Lullaby

This story is set in Australia in the late 1990s.

*

Halloween is weird.

It's weird, it's stupid, it's pointless, and I hate it.

Just so we're clear.

*

When I was about ten, some time back in the mid-1980s, my parents bought a VCR. It was bright, shiny and silver, with gleaming buttons. I remember them impressing upon me just how expensive the machine was, and how I was not, under any circumstances, to touch it.

It wasn't because the device had some kind of otherworldly mystical power, so don't get your hopes up about some weird plot twist where characters jump off the tape and out into our loungeroom, though in retrospect, that might've made a better story than this. The simple truth was my dad spent a shitload of money on it, almost a month's entire wage, and he didn't want my inquisitive fingers fucking around with it.

Pretty soon, we discovered the local video rental market, and every Saturday night was spent watching a double feature of shitty movies. We made our way through a bunch of B-grade and C-grade American comedies deemed too shoddy for cinematic release before we shifted to horror. For some strange reason, we discovered Italian schlock first. These movies were dubbed into English, presumably so we didn't have to waste time reading subtitles. I remember them being terrible, with plots that made no sense, based around unnecessarily gory scenes that weren't even close to looking realistic.

I didn't care. I was allowed to stay up late on Saturday nights, drinking sugar and eating snacks, and for me, way back then, that's all that really mattered.

Soon enough, we discovered vintage American horror. I remember one Saturday afternoon my dad came home with a copy of Halloween 2. I explained that there must've been a previous Halloween movie that we should watch first, but nobody else in my family cared. This is probably why lame jokes like 'I can't watch Anal High School Sluts 15 without watching the 14 prequels first' still resonate with me, despite how tired and corny they are.

The sun set that night, Mum turned out the lights, and under his supervision, Dad let me load the precious tape into the machine. I pressed play, my fingertip tingling, scarcely believing I was allowed, just for a moment, to touch the most expensive thing in the house.

As the tape began to roll, we settled down. We ate microwaved popcorn as we watched trailers for other movies we could watch, maybe as even soon as next Saturday night. Me and my older sister held icy-cold cans of Coke; mum and dad drank beer.

And then the film started.

The first thing I remember from Halloween 2 is the theme music, surely one of the most compelling pieces of minimalist music ever written. Later, I remember my dad copied it to a mix tape for us to listen to in the car; so here's us, a suburban family, going shopping for weekly groceries on a typical Friday afternoon, car windows down, with the Halloween theme tune blasting out of the stereo inexplicably wedged between one track by Dire Straits and another by Elton John.

After a year or two, it felt like we'd seen everything there was to watch in the horror genre. Either that, or we were getting bored. And I was growing up, suddenly no longer interested in our family movie Saturday nights. I'd become much more interested in hanging out at the shopping mall with my classmates.

Thinking back, I didn't really know what Halloween even was. I vaguely remember the movie had some kind of back story about dead souls, and something about native American spiritualism, but I'm sure I've got that wrong. I'll be honest, understanding the spiritual meaning took a back seat to discovering how creative and grisly the next murder was gonna be. It took me quite some time to figure out Halloween had become a 'holiday' in the US, perhaps a bit like Valentine's Day, marking an event that might've once held spiritual ballast, but had since been cheapened and commercialised.

Plus, I think there was something about the change in seasons. In the northern hemisphere, Halloween is a time when the climactic weight shifts towards winter and darkness, but in Australia, the end of October marks the onset of summer: long, sunny afternoons, cricket in the backyard, and barbeques in the red sunset.

Halloween just wasn't a thing where I grew up.

"Trick or treat ..."

Like, what the fuck does that even mean? The 'treat' part seems obvious -- give me sugar -- but what is the 'trick'? And where does the phrase itself come from? Like, is it meant to be a threat? Give me a treat or I'll surprise you, scare you or shock you? Is that what the 'trick' is?

In Australia, the phrase is devoid of meaning and disconnected from any kind of historical or spiritual construct. It's just an excuse for K-mart and Big W to drape their megastores in fake cobwebs, hang giant furry spiders from the roof, and sell shitloads of Skittles and chocolate.

It's all about the money.

*

Fast forward twelve or thirteen years. It's 1998, and I'm almost twenty-four. I'm at home, in my rented ground floor apartment, cradling my fragile heart after an unexpected breakup. My boyfriend of eighteen months met someone else. I got the 'it's not you, it's me' line, followed by the 'I love you, but I'm not *in* love with you' line. I wouldn't say he and I were serious, but we were heading that way. Or, at least, that's what I'd allowed myself to think. We hadn't moved in together or anything -- he had a one-bedroom apartment of his own, a suburb or two away from me -- but we spent most nights each week together, either at my place or at his. I imagined us buying a bigger apartment together one day, signing ourselves up to a crippling mortgage, but living happy lives.

Eighteen months. Shouldn't we have moved in together by now? I mean, if he was serious about me?

Or maybe he wasn't. Everything makes sense in hindsight, I guess.

He'd felt a little distant for a few weeks, and I assumed he was stressed about something at work. He worked in finance and had a lot on his plate. It felt like a moment that'd pass, and all I needed to do was be with him, helping him through whatever it was that was keeping him up at night. I tried to support him as much as I could, without prying, but as it turned out, the stress he felt wasn't his work, it was me.

Here's what he did. He texted me one day and said 'can I come over for dinner'. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. I cooked his favourite meal -- a simple Thai stirfry with tofu, capsicum, broccoli and chilli, served on a bed of noodles. I opened a bottle of wine and we sat on the couch to eat. Everything felt normal.

After the meal, he explained he'd been unhappy about our relationship for a while. When I pressed for specifics, hoping for an opportunity to fix whatever the hell it was I'd done wrong, his responses were vague and reserved. Later, I discovered he'd been talking to all our friends about his feelings -- he'd talked to everyone under the sun about our relationship except me. And what I didn't know, until now, was how firmly he'd made up his mind. It was like he was a High Court justice bringing down a verdict that was immune from any appeal.

We hugged goodbye at my front door, and I cried myself to sleep.

He wanted us to remain friends, but seriously, get fucked.

Cunt.

Most of our mutual friends took sides, and I found myself walking down the street past people who were on hugging basis with me a week ago, but who now glided by as if I wasn't even there.

Cunts.

I alternated between sorrow and fury.

"Trick or treat ..."

What the hell does that even mean? I still didn't know.

*

It was early October and the seasons were changing. It'd been a cold winter, and for me, a lonely one, but the days were warming up and slowly getting longer. Skirts were getting shorter and shorts were reappearing. I could see everyone's knees.

Summer was just around the corner.

I walked through K-mart in search of a new rice cooker. My old one had shat itself. Whenever I turned it on, the red light would illuminate, but nothing else would happen. As I looked around the store, furry oversized spiders hung from every available space.

*

Halloween landed on a Friday night this year. I trudged home from work, laptop in backpack. I'd probably need to log on over the weekend; we were snowed under. As I got off the bus, kids were already milling around, excited about their costumes, comparing them with each other, presumably wondering how many lollies they'd score tonight. Some of them waved at me, and politely, I waved back.

I went home, got changed, and visited my local pub for a feed. I read a book while I ate. Having nothing else to do tonight, I dawdled back home, closing the front door behind me. I'd see the world again tomorrow.

I flicked on the TV. There was nothing on. I flipped aimlessly through the dial before switching it off. I was thumbing through a glossy travel magazine, imagining myself hiking my way across Canada, when I heard a faint knock on my front door.

Here we go.

I opened.

"TRICK OR TREEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT!!!!!!"

Ow, my freakin' ears.

Three kids, a boy and two girls, stood grinning like maniacs outside my front door, gripping bags waiting to be filled with candy. I'm guessing the boy was meant to be dressed up as Harry Potter, but not having read any of the books nor watched any of the movies, this was a wild guess. I wasn't sure what either of the girls were meant to be. The Wicked Witch? Something from a Disney franchise? Fucked if I know.

A man stood behind them, dressed in a black spider costume. I guessed he was their guardian for the night. Two legs on each side of his body sprung out, giving a total of eight when added to the arms and legs that I presumed were already connected to his body. His hair was tucked inside a furry black hood, and the tip of his nose was painted black, as were his fingernails. He wore a pair of glasses, which surprised me. I'd always assumed spiders had perfect eyesight.

For a moment, I ignored the kids. "Hey," I said.

"Hey," said the spider man. He waved, and four artificial limbs jiggled.

I shuffled my feet. "What do I do?" I asked.

"You got any choccies? Or lollies?"

"Yeah," I replied, "I stocked up. I ... I knew this was coming."

"TRICK OR TREEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!" screamed the grinning kids.

I cracked half a smile, looking down at them. "OK," I said, shovelling a handful of lollies into each's bag, "here you go."

The kids scurried away to trawl through their stash. While they were gone, I noticed the man in the spider suit wore long tights on his legs, striped red and white.

"Hey," I asked the spider man, "do you know what 'trick or treat' actually means?"

"Huh?" came his confused response.

"Like, 'treat' is obvious, I think, but what's 'trick'?"

He shrugged his shoulders, and all eight limbs shook. "No idea." He stopped, thinking. "Like, maybe if you don't give 'em a treat, they'll cast a spell on you."

The wicked witch scowled at me for a second, waving her wand. I feared the worst. "You're OK," she said, sizing me up, "because you gave me my favourite choccie."

"I'm glad to hear that," I replied, pretending to wipe my nervous brow. "I didn't want to be turned into a frog tonight."

The wicked witch's scowly frown turned into a broad smile.

The spider man extended one of his eight legs. "Name's Rush."

I introduced myself and shook his whatever the hell it was. I wanted to be sure I'd heard his name right. "Rush?" I checked, leaning in.

"Yeah." He paused for a second. "Like the shitty Canadian band."

I chuckled, remembering my dad's vintage mix tapes. "Haven't seen you around here."

"Just moved in a month or so ago."

The kids seemed impatient, like they needed to collect their next candy fix. "C'mon, Dad!" pleaded Harry Potter.

"Gotta keep these kids on the move," said the spider man. "Nice to meet you, and thanks for throwin' so much sugar into their bags. I'll be thankin' you again at 2am when they're bouncin' off the walls."

"Nice to meet you too," I smiled.

Rush shepherded the kids down the street in search of more sugar. He waved at me, smiling broadly, just as I was about to close my front door. I waved back.

I heard the kids' voices echo from next door.

"TRICK OR TREEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!"

*

I spent the night listening to records. I guess I'd consumed about two thirds of a bottle of wine. Around 11pm, or maybe a little earlier than that, I heard a knock at the door. I wasn't expecting anyone. "Who is it?"

"It's Rush."

I paused for a second.

"The guy from earlier," he said.

I opened my front door, and there he was, still fully kitted out in his spider costume, eight limbs akimbo, with his red and white striped tights still on his legs. No kids with him this time.

I wasn't sure why he was here. "Have you forgotten something?" I asked, clearing my throat.

"No, I don't think so." He looked up and down the street. "Kids are bein' looked after," he explained. "They'll be up all night playin' Nintendo and fuckin' Playstation, but I'm ... I'm off duty now."

He shuffled his feet, instantly regretting the spin he'd put on the end of that sentence.

I wasn't sure what this was about. I mean, if he hadn't forgotten anything ...

I remembered he said he was new to the neighbourhood, and I wanted to be a good host. "Would you like to come in?"

"Yeah," he breathed, "ta, sounds good."

"You want something to drink?" I offered.

"A beer would be great if you've got one."

"Easy," I said. I opened the fridge and separated a can of Tooheys from the plastic clutches of a fresh sixpack.

I stood in the kitchen for a moment. OK, so tonight was gonna be a bit of 'welcome to the neighbourhood' chitchat, a little bit of 'where are you from and what brought you here', and this would've been 100% sensible enough, except my guest was still dressed like a big scary spider with what I assumed was boot polish on the tip of his nose.

I handed him the cold tin. "Thanks, mate," he said, knocking back half of the quantity in a few short gulps.

"Kids are a handful, are they?" I asked, sitting down, trying to open a conversational vein.

He sat on the couch. "The boy's mine, the girls aren't." He squirmed. "Wait, let me rephrase that. Me and the missus have kids from prior relationships. The girls are hers, but we're doin' our best to play happy families."

I nodded. "Yeah," I said, not sure what else to say. I drained the rest of my wine bottle into my glass.

"Missus is lookin' after the kids tonight."

He drank his beer. I still wasn't quite sure what he was doing here.

"You up to much tonight?" he asked.

I had no idea how to answer such a broad question, especially from someone I didn't know, having only met him for the first time a couple of short hours ago. "Nah, not really."

"Am I interruptin'?" asked Rush.

I cleared my throat.

"Like, I can go if you want ..."

"Nah, mate, we're all good," I concluded.

I watched him take a breath. "Nice place," he said, looking around.

Thanks, but it's just an ordinary townhouse. I'm renting it. I kept it clean, but I didn't take any specific pride in it. For all I know, I could probably get kicked out next month if the landlord got out of the wrong side of bed one morning. "Thanks," I offered.

"Nice neighbourhood?" he inquired.

"Yeah, nice enough, I guess." I refilled my wine glass. "Quiet, most of the time. Except for Halloween."

"Yeah," chuckled Rush, "fuckin' kids, eh?" He paused for a second. "You got any of your own?"

"Nah," I replied. And I'm probably never gonna, either.

"Fair enough," he mumbled. We sat quietly for a few minutes; him sipping his beer, me drinking my wine. "You ever wanna?"

"What, have kids?" I clarified.

"Yeah."

"I'm gay."

Rush choked on a mouthful of beer.

"You need vaginas for childbirth," I continued, chuckling at his awkwardness.

"Shit, dude," he coughed, "sorry for ... like ... pressin' buttons ..."

"Nah," I smiled, "it's all good."

We drank quietly.

"Got a boyfriend?" he asked.

Wow, that's a little bit forward.

"Nah, I'm single." I was feeling just drunk enough to expand. "Had a guy for about eighteen months, but he dumped me."

"Shit," said the man in the spider outfit. "How long ago?"

"Huh?"

"How long since he dumped you?"

"Couple of months ago, I guess."

"Fuck."

A silence fell.

"Sorry to hear that."

"Yeah. It still sucks."

I sipped my wine. I knew I wasn't over him.

Even more silence. The mood began to spiral.

"Why are you dressed like a spider?" I asked.

"Well," he replied, suddenly finding himself on firmer ground, "the kids were gonna dress up, obviously, because it's Halloween, and I didn't wanna be one of those parents who walks around behind their kids wearing a collar and tie, or a fuckin' Nike polo, or whatever. I wanted to get into the spirit, but I wasn't sure where to ... I mean ... what to wear. I went to a costume place and it felt like a spider outfit might work."

"Is it a reference to anything?"

Rush frowned quizzically. "Huh?"

"Like, your kid was dressed up as Harry Potter, right?"

"Yeah ..."

"And I'm guessing one of the girls was a witch?"

"Yeah ..."

"OK, so are you dressed up in reference to anything in particular?"

He furrowed his brow in thought.

"Like, you're obviously not the Spiderman from comic books, because if you were, you'd be wearing something red and blue and sleek, ready to fight crimes at a moment's notice, and ... but instead, you're black and furry, with a pair of glasses. I can't imagine you jumping from building to building in that get-up. So, like, is there a movie or a novel or a poem or a song about a furry, black, slow-moving spider?"

"Yeah, maybe there is," he said, but after a moment or two, he shook his head. "Wait, nah."

Rush finished his beer. It looked like he was getting ready to leave. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable, perhaps he felt like he was intruding, or perhaps he felt like he'd overstayed his welcome, but to be honest, I was glad of his company. I was just glad he wasn't knocking all my shit over with his excess legs. "You want another one?" I asked.

The spider man nodded. "Thanks. Yeah." I brought him a fresh ale from the fridge. Whatever this was, it was way better than spending the night on my own.

I noticed he was wearing black shoes, but his socks were striped red and white.

('On candy-striped legs, the spider man comes ...')

He'd been here before, trick or treating, just as the sun was setting.

('... softly through the shadow of the evening sun ...')

My mind swam in a familiar song.

Rush drank his beer. "Mind if I take this off?"

I wasn't quite sure what he was referring to. "Huh?"

He threw the hood of his costume back onto his neck. As his hand feverishly scratched his itch away, a mane of thick brown hair cascaded down the back of his fur. "Fuuuuuuuuck, dude," he said, "that's such a relief. This shitty costume is so fuckin' irritatin'. I'm not even sure why I'm still wearin' it. Maybe I should've changed into normal clothes."

I'm so glad you didn't, spider man. You look cute as fuck, and dressing up like that, it sounds like you've got an awesome sense of fun. It's a shame you play for the other team.

I wasn't sure what to say. For a moment, I focused on his socks. "You follow the Swans?"

"Huh?"

"Red and white. Your socks. Sydney Swans."

"The AFL team?" he inquired.

"Yeah."

"I thought red and white stripes was Where's Wally."

I sighed on the inside. Fuck, spider man, for a minute or two, I imagined inviting you over for a Saturday night barbecue followed by beers in front of the TV, watching the footy. "I'm gonna put a record on," I said, standing up.

"Ah, you're a vinyl guy," he observed.

I arched my eyebrows. "Yeah. I reckon music sounds best on vinyl." I dropped the needle on a Joy Division record.

"Hangin' onto the past, eh? I'm a digital guy myself. CDs are the future." He paused for a second. "My car's got a cassette deck, but I never use it."

"And vinyl wouldn't ever work in a car, would it?" I teased.

"Where would you put the turntable? On the dash?"

I grinned, imagining.

"Like, the needle would skip all the fuckin' time."

"Why do you like CDs?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"Because I don't believe bands go into the studio spendin' weeks or fuckin' months perfectin' their sound only for it to be reproduced with a bunch of crackles and hisses and dust in the grooves and the needle skippin' an' gettin' stuck an' ..."

"Yeah," I interrupted, "but they also don't want people to listen to a string of zeroes and ones, do they? Vinyl's heaps better, I reckon. You just need to look after it. It's bigger, it's more tactile, there's a ... a romanticism ..."

"Yeah, maybe, but record collections weigh a fuckin' tonne. CDs are way lighter."

I spent the next twenty minutes discussing the pros and cons of vinyl versus CD with a man dressed in a spider costume. I was beginning to enjoy myself. I brought Rush another beer and cracked open a fresh bottle of wine for myself. I poured myself a shallow glass.

"There's something on your nose," I teased.

Rush touched the tip, feeling boot polish. Or whatever the hell it was. "That's still there?"

"Dude, you rocked up in full costume," I replied. I watched his fingers grip his can of beer. "I like your nails, by the way," I said.

Rush glanced at his black painted fingertips. "It's for the kids," he said.

"More blokes should paint their nails, I reckon."

Rush glanced at my hands. "Your nails look clean."

"These days, yeah," I admitted, "but I used to paint mine black too."

Rush tilted his head as if he'd just thought of something. "Hey," he said, "if I disappeared for ten minutes and came back, would you freak out?"

"Nah."

"Put another record on or whatever," he said, striding towards my front door, "but listen out for me. I'll be back in a sec."

Rush closed my front door behind him, and I imagined him walking down the street with eight limbs flailing in the breeze. I stood in the middle of my living space, waiting, ears buzzing, with no idea what to expect. I thumbed through my record collection, but nothing was in order. I knew what I was looking for, but I couldn't find it. I squinted, studying the spines ...

The Cure.

I was a huge fan of theirs, especially their darker, moodier records like 'Faith', 'Pornography' and 'Disintegration', but I knew my guest would be coming back soon, and I didn't want to freak him out with gloom.

Even though it was Halloween.

I'd barely dropped the needle on their Greatest Hits compilation when I heard a knock at the door. Rush was still wearing his spider costume, but in one of his many hands, he carried a small vessel of dark black liquid. "Can I paint your fingernails?" His eight limbs jiggled.

I grinned. "Sure you can."

I sat at my kitchen counter, my palm flat. Rush stood behind me. One of his hands held my wrist while the other, calmly and with the patience of a saint, painted viscous black ink onto my fingernails.

His eyes focused. Concentrating, his tongue poked out the corner of his mouth.

I could feel his breath on my neck.

"Other hand," he said.

Same ritual, different side. His level of concentration remained the same.

I relaxed my fingers and wrists, waving them softly in the air.

"They look good," said Rush.

"My fingernails?"

"Yeah," he replied. "They ... they look good."

I was so attracted to him, but I knew he was straight. He looked so cute ... I wanted to kiss him ...

The needle buried itself in the endless groove of side one. "Wait a sec," I said. "I need to turn the record over."

"Let me do it," said Rush, screwing the lid back onto the nail polish bottle. "Let your nails dry." Managing multiple limbs, he dropped the stylus on side two. He came back to the kitchen, helping himself to another beer from the fridge. As if I was gonna stop him. "You're a goth?"

"What makes you ask that?"

"The Cure," Rush replied. "Plus, while I was out there, I took a sneaky peek at your record collection." He paused for a second. "It wasn't easy, because..."

"Yeah, dude, I know," I interrupted, "I need to put 'em all in order at some point. It's a project best avoided when renting, because ..."

"Maybe I can help you," offered Rush, interrupting enthusiastically. "I mean, I don't live too far away, and ..."

I waved my fingernails in the air. "I'd offer to lend you some of my records, but they won't fit in your CD player."

Rush chuckled at my lame joke.

We drank in silence for a few moments; me, sitting at the kitchen counter, him, hovering behind me.

My freshly painted fingernails dried. Rush felt close; I could feel his breath on my neck.

I wasn't sure what to say or do. "Thanks," I whispered. "For ... for the nails."

"No worries," he said. "Nice tatt, by the way." I felt his finger touch my arm.

I could hardly breathe. "Thanks," I replied.

"Is it a brick wall?"

"Yeah," I breathed, "that's what it's meant to be." I couldn't turn around to face him. I'd die if I did.

"It wraps around your entire forearm."

"Yeah," I breathed. "I know."

"Is it meant to symbolise anything?"

"Mental strength."

"At first I thought it was because you like Pink Floyd."

My heart raced. "Yeah, there's that too."

"So why'd you get it?" Rush asked.

"Huh?"

"The brick wall tattoo. On your arm. Why'd you get it?" Rush paused for a second. Maybe he thought this was a bridge too far. I mean, we'd only just met, and tattoos can be intensely personal things to explain. Maybe something in my face gave away the pain. "Sorry, dude," he said, "you don't have to tell me ... I guess I was just curious ..."

Curiosity? Yeah, I get that. I'd already told him my ex dumped me, but I wondered how much more to say, how much to tell him. How much to tell him about the beautiful, intelligent, sexy boy I met at a goth club one night, the boy I kissed in a back alley as the sun came up that morning, the boy I took home, fucked, and swapped phone numbers with, the boy I thought was my soulmate, the boy I wanted to move in with; the boy who got bored with me way too fast.

I took a deep breath. The ink on my arm was only a couple of weeks old.

"Did it hurt?" he asked.

"Huh?" My brain wasn't firing on all cylinders.

"Your tattoo. Did it hurt?"

"Yeah," I said. Of course it did. That was half the point of getting it done. I *wanted* it to hurt.

I could tell him about the recent nights I'd spent here, alone, crying myself to sleep, wanting to reach out to my ex, wanting to know what I did wrong so I could fix it and make everything right again.

The cold silence, the despair, the nothingness.

Like, he ... he totally fucking disappeared. I felt ghosted.

The feeling of fragility. Of everything hurting, feeling raw, all the time. Of wanting to be asleep, because that was the only time the emotional pain went away.

Of desperately needing some kind of protection from the world. A shell. Or maybe even a wall.

A solid brick wall, impenetrable, something I could hide behind forever, so I'd never need to bare these feelings to anyone ever again.

"So why'd you get it?" Rush asked again.

I forced a thin smile. "Bad breakup," came my summary.

Silence fell for a moment.

"Don't you have to go home at some point?" I asked.

"Huh?" Rush looked a little startled.

"You said you were married. Or you're in a relationship, or whatever."

"Wait," said Rush, "are you kickin' me out?"

"No, it's just ..."

"Because I can leave," he said, creeping a little closer, "if ... if you really want me to ..."

I felt his lips near my neck, so close, so perilously close to my skin, yet keeping their distance. I turned around to face him so fast I nearly got whiplash. "What are you doing?" I asked.

He looked edgy. "I'm just ... I've never ... I don't really know ... fuck, mate, I don't even know you ... have I crossed a line?"

I threw my arms around his waist, desperately hoping my black fingernails were dry. "Shut the fuck up, spider man." I nearly kissed him; I wanted to, but something stopped me.

Fuck, his eyes were beautiful. I watched him trying to swallow his nerves.

I pulled him into me, but something in his soul suddenly rebelled, as if he wasn't ready, or this was too much, or ...

I'm not keeping you prisoner.

I felt his lips brush against my cheek.

Do you want this, spider man?

"Is this OK?" he asked.

I got straight to the point. "I want you to fuck me."

He stared at me, almost completely motionless, like a feral kangaroo caught in oncoming headlights.

"I want you to fuck me with your spider costume on." I paused for a second. "It's OK if you don't wanna kiss me, but ..."

Rush pressed his mouth into mine so violently he nearly broke my teeth.

OK, so at least we were on the same page now. Kind of.

"Have you ever kissed a dude before?" I asked.

('Quietly, he laughs, shaking his head ...')

"Nah," he whispered, and for a second, I wondered if Rush was religious. Was he a Mormon? Was he a JW? Had he just signed his admission slip to eternal hell?

His lips were shiny and wet. I felt him brushing my cheek. The black shoe-polish (or whatever it was) that was on his nose, rounding out his costume, was smeared halfway across my face.

"You can kiss me again, if you want," I whispered.

This time, he was less forceful, and more tender. We kissed slowly, and I desperately wanted to touch his skin, to start exploring him, discovering him, but he was still encased in a gigantic black spider costume.

"What do you want to do?" I asked him.

"I ... umm ... err ..."

"You're here for a reason, right?"

Rush gulped. Was my suggestion too forward?

I tried to level with him. "I don't want to ... umm, wait ... like ... when you and your kids did that weird 'trick or treat' shit earlier, I thought that was it for tonight, and I might run into you at the local shops next week or whatever, but a few hours later you came back, an' you seem like a cool dude ... if you want to, we can sit on the couch drinkin' beer and listening to music, but I'm not sure if that's why you're here ... so here's the other option ... if you wanna fuck, we can ..."

"Yeah." My guest ran his fingers through his thick brown hair.

"Huh?"

"The ... the other option," stammered my guest.

"You wanna fuck me?"

Rush nodded awkwardly. He seemed so self-confident before, but ...

If he'd never kissed a bloke before, then I'm guessing this was about to be his first time for some other things.

You know what I mean.

I grabbed one of his eight limbs, guiding him toward my bedroom.

*

"I've never done this before," he admitted.

I'd already worked that much out. "No shit, hey?"

"But ... but I want to."

I opened the window. A cool spring easterly ruffled my curtains. Streetlights painted my bedroom walls in a soft glow. A dog barked in the distance.

I took his hands in mine, brushing his other six limbs aside, and kissed him. At first, slowly, gently, softly. I felt unshaven stubble on his chin as I cupped his jaw. I kissed him deeper, pulling him closer to me, and he moaned into my mouth, tasting like beer.

"Are you sure?" I said, breaking the kiss. A thin string of saliva connected our lips before breaking.

"Yeah," he replied.

('Closer now, closer to the foot of the bed...')

I wondered what Rush was thinking about, but I'd only known him for a few short hours. All I knew was he was in a relationship with kids from earlier relationships. I'd never been in a situation like that myself, but I'd imagine it'd be difficult to manage. I wondered what he told his partner tonight when he went back out after bringing the kids back home.

I ran my black fingernails through his beautiful mane of dark brown hair. "There's something on your glasses," I nudged.

He took them off for an inspection -- I hoped he wasn't gonna ask me to turn on the light. "Fuck. I think it's some of that black shit I put on my nose," Rush reported. "It's on your face, too, from ... I think ... from when we ... umm ... from when we kissed before, an' that's probably how it got on my ..."

"I don't care if you don't," I said.

He folded his glasses, resting them on my windowsill. His eyes shone in the darkness. I could smell the warmth of his breath.

"Leave the spider costume on."

"Really?" frowned Rush.

"Yeah." I took my t-shirt off and threw my jeans into the corner of the room. I was pitching a serious tent inside my boxers for this sexy dude.

I grabbed his hand -- one of his real ones, that is -- and guided him to my bed. It wasn't easy for him to get under the covers. It turned out to be impossible, all eight limbs akimbo, but it didn't matter. The night was warm enough.

I reached down to touch his dick through his costume. It wasn't easy to gauge size, but I felt a distinct bulge. I wondered if he was leaking. I was desperate to find out, but I wanted to try something else first.

I took my boxers off; my cock sprung free. I'm standing naked in my room with a man wearing a spider costume.

I lay face down on my mattress, pulling my arse cheeks apart.

Surely my guest knows what I'm angling for here. I've got no idea whether he eats his partner's arse, but I'm reasonably confident he eats her pussy. Most straight blokes are into that, right? This isn't much different. Is it?

My breath is shallow and edgy, jagged in anticipation. I don't want to say anything. I don't want to give him hints. Eventually, he connects the dots, kneeling on the floor next to my bed.

I feel his hands on my cheeks, gripping them.

The spider man is having me for dinner tonight.

As I feel his rough tongue lapping at my pussy, I swear he's done this before.

"Fuck," I seethe.

"Is this good?" he asks.

In response, I reach around, grab the back of his head, and pull him in even tighter.

"Fuuuuuuuccccckkkk," I whisper, trying desperately hard not to grind into the mattress beneath me. I'll cum if I do.

His pace and intensity accelerates. He's almost growling. I'm moaning like a bitch in heat. This is ... this is ...

Oh my fucking god.

After a few minutes, I grab a handful of his hair and pull him away. I need something else of his inside me.

I roll over. His face is wet, his lips are fat and puffy. I pull him down onto me, kissing him, tasting my pussy in his mouth. "I want you," I whisper.

"I can't, mate."

And I'm crestfallen, wondering if Rush has had a sudden change of heart. Or pangs of guilt.

"Not without taking this fuckin' costume off first," he smiled.

I sprang to my feet. "Let me help you." The next few minutes were an exercise in logistics, working out how to get this tight, furry thing off his back. Pulling his legs out of the costume was the hardest part, basically because I'm trying to concentrate on what I need to do to get him naked, but I need to kneel to help him get his legs out and I haven't seen his body yet because it's been encased inside this costume the whole time he's been here and I can tell he's hard and my mouth's watering and I can smell him ...

Streetlight illuminates his naked body. Long brown hair that runs down his back is merely the start. His pecs and biceps are perfectly toned, his chest is hairless, his nipples are large, erect and suckable. He's got a sixpack that betrays serious time spent at the gym, and his thighs are muscly and strong.

And as I notice his dick, I literally lose my breath.

Seven and a half inches, maybe even eight. Smooth, girthy, and straight as a gunbarrel. His balls are massive, and I can't help thinking about how much thick, creamy semen is sloshing around inside them.

I swoon. He's a god.

I've never laid eyes on a more beautiful man than this. Not even in porn.

I think I'm drooling. I wipe my mouth as surreptitiously as possible, hoping he doesn't notice.

I sink to my knees, unable to wait any longer. I lick the tip of his cock, lapping up pearls of precum. My naked knees burn on my bedroom carpet.

I look up at him -- his hair cascading down his back like a Viking, his pecs, his abs ... I tickle his fat balls ...

I've been complimented on my oral skills, but I'm gagging on his length right now, nearly choking, because I can't jam enough of him in my throat.

My fingers are massaging his balls, my tongue is teasing the head of his dick; I feel him grow a little thicker in my mouth. My fingertips caress his lower back and arse cheeks, moving down to his thighs.

I feel his hips begin to move, thrusting forward slowly. After a few seconds, there's a change of mind, and I feel him trying to pull away from me.

"Sorry, it's ... it's just ... you're ... umm ... I was just about to ..."

"I know," I whispered hungrily, wiping my face. "I want you to."

"But ... but I've never ..."

"I know," I soothed.

My face bobbed up and down on his perfect shaft as I stroked him with a loose, wet fist. I felt him twitch, knowing what's coming. His knees trembled just a little.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

I was already bracing for impact. "Mmm-hmmm."

As I felt his cock flexing and spasming in my throat, Rush didn't make a sound. I moaned, swallowing his fat load, gulping him down.

He pulsed, and I felt his tentative hands on the back of my head. "Fuck," he gasped. I swirled my tongue around the tip of his sensitive manhood, and he shivered as I savoured every last drop of him.

As he fell out of my mouth, I stared at his wet, spent prick in wonder, scarcely believing I'd just swallowed it all. My jaw ached. I rubbed my face.

"Sorry," said a humble Rush, "I'm a little bit big down there ..."

"No shit, mate," I agreed, "but there's no need to apologise." My tongue tingled with the taste of his sperm.

He helped me to my feet. I hugged his naked, sweaty skin, not sure whether he'd want to kiss me after he'd just busted in my mouth. "You wanna fuck me now?"

Rush blushed. "Dude, do you know about the refractory period? Give me a second to recover!"

I tickled his balls. "Yeah, but I don't think I drained you," I teased. "I reckon you're still half-full. At least."

"Can I get some water first?" he asked.

"Sure," I replied. "Wait here." I was thirsty too. I brought a couple of tall glasses back from the kitchen tap.

I wondered if he was done, having flooded my throat. I wondered if post-nut clarity was landing, having had his first same-sex experience. I wondered how desperate he was to get back home, back to his partner and kids and away from me, already trying to convince himself that none of this had actually happened.

I half-expected him to be half-dressed -- or at least halfway back into his spider costume -- when I came back, but he wasn't.

We sat on the edge of my mattress, rehydrating, each lost in our own thoughts. I kept glancing down at Rush's magnificent penis, wondering what it'd feel like deep inside me, splitting me open, making me squeal. I touched his thigh from time to time, pretending it was accidental.

"Was that OK?" I asked.

Rush gazed at me. "What?"

"The blowjob. Was it OK?"

Rush ran his hands through his hair. "I don't get many these days," he admitted.

Huh? His partner has 24/7 access to this beautiful penis, and she's not interested in it?

The room was dark, but I swear he blushed.

"Swing by whenever you're horny, mate," I joked, "I'll look after you." I stroked his thigh. Our eyes locked. Our sweaty bodies collided, and as we kissed, I dragged him onto my bed, enveloping him, wanting him. "Wait," I pleaded, "don't go anywhere." Racing to the couch, I grabbed a fat cushion, and on the way back, I rescued the bottle of lube I kept stashed in my bedside drawer.

I poured some lube into the palm of my hand and stroked Rush hard again. I wondered what it'd feel like to make him explode in my fist, feeling his gooey warmth cascading down across my knuckles ... I salivated, remembering how good he tasted ...

With the remainder, I lubed myself up, smearing viscous liquid across the opening of my desperately hungry cunt.

I propped my hips up on the cushion, lay on my back, and pulled him in for a deep kiss.

I felt the heat of his cock knocking on my pussy door. With a deep breath, I relaxed, letting him in.

I've got dildos as big as Rush, maybe a little bit bigger, but I haven't used them in a while, and I was a bit out of practice. It stung a little as he pushed himself in, and I'm sure he noticed me wincing. But the pain was fleeting, quickly giving way to a sweet explosion of bliss.

He stretched me wide. He felt so good inside me.

Rush fucked me quietly, almost politely. I felt his hips gyrating slowly; I gazed at his perfect torso, teasing his nipples with my black painted fingertips.

His jaw gaped.

"Is this good?" I asked.

He didn't answer. He closed his eyes. "I'm gonna ... mate ... fuck ... I can't ..."

Time was precious and words needed to be quick. "On my face," I seethed, feeling his fat cock thickening inside me.

"You sure?" asked Rush.

I flopped my tongue out, waiting to receive.

As he pulled his dick out of me, I felt empty, but I knew I was about to be fed.

I tickled his balls as he stroked himself onto my face, painting me with cum. A thick rope of Rush's semen plastered across my lips and mouth, and my tongue darted out to capture as much of his DNA as I could. It felt like I was standing in a violent summer rainstorm, hot drops of sperm landing all over me, drenching me.

I ran my hungry hands over my face, desperately wanting to eat every last drop of his seed. Unfortunately, it meant I scooped some of the black crap he had on his nose into my mouth. Whatever that was, it didn't taste so good.

Rush lay down beside me. We were both sweating. "Fuck, mate, your sperm tastes so fucking good. Shame about the boot polish, though."

He smiled. It felt like he had a witty response on the tip of his tongue, but if he did, it didn't come out.

My dick was still hard. Leaking. I hadn't cum.

I think he noticed. I felt his hand run across my chest and abdomen, reaching down, travelling south ...

Was he just being polite? Was he just returning the favour? Was he just being a nice guest?

"Rush, mate, you ... you don't need to ... it's OK, you don't have to ..."

I swear, if he touches my cock, I'll explode.

I felt his fingers scratch the itchy top of my pubic mound. I felt his breath on my painfully erect penis, throbbing in the refracted streetlights. I felt his hand on my balls and the weight of his beautiful hair as it cascaded over my thigh. I felt his lips wrap ever so tentatively around the head of my tortured cock, and ...

I swear I'd never cum so hard in all my life. My hips writhed as my cock went off like a firehose attacking a highrise building in flames. As Rush took my twitching dick out of his mouth, my semen sprayed everywhere, landing on my chest, my legs, my neck, my mattress, the floor; each rope landing with a hot thwack.

And then the last thing I ever expected to happen, happened. Rush sucked my spent, deflated cock onto his tongue, tasting me, eating the dregs of my load, and it felt like I was floating on a cloud. My empty balls ached, but the base of my brain pulsed like distant fireworks.

He scooted back up and kissed me gingerly on the cheek. My eyes, wide like saucers, gazed into his. I grabbed his jaw, pulled it towards me, and kissed him.

He kissed me back, and as our tongues collided, my heart sang.

We lay on our backs, side by side, feeling the breeze coming through my window, watching the curtains pitch and sway.

I don't know how long it was. From the corner of my eye, I watched his chest rise and fall. I was desperately thirsty, but I dared not move for fear of spoiling this moment.

"Fuck," said Rush, sitting up urgently, "what's the time?"

I checked my watch. "Midnight."

"No way," he protested. "It's *way* later than that." He found his own watch.

"What's it say?" I asked.

"Midnight," he frowned.

"Exactly midnight?" I asked.

"On the dot." Rush held his watch to his ear, trying to see if it was ticking.

This was too weird. I tried to process.

"Do you reckon something went wrong with time?" he asked.

"What?" I sat up on one elbow, frowning. My arse was still pulsing. "Huh?"

"Like, your watch says it's midnight, and so does mine, but ..."

"But what?" I pressed.

"Mine stopped," he said. "Exactly at midnight."

I held mine to my ear. Fuck. It wasn't ticking either.

"There's literally no way it's still midnight," Rush continued. "It's way later than that. Two o'clock at least, maybe later."

I tried to think, ignoring the soft pulses of my gaping cunt. Our watches had both stopped in unison at the exact stroke of midnight. "Do you reckon ... do you reckon time itself ... stopped?"

Rush frowned. "Is that ... is that even possible?"

"Don't really know," I whispered. "Maybe. But ... but don't you think it's strange? That both our watches stopped at midnight?"

"Yeah."

"On Halloween."

Rush gulped. "Yeah," he whispered. "That's fuckin' weird."

Silence filled the room, and I smiled a nervous half-smile. "Trick or treat."

Rush looked a little panicky, almost as if he thought I'd played an elaborate trick on him. "I need to go," he said, and I knew the spell was broken.

I cleared my throat. "Do you have clothes?"

"No," he said. "Just this ... this fuckin' costume."

I laughed. "Well, we can't have you prowling the streets naked, we're gonna have to get you back into your furry spider outfit." I imagined the conversation he'd have with his partner when he got home still sporting eight limbs, or what they'd talk about tomorrow morning over breakfast.

"Mind if I put the light on?" I asked, and we both squinted for a moment as our eyes adjusted. He collected his glasses from my windowsill.

It was a little bit easier cramming Rush back into the spider costume than it was getting him out of it.

I led him and his surplus limbs to my front door. "Need me to call you a taxi?"

"Nah, mate, I'm only a few blocks away." He paused for a second. "Nice meetin' you."

"Same," I said. "Thanks for coming over."

"I owe you a beer next time," Rush smiled. "Or maybe three or four." He hugged me with each of his eight arms, kissing my freshly painted fingernails before kissing me on the lips.

I watched him walk off into the night, dressed in a rented spider costume. I'd like to think he waved at me as he walked away, but if he did, I wasn't sure which limb it was.

I took a deep breath, then exhaled.

Maybe I like Halloween now.

I'm not sure.