The Bijoux Pt. 01: Stagedoor Alley

The alley lay behind those shops lining the road laid straight through this one stop sign Town, announced by a missing set of bricks in that facade of wall flanking this side street, just too narrow for any trucks needed to supply businesses still thriving along that active Main Street.

You would walk that street never knowing what might be found, today's deliveries needed to be brought in, yesterday's trash to be taken out. It was all manual so there wasn't a time someone wasn't doing something in that back alley, allowing a behind-the-scenes sneak peek while passing that cavernous recess, blocked from meeting the next street by that theater and given its name from the signage on a faded, hand-painted arrow pointing to a dark doorway at the farthest end of Stagedoor Alley.

Those years ago this gateway opened onto a gauzy dreamland of stardom, that soundtrack the frenetic footwork of hoofers and stomping of stagehand has-beens, those dime store dandies and leading ladies powdered and primped, shoes buffed and buckled. Through that haze of cigarette smoke those diffused spotlights of cool blue or hot reds held this weeks' butterfly pinned center stage, awash in the distracted chatter or buoyed by those cheers of delight that would make-or-break their conviction.

Hats were doffed and hearts broken as that doorway swung open, the chorus clattering across these cobblestones to another late night rendezvous at yet another basement dive where dance music played, louder and so much more raucous then that swell of strings carrying their voices to the back rows of the Bijoux balcony.

This rear doorway was never used today except to throw refuse out, the stench of unsold hot dogs and day-old popcorn drawing an interesting mix of vermin and hunter each evening, that droning background the buzzing of billion-year-old wings swarming until settling again on that fatty feast.

The mewling of cats echoed along those walls through to the street and would stop your heart as you passed if one let out a throaty screech. The prize pussy of the evening could come skittering out of that darkened chasm, scampering over your shoes while you stood frozen as a statue, utter fear clamping your throat into just a gurgle.

If you dared look down that alleyway, the real fright in that early evening gloom was the glare of yellow round coins floating just above the pavement, dark fur obliterating any reasoning, accusing stares held but then, in a whisper of paw pads, those shadows darted across that darkened stage, quickly disappearing into the wings.

It had began then, those games Jack played on this route home from school after practice. The ping of that basketball dribble would ricochet down the street, sharp as those rapid-fire shots at the carney tents during Summer Festival.

He would stagger his step, teasing that ball between his stride, bounce it off the wall in a give-and-go, leaping in an arc to mimic his jumpshot high off those walls.

It was the sound of this play-action that announced Jack's presence to those beasts lying in wait, but as he passed that opening the ding would drain from his dribble, the ball going hollow, any sounds sucked deep into that darkened chasm.

With a quick step and a spin he was past, the quickness back in that bounce again, ringing like that clang of a bullseye on a ragged kewpie doll. He would turn, feint that pass then pull back, shoot and score, his own exhale the only sound.

Jack lay silently on the ground, those smooth cobblestones an undulating massage pad along pressure points lining his spine, tantalized by that cool Spring breeze trailing across his chest, his nipples tightening into hard candy drops.

That silky sensation kept him prone on this floor not wanting to move, the soft hue of sky sealing the jagged tear between those buildings, that scar sutured by the quick flitter of birds across this undulating ribbon of blue. Watching those black trails woven onto that pastel sky he went to reach out, to gather those gossamer strands too quickly melting in this clear morning light.

His arm, stretched above his head on that ground, wouldn't move. Blinking quickly, he could feel the dried tears on his eyelids, that gritty residue crusting the outside corners.

He had been lying there so quietly that as he went to turn the sharp stabbing pain in his side made him cough, then wince and wheeze, and cough again until he had to will himself to stop. Now he tasted the blood, his lips caked and stiff, his tongue running along those front teeth expecting to find some missing.

It hurt too much to move, so he just lay there, feeling that dull pain, remembering what had happened even if he could not say how long before this so silent moment, his breathing shallow as he whimpered softly, fresh tears welling in his eyes.

Jack felt that presence before he turned his head, that dog sitting as if a sphinx alongside him, head cocked, just watching.

Suddenly tipping forward, turning just slightly, the dog ran it's tongue across his chest. That rasp sent an electric current sizzling through him, toes clenching and fingers twitching involuntarily, reassuring that he wasn't permanently damaged. That tongue continued lapping, teasing his nipple as he moaned in complete agony, surrendering to this delicious torture.

"Good boy," Jack croaked, the smile creasing his lips quickly breaking into a twisted grimace, that split lip and swollen jaw pulsing to the beat of his heart as he lay back, closing his eyes.

He felt the dog's cold nose at his side and those sudden, small lashes from that tongue both warmed and tickling him, traveling across his stomach but as suddenly below his belly button. It was only then Jack realized his legs had not responded as he had tried moving earlier.

He could see those jeans pulled into a twisted knot at his knees, locking them together. He could also see the progress made by that dog's tongue, lapping at the edge of a pool of what could have been spit but was clearly cum. Spattered in an uneven arc across his lower abdomen, the dog was drawn by the scent as he gently swiped at that encrusted pearly goo.

In response to Jack's low, guttural moan that dog gave just the slightest growl, never taking it's eyes off his face. Then, as if just a folded, pop-up origami representation of a hairy thin-legged beast he leaned forward, and suddenly stood towering just above Jack, nose-to-nose.

He held his breath as the dog leaned in closer, now nuzzling his neck and starting to lick his ear, tasting tears as they trickled from the corner of his eye, suddenly swiping across his lips which stung so badly Jack swore he heard himself screaming but it was just a shudder encompassing all his pain, embarrassment and heady lust he felt, his surrender to the intimacy of this moment all too sudden and much too public.

The dog raised it's head stiffly and gave one short sharp bark then looked down again, his ears at alert, waiting.

The images of that alley flashed before his eyes as Jack stared blindly up the darkened walls against the now white searing slash of sky, the blackbirds darting and diving, their sharp accusing catcalls mimicking the staccato laughter that his attackers had peppered their kicks and punches with last night.

The scene had played out in slow motion, a tragi-comedy featuring three herky-jerky puppets with fists and feet that appeared oversized, but were so quick and all too real. His role in that strobe lit, black box One Act was the Fall Guy, the hapless dupe who gets roped into the scene, pulled center stage and then must play it through, but never to his advantage.

In that moment of frustration he involuntarily went to turn, either from disgust or in defense from these memories now too crystal clear, the searing pain in his shoulder separating his conscious mind from his beaten body as he fell back with a thud.

To Be Continued

Copyright JWR

2012/2018