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The Snow Squall

The waiting room was quiet, but Nicolau’s mind was not. He sat by himself oblivious to the room’s other two inhabitants, two elderly ladies, who sat silently paging through old magazines. The room was small enough to feel personal, but the wall of windows opening onto the street made the room feel more like a fishbowl than a waiting room. This created a very public feel that seemed out of sync with the private nature of the space.

Nicolau steadied his hand as he realized it had been visibly shaking, causing his fingers to tap audibly against the chair’s armrest. No one else noticed, or if they did, in keeping with the protocols of a space like this, they ignored it. Just as Nicolau would have ignored them if he had the presence of mind to be aware of them, but they undoubtedly were aware of him. He stood out. Something about him contrasted oddly with the pale colored walls, the community health posters, and the bleached blonde wood rack stuffed with safe sex, addiction intervention, and woman’s health pamphlets. His being seated in a chair reconciled his presence to the room, but something in the manner of his dress, demeanor, youthful face, and hair cut placed him at a remove from it. This contrast was not lost on the receptionist who turned her head to her computer but focused her eyes on Nicolau from the little window in the wall separating the office from the waiting room.

The door separating the two spaces opened, and a nurse held the door open with her foot as she read the name off a chart in her hand: “Maria Camara?”

One of the two women stood in response, and if Nicolau had not been so distracted, he would have noticed the familiarity of the babushka and the similarity of the old woman’s headdress and posture to his great aunt, but Nicolau did not have time for nostalgia and was most concerned with the here and now.

A gust of wind slammed against the windows and audibly strained the glass. Everyone in the room turned to find white out conditions now obliterated the view of the street.

“As coisas sao mudadas agora.” Maria uttered before disappearing behind the open door.

Catching the word “changed,” Nicolau stared into the sudden swirls of snow and remembered how one moment six months ago led to this moment.

Nicolau pushed his lips over the man’s cock, and enjoyed it more than usual, for this trick had a trophy cock. It was long and thick without being monstrously so and was colored with warm flesh tones. Defying the slightest flaccidity, the foreskin was pulled tautly like a condom over the rigidity of the shaft as it rose with unbroken symmetry. Skillfully cut, the symmetry continued over the circular scar of circumcision, which introduced a finger wide band of thickened skin that encircled the shaft. This supple purple hued skin led unyieldingly to the base of the mushroom shaped head and folded together with a tight pinch of the frenulum, which made the underside of the head resemble a ripped abdomen. Nicolau curled his tongue under the head and danced its tip along the frenulum like a lick of flame. Folding his upper lip over the head, its spongy firmness contrasted the feeling of the shaft’s rigidity pressing against his lower lip, and Nicolau lost himself in the contrast between the two by tracing it over the taut ridge of flesh and was too aroused to notice the intensification of the shaft’s rigidity or the first pulse of contraction but could not fail to notice their cumulative result as his mouth unexpectedly filled with the salty bitter warmth of cum. Withdrawing from the trick’s cock, the cum dribbled from his mouth and fell to the floor like fast moving snowflakes as he ran terror stricken to the bathroom.

Reaching the bathroom, Nicolau spit repeatedly into the sink as the trick yelled his apology from the other room: “Sorry, you’re just fucking good at that.”

Filling his mouth to capacity with mouthwash, Nicolau swished it around and wondered if this was doing anything beyond freshening his breath. As usual, he felt a burning sensation in various parts of his mouth but also felt an unusual tingling on his bottom lip. Spitting out the mouthwash, he pulled his lower lip down and felt a wave of nauseous terror as he looked in the mirror and discovered a cut.

A strong gust of wind slapped against the widow, blasting it with a torrent of snowflakes, and brought Nicolau’s attention back to the creaking panes of glass. Staring into the mass of swirling snow, he thought something about this squall felt more intense than the others he had seen, and he struggled to remember the last one he had experienced: 1988. It was in 1988. That was so long ago. Could it have been that long ago? No, it was before then. It had to be before then. 1988 was the year that pamphlet came out, and that was not so long ago, although it feels a lifetime away.

Staring pensively into the twisting swirls of snow, Nicolau saw two bodies running through it. Straining to see them, he thought he glimpsed a snowball darting through the snowflakes.

The snowball sailed through the air and hit a teenaged boy in the chest, who retaliated with a snowball that just caught the shoulder of a shorter boy before he could fully take cover behind a tree. Finding cover, he released another shot that hit the taller boy square in the face.

Realizing his inferior aim required another tactic, the taller boy charged through the rapidly falling snow with a war cry, prompting the shorter boy to take to flight. The taller boy gained on him until he was an arm’s reach away, but before he could grab for a shoulder, the pursued boy spun around and released a snowball directly into his pursuer’s face. This allowed him to reach the protective covering of the house. He jumped on its porch without touching either of the two steps, and ran to the door. Finding the door locked, he realized he was now trapped and spun around to face his fate.

Bounding up the stairs behind him, his pursuer scooped up two handfuls of snow and tossed them over the trapped boy. The snow covered him before he was tackled to the snow covered porch floor.

They immediately began wrestling for dominance. Using his size to his advantage, the taller boy quickly gained the upper hand and pinned the shorter boy’s shoulder to the floor. Conceding defeat, the boy stopped resisting. The victor stood and helped the defeated boy to his feet. Covered in white, they brushed the snow off themselves and each other.

Inside the house, the boys removed their coat and gloves. The taller boy pulled his hat from his head and shook the snow from his blonde hair. Pulling the hat from his friend’s head, he ran his fingers through the his dark brown hair until the last trace of snow was removed and with it the permission for his touch. Hesitantly, withdrawing his hand, he looked into the shorter boy’s eyes and found they were already locked on his. Both boys stood motionless as a gust of wind pressed against the door and drifted snow over the impression their wrestling bodies made in the snow. Something grew between them until the shorter boy placed his hand on the blonde’s shoulder and used it for support as he kicked off his boots. The taller boy smiled as he pulled the scarf from his friend’s shoulder and waited to reciprocate.

Like a scene from a daring new Norman Rockwell, the two shivering boys knelt before the fireplace and rubbed their cold hands in front of the flames. Their socks and jeans were still wet with snow. Having worn sweaters, their turtlenecks were dry. The fire’s heat slowly permeated their wet clothing and the clammy skin beneath. They sat quietly waiting for the fire to warm them until the blonde boy stopped rubbing his hands and playfully snaked one under the other boy’s turtleneck. His skin recoiled from the icy hand, but his body leaned into the touch that pressed seamlessly beyond playfulness into exploration. Gliding over his flat stomach, the depression of his navel, and along the smooth ridge of his hairless breastplate, the blonde’s fingers searched over his skin until finding a nipple. The circling icy fingertips brought the nipple to erection and the boy to a moan. The two boys locked eyes. Unable to maintain the intense reciprocal gaze of desire but too blissfully heady to stop, they pressed their mouths together and communicated with silent yet active tongues. Lip to lip, they entwined legs and undulated slowly until a burning sensation urged them to quicken their thrusting hips.

The fire crackled with the vitality of sap as the blonde boy pulled the brunette’s jeans and boxers from his body, leaving him only in white socks and a white turtleneck. Standing, he slid his own jeans and boxers from the length of his body. The overwhelming physical intimacy precluded further revelation of flesh, and he left his black socks and turtleneck on. Staring at the erect cock of the boy laying at his feet, his own cock hovered just before the boy’s face. The fire glowed over their warming bodies as each intuitively pressed into the other with parted lips, not stopping until their lips folded over each other’s cocks, and their bodies spooned in a sixty-nine position. Bucking heads silhouetted by flames moved with varyingly rhythm, and the sucked while sucking position rapidly brought each boy to an approaching orgasm.

“Nicolau Cabral?” called the nurse.

Opening his eyes, Nicolau found himself staring into the swirling snow and remembering the taste of cum.

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