Night finds him brooding. From his roost in a half-lit niche he watches the moon, avoiding the giant poster of him and Mikey that inhabits his lonely living room. Not that he needs to see it. He was there when the strip was taken. The two of them goofing off, having gone to a comic book con. Mikey had begged him to come, nagged him for days to come, just once, just to see. And he had gone, smirking most of the day, feeling rather superior to the losers who held up plastic slip-covered comics with all of the reverence of a priest performing communion with the Holy Chalice. He hadn't smirked at Mikey though. Michael he understands. Understands the urge to leave the world behind and be somewhere else, someone else. To put on a disguise and go forth secretly into the world. Into a world that has no expectations of him. Where he has no history, no identity beyond his flesh. Whenever he goes to Woody's or Babylon and picks up some guy, some trick, never allowing them to touch anything more than his flesh, it's as if he's wearing a mask. Fuckman in his black Fuckmobile. Only they do have expectations. Out of ignorance they presume that they know him, know what he's capable of, willing to do, to tolerate. They don't. The only person who really knows him is Michael.
Only Michael isn't around anymore. Seeing him at the Liberty Diner, hearing him speak to the Boy Wonder he had wanted, had wanted… Maybe Deb was right. Maybe he pushed too hard. But that's what happens when you try to do what someone else wants you to do. If only he could have kept his temper, if he hadn't felt so angry at Deb, at Mikey... Michael makes a decision and suddenly it's his fault, he has to 'fix it.' He wished he could have sneered and told her, "I don't care," but he couldn't because he did care. And what did caring get him? Total boredom hanging out with Ted; too many meals mooched off the mommies; and way too many beers, too much Jim Beam, and no Mikey to look after him.
He stares at the photo strip on the wall, can almost feel the warmth of Michael's body in his arms. They seem so alive. So happy. Just the two of them. Thought crosses his mind, I wonder what Michael would do if I called him and told him I was sorry and that I loved him and needed him? He imagines Michael's face lighting up on the other end of the line, totally oblivious to Dr. Dave's presence, having heard what he wanted most to hear. That image still in his mind, he reaches for his cell phone, then lets it lie on the counter untouched. Mikey deserved better. Deserved to be treated better, taken care of, loved. Mikey wanted to settle down and-and Kinney men didn't do relationships. Straight or gay. "Never should have been a family man…" "Don't make the same mistake I did, sonny boy…" His old man's words, words he had repeated to Mikey, haunt him. Because what had he done but gone out and gotten a kid? Christ. Lindsay'd have him out in the park pushing a fuckin' stroller soon. And after that, then what? Living with some poor SOB who'd get ripped into at least three times a week the way his mom had been. Watching him stumble home drunk, just like his old man had. Only instead of his mom it'd be some guy who'd fight back. Like Mikey had, until Brian did something really shitty and that'd be the end of it. Better that it end now before he'd done irreparable harm. The Doc was-would be good for Michael. He had done the right thing. He glances at the strip again, eyes misting. Doesn't even realize that he's spoken until he hears himself say, "I'm-" and falters, unsure of what he had intended to confess. He blinks rapidly, refusing the comfort of tears.
There's a knock on the door. Justin. Putting aside all thoughts of Michael, Brian goes to let in the Boy Wonder, amazed that he's actually glad Justin's come. He slides the door open and is greeted with a bright smile. "Hey," Justin says, trying to hide his delight at having been invited over-and failing. His smile grows wider.
Brian raises an eyebrow. "What do you want to do?" he asks, leaving Justin at the door.
Justin enters the apartment closing the door behind him. Holds out something in a brown paper bag. "I brought ice cream."
Leaning against the counter, Brian shakes his head. "That's two hours at the gym, blown, for what? Ten minutes of pleasure. Tops."
"I'll make it worth your while." Justin nears Brian, puts down his backpack, and sets the ice cream on the counter between them. Removes it from the bag. "We can work it off together," he suggests, running a tentative hand up Brian's side.
Eyes suddenly gleaming, Brian tugs on Justin's arm, leads him over to the stereo. "Let's dance." He puts on a CD. Instead of bombarding them with the frenetic sounds of techno house music, the stereo seduces with a sexy mambo number. Brian gathers Justin in his arms and they move slowly against one another. Justin lays his head in the hollow of Brian's throat and flattens a palm over his chest, feeling Brian's heart beat in languid counterpoint to the bass line of the music. They sway together for a chorus or two and then Brian lifts Justin and seats him on the back of the sofa. They kiss deeply as the music winds about them, drawing them closer together. Justin opens his thighs, then closes them again, his knees pressing against Brian's hips. Brian devours his lips, fingers entwined in golden hair. Justin is moaning into his mouth, aroused already and Brian feels his cock stir in response. What is it about Justin that excites him so much? Is it just that he's young and beautiful? But he's had young and beautiful, well, not so young, at least not since he was seventeen.
He pulls away amidst complaints from his young lover. Lays a finger against Justin's lips. "Wait." Makes a quick foray into his bedroom, returning with a couple of condoms and a tube of lube. But Justin isn't on the couch. He's standing by the counter with the pint of ice cream beneath his fingers. He pries off the top. Dips a finger into the softening top layer. Leisurely licks off the ice cream. Brian's focus zeroes in on Justin's mouth as it closes about his fingertip, a drop of cream clinging to his swollen lower lip. He growls deep in his throat and drops the condoms and the lube on the table next to the leather chaise lounge.
Justin saunters over to Brian, carrying the pint of ice cream. Pushes Brian down and places the ice cream next to the lube. Commands his lover's attention as he strips. Feeling Brian's eyes press into and stroke his flesh as he reveals chest, belly, thighs, and buttocks. Then, naked, he straddles Brian. Shivers as Brian draws him closer and they begin kissing again. He works Brian's shirt open and off and brushes his lips across his nipples, flicks his tongue over the stiffening nubs. The tip of Brian's tongue appears from between his lips. He leans back and lets Justin do all the work. Coaxing his flesh to harden. Drifting into a haze of pleasure he jerks as something cold makes contact with his skin, causing his nipple to draw to a head. And then Justin's lips close about the aching point again and the warmth spreads and he can't remember the cold, can only feel Justin's hot breath.
Making his way down Brian's lean torso, leaving sticky lip prints on his skin, Justin tears open Brian's jeans and kisses his belly, his chin tickled by strands of pubic hair. Brian raises his hips but Justin doesn't slide the jeans down any further. Instead, he works his hand inside of Brian's briefs and draws his cock from its snug confines. His eyes fixed on Brian's, Justin allows his lips to graze the head of Brian's dick, so gently it's as if he had only blown his breath across the tip. Placing the mushroom-shaped cap against his lips again, he slowly opens his mouth and takes it in. Soon his head is bobbing over Brian's lap as he goes down on him, leisurely, throat relaxed, enjoying every spit-slicked inch.
The muscles in Brian's calves tense as he raises up onto his toes, trying to drive the sensation of coming out of his groin and down into the soles of his feet. His back arches and he grips the edge of the lounge. Glances down and sees his shaft emerge from between Justin's lips, hard, glistening with saliva. Before he can warn Justin that he's getting close, he's released. His cock slaps against his belly. His jeans and briefs are wrenched over his feet. Justin straddles him again, this time facing away from him. Dives onto his cock and begins sucking him all once more. With one hand he holds Brian's dick upright and with his free hand, he scoops a palm full of ice cream. Brian grunts and holds his breath, certain that he is going to come soon. And then Justin closes his hand around his shaft and he shouts. All thoughts of coming are driven away by the icy sensation in his groin . His balls draw up against his shaft. Ice cream drips down his cock, quickly followed by Justin's tongue. He lets his head drop back against the lounge. "Fuck," he whispers harshly. Takes a deep breath. "Fuck." Two could play at this game.
Justin is lost in the feel, the taste of Brian's cock. He doesn't know if the caffeine in the ice cream is contributing to the high he's feeling, but he's definitely wired. Sucking Brian's dick sometimes made him feel like a bolt of electricity was going through his body. Or better yet, like they were linked and sending information along an coaxial cable that connected them through Brian's cock and Justin's throat.
Opening his eyes, Brian is greeted with the sight of Justin's smooth, gently sloping backside. Raising up, Brian grips Justin's thighs and kisses a creamy cheek. Kisses the other. Spreads apart the two pump globes, centers his face over Justin's hole and blows softly, disturbing the fine hairs there. Justin moans around Brian's cock. Brian flicks his tongue over Justin's taut, pink rosebud. The petals tighten then relax. He encircles the wrinkled hole with his tongue, washes around and then over the flushed flesh until Justin falters momentarily, unable to do anything but enjoy this possession. Pausing, Brian reaches for the pint of ice cream. Runs two fingers all the way around the inside rim of the carton. Withdraws them. He lays his cheek against Justin's left one. "Open wide." Justin reaches back and grabs the opposite buttock, opening himself to Brian's mercy. He breathes around Brian's cock as clever fingers paint his hole strawberries and cream. Releasing Brian's cock, Justin cries out as an agile tongue follows, lapping him clean. "You scream…" He recaptures Brian's cock and gives it a hard suck. Brian grunts and pants, "I scream…" He groans with his mouth sealed over Justin's hole. Breathes, "We all scream…" And then his fingers begin again, not stopping at the outer rim, but venturing inside. This time when Justin lets his cock slide free, it's for good. He can hardly move, doesn't want to do anything to disturb Brian at his delicious work. Brian waits until Justin's breathing stabilizes and then he plunges deeper, resting again for a moment before his fingers retreat back up Justin's moist channel.
Justin's breath comes ragged against Brian's thighs as his lover finger fucks him, replenishing the ice cream lubricant as needed. They continue like this for a while and then Brian removes his fingers. Ice cream drips down over Justin's balls and Brian licks his sac, sucking each of his balls into his mouth. Justin's dick is so hard he's afraid that if Brian touches it, he'll explode. But Brian does touch him, stroking his cock as he feeds on his balls, and he doesn't explode although his entire body is flushed and he feels like he's at the center of a nuclear meltdown. His balls slip from Brian's mouth and he feels Brian's hands on him, signaling for him to turn around and he does. He is barely aware of Brian opening and unrolling the condom over his cock but he does feel Brian's fingers enter his asshole lubing him up. Feels Brian's hands on his waist, urging him to squat. Although his eyes are closed, he can see in his mind's eye his ass hovering over Brian's cock. He holds onto Brian's shoulders and lowers himself until he feels the latex-covered cock head press against his hole. He takes a deep breath and pushes down. The broad head of Brian's dick opens him up, stretches his sweet, slippery lips, passes through the relaxed ring of muscle. He releases the breath he had been holding and continues to descend upon his lover's cock until he feels Brian's pubes scratching his buttocks. Brian draws his head down for a kiss, their tongues embracing, parting. He feels so full, his ass stuffed with cock.
They start out slowly, Justin rising and falling with an easy rhythm, Brian moving at a minimum, then a little more, and still a little more, feet pushing against the floor to steady himself. Brian slowly exhales as Justin's muscles clasp and palpitate his shaft. To be able to forget, that's what fucking does for him: it allows him to forget everything except for the act itself. The way Justin's ass tightens at the end of a stroke and holds onto him, embracing him, urging him to expand, to plunge and possess. His tongue invades Justin's mouth just as his cock stabs him below. His mind is blank, empty of any other thoughts; he is totally in and of the moment, mind and body working in concert. Gradually the pace increases and the chaise lounge begins to complain, their vigorous movements straining its joints.
Justin stands up completely, letting Brian's dick slip from inside of him. But before Brian can complain, the boy turns around and straddles the chair again. Taking his cue from the teen's actions, Brian unfolds himself and moves in behind Justin. Pushes him over so that he has to hold onto the edges of the lounge to keep his balance. Grabs one hip for support. Holds his cock in his other hand and feeds it into Justin's ass. Justin shudders, moans, and sways his hips back to meet Brian's thrusts. Cries out as Brian penetrates him. They struggle, bodies jerking one against the other. All finesse forgotten in the urge to finish, to come. They love without words, their actions sufficient where a hundred words could not begin to describe what they feel, what they need. There is only the mambo music and the mellifluous sounds of fucking: of flesh slapping against flesh, muscles tensing and relaxing, stolen breaths, abrupt exhalations.
Brian stays deep inside Justin, the time between strokes decreasing, humping him, his cock expanding inside the condom, preparing to blow. He bites the back of Justin's neck gently and rams his cock into him. A bolt of electricity shoots from the base of his spine through his shaft inflaming a spot halfway up Justin's hole. Justin shouts and comes, Brian but a moment behind him. Cum splatters the soft leather of the chaise lounge. Brian cups Justin's cock in his hand and feels it throb before releasing another creamy wad in his palm. Justin sinks into the lounger, cock still spitting, Brian's pulsating inside him.
Withdrawing, Brian lays back on the lounge, his vision sharpening once more. Justin remains slumped over, breathing deeply, muscles still trembling slightly, and Brian is struck by the vulnerability in his pose, in the round buttocks and curved spine, the lowered head. It is at these moments that he seems most child-like, after they've fucked, when he's wide open to attack. Brian could shred him with an unkind word or gesture. Instead, it is then that he feels most protective of the teenager. He reaches over and strokes Justin's thigh. "Come here," he whispers and Justin turns and straddles his hips and they kiss, lips barely touching, connected once more.
Twenty minutes later Brian is regretting the tenderness he's shown as Justin cuts into him. "I bet you're secretly wishing that the phone would ring and it would be him." Him, being Mikey.
"I said shut the fuck up." He knocks back a swig of Jim Beam. Searches for the right words in his alcohol- and sex-hazed mind. "His life was just gonna hang there, like some shirt in the closet you're never gonna wear."
Justin continued to dress. "So you pushed him away."
"It was the only course of action." The regret in his voice alarms him and he bites down on the bitterness that swells.
"Yeah, but now he hates you."
Christ, that kid. Won't let anything go. He forces himself to say, "It's okay. As long as Mikey's happy."
Pausing, Justin studies Brian for a moment, seeing a person he hardly recognizes, a face Brian has been unwilling to let him see, the countenance of a man who cares, who loves. "God. You must really love him." But the thought doesn't sadden Justin, on the contrary it gives him hope. If Mikey, then maybe him too.
"I think it's time for you to go."
He passes by Brian and playfully cuffs him on the side of the head with his sleeve. "It always is." Finds his shoes and slips on the Nikes without untying them. "Luckily you can't push me away." He leans in. "I'm onto you." Smiling, he goes to pick up his backpack.
Brian watches him in bemused confusion. Fucking kid.
Justin's scent lingers long after he has gone: on the leather seat, Brian's fingers, his lips. His words as well refuse to vacate the premises. "God. You must really love him." Brian finishes off the Jim Beam. The photo strip and the posters of Mikey catch his eye again. Setting the bottle down-catching it after he misses the first time-he crosses unsteadily to where the posters hang. Without thinking, he tears the strip from the wall. It rips in two. The sound stops him cold and he stands, numb, holding one half of the photo in hands that begin to shake. Opening his fingers, he lets the paper fall. It collapses in a heap like so much refuse. Through the window the moon watches without comment. He stumbles to bed to sleep it off.
Heels Over Head | Stories