He was quite a bit older, but I was only reminded by the wrinkles hooding his bright eyes. And maybe the yellow varnish of his expressions when he’d speak about his sons. Four of them —my age he reminded— each a younger version of their dad I was fucking. Would I have preferred the newer models or was there something special about Mike?
It was his tight tee and fervid confidence that caught my attention as he crossed the gym floor. Graceless glances turned to conversation and conversation to contact. We started lifting together, but before I knew it, I was on my knees sucking him off in the dimly-lit parking lot as I waited for my bus.
The stories he told me in bed lying on my chest transported me to a New York I could never know. We spoke of his days as an architecture student, of how reserved he was, of the time he sat for Warhol, his fifteen minutes.
I searched for the footage. I had to. Whether out of curiosity or an attempt to entwine our lives, I dug it up, unearthing link after link through the mud of an MTV video archive. 1985: the year of “high-risk” and Careless Whispers. His appearance was brief —lasting all of ten second— but there he was, following an interview between Debbie Harry and Nick Rhodes on the Palladium. A shy boy peering out from beneath over-styled, jet black hair was my connection to an irretrievable past, and yet his cum was slipping down my throat.