A Man Like Rudi

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Rudi is a holy man—one of the order of the psychedelic monks—but if, occasionally, a man like Rudi should engage in certain activities, it’s not really his fault. A wee ficlet

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A Man Like Rudi by Culumacilinte

Rudi Van DiSarnio is a holy man. He is a priest; a brother of the order of the psychedelic monks; a man above the crude, carnal pleasures of drink and smoke and loose women. Rudi has a door; he needs none of these things. Rudi has his music, his Miranda, he has his quests-always searching, is Rudi, for the higher place. It is, after all, in that place that a man like Rudi Van DiSarnio belongs. He is not for this world.

But even a man like Rudi is not perfect.

And if the bandmate of a man like Rudi should slip into his bed, should pin him to the mattress with sinewy arms and legs as strong as sin; well, that’s not Rudi’s fault. If he should mark his way up and down a man like Rudi’s neck with kisses that taste like tequila and overeager teeth and a scratchy moustache; well, it’s not as if Rudi can do anything about it. If, perhaps, a man like Spider Dijon should whisper filthy things into a man like Rudi’s ear until he’s moaning with want on the bed, his robe rucked up around his thighs—

—(“It’s a fucking dress, you know?” Spider growls at him, grinning like an animal. “Look at you-the great Rudi-getting fucked with your dress up like some kind of harlot! Eh? That what you are, my brother?”

And Rudi groans and presses back against Spider, feeling every inch inside him, the door in his head knocking unceremoniously against the headboard)—

—and his legs wrapped around Spider’s skinny waist; well, that’s really not in Rudi’s jurisdiction at all. Not at all. And if a man like Rudi should beg, beg with his voice broken and breathless to be touched, to be licked and stroked and owned by a man like Spider Dijon… Well, maybe it sort of is Rudi’s fault.

Just a little.

But mostly it’s Spider’s fault; and when Rudi tells him this afterwards, when he’s lying on his bed loose and exhausted and hazed over with pleasure with Spider next to him, Spider just grins that wide, mad grin of his.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah it is. It’s gonna be Spider’s fault the next seven times, too.”

Culumacilinte
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