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sekritomg
They went to Pho Saigon, in Englewood. They had been there something like five times in two years, which by foodie standards was pathetic, and yet the waiter somehow knew them, knew what they wanted to order. “You like sizzling pancake,” he said, scribbling it down on a little pad. “You ordered that last time.”
Stan raised his eyebrows, arms crossed, probably dreaming of coronary grilled cheese hamburgers.
Kyle shrugged. “Yeah, I do like that,” he said. “We’ll take one of those, and—”
“Bahn mi with meatball, extra cilantro,” the waiter filled in. “And pho with vermicelli noodle, tripe, and meatball.”
Kyle’s jaw dropped. “We haven’t been here in seven months! How do you know our order?”
“Last time you threw bubble tea at him” — the waiter pointed his Bic pen at Stan — “and we banned you for six months.”
“Cool,” Stan said, finally smiling. “I forgot about that.”
“I was having a really bad day!”
The waiter shuffled off, smirking.
“Well,” said Stan, leaving across the table, into Kyle’s personal space. “I know I find you memorable. Who knew other people did too?”
“Fuck off, Stan,” Kyle spat. “I’m in no way memorable.”
“I don’t know why you think that.”
“Because you mean it in a nasty way!”
“I mean it in the most flattering possible way.” Stan offered a wan smile, which fell from his face when Kyle didn’t return the gesture. So Stan reached across the table again, grabbing one of Kyle’s elbows as it rested next to his water goblet. “Kyle, calm down.”
Kyle yanked his elbows from the table. “I am calm,” he said, in an even voice.
“Behaving yourself, I guess.” Stan shrugged, glancing across the table. He wished they’d gone for Mexican. He could do with some chips or something. Oyster crackers. “Honey, listen.”
That caught Kyle’s attention; Stan only used his gay honey voice when he was super serious. “I’m listening.”
It seemed like Stan was going to say something, something profound or at least caring. But then he shook his head, muttering, “Nothing,” and looked away for a moment, out the window. They were in a mini-mall, and there was little to look at: big, lavender mountain skies, darkening quickly as the sun sank behind the hills, sliding away into the clear night of the American West, cool, dry evenings followed by mild, dry mornings, when the sun beat down like it was hanging in the sky just for them, or Kyle especially, with his skin the color of thick Greek yogurt mixed with honey, which incidentally was what he’d fixed for breakfast that morning.
Stan turned away from the window, sipping from his water goblet, wiping condensation off on his pants.
“Oh, Stan.” Kyle shook his head. “Don’t do that.”
“It’s cool.” Stan re-folded his napkin, sitting back in his chair. The restaurant smelled of gelatin and beef tendons, lime and sliced cucumbers. They’d been to East Asia once, when Stan was called away to a tech conference in Tokyo to look at printers that spat out reams and reams of Braille. It didn’t smell anything like this Vietnamese mini-mall restaurant, a daunting staid box in between other businesses that had already closed for the evening. It was a Friday night and the place was bustling, although not as crowded or disorienting as an Akihabara street corner. Pho Saigon smelled more authentic.
“So what are you doing this weekend?”
“Oh.” Kyle sat more upright in his chair, elbows back on the tablecloth. It was apparent that he hadn’t really though about it. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe I’d like to plant some kale; would that be nice? I mean, what are you doing?”
“I guess I’m planting kale,” Stan replied. “I mean, other than looking over those galleys.”
“Do you want to watch a movie after dinner? Like maybe something new on Netflix?” Even as Kyle suggested this, he knew it was a horrible idea. The television was broken, so they’d have to share the long screen of his Macbook Pro, huddled together on the couch with their heads resting against each other, legs crisscrossed and overlapping. He knew this full-well and he suggested it anyway.
Stan said, “I don’t know. Depends what’s playing,” like things played on Netflix the same way they played in the theater or they played on HBC when they were children, like it was T&P at 5 and then news at 6 p.m., maybe Fighting Round the World after, but only on Wednesday evenings. They could watch all the seasons of that they wanted on Netflix, except the news, maybe. Was the news still on? “Maybe,” said Stan, licking him lips, “Maybe when we get the TV fixed we can also get one for the bedroom.”
“But I don’t know where we’d put it,” Kyle said.
“Dresser.” Stan didn’t have to think twice.
“But what are we going to watch on TV in bed that we can’t watch on my computer?” Kyle asked.
Again, without thinking: “Porn.”
“We watch porn on my computer just fine!”
A couple at the next table glanced over at Kyle and Stan, wondering who they were and why they were talking about porn in a restaurant. Kyle waved them away with a sheepish grin, feeling like he wanted to crawl under the table and die. He turned back to Stan: “Porn is just a healthy part of our relationship, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” Stan rolled his eyes. He knew. “You don’t have to tell me.” Obviously Stan knew that Kyle wasn’t really telling him. Stan sipped from his water glass again, staring directly into Kyle’s eyes, gray-blue and knowing. Stan’s were blue as well, but brighter and greener, more striking. There was a time, a younger, more foolish time, when they’d often played “what color eyes would our children have?” like it wasn’t preposterous, like Kyle didn’t sometimes (in college) mix paint together, gray-blue and blue-green, trying to figure out what color would result. Ultimately they decided, jointly, over corn syrupy strawberry milkshakes at a rest stop outside of Green River, Wyoming, not to have children. But that muddled gray-green-blue color, Kyle had unconsciously painted it on the kitchen walls. He only realized this years later, day dreaming again at the breakfast table.
“You don’t have any appointments scheduled this weekend?” Stab asked, eager to get porn off Kyle’s mind for a bit.
“No. I’m seeing some chicks having lesbian bed death on Monday, though. Can’t wait.” It was evident from the tone that he couldn’t be less enthusiastic.
“Why would some lesbians want to talk to you?” Stan asked.
Kyle bristled at this, pointing at himself. “Because I’m smart!”
“Yes, you are, quite.” Stan offered a weak smile of contrition. “I was just asking. Like, wouldn’t they rather to talk to a lesbian sex therapist, or at least a woman sex therapist?”
“I don’t bring my sexuality into the office with me when I deal with people.” Kyle did not have an office; he took appointments and met with patients in the living room. Stan had the good sense not to point out that there were at least four pictures of them on display in the living room that made Kyle’s sexuality discernible, if not overt. Moreover, Stan highly doubted lesbians were stupid enough not to see right through Kyle’s professionalism to the butt plug he apparently wore during appointments.
Stan was wise enough not to make these points. Instead, he said, “Well, but if you’re talking to people about sex, don’t you think it’s like inherently relevant that you’re also a sexual person? Because, I mean, you’re not a robot.”
“Asking this is so stupid! It’s like asking you how you can work on Braille books if you’re not blind.”
“Well,” said Stan, “I do read Braille.”
“I read lesbian.”
“I read Hebrew,” which was true; Stan had taken Hebrew all four years of college, and majored in Middle Eastern studies.
Their sizzling crepe arrived moments later, and Stan sliced it into neat quarters. His first bit fell apart in his hands, and he ate the rest with a fork. Kyle doused his in fish oil, and ate the salty mush with a spoon, picking out the big mint leaves before each bite.
~
With a plastic tub of leftover pho in the backseat, they drove home in the darkness, Stan catching every red light.
“If I were driving,” Kyle said as they slid into break at yet another major intersection, “we’d be home right now.”
“If you were driving we’d be in the ER right now.”
Kyle had been in the ER twice that year; he got dehydrated skiing with the neighbors over Presidents’ Day weekend, then found himself needing stitches the next month when a drunken reveler slammed the men’s bathroom door into his mouth at X Bar, where they’d gone for a drink after First Friday. He had then sat in the front passenger seat, bleeding into his hands as Stan drove them to St. Joseph’s, sobbing, “I hate X Bar, I hate it,” over and over again. He’d only needed two stitches, and his lip had already healed nicely.
Kyle considered this. “Yeah, well, at least you have good medical insurance. They think I’m your lady friend or something, which is cool.”
“They know you’re my partner. It’s a good company. Don’t mock the blind, Kyle. They pay for your contact lenses.”
“Whatever.” Kyle wore non-disposables. He hated the idea of daily, monthly, weekly waste. He adjusted the seat so he was sitting up straighter, face against the window. In high school and college, Stan had owned a car that had those old-style bench seats, the ones you could lie across and neck, or lean against the driver, his arm around your shoulders, on dark mountain highways late at night. Kyle missed that. He liked the Fit, preferred the gas mileage, preferred the way it handled to that old boat, but he missed the Pontiac with its uber-unstylish 1970s wings, like riding around on a sofa, sailing anywhere you needed to go. Kyle and Stan liked to have long, sociological conversations about what they did, what they had, what it said about them; that Pontiac had said that Stan was an ironic kid with a hip sense of detachment, who found his car on the side of the road in a snowstorm and wheeled it home in neutral with the help of three friends, all of whom he promised to give rides to (and did) but only one of whom he was sleeping with, and promised to fuck slowly and kindly in the backseat after SAT prep (and did).
At home, there were ablutions, rituals forged over a 10-year, 12-year period. Stan used the bathroom first, scrubbing the grime from his fingernails and combing the part in his hair back into the center. Kyle sat on the bed flossing, taking out his contact lenses, wiping the grease from his glasses. Then they switched, Stan untucking the covers from the bed frame and Kyle running lukewarm water over the blades of his razor. He shaved with precision, organic shave cream with eucalyptus oil. Kyle was nothing if not fastidious, and he never cut himself.
In bed, they curled together under a light quilt, negotiating between Kyle’s tendency to overheat and Stan’s awkward circulation, a balance of synthetic down and body heat, a ceiling fan on low and one open window opposite the bed, billowing the curtains just a bit.
~
Stan came downstairs in the late morning after making the bed, the smell of something eggy on the griddle, the house flooded with near-midday sun, the big kitchen french doors open wide. Spring in Colorado came in bits and pieces, later perhaps than in other places, but then it dragged out into June, when already Stan’s sister in Idaho would call and complain about her sons being scalded in the afternoon heat, long hikes up rock faces with too little sunscreen and no hats, because they were young and impudent and prone to complain whether they burned or not. Denver was temperate, not dry and chilly like the clusterfuck of a mountain town they came from, an empty basin in Park County filled with white trash, mini-malls, sensationalist urban refugees and winters that stretched from Halloween to Pentecost. Denver has lovely late-May mild spring mornings, when the garden would yield early blossoms and the tomatoes were on their way.
At the stove, Kyle was plating french toast, berries on top spilling over to the side, a warm creamer of maple syrup already on the table. Without words, Stan knew to sit at the head of the table, his boxer-briefs bunched under his thighs. Kyle served him. The french toast was redolent with vanilla bean, lemon and orange zest. Stan took a whiff of it. “What bread did you use?” he asked, grasping at his fork.
Kyle sat himself with his own plate, reaching over for a mug of coffee. “Your brioche from early this week,” he said, searching for sugar, then dumping it into his coffee. “It was too stale for anything else, really.”
“Oh.” Stan hadn’t remembered making brioche, but he did now. He chewed, and thought about his galleys on the steps, and also how dissatisfied he’s been with the brioche experiment. He’d never made it before, but as he chewed a piece of plain, warm french toast, he realized it was better this way, that Kyle’s cooking skills made it palatable, or better than palatable. “This is great,” he said, making sure to nudge Kyle’s calf under the table with his toes, to make a point. “Thanks for breakfast.”
Kyle hadn’t had a bite yet, but was blushing, hands folded into his lap. “Oh, you’re welcome.”
Stan wasn’t sure what Kyle had to be nervous about, but Stan was hungry, so he ate. It was somewhat too early in the season for perfect berries, and these, black and blue, were tart, just not so tart that the sweet egg bread and maple syrup didn’t integrate that tartness. Stan never felt overly concerned with food, but he liked that Kyle made him breakfast in the mornings. It wasn’t something he’d ever asked for, just something that had developed over the years.
Almost at the end of his last slice of toast, Stan looked up to see Kyle chewing slowly, eyes fixed at a point outside, or maybe far across the kitchen, or maybe nothing at all, just some unfocused abstraction in the distance. Kyle’s usually rapacious appetite generally found him finishing meals long before Stan did, sitting with his arms crossed in annoyance, or beginning to clear the table, or reading the newspaper, the Financial Times or Denver Post. Today he just sat there, chewing slowly, with only the daintiest and most well-defined slice absent from his french toast.
“Hey,” said Stan, bothering to notice. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
Shaking his head, awakening, Kyle said, “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re all far-off.”
“Yeah, but nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking.”
“About what?”
Now Kyle looked cross. “Are you going to finish your breakfast?” He picked up his knife and jabbed at the leftover crusts of brioche that Stan had on his plate, the two or three squashed blackberries that remained, stuck to the plate with syrup.
“Yeah, probably. Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
“Yes. Like I said, I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
Rolling his eyes, Kyle said, “You get off on plumbing my psyche.”
“I get off from a lot of things, but really, you’re just sitting there looking all distant.”
“Because I’m thinking!”
After sipping from and then setting down his coffee mug, Stan said, “Well, okay. Spill.”
Kyle narrowed his eyes, a cross look, and I-haven’t-got-time look. But after a moment of this, his shoulders slumped. He sat up straighter in his chair and he said, “You asked me, ‘What kind of therapeutic bullshit is rimming?’ And I’m trying to figure it out.”
“That sounds like something I’d say.”
“Yeah, after breakfast, even.” Kyle nodded. “And just so you know, I love Elway’s. It’s horrible and I love it. I keep trying to figure out what a football player should know about steak, but he makes a good steak, the damn John Elway.”
“I seriously don’t think he’s in the kitchen.”
“So if you just want to take me to Elway’s, and we can sit at the usual table and I’ll get a wedge salad, that’s totally fine. I like it, I like that we always do it. I like new things, too, but I love old things just as well. And … I love you, Stan. I probably don’t say it enough. I don’t really care what you get me for my birthday as long as you spend it with me. Okay? Oh my god, I sound like a young adult novel. Like, Chapter 12: In Which I’m Pathetic.”
Stan leaned in. “You’re not pathetic.”
“Oh, yes I am.”
‘I’m not gonna fight about. No, you’re not. Listen, I read young adult novels at work. They usually have more pixies or something. The world is coming to an end, only the protagonist can save it. I’d rather read about two dudes doing something boring any day. If you want me to eat you out, I will. After breakfast. Eat your breakfast.” Stan pointed at Kyle’s plate. “You get grouchy when you don’t eat. Come on.”
Kyle helped himself to more maple syrup, and took a triumphant bite.
~
Upstairs it was cool, the ceiling fan apparently still on from the night before. Stan stood underneath, staring up at the blur of its blades. “Didn’t you turn that off when you got up?” He was nervous, more nervous than he wanted to be. It wasn’t his person that was being invaded.
There was a hand on his shoulder, and then a set of lips. “No, you were still sleeping when I went downstairs. I left it on for you.” Kyle worked his way inside the neck of Stan’s T-shirt, up the column of his neck, lips and teeth meeting trembling flesh. “You’re so nervous,” Kyle said when he got to Stan’s ear. “We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”
“I want to.” Stan turned, took Kyle’s long waist in his hands. “Here.” Hands dropped to Kyle’s hips, narrowing the gap between them, until their bodies were touching, breast-to-breast and mouth-to-mouth. Kyle had so many thoughts, so much to say, that even when he kissed he tried to speak. Stan did not let him get farther than incoherent little moans, beginnings of syllables, thoughts snapped in half by Stan’s tongue against Kyle’s teeth or Stan’s fingers sinking below the waist of Kyle’s briefs, brushing against a fringe of close-cropped hair, tight copper curls that Kyle kept shorn, descending from his navel and dropping into the place where his thighs met, between his thigh and his scrotum, climbing back up through the cleft in his behind. With one hand, Stan felt all this, the other hand now on the back of Kyle’s neck, grasping at his hair, pushing their mouths ever closer, until Kyle drew away.
“You don’t have to take me out to dinner,” he panted. He buried his nose in Stan’s neck, tightening his eyelids together beyond that which was necessary, his weight against Stan’s.
“I want to.” Stan had both hands supporting Kyle’s lower back now, rubbing slowly, letting all of Kyle’s weight collapse against his body.
“Don’t do this if you don’t want to.”
“I want to.”
“We don’t have to go to that stupid steakhouse—”
“I want to.” Stan lifted Kyle, easily as lifting a small child, and got him on the bed. “If you don’t stop making excuses I’m going to have to gag you.”
Kyle’s eyes rolled back in his head. He’d never thought about it before, but now he wasn’t sure why he’d never tried it. “Please do,” he said, breath short and incomplete.
“Maybe another time.” With the barest tug, Stan slipped away Kyle’s briefs, and left them down at his knees. “I might need that mouth for something later, though.”
“Like what?”
Stan laughed, nervous and tentative. “Hadn’t though about it.”
The underwear around Kyle’s knees had to come all the way off, for access if no other reason. “Are you going to take your clothes off?” he asked. Stan was still crouching there in his underpants and T-shirt, his hands on either side of Kyle’s shoulders, kissing him with fervent enthusiasm, bruising Kyle’s lips with force and abandon.
“Uh.” Stan wiped his lips, sat up, wiped his lips a second time. “No, no, it’s — I don’t know, this is more a you thing, it’s about you, not me.”
Kyle liked to hear it, but opted to keep his shirt on. It was the striped one from the day before, with the boat neck. He’d worn it to bed. “I’ll keep this on, then,” he said, not understanding why that felt more comfortable to him. But then he thought about it for a moment, Stan kissing underneath the striped fabric at the ends of his ribcage, and it all made sense. He slid down, his back flat against the comforter, with his shoulders on two pillows, Stan’s two pillows, stacked atop each other for the purpose of angling. Kyle felt he had a good view. View of what? He realized he didn’t know, but brought his hands under his thighs and, with great effort, lifted. Now his feet were in the air. They practiced this, they did it all the time; missionary. “Like missionary,” Kyle breathed.
When Stan heard Kyle say this, the look of consternation on his face unfroze a bit. “Yeah.” He nodded, a hand caressing Kyle’s hand on Kyle’s thigh. “It’s like that, at the beginning.”
“At the beginning, yeah,” Kyle agreed.
“Yeah.” Stan looked down at Kyle’s face, and they locked eyes. “But only at the beginning.” Then Stan bowed his head.
On his hands and knees, Stan trembled. The split of Kyle’s ass was something he knew intimately, but only from two feet away, from above. Like a farsighted man, he considered this thing he was effectively seeing for the first time, the first time he’d seen Kyle’s entrance this close. It seemed amazing to him that in 12, 15 years of their sex life together, this was something they’d never done, never even discussed. Stan sat up. “Kyle,” he said. It was a plea. “What do I do?”
Kyle’s legs dropped, and he sat up, too. “Oh, Stan.” His cock was half-hard, half-flaccid, just as Kyle was not entirely sure if this was going to be more intimate and instructive than it was arousing. He knew this was his fault, though. “I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you. Just — just be gentle for a while, okay? I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize — I want to.”
“My prostate, I know you are intimately acquainted with my prostate, it’s in there. Ideally, like with anything, you want to find it, but I don’t care if you don’t find it. Just, just explore, okay? Do what feels right.”
Another measure of relief swept Stan’s features, and he grinned. “Okay,” he said. “I think I get it now.”
“Not sure there’s anything to get,” Kyle said.
“Oh, honey.” Now Stan was grinning fiercely; his white teeth were like something from a catalogue. “Using your little sex worker voice on me.”
They resumed the position.
Again Stan found himself at eye-level with Kyle’s scrotum. At first, Stan was not sure Kyle was entirely into it; his half-hard cock lolled against a thigh, dry as a bone, pale as a sheet. Then Stan brought his lips against Kyle’s entrance, but not before wetting them. He pulled away, and blew. In an instant, Kyle moaned, his sac pulling up against his body and his cock springing up into a full-force erection, flushing with blood. Stan took this as a sign of encouragement, and he repeated this trick one, two, three times.
After the fourth, Kyle said, “I’m getting bored.”
Stan tried something new, licking around the tight ring of muscle that guarded Kyle’s entrance. He felt Kyle’s hands in his hair; that helped it feel more like a blow job, and Stan was used to giving those often, enthusiastically. Around and around he licked, his mouth watering and his arms tiring. Kyle had a kind of scent, lavender soap and the eucalyptus of his shaving cream, mingling with perspiration, what Kyle exuded naturally. It combined on Kyle’s skin, near his sweat glands, with the egg profile of the brioche and the fresh browning butter of the griddle, the maple and the blueberries, the blackberries, too; Stan couldn’t distinguish between the scents of black- and blueberries, but he knew they were all there just the same. The thought of all of this, all of Kyle all around him, made him excited, made him hard. Stan’s tongue moved faster and faster, until without thinking about it, he moved it inside. He felt tightness, and he heard Kyle gasp.
All the tension drained from Kyle’s body, cock leaking, drooling everywhere, into Stan’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he panted, feeling it web in his fingers as he buried them in Stan’s hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” ad infinitum.
Stan didn’t stop to answer, sinking deeper and deeper. He didn’t need to. He probed as far as he could, then retreated, then probed a bit deeper before retreating again. He withdrew and resumed a kind of kissing, sucking at the tautness of the entrance, how subtle its reactions could be. The rest of Kyle was squirming, his legs kicking and toes curling. Stan could feel the legs, but he knew about the toes from experience. Stan thought about the way his cock felt when he plunged it into Kyle’s body, how little he could actually feel of Kyle’s muscles resisting and then submitting to invasion. Stan’s tongue was more sensitive, and through it he felt all the machinations of Kyle’s body, felt Kyle’s pulse through the soft, relenting walls of his rectum. It was making Stan hard, harder than he expected he’d be. He drove in again, effectively fucking Kyle with his tongue, trying to stab in the dark (literally, as Stan’s eyes were shut) at Kyle’s prostate, probably not hitting it.
Jaw tiring, Stan pulled away, replacing his tongue with his fingers, grasping Kyle’s erection in one hand. There was a look of need on Kyle’s face: terror, lust, and loneliness.
“How do you feel?” Stan asked. He dropped Kyle’s cock and stroked Kyle’s cheek.
“Good,” was the most articulate thing Kyle could manage. “I’m so happy.” He sat up a bit, positioning his back more fully against the pillows, reaching out for Stan, for Stan’s waist, bringing their bodies back together. Through the elastic-cotton of Stan’s boxer-briefs, Kyle felt Stan’s erection. He grasped it, muttered, “You’re so hard.”
“Yeah.” Stan lowered his head, kissing Kyle against his cheek, his jawbone, his neck. Stan created suction, broke blood vessels. Stan liked how territorial it felt, knowing Kyle would hate him in about three hours, whenever Kyle looked in the mirror, as soon as he took a shower. But it felt raw, and good, and for a moment, Stan didn’t care about what was going to happen after all this, like there was nothing else, but then he felt his underwear around his thighs, and his cock throbbing in Kyle’s hands, against Kyle’s cock, the pre-come of Kyle’s arousal smearing all over Stan’s T-shirt, under his T-shirt, across his belly.
“Stan,” Kyle was moaning, “give me your fingers again.”
Stan didn’t have a reason not to, so he did. Just one, and it went in slowly. He felt the traces of his own saliva, heating in the clutch of Kyle’s insides. Stan loved it, and Kyle did too, pushing their cocks even closer together, pulsing against each other, while Stan fingered Kyle’s ass.
Whispering in Kyle’s ear, around his damp hair, Stan asked, “How do you want to come?”
Kyle didn’t miss a beat. “With you inside me.”
“Do you think the spit in your ass is enough?” Stan asked. Kyle was lying down, head on the pillows again, lifting his legs back up in the air, showing off the redness and the rawness of his hole, how well-worked it was already, gaping open slightly instead of clenched up in a tight whorl. Stan smiled at this, and he smiled at how easily they talked about sex, how plain-spoken they could be, saying what they meant, articulating what they both wanted.
“I think it’s fine.” Kyle nodded, trying to arch his calves higher, to give Stan the best possible access. “I think it’s okay if it’s just a little bit rough, you know? Because you’ve already been in me. I can take it.” In their youth it hadn’t been like this; all the years of high school were reserved and timid, reserved and scary. Until the middle of college, they never talked about sex, they just had it. Then Kyle, with his analytical mind and therapeutic inclinations, began to speak more directly, ask more directly. He stopped begging over Stan’s thighs like a whimpering dog, began saying “I want you to fuck me,” first with hesitation and, in time, with certainty. Where Stan, as a younger, more naïve abandoned car-driving lover, thought there was something poetic about their ill-defined relationship, the way they never said how they felt or what they wanted, as a Honda-owning professional he found the specificity of Kyle’s requests enticingly hot.
Stan’s cock was slick with arousal, thin and tepid, and it slipped into Kyle with only minimal resistance. Now Stan knew where Kyle’s prostate was, how to angle each stroke either toward it or away from it, quickly or slowly, bringing tears to Kyle’s eyes. Their shirts bunched together, and Stan’s knees burned from the pressure of the quilt underneath him, the one they curled under at night or rainy weekend mornings.
Panting, Kyle chanted, “Oh my god, oh my god,” so often that the words soon became indistinguishable, melting together into an urgent moan. He grasped at his own cock, eyes shut, trying to envision Stan’s cock inside of him: foreskin rolled back to accommodate its enlargement; flared head grazing Kyle’s prostate before sinking deeper, before pulling back out; pulsing with need, lingering traces of spit absorbing into Kyle’s body and Stan’s cock leaked more and more; Stan’s balls beginning to tighten, to draw in and surge—
The thought of it, combined with Kyle’s hand on his cock and Stan’s cock in Kyle’s ass, was too much. Kyle buried a hand in Stan’s thick hair and he came, continuing to stroke, but his hand slowed. “You’re so good,” he sobbed, not crying, but overwhelmed. In therapy, when patients began to cry (about lost loves, current infidelities, past molestation, future anxieties), Kyle would hand them a tissue from the box on his coffee table and say, “It’s a natural reaction to sob when the senses are overwhelmed.” It usually made people feel better. They weren’t weak, Kyle told them, just experiencing the full potential of the human condition. Now Kyle’s eyes were watering, his hips pressed out as Stan continued to thrust through Kyle’s climax.
“You look so good,” Stan said, his movements becoming erratic.
“So do you.” Kyle had both hands in Stan’s hair now, tugging at it. “I love you so much,” he said, feeling it more acutely in the fallout. Then he realized that Stan was still pushing into him, with short, frantic strokes. “Are you going to come in my ass? Give me your seed, Stan. Give it to me. Give me everything. Come on, come on…”
Stan came.
~
When they woke, it was early afternoon. The shades were wide-open, the fan was circling, and Stan was collapsed atop Kyle underneath their thin quilt. Kyle stirred first, looking out the window. Across their yard, on the other side of the block, he could see into the open balcony doors of their neighbors across the way, a couple they never spoke to. He spied their massive headboard, upholstered in what seemed to be pink velveteen. He saw their fan hanging low from a cathedral ceiling, their crow-stepped gable (out of place in Colorado) and window boxes of rosemary. Who grew rosemary off their bedroom balcony? Kyle’s stomach began to dip, wondering how much these tasteless neighbors could have seen. But then Stan woke, smiling, and Kyle pushed it out of mind for a while.
“What time is it?” Stan asked.
Kyle had an alarm clock at his bedside. “Oh, 2 p.m.,” he answered.
“I thought it would be later.”
Sitting up, Kyle sniffed the hem of his T-shirt, judging it unwearable. He pulled it off, revealing a fresh hickey on his neck and scratches down his torso. He got up to find a shirt, stumbling to the dresser, hating and relishing the feelings: seed crusted on his belly, between his ass cheeks, on his thighs, lingering inside of him; a feeling like his sides were split open, like he was wearing a butt plug. At the dresser, he opened his underwear drawer, pulled on a pair of briefs, stuck his hand back into the underwear drawer, and pulled out his purple butt plug. It was just larger than the turquoise one, which made him remember: “I think that butt plug is still downstairs,” he said, turning to announce this to Stanley.
Stan just yawned, and rolled over. “So are all those galleys I have to read over.”
Kyle shrugged, finding one of his T-shirts. It was a black V-neck, wafer-thin and delicate, one of the gayest-looking shirts he owned. He wondered why he always substituted ‘gay’ for ‘feminine.’ Kyle never thought of Stan in those terms, unless Stan used his gay voice, when he called Kyle “honey” and his voice shot up an octave. The thing was, Stan started using that voice in college, driving around in his Pontiac, thinking it was so ironic it was funny. But over the years, it just became some thing Stan did, some thing he did without even thinking about it. No longer ironic, just some thing. Kyle put his V-neck back in his T-shirt drawer, and opened up the one where Stan kept his shirts, or where Kyle put Stan’s shirts when he was done laundering and folding them. Kyle pulled out one of Stan’s gray Hanes, with a fat, round collar and no shape whatsoever. Without looking in a full-length mirror, Kyle climbed back into bed.
He leaned over Stan, buried his fingers in Stan’s hair. “Happy birthday,” Kyle said, kissing Stan’s ear.
Stan rolled over, again on his back, looking up at Kyle. “My birthday’s in October,” he said.
“I know.” Kyle lay back down, letting Stan enclose him in two generous arms. “I think the neighbors can see us,” he said, “though the bedroom windows.”
“So?”
“I don’t like that other people can see our—” Kyle’s voice hitched. “Our fucking, um, our lovemaking.”
“That’s a weird, gay thing to call it,” Stan said.
“I just want to call it what it is,” Kyle replied.
They lay in bed for a few minutes longer, letting whichever neighbors were looking in get their absolute fill. Then, officious and determined, Kyle sat up and said, “This is lazy. Let’s do something. You should read those galleys.”
“I’ll do it later.”
“If you don’t do it now you’ll be scrambling to do it tomorrow night.”
“I know.” Stan sat up now, shrugging. “But, whatever. Kyle, thank you.”
“For what? You ate me out, I mean, my god, that was all I wanted.”
“For asking me to, I guess.” Stan got up, stumbled to the dresser, began digging in his drawer for a pair of boxer-briefs. He kept talking: “For being here, for making me breakfast, for letting me come in your ass.”
Kyle rolled his eyes. “You’re so fucking sentimental.”
“I’m like married to a sex worker, so—” Stan paused to sniff his fingers, then under his arms. It smelled like sweat, and eucalyptus, and lavender. “I seriously need a shower.”
“Okay.” Kyle slid from the bed, going to Stan’s side to kiss him properly, on the lips with no tongue, just because he was happy. “I’ll shower next. First I’ll heat up some leftover pho. Oh, god, and I have to clean up from breakfast. Fucking syrup all over everything. Are you hungry?”
Stan looked Kyle up and down in his gray shirt, neck bruising with broken blood vessels, grinning. “Yes,” he said. “And I’ll make a reservation for steak, okay? I’m always hungry.”
Only something of an exaggeration.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
ngnhngn
Date: 2011-07-19 04:06 (UTC)There are a lot of things I like about this that I already said, but I just noticed that Kyle is some kind of a bitch about roof architecture. Where did that come from? I mean he sees that there are neighbors watching and his grouse is that they have bad taste. But to be fair, a pink velvet headboard, oh my god. Also here is this (http://i.imgur.com/8Xmt1.png), as a tribute to your kind-of-porn. Ostensibly. Actually it was a flimsy excuse to draw ... a ceiling fan.
Re: ngnhngn
Date: 2011-07-19 17:36 (UTC)I'm sure no one left a comment on this story because it's not good, it's not remarkable (literally) and who cares. This picture, though, this story does not deserve this picture. I love everything you draw so much, but I seriously don't deserve you wasting precious mom time on this bullshit story. This is actually a fairly complicated view to frame, what with two people in a bedroom and an entirely different bedroom visible over there via open window to the point that a ceiling fan is visible, and oh my gosh, for just a little sketch you pull everything together so nearly. And your colors are always fabulous but even when you're using like, exactly two colors (or maybe three; I see some green), you can work so much detail out of them. Colors are your slaves, they'll do whatever you want them to. You clearly understand value better than anyone. The mood of this picture totally captures a dark bedroom at the point of day when it's bright out but the sun just isn't shining through your window so it's dark inside but light out there and that makes everything happening inside feel like a private moment even when you can see the neighbors' crow-stepped gable. So, really, I love this and I hope you know I don't take your art for granted at all, it's not granted, it's special and mystical and I live in fear of it going away.
As for Kyle, yeah, he's a big snob, baring his brief-clad ass to the world yet again.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-19 22:10 (UTC)I think this is totally remarkable, though it's less story and more slice-of-life. Really beautiful and effective slice-of-life, that is. Though in response to it I feel like I should be cooking a banquet, not drawing a picture. Regardless, thank you, really. Colors are not my slaves but maybe they're getting closer to being my indentured servants, which is all I can ask for. God, I hope you know I never take your work for granted -- but I do an inadequate job of expressing how much I adore it.
And Kyle's ass says all the things I am too tonguetied to express.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-21 15:39 (UTC)I like slice-of-lifey stories. I think you're awesome with colors and can make them do anything.
Kyle's ass is so greedy. It just takes takes takes takes. A drain on society.
no subject
Date: 2014-06-28 03:36 (UTC)Wuhhh, I just really like this a lot. I have the worst headache right now and can't think, so I'll leave a much better and well thought out reply later, but in the meantime, this was just fantastic.
no subject
Date: 2014-06-28 18:37 (UTC)Thank you! This is actually a really welcome thing to hear, because I worry endlessly that my sex scenes aren't so great, or aren't super hot, or aren't what people want to read in fan fiction. It's really hard guessing how fake 9-year-old characters would bone when they were middle-aged. So I am grateful for the reassurance.
More generally, I'm really glad you enjoyed this! I hope your headache went away, too.
no subject
Date: 2014-06-29 02:21 (UTC)BUT ANYWAY. I really, really like the way you described Kyle's shoes!! Like, I know that's kind of a weird thing to comment on, but I can just picture these bright cherry colored keds in my mind and they are just so the shoe he would wear. I love it. Great imagery.
As usual, you have their voices spot on. You've always been able to write them in a very believable way, regardless of the number of years they're aged up. You capture little quirks from their canon characters, and it always translates really well. Their discussion about eating Kyle out over breakfast is hilarious. I can hear Kyle being very matter-of-fact about it so well, and I think Stan's initial response to it is very true to his character.
I really think you do a good job writing sex scenes, though. I love that they talk to each other off and on. I like that they ask each other questions and that they're both vaguely uncertain. Personally, I think it's really believable and you have a great grasp on it! And it's plenty hot, so don't worry about that, either!
Also, Elway's. Never been, but I imagine it being terrible and overpriced, and Stan only going because it's John Elway's.
But yes, I like this one a lot!! And my headache is gone!...for now.
no subject
Date: 2014-06-29 18:54 (UTC)I have become VERY interested in John Elway, because Stan clearly idolizes him and loves the Broncos. And you know what, he is such a clear and obvious enormous tool. Have you seen his commercial for Neptune Krill Oil? I'm just fascinated by this ridiculous/unattractive human being Stan would totally idolize in an unironic and weirdly innocent way. I'm sure his steakhouse his horrible but Stan and Kyle would eat there, Stan because WOW and Kyle because "eh."
Wah, I'm really glad you liked this! Thanks for reading and for letting me know.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-01 01:26 (UTC)Ahh, my TMI moment. There have been a lot, but I think a year or so ago, my boyfriend and I were ya know, having sex, and suddenly I felt something wet on my chest and I looked up at him and then down to my chest/stomach and he was having THE WORST nosebleed ever. Like, out of nowhere. And I just started dying laughing and he ran away into the bathroom and the mood was very much ruined but I think that was the moment where all of my preconceived notions of sex were washed away. It's not always this perfect, beautiful, hot thing. Sometimes it's fucking ridiculous and dumb shit happens! I'd love to see more stuff like that in fics. Just like, something stupid happens and we get to see how the characters handle it. I dunno.
Lmao I don't know a thing about John Elway or his career or anything!! I just know that he has the most aggressive looking set of teeth that I have ever seen. I would be like, fearful to be around him when he gets hungry. He's just legitimately scary looking. I just watched the NKO commercial and his mouth makes me SO uncomfortable. It's so...apparent... I can see Stan being in love with him as a kid, and as an adult slowly becoming disenchanted with him, and then he ends up having an existential crisis because he really likes his restaurant but sort of dislikes him because he's gross, but he was his childhood hero?? And maybe he goes into a depression because of it. "He's a football LEGEND, BUT THOSE...THOSE TEETH, DUDE. They keep me awake at night! But...I really like those steaks!!"
And I did see that!! Her art is so god damn good! I love all of it ;__; When did she come into the fandom? I must have missed, like, her entrance haha!
no subject
Date: 2015-06-23 19:53 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-06-24 19:36 (UTC)