EvidenceA Sex Story Bruce Morrow (bio) The rain on his skin; the petals behind his ears; the leaves down his shirt; the stain on his underwear, already, dark, wet in the front; the dirt on his shirt, back; the mud in his shoes; the mud on his socks, splashed on his shins, wiped on his heavy braided brow; his black hair, heavy with rain, cool to the touch, on his face, black against the blue-black sky; his thick, uncut cock, hard in my hand, hard to get a grip on, hard but soft like a firm mattress that contours to your body; his eagerness exhaled onto my shoulder; his desires whispered into my ears, aching, straining; his laughs tickling my nose; his eyes lunging at my mouth, fluttering, “Don’t, not yet, don’t, hold on”; we hold each other, we hug each other, we do what some might call embrace each other, beneath the dancing shadows of trees; in the park, in the woods, in the dark, our positions change—the first of many times; his sinewy thighs, legs, arms wrapped around mine as others, out on their long walks (the kind that gay men like to take), look with envious but playful eyes as they pass; the scratches on my back, my neck; the bruises already forming, scarlets, on his nipples, across his chest, down his stomach, on his cock, heavy with blood, ready to “Come on, come on now”; the spit on his pubic hairs, his arm pits, his chest, still wet, in puddles, dry, in patches, here, there; the smells—of deodorant, of shampoo, of cheap cologne, of dead skin and the bacteria that lives off of dead skin—all over us; the smell of wet leaves and wet soil and wet trees and wet weeds that we carelessly trample, kill with our clumsy sex act; the probing of a finger, the tugging of hands—“you’re hurting me, you’re pinching too hard, careful”—slipping across rain wet skin; the trembling leaves over our heads; the incessant scratching over there: “That rat scared the shit out of me”; the condom in my hand; my cock up his ass; the holding back of time, pumping, while watching the night evaporate; the rain on my face; the lack of air, everywhere; the sound of that rodent racing, squealing; the fear mixed with the excitement as I grunt and he comes and we collapse together; and all I can see in the rising moonlight as we grunt and separate into he and me, are my fingerprints on his skin, all over him. Bruce Morrow Bruce Morrow, an associate editor of Callaloo, is co-editor of Shade: An Anthology of Fiction by Gay Men of African Descent. His work has appeared in numerous publications, including the New York Times, Callaloo, aRude, Ancestral House, and Speak My Name. He is Associate Director of Teachers & Writers Collaborative in New York City. Copyright © 1998 Charles H. Rowell