way. I ran to the front of the apartment building, but it was empty. I looked up and down the street, and there was nothing other than a car or two.
He knew my first name, and I knew his. I looked for a piece of mail in the living room, but I found nothing with my first name. Then I realized he hadn’t read it—he had known my name when we were by the back fence. When I checked the mailbox, no names were visible.
Not only had he known my name, but he knew that I was in an awful mood. He snapped me out of that, and I have never felt the least bit suicidal since.
My angel even knew that I was a bottom in bed. Either he was a natural top who could smell out bottoms, or he was an awesome actor. Either way, it was an amazing performance.
Rafa was my short and muscular angel with pale gray eyes and tossed black hair. He was the closest thing to perfect that I could imagine.
Rafa. I think that is short for Rafael, isn’t it? I looked around Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, but I never saw him there. I asked some of the regulars, but they hadn’t seen him. I never saw the name Rafael on the board of AA birthdays. Nobody ever claimed to know anybody with that name.
He just came to me on the bleakest day of my life, and he offered himself without reservation. He didn’t want anything other than what I needed. He showed me tenderness and the kind of sex that I would draw out as my ultimate fantasy.
When I looked at the clock, it was after midnight. It was no longer Labor Day, and I made it through my fifth anniversary without killing myself or getting shit-faced.
It gets better. When I went back to that Chinese restaurant, I got a fortune: “You are a special person.”
All I needed was creepy music in the background, and I’d have a science fiction story. Naw, nobody would believe it.