The Gesture

To tell of one gesture one must tell everything. His name is Luis. I met him last Sunday at the sex club just off Tottenham Court Road. It must have been about 3pm and I’d only just arrived. There’s something special about those Underwear-Only Sundays, the gathering of men in a black-walled subterranean bar during the afternoon; something leisurely, too. I usually go at about 5pm – two hours is all I need to have a good time. At 7pm they start letting the fully-clothed wander around. Between 1pm and 7pm the dress code is underwear and footwear only.

Luis was in boxer shorts.

I seem to remember I made out with someone else before I made out with him, but I could be wrong. Luis might have been the first. The first and the last. But quite a bit happened between the beginning and the end, the end which wasn’t really an end, because as I write this I am anticipating his arrival at my flat in just over two hours.

But back in the club…

I like an encounter to begin with a kiss. He was young and dark and muscley, shorter than me, just a sprinkling of hair on his chest. He kissed well. We had that nice kind of connection, gentle with each other, and every now and then becoming a bit rougher, forceful, enjoying each other’s strength, this intimate meeting we were having out in the open. We kissed a lot and played with each other’s nipples and he sucked on mine, and I licked his ear (always a tricky one, because you can never be sure if the other guy’s going to be into it; if you’re not the kind of person who likes having his lobe nibbled on and a tongue shoved into your ear canal, it can be quite a turn-off, and I didn’t want to turn Luis off) and ran my hands across his back and his stomach, and every now and then held his hair in my fist and pulled his head back so I could kiss him harder.

All this is really just setting the scene for that one gesture, the gesture that came, more or less, in the middle of our afternoon together, some time after we’d made out for the first time and then parted ways and said we’d meet up later, and we did, we were, meeting up later, in a corner of the club in the section with the cubicles that only have enough room to stand in, facing each other, but at a distance of about a metre and a half.

I watched as men gathered round him, kissed him, played with his cock, went down on their knees to suck it. I watched them touch him. I want to say that it was as if we were alone in the room together, in that space in the corner, as if, when we looked at each other, everyone else fell away. But it was something sexier than that. It was as if those men were necessary to our connection, part of it. I loved watching them enjoy him as they went down on him, knelt before him, admired his body, and I knew that only ten or so minutes ago he had done the same for me, that he’d gone down on his haunches and taken my cock into his mouth (granted, with too much teeth, but hungrily nonetheless).

I had my own men to deal with. A tall slim guy to my right, and a particularly short buff guy to my left. I touched the slim guy, stroked his back, drew him closer to me so that he would put a nipple into his mouth, and the other guy came closer, short enough to suck on the other nipple without bending down, and I held onto both of them, pressed their heads against my chest. And all the while I stared at Luis, as if I had to mesmerise him, but he was mine already – my gaze was a reminder to him, to let him know that he was the one I wanted, that he, above all these other men, was the most desirable, the most beautiful, the one I wanted to be with.

I moved closer to him.

They kissed his chest and played with his tits and sucked his cock and I reached out my hand towards him and stroked his shoulder, his neck, his face. I touched him gently. He lifted his hand away from the scrum of men around him and stroked my arm, touched my nipple. I moved closer – slowly – as if I was moving through history, through time, through a million abstract things that keep men apart – ignorance, bigotry, shame, fear – just to be with him.

The gesture was the touching above the heads of other men. To be surrounded by others and to touch, for me to choose him and he – me. That was the moment. I reach out my hand and touch you, and you do the same, and we stand there, suspended, frozen, melting, moving slowly, so slowly we are as still as a Bill Viola video piece. Only the ones who are patient will know what is happening, will see the wholeness of the gesture.

He will be here in just over an hour. He will arrive on his bike. He has been to the gym today. He looks perfect in a loose grey vest, the vest he wore when we cycled home together from the club, our flats just a short walk from each other’s. In my fantasy we have sex when he gets here, we lie in bed and talk for a bit, then we go out for a bike ride to somewhere with trees and grass, perhaps the Heath, where we can sit and talk and drink fruit juice, then perhaps wonder into the more woody parts of the park to have sex with the men who wander around there, him and I connected amongst them, on a day like today, the 3rd of July, while the homosexuals party in Soho on this day of Pride.


About Michael Wynne
Artist and writer. Author of The Bathhouse Hornbook, Look Dick Look, and My Life in Masturbation. See more at

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