GGS-101 Gay Blades

Prologue

Two shapes moved in the darkness. Tongue rakes the inner thigh, a burning passionate trail. Under their combined weight the old wood bed creaked in protest. Lips sought out lips in urgent yearning. Velvet night shrouded the couple, making them indistinguishable, so it was hard to tell… .

Two bodies, sticky with perspiration in the humid tropic night, made fierce, steamy love. One’s mouth sought out the other’s nipples, teased each taut and nibbled lightly at the tips. His partner moaned in response, breath coming ragged, staccato. He sucked at the nipples, twining his fingers in his lover’s hairy chest. Caught between the pressures of their bellies, their cocks tensed, rigid with excitement. Their gasps and the rhythmic creak of the bed intertwine, synchronistically rising toward a crescendo, and then one final extended gasp and the bed is still. Spent, the two men roll apart, sweaty and tired, but unable to sleep.

It was night, but the darkness brought no respite from the heat. Day after day there had been the same sweltering weather. There was no way to avoid it, a stagnant drowsy heat that spoke of entropy, stasis. Days changed from one to another in an endless procession, every morning indistinguishable from the next. A permanent atmosphere of sloth and indolence hung over the city. It required too much effort to shrug off the torpid laziness and attempt movement. How much Easier it was to simply lie back and passively watch the time pass. There was just no motivation toward movement: food was copious—fish from the ocean, fruit growing ripe and plentiful in the trees—and wine was cheaply accessible. The chief diversions were locating some shade in the morning and avoiding the bugs at night. What was the point of doing anything else? There was nothing to accomplish, nothing to do, get like the lizards after awhile, just sit on a rock baking, eyes half-closed, too lazy to bother with the flies, too lazy to even care.

The jungle luxuriously rose around the town, always green, always sweaty. It defeated you by being, sapped your will, useless to do anything in the face of it. The jungle never changed, grinned like a death’s head; decomposing, rotting life provided the makings for its rich fertile soil, its rich emerald leaves; a parasite growing lush on decay, pungently alive. Ripe melon, soft and spoiled in the center.

And why should you do anything? It would all be subsumed by the jungle, eventually. Just lie back and wait. Nothing to do but watch helplessly. It’s the same sort of feeling as when your body contracts a fatal internal disease, you watch yourself, searching for symptoms, morbidly noting them when they appear, unable to prevent their onset, watching death extend its roots through you, creeping malignantly, inexorably, until…