 FIC: "Doors of Perception" "If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite--" -- William Blake "What the fuck's the matter?" Colin Farrell asked, staring at the stricken face of his 'Alexander' director, Oliver Stone. "He's dead." Stone's eyes were glassy. "Who? Who the fuck's dead?" Stone sat down across from Colin, sighing as he descended into the plush chair. "Danny. Danny Sugarman." Colin's eyes darted sideways as he stubbed out his cigarette, trying to recall whether he knew a Danny Sugarman. "Who's that, Oliver?" he finally asked. "He wrote 'Nobody Gets Out of Here Alive,'" Stone said in a quiet voice. "He worked with me on 'The Doors.' He was only 50 fucking years old." Sighing, Colin got up off the couch and approached a nearby table; he rustled through a pile of refuse, knocking down a copy of the Irish Times as he searched for a pack of Camel Lights. A page of the paper was folded back to a large photo of the 'Alexander' premiere at the Savoy Cinema. Just below it was a headline that read "Doors Manager Dies." Colin shook the last smoke out of the pack. "What'd he die of? Drug overdose?" Stone almost smiled, watching. "Lung cancer." "Oh." Colin snorted out a laugh. "That's too fucking bad." "I feel like a dinosaur," Stone said in a faraway voice. "What the hell am I doing?" "You're getting ready to be skewered by the Italian press," Angelina Jolie said, walking into the suite. "Why?" "Somebody died," Colin said, lighting up again. "Do you have to smoke in here?" Angelina asked. "Who died?" "We're not in the States now," Colin answered. "This is my country. It's okay to smoke." He smiled at the beautiful actress. "Give me a break, Angie." Ignoring Colin, Jolie went over to Stone and studied him, offering a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, Oliver. I'm not going to stay, but I'll see you soon, maybe in Rome." Stone smiled up at the actress. "Thanks" was all he managed. A somber-looking Val Kilmer entered. "Where are you going?" he said to Jolie as she swept past him. "Somewhere I can breathe," she answered. Kilmer watched her go, then turned and gave Colin a long look. "Fuck the cigarettes," he said. "Let's smoke these." He dropped a handkerchief on the coffee table; it fell open, revealing a cache of what appeared to be carefully hand-rolled joints. Colin whistled. "The concierge hooked me up," Kilmer reported with a grin. "Top grade reefer." He picked one up and took it to Stone. "Let's toke up in memory of Danny and the Lizard King," he said, handing Stone the joint. Stone smiled. "Thanks, Val. Good idea." Colin watched the two men, wondering if he should intrude on their party. Val had starred in Oliver's movie 'The Doors' more than a decade earlier, so it was fitting for the two men to grieve together in whatever way they chose; there was no reason he couldn't head down to the bar and hook up with his friends or go to his own house near the canal. Then, remembering their often contentious relationship, he decided it would be best not to leave them alone -- alone with what appeared to be very fine weed. "Give me one of those," he said, abandoning his cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray. Kilmer grinned at him. "We'll share," he said, "like the boys used to." Stone lit up and took a long drag, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. "No bogartting," Kilmer warned. "Give Colin a hit." Stone passed the joint to Colin, who sat back on the couch and relaxed before lifting it to his face. "Wait," Kilmer ordered, approaching. "How 'bout a powerhit?" He sat down next to Colin and leaned in, his mouth just inches from Colin's. "Go ahead," he said. "I'll give you a blow." Just as Colin inhaled, Kilmer surrounded the other end of the joint with his lips and blew. Colin sucked in and fought the urge to cough. He had never shared a smoke this way, and the intensity surprised him. He leaned back and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was staring into Kilmer's face, but it was younger and more supple, the eyes rheumy and low-lidded, perfectly framed in flowing dark hair. Full, curved lips closed on his and, instead of a joint, Colin found a pointed tongue in his mouth. He sighed and sucked, warmth filling him. "You're beautiful, man, you know that?" The voice was deep and breathy. "You should be a fucking movie star." Colin ran his fingers through the tousled hair. "Val?" "You high, man? It's Jim, remember?" "Jim . . . Jim Morrison," Colin murmured. The voluptuous lips smiled. "Right. You remember." Colin glanced down at his own body. He was lying naked on a mattress, sheets and pillows strewn about. "Your cock is beautiful," Jim said. "So natural. So perfect. With that cock, you should be in porn. You'd be a star." Morrison's chest was bare except for a skinny string of beads, but he was wearing tight, black leather pants. He stood up and strutted around what appeared to be a motel room, and Colin followed him with his eyes. "You ever take a trip?" Jim asked. Nodding, Colin said, "Sure. I spent a year in Australia. And I came here all the way from Ireland. That's a trip." Jim laughed. "No, man. A trip. An acid trip." Colin shook his head, running a hand through his own long hair. He grabbed a pillow and pushed it under his neck; he stared up at the ceiling, thinking about the drugs he had done in his life. "No. Smack," he said. "And other shit. But not acid." Morrison loomed over him, his face pale. "Open your mouth," he said. "Stick out your tongue." Closing his eyes, Colin did as he was told. Morrison placed something small on his tongue. "Now, take a drink and swallow." Jim handed Colin an open bottle of Johnny Walker. "It's pretty mild acid," he went on, "but nice. I'll be your tour guide, okay?" Colin nodded. "Sure. That's cool." "While you get started, I'll play with that beautiful cock of yours. Does it bother you to have a guy do it?" "No . . . I don't know. Christ." "Evidently not. You don't seem bothered at all. The turtle's poking his head out of his shell." "Oh, fuck." Colin groaned as Jim Morrison's hand worked over his erection, tugging it upward and squeezing the exposed head. "We need some music," Jim announced. Dropping Colin's penis and moving to a portable turntable, he flipped a switch; familiar music filled the room -- keyboards and electric guitar. "C'mon baby," Jim crooned. "Let me light your fire." Colin gasped as his erection was grabbed again. Morrison lay down next to him on the mattress, stroking him somewhat vigorously, going from the base to the end, then back to the center. Over and over. Colin groaned and closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the singer's intense face. "Christ! I'm . . . gonna . . . come," he said. "Uh, uh. Not yet." Morrison gave Colin's penis a firm squeeze just below the head, and it suddenly drooped. "What the fuck? Are you crazy?" Leaning over, Jim Morrison lowered his face to Colin's and touched his lips with his tongue. "Take it easy, baby. It will be better when you start to trip." "Then, leave me alone until then. Don't do that shit again! My fuckin' bollocks will burst." Jim laughed into Colin's mouth. "Passionate Irishman. I'm Irish, too, y'know?" "You're a poet," Colin drawled. "A singer." Morrison's eyes were less than an inch from Colin's face. "What are you, Colin?" Colin sighed. "I have no fuckin' idea." Crawling up on his knees, his leather pants creaking, Morrison tossed his head. "Let me tell you who you are, then." He reached out his right hand and slowly stroked Colin's penis, bringing it back to life. "You are sex," he said in a breathy voice. "Man. Boy. Passion." He leaned close, studying Colin's sex organs. "You're the future, the seed of tomorrow. Your body is filled with that seed, and your fruit will live forever." Reaching for the bottle, Morrison took a swig. "Like I will." "You're fuckin' crazy," Colin said. "And you give a feeble wank, man." Morrison laughed. "Never! When I'm ready, I'll make you come like fire, man, like the eruption of a volcano. Believe me, you'll dig it." "My head is spinning," Colin complained. "I can't think straight." "What's straight? That's a word that doesn't apply to any of this, man! What does it mean? Is straight good? I think straight is fake. Life is full of curves, man. Like the human body." As he spoke, he ran his hand over Colin's belly and hips, finally taking firm hold again of Colin's semi-erect penis. "Quit fucking teasin' me," Colin said, groaning. He looked down at his lower body and noticed that his penis was growing as he watched it, adding inches by the second. It looked two feet long. "What the fuck?" he said. "Tell me." "My dick is huge," Colin said. "Impossible." Jim laughed. "Nothing is impossible. Sometimes you find out the truth when you drop acid." "What truth?" "I guess that your cock is bigger than your head, Colin." Colin laughed. "I didn't need to get high to know that!" "You want to fuck me with it?" Jim asked. Colin stared at his own huge dick, curving out at least two feet from his hips. He shook his head. "I'd kill you." "'The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,'" Jim quoted. "I plan to live until I die. If I die with a cock in my ass, it will be death by the sword of life." Levitating over the mattress, Colin now looked down at Jim Morrison. "If I pissed on you, I'd drown you." "Do it," Morrison breathed. "Cover me with a shower of gold." "This thing is still growin'! It's three feet long." "Maybe it will sprout wings or a propeller in a minute. I'll jump on board and we'll head up Sunset to the Whiskey, flying over everyone's heads. Then we'll jam and trip all night." Colin reached out his hands and touched the ceiling of the motel room. The tattoos on his arms were shining and moving, like animated films. He watched his left forearm for a time as an intricate battle scene played out. "Has my hair turned color? I feel like it's blonde," he said. Morrison nodded. "You're a golden god now. You're Alexander the Great." "Fuckin' A," Colin agreed. "Alexander! I'm the conqueror of the world." Walking to the record player, Morrison replaced the needle arm to the first track. "And your cock is your sword, man! It's your spear. Climb on my back and I'll be Bucephalus." Colin dropped to the mattress and reached for Morrison. With two fingers he ripped away the leather pants which came apart in three long rents; then he pushed the singer on his face. In front of him, his elongated organ stretched several feet, its end pulsing with life. "My knob is the size of a fist," he said in awe. "It's gonna rip the shit out of you." "Decimate me. Conquer me. Give me some death," Morrison urged. "You're fuckin' crazy, but I'm gonna do it. Get up on your knees." "Ride me!" Placing the throbbing end of his penis against Jim Morrison's anus, Colin pushed forward. The length of his cock was multicolored, laced with wide, red veins. As it disappeared inside Morrison's rocking body, he felt flesh stripping away around him, just as the leather pants had torn. Morrison's backside started to quake, and Colin knew he would come immediately. "Beautiful!" Morrison said. His ejaculate was molten lava. The form of Jim Morrison caught fire and dissolved. Colin fell forward and fumbled around the mattress, searching for Morrison, seeing nothing but sparks and ashes. "Jim?" he cried out, starting to sob. "Jim? Where the fuck did you go?" All around him were swirling motes and the sound of The Doors singing 'Light My Fire.' Sinking down on the mattress, Colin wept, his body shaking. He pulled his knees up into a fetal position and closed his eyes, whimpering. How would he finish his trip without his tour guide? Then he felt the full lips on his. He opened his eyes. Val Kilmer was smiling into his face. "Good shit?" "Huh?" "This is the best reefer I've ever tasted," Kilmer said. "And I love sucking it off your mouth." Close by, Oliver Stone watched the two. "Alexander and Jim Morrison. Two of my favorite men," Oliver said. "This is going to be a masturbation moment I'll relive for the rest of my life." "Knock yourself out, Oliver," Kilmer said. "Why not?" Colin sighed, feeling the tears trailing down his cheeks. Val Kilmer's hand was inside his shirt. "I think I tripped for a minute there," Colin said. "I thought you were Jim Morrison." Kilmer laughed. "I was," he said. "Once." The End
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