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“Are you really mad at me? Because if you are, I’d like to know now so I can make sure I ignore you all night, and your friends will think something is wrong between us, and I’ll tell them that we’re having issues because you have performance anxiety.”
His eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
He takes two steps toward me and fists the back of my hair, pressing his lips against mine in a devouring kiss, his tongue dueling with mine as he nips and sucks my lips and neck. “I’ll show you performance anxiety,” he snarls in my ear as his hands go snap the fly open on my too tight jeans, and my dick springs free, happy to be rid of its denim hell. I reach down and scrabble with his own zipper, and he knocks m
y hands away, still holding me pressed against his lips, his mouth now on my ear. His cock is hard and leaking as he pulls it out, and he grabs us both in one hand and starts jerking us off, his length hot and hard against mine. I wrap my arms up and around his neck as I sag against him, gasping for air that I can’t seem to find. His grip is so familiar, those talented fingers so much like home that it doesn’t take long before I’m shooting in his hand. He hears that telltale whimper in my voice and puts his forehead against mine, and we watch each other as I spill over, and then he spills over, and I shudder in his arms, but I can’t look away, I don’t look away.
He leans in and kisses me again, slower this time, the urgency gone. His hand is still wrapped around our dicks, and I almost hope I’ve jizzed all over Isaiah’s stupid clothes so I can change into something that’s more me. Like the worn jeans and hoodie I have in my bag.
“Performance anxiety,” he mutters. “Like anyone would believe that.”
“Not a single person,” I agree, laying my head on my spot on his shoulder.
He rubs his cheek against my hair. “Do we need to go home?” he asks.
“Take care of the Kid?”
I think for a moment then shake my head. “He’ll be okay until tomorrow, I think. Maybe we can go home earlier than we planned. I want you to be able to see your friends.”
“Sounds like a deal,” he says, kissing and growling in my ear. “Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you, you know?”
“I know. I love the crap out of you.”
Then, “Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll fucking murder Isaiah if he does anything I don’t like. And I already don’t like a whole lot about him.”
“I know.”
“Okay.” Silence for a bit, and then one final time, “Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“Jordan told me that David is probably going to be there tonight too.”
“Like, as in David Trent, my little brother’s teacher, who wishes he could do with you what you and I just did?”
“Uh… for the sake of argument, why not?”
“Fantastic,” I sigh.
AFTER getting a stamp that’s supposed to be the club’s PDX logo but is just smudgy enough to look like a Gordita Supreme from Taco Bell, Otter takes me by the hand and leads me into pulsing music and flashing strobe lights.
My eyes take a moment to adjust to the sensory assault, and when they clear, I see a dance floor off to the left, packed with men in various stages of undress, rubbing and writhing against each other like they’re all in heat and need to get off or they’ll die. I watch as one guy licks a line up another guy’s throat while getting his ass fondled by yet another guy who’s making out with a fourth man who looks like a hippie version of Jesus. It almost seems sacrilegious, and I stare for a moment at the body of Christ, but only because he’s ripped as all fuck, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see a figure of Jesus on a cross and not think about my first trip to a gay bar.
Somehow, I don’t think the Catholic Church would approve. I don’t think boners in church are smiled upon (see how I’m taking the high road? I could have easily made a priest-choirboy joke here. So this is what maturity feels like).
Otter glances over his shoulder and grins at what is obviously my blown-out expression. We don’t have gay clubs in Seafare. We don’t have straight clubs in Seafare. I’ve never been in a place before where the music is too loud to have conversation; well, not if you don’t count those trendy clothing stores in the mall where everyone smiles at you with the whitest teeth outside of a toothpaste commercial like they’re your best friend and want nothing more than to help you buy a pair of two-hundred-dollar jeans that for some reason already have holes in them. I don’t go into stores like that. Kmart has jeans without holes for like ten bucks. I’m not picky.
Which is why I feel even more out of place as Otter guides us through the crowd, with me still dressed in Isaiah’s clothes because today was the first time I jizzed while wearing clothes without actually getting anything on the clothes. Trust me, I looked. Closely. It’s like God made our spunk shoot straight up into the air and land straight back down onto Otter’s hand, trying to show me that miracles do occur every day if you just look for them, regardless of the statistical improbability of semen projection.
