Hunger

Lyle is hungry.

It seeps from his body like a wave of corruption to spread about him. It shines like a dark light, touching every woman he passes in the street.

And they know it. Like animals, aware of a scent, they recognise him as he passes them by, seeing him for what he is; Hungry. A man starving with lust.

Lyle sits alone in his apartment as a wisp of cigarette smoke curls from his hand in the darkening light. Outside, the city is beginning to come alive as the annual Jazz festival gets under way, but in the apartment, amongst the deep shadows around the single armchair, Lyle sits motionless.

He listens to the thumping beats and squealing saxophones which echo in the distance with a mind consumed with sexual longing. Even the rain is erotic in Lyle's head. Droplets run together on the cold glass of his window, joining and flowing with slick ease.

He takes a long hard drag at the cigarette, listening to its faint crackle.

From the landing comes the sound of his neighbour's door opening. Keys jangle briefly, then her shoe's clatter down the stairs, fading into the sound of the city's dark Jazz heart beat, and even in his apartment, Lyle detects the faintest trace of perfume in the air.

The door to the street slams shut behind her with a resounding bang, as if Lyle is the only person left in the building now.

He takes another sip of cold coffee, and fumbles for another cigarette.

The rain suddenly grows more urgent. It's hammering on the window demands his attention and he walks over to the window to hang his head in the night air. Four storeys below, the street is empty but for the rows of dark cars.

He lets the rain soak his hair until he feels the chill, then with an abrupt burst of optimism; he decides to check out the Jazz festival.

Money in one side, keys and lighter in the other, Lyle gropes in his pockets for change at the cigarette boutique on the city's main plaza.

Behind him, under a vast awning, a five man band is playing a contemporary fusion of Jazz to a loud thumping beat. The entire plaza is filled with people dancing, ignoring the rain.

Lyle stands on the steps of the bank, sheltered by its fake neo classical entrance, surrounded by the detritus of the urban landscape. Drunks, lonely people, ragged people, nodding to the music as they sell each other drugs.

He watches the dancers under the awning, shifting his eyes from each woman, searching for the one whose form pleases him the most. A pleasant young addict edges closer to him, a bottle of beer gripped in one small hand and sniffs loudly to catch his attention.

"Fiffy and I'll blow ya" she finally speaks when his glance slides from her back to the crowd.

He ignores her, though he feels the intense burn of temptation. She shrugs and walks past him muttering under her breath and he watches her, debating with him self whether to follow after her and accept her offer, knowing he never will as she moves along the street searching amongst the men who stand there.

The hunger increases. It rears up within him, and he begins to walk slowly behind her, keeping his distance and letting his imagination run.

He imagines her naked, in a bed, in the light of the summer sun, whilst curtains flap in a light breeze. In his mind she is a jewel, buried by misfortune, just waiting to be found by him. He grants her intelligence and wit in his eagerness to be persuaded. She has a body, young and pert with small breasts that sit taunt and eager for his lips.

She stops to talk to a man who. Like Lyle is watching the dancers. A young man with wet, greasy looking hair and blonde stubble. He nods and follows her quickly down a side street and Lyle stands in the rain watching them disappear into the shadows.

He tries to move closer without being seen, but there is no cover, and an empty dizziness has already overtaken him. He turns back to the crowd of dancers and searches desperately for the packet of cigarettes.

Dancing, her hair loose and curling from the rain is Kirsty, his neighbour.

The cigarette, forgotten, soaks up the rain as he stares at her with eager eyes. Ever since she moved into twenty one B, his life has revolved around hers.

Without knowing it, she has become the focus for his sexuality these last six months, for each time she has brought home a man; Lyle has lain in his bed, listening to her.

At first she seemed chaste, but as time passed she became more daring. From brief conversations on the stairs, he has learned that she had moved out of a previous relationship, coming to the city to escape her former life and to find novelty, and perhaps a new future.

After the first, Lyle had rearranged his furniture, and now his bed rested against the same wall as hers.

Four times, Kirsty had brought home a man, and each time, he had listened to them eagerly, to their drunken laughter, to their desperate fucking.

Mostly though, he had listened to her. To the sound of her.

Feigning indifference he moves through the dancers close by her, hoping to be noticed, but she dances on, unaware of anything but her friends, the music, and what ever it is that makes her laugh like that.

He stops when he has moved beyond her then returns back to tap her on the shoulder.

She turns with a smile which widens as she recognises him.

He shouts "hello", but the music drowns out his voice. Still she grabs his arm and leans closer to yell her reply, and to ask if he is alone. The smell of her moves through like a phantom.

He waggles his head, and she pointed to her friends, all of whom are dancing about her, young and fashionable students, but it's hard to see who they are, since the people around them seems to press in on all sides as if the whole crowd belong to her.

He nods his head energetically to their vague faces, sliding his eyes back to her to gauge her mood.

She passes him her beer, and he takes it, the smell of her still in his head and the taste of the bottle, so recently from her mouth, making him giddy.

His eagerness to be bold surges in his stomach and he thinks he feels the blood moving in his inner thighs. He turns from her to scan the crowd, as if he might not be alone, then shrugs and smiles at her.

She brushes long red hairs from her face as she returns his smile and resumes her dance.

Lyle dances too.

As he does he almost falls, clumsy in the jostling crowd, but a man catches him. He looks up with a nervous smile into friendly brown eyes in a dark face and apologises soundlessly in the noise of the music. The black man smiles briefly in return, letting him go. His teeth flash white in the strobing darkness.

The song ends and the singer, his voice hoarse begins to name the band so Lyle moves closer to Kirsty, who is clapping dutifully with the crowd and asks if she would like another beer? She smiles and nods happily, meeting his eyes briefly.

Filling with screaming anticipation he presses his way to the beer tent where others are also headed as they take advantage of the lull in the music.

By the time Lyle has returned with two bottles, the music is resumed. The singer is into his second song since the interval, and Kirsty is no where to be seen.

He searches the crowd and finds one of the student friends and pressing closer he lifts his head at her and questions her as to Kirsty's where abouts.

"Who?" the girl replies, shaking her head.

"Kirsty" he shouts at her.

She shakes her head and shrugs and he realises that she has no idea who he is talking about.

A cold drop of ice falls into the pit of his stomach and he seeks higher ground to scan the crowd. For ten minutes he stands on an overturned beer crate, the two bottles in his hands watching the crowd, until finally he throws them into the shadows where they burst into a ghost of foam on the concrete.

With sullen steps he turns towards home and walks out into the rain.

At the Greek's place he orders a pita, and sitting in the neon glow of the window, he watches the gaudily dressed young woman of the city passing by in huddles, giggling and laughing to each other.

One catches his eye and smiles, but she passes the window too fast, and he stares at her retreating back with tight eyes.

It is approaching four in the morning when he lets himself back into his flat.

Dropping his coat on the floor he kicks off his scuffed Oakley's and slumps into the armchair and fumbles for a cigarette, then silently, he stares at the grey screen of the TV, watching his dull reflection.

There is no sound from Kirsty's flat.

Like a waiting predator he sits in the silence.

Twenty minutes later the door to the street opens and he glances at the clock. It reads 04:14.

Silently he moves to his front door turning off the lights as he passes the switch. There are two sets of feet climbing the stairs and hushed voices though he knows it is Kirsty long before he hears her, or sees her through the spy hole.

Behind her comes the bald head of the black man from the dance floor. The cold lake in Lyle's belly, grows as heavy as lead as the Kirsty passes his door.

As she fumbles with her keys, the black man stands before Lyle's door, unaware of the scrutiny, rubbing the rain from his chin, then his head until her door opens and they pass from sight.

The door slams shut behind them.

Lyle moves swiftly to his bed, turning off all the lights. From beyond the wall comes the muffled sound of voices, and laughter, and Lyle feels like crying. Shame and indignity fuel his desire though, and he strokes his erection through the fabric of his trousers.

As the voices grow quieter, he frees himself from his clothes and listens.

04:37 and he hears the bed creak. She murmurs something, her words unintelligible and the black man answers in a deeper, voice. Lyle's penis, now flaccid from the long silence, lifts itself softly.

In his imagination he sees Kirsty lying on her back with the heavy black man between her legs. She talks to him softly, muttering her random thoughts to him as he kisses her lips, her cheeks. She asks him a question and he replies, but the answer is unheeded as his hand runs down her stomach to cup her sex.

He hears a faint sigh. The bed creaks slightly, but only once.

He is shifting his weight to allow better access to her, and she lets him, marvelling at the powerful image that their contrasting skin tones make, gazing up into his dark eyes as he touches her there. He is so dark, so big, that his mere presence is an erotic statement. He is all male, all consuming and all powerful. Holding her captive beneath him as his fingers explore her moist pink flesh.

There are no sounds from beyond the wall, and suddenly Lyle is afraid that nothing is happening, that he has set himself up for an anticlimax, but he holds his breath and concentrates, gently pressing his ear against the wall.

He can hear her breathing. He can hear small moans that ride unheeded in each deep breath she takes, and as the clock changes to 04:43 she utters a sudden gasp. Almost loud in the silence of the night, she pulls in a sudden intake of breath.

He can see her on the bed, her legs spread wide to the black man's tongue, her fingers gripping the bed as she strains against the onslaught of him.

"Oh" she repeats again, this time louder, "Oh yes!"

Lyle's erection throbs painfully, and he cannot but help touch it. It has dribbled, and he finds it wet and slippery in his fingers.

Something bangs against the wall silently, surprising him, and he realises her head is resting just below his own. She is almost whining now, uttering wordless cries that grow ever louder until suddenly she is coming, and so does he.

Semen gushes from him and he holds his breath to remain silent as the orgasm brutally ignores him and empties its load onto his bed.

It is not a good orgasm. The pressure was too great and he feels cheated.

From beyond the wall, Kirsty's voice also grows suddenly quiet and he freezes, fearing against reason that he is discovered.

After a few minutes the man speaks and their bed creaks again as they move.

He realises they are changing position.

Within seconds she cries out only this time her voice is different, now it is the coarse voice of woman being penetrated.

Lyle's erection never fades. As he listens to Kirsten's voice it fills painfully with blood until it is so hard that he can feel his heart beating in it.

She seems to be speaking as they fuck, but her words are all but lost in the rhythm of the bed and only their tone reaches him. She is pleading with the black man, begging for him to fuck her. He can hear the word fuck each time she gasps it.

The black man fucks her. Gripping her shoulders, he takes her roughly from behind.

He is not a rough person, but he enters her fast with the compassion of brutality that she craves, bouncing her back against his every thrust and enjoying the sight of her buttocks, each time they are pressed against his darker skin.

Lyle listens as the man speaks.

She answers at first with trepidation, but then as he speaks again, she replies with wanton eagerness.

"Yes" Lyle hears her say. "I want it"

She wants it? He feels himself trembling with pent up excitement at the anticipation of what they are going to do.

From beyond the wall there is a long silence. Finally it is broken by her voice, quiet at first, then rising in a declaration of pain and satisfaction until suddenly her voice becomes muffled.

Once more, slowly at first, but then with new urgency, the bed begins to creak and her muffled voice begins to cry out in short laboured cries.

"Oh my God" he hears her say.

The black man mutters something, a question, and she answers, again with the same pitiful happiness.

Lyle comes, this time falling back onto his bed as his body pumps the juice from his pounding hand as a great wave of heat and emotion sweep through him.

He lies there slowly masturbating his now tender sex, listening to Kirsty take it as the black man, seemingly in no hurry, abuses her eager body until finally, as she sobs happily, he comes with a series of sharp exclamations.

The clock reads 05:00.