Olympics RPS - The One Chair Rule of Heterosexuality (Ryan Lochte/Michael Phelps, NC17)
New endeavors require a lot of research, so people just presenting me with data is always welcome (for real). For example, metrosex presented me with this post-Olympic interview Ryan Lochte had with swimnetwork.com which contained this gem
Reporter: [insert de rigueur questions about Michael]
Ryan: Yesterday was the first time I, like, saw him, actually, like, act like himself [now that the races are over].
Ryan: Oh look, there he is. [cue biggest smile ever]
Reporter: Will we see you in Baltimore? Are you going to swing through there? [Now that Michael's moving back there].
Ryan: Yeah, I told him -- I told him I wanted to come see him. Just hang out with him. Now that we have some down time I want to go -- hangout. Relax.
Olympics RPS
Ryan Lochte/Michael Phelps
Rated NC17
Improv: pewter, noise, slick, neon
The One Chair Rule of Heterosexuality
Michael leaves for London a few days after the swimming events are over. The IOC wants him to go be the poster boy for the 2012 games, even though they're, like, a way long way away and nobody's even thinking about them yet.
It's not like Ryan expected to be able to hang out with Michael all the time now that their events are over, but he calls bullshit; you can always work until you're miserable when you're old. This sort of press crap is why he and Michael came in the spring -- to do all that shit they knew they weren't going to be able to during the games -- but it still kind of grates.
In fact, eight minutes after Michael's left the dorms, Ryan's sprawled out on his bed decidedly 'not being bitter'.
The whole 'not being bitter' concept is helped immeasurably by the fact that Ryan's pants and underwear are down around his ankles, and he's got friction burn and saliva on his dick. Michael thought a hand-job-cum-blow-job would be a great parting gift; Ryan did not disagree. Of course, his right shoulder is also kind of sore from where Michael mauled it with his teeth, and his jaw hurts because Michael felt that the best way keep Ryan quiet was to keep his hand over Ryan's mouth.
If Ryan could actually lift his head right now, he might find himself staring at that spot three feet to the right of the door where he fucked Michael last night, but now Michael's on some jet and Ryan's in the Olympic village in fucking Beijing. What he really needs to do is stop acting like some pussy-whipped teenager, clean his ass up, find Cullen and Aaron and see if they want to try some of that scorpion-on-a-stick that Michael was too much of a pussy to try in February.
Ryan's Lochte's life does not revolve around Michael Phelps.
Michael calls when Ryan's knee-deep in Chinese Maotai (a kind of booze), cards and trying to convince Cullen, that, yes, nice boys can totally sleep with as many Olympic athletes as they can get it up for.
Cullen's kind of dubious, but he plays a mean game of spades, and for the first time in weeks, Ryan's not getting his ass handed to him by Ian and Aaron over cards.
Ryan only notices the vibrating coming from his ass pocket on his way back to his dorm room. He's thinking it'll be his mom or one of his sisters checking to make sure he didn't pass out drunk someplace 'unsuitable' for the Olympic games, but since Michael's gone, Ryan doesn't know where that could really be.
Except, it's not his mom, it's his voicemail, and Maotai must be a hell of lot stronger than he thought because it takes him three tries to remember his password.
Hey, it's me, Michael says kind of obviously. His voice is really loud, there's a lot of background noise. I'm in London. It's raining. I would go out and get drunk, but I've got crap all day tomorrow. If you were here, I could at least say it was your fault.
Ryan rolls his eyes. Michael's the boy scout, and he's the bad influence. Right.
People have no idea what the fuck they're talking about.
Michael Phelps could corrupt a van full of nuns with that crooked smile and that wide-eyed look, and nobody would realize it until he drove off with their underwear.
The team doesn't call him Gomer (Pyle) for no reason.
Life after Beijing goes like this: Michael does that hand over for the London Olympics, comes home, packs up the rest of his shit in Ann Arbor and moves to Baltimore. It takes about three weeks; it's a move, not rocket science.
Ryan's still got two weeks left of his Free At Last vacation schedule, and he gives Michael eight days from his text message of, I am being suffocated by boxes, to make his move.
Michael picks up on the first ring. "Young Jeezy says 'Jeah!"
Ryan laughs. "Jeah!"
"What's going on in Flo Rida?" Michael pronounces the state like the rapper, and Ryan can hear noise in the background; someone's hollering about their sick ride. It could be Michael's iPod or BET or MTV Cribs, who knows.
"The heat, dude," Ryan says around a yawn. Vacationing is hard fucking work. He went to sleep at four this morning after a long night of breaking into school playgrounds to do some skating; it's, like, three in the afternoon now. He should probably get out of the bed.
"Did you see that car link I sent you?" Michael says. "I want that Aston Martin; I need it."
Last week Michael 'needed' a Bentley. The week before it was a Ferrari. "You gonna get me one while you're at it, dude?" Ryan asks. "You know, since you're flossin' and all?"
"You want something to match your grillz?"
"Hell, yeah," Ryan rolls out of bed and onto the floor. It was too much work to stand up. He belches loudly and farts once. Now, he can get up.
"That was real special," Michael says dryly.
"I know," Ryan replies. "Speaking of real special, I was thinking about coming up, like, tomorrow." Ryan wasn't really thinking tomorrow, but why not? He doesn't have anything else planned.
"Young Jeezy says 'Hell jeah!'" Michael laughs. "I was wondering when your ass was going to show up."
Ryan snorts and scratches himself. "Remember you said that."
Ryan could just drive up to Maryland. He fucking loves road trips with all the Cheetos, Red Bull and Snickers a man can eat, pissing on the side of the road and yelling along with Jay-Z and bad 90s pop. MapQuest says it's a 13 hour drive from Gainesville to Baltimore, which means he could probably do it in 10 hours -- but fuck that. He's rich, bitch -- well, rich enough to get a next day flight and not have to deal with being bored out of his skull with nobody to talk to on the road. Road trips are only fun if you can piss on somebody else's shoe during group leaks.
Anyway, Ryan doesn't tend to make real solid plans, he just sort of goes with it. So when the taxi from BWI drops him off on Michael's doorstep around two in the afternoon, he thinks he's well within the 'Expectations of Ryan' parameters.
Judging by the fact that the door cracks open right as he's reaching for the doorbell, Ryan's doing really well. Michael's left eye peers out at him. "We don't want any," he says gruffly, but the stupid grin kind of gives him away.
Ryan just rolls his eyes. "Dude, open the door, I'm hungry."
Michael laughs and swings the door wide. "'sup fool?" he says breezily.
Ryan stuffs his backpack into Michael's hands. "Take this. Make yourself useful."
Michael looks down at the bag in his hands and then back up at Ryan. "You want room service, there's a Sheraton down at the harbor, just saying."
Ryan slides past Michael and into the condo. "It's hard to suck dick and hold a bag," he says, grabbing Michael's arm and using the momentum of his body to shut the door.
Michael's eyes go wide as Ryan drops down on his knees. "You're not serious," he begins.
Michael's wearing a tee shirt and a pair of cargo pants, and Ryan bats the shirt of the way and pops the button on the pants. "Do I look like I'm joking?" Ryan asks, lowering the zipper.
It was a long flight; he had plenty of time to think about making his entrance.
He hooks his fingers into the belt loops and pulls downward until the pants pool around Michael's ankles. This is probably a really bad idea; Michael's super clumsy, and he'll probably drop the bag on Ryan's head and give him a concussion, or he'll trip over his own feet and they'll end up in the nearest ER, but fuck it, they're young.
Ryan runs his hand from Michael's left thigh, up and over the thin, greying cotton of his boxers. Just because people pay you to wear their super- expensive, pansy underwear doesn't mean you have to. Ryan's fingers press against a conspicuous wet spot and a very obvious bulge, Michael grunts.
Ryan rubs harder. "If you drop that on my head, I'm going to stop," he warns. "Just so you know."
"You are a fucking asshole," Michael groans, as Ryan uses the heel of his hand to apply more pressure, rubbing back and forth along the outline of Michael's dick.
"What's that, MP? You want to fuck my ass?" Ryan quips. "Maybe later, if you're lucky."
Michael fumbles the bag, and Ryan leans back in case there's going to be an accident, but Michael manages to keep hold. "You really are an ass, you know that?"
"Don't insult people who are going to suck your dick, dude, that's just bad manners," and in three quick movements, Ryan shifts the weight from his knees to his heels, hooks his fingers into the waistband of Michael's boxers and yanks them down too.
Michael's cock slaps against his hip and then bobs in mid-air between them. Ryan looks at it: the slick head and the swollen length. He doesn't really think about sucking cock until he's actually doing it. He exhales a long breath and then looks back up at Michael innocently.
Michael looks like he's about to pass out.
"You okay there?" Ryan asks blithely. "You look a little stressed."
Michael tosses the bag on the floor several feet from Ryan, grabs his cock and rubs it against Ryan's mouth. "If you don't suck me off, I will spend the rest of my life making you miserable."
"Sucking cock really makes me miserable," Ryan mocks sarcastically. He pointedly licks his lips, his tongue flickering against the head of Michael's dick. "That's serious punishment."
Michael sags back against the door. "Please. Will 'please' work?"
Ryan frames Michael's hips with his hands to hold him in place. "See, all you have to do is be nice to people and they'll give you whatever it is you want. Didn't your mom teach you that?"
"Please don't talk about my mom while I'm thinking about fucking your mouth."
"My bad," Ryan concedes before going down on Michael's dick. They've never had some engaged conversation about how Michael likes his blow jobs, so Ryan just does what he likes himself: a lot of mess, a little noise and some tugging on Michael's balls, and he's helpless in Ryan's hands.
When Michael's hands fist in his hair, he digs the tips of his fingers into Michael's hips to keep him in place.
Michael may be taller, but Ryan is stronger. He only lets Michael fuck his mouth after he's had a chance to get into the rhythm, so he doesn't nearly choke to death, and then Michael's really pulling on his hair. Ryan pushes Michael back at the same time that Michael surges forward, and Ryan just knows there are going to be bruises later on.
Michael comes partially in his mouth and partially on his shirt.
Ryan spits on the clothes pooled around Michael's ankles and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You want to fuck like that, you'll have to buy me dinner," he says, slowly getting to his feet. His knees don't really like performing on anybody's linoleum.
Michael's pupils are blown and his lips are wet. Ryan stares, shifting his weight back and forth; they don't kiss, it's not their thing.
"For a blow job like that," Michael says haltingly, "I will buy you a restaurant."
"Jeah?" Ryan mocks.
Michael chuckles. "Yeah."
Michael has this seafood place down by the water that he loves. "Obrycki's has the best crab cakes you've ever tasted," he promises Ryan on the drive there.
They're in the Beemer, listening to Lil' Wayne, and Ryan's splayed out with the passenger seat back; life is good. "I thought you were going to take me to see your mom?" Ryan protests. "She promised me macaroni and cheese!"
"You can see my mom tomorrow, when you don't have stains all over your clothes."
Ryan snorts. "Hey man, you're the one that made a mess."
Michael slams on his brakes before running a red light. "I made the mess?" he says incredulously.
Ryan smiles toothily at the car next to them before turning to Michael. "I'm not the one who was getting the blow job, was I? Anyway, you think we don't have seafood in Florida? Did you miss that part where it's, like, surrounded on three sides by water?"
Michael just sputters; Ryan loves when he makes that happen. Most people think he's kind of slow and dense, that he's that typical stoner-skateboarder kind of guy. And yeah, okay, he is, but he's also a swimmer, a fucking good one. That takes talent, dedication and -- wait for it -- brains.
Okay, he's not Michael, but Scotty Pippin looked kind of shabby next to Michael Jordan, too, and he made the NBA All-Defensive Team eight times and All-NBA First Team three times. So, Ryan's kind of like Scotty. If Michael Jordan hadn't come along then Scotty would've had all those shoe deals in his stead. Except that Ryan would be kind of lacking without Michael around; he gets that.
"Earth to Ryan, come in, Ryan!"
Ryan shifts in his seat, directing all his attention to Michael. "Was there something you wanted?" he asks, practically climbing out of his seat and into Michael's lap. He's only stopped by his seat belt.
"That's not fucking funny," Michael snaps, but Ryan can see his face flushing. The car behind them honks in irritation, and Ryan waves through the back window before shifting back into his seat.
"Drive the car, dude," he says, gesturing towards the green light.
"I hate you sometimes," Michael bitches.
"Well, better than hating to fuck me, I suppose," Ryan says with a laugh as Michael makes a U-turn and slots the car right into an open space.
"Be happy I need to eat," Michael says as they get out of the car. "Or I would totally beat you down in the middle of the street."
"You and what army, Little Mermaid?" Ever since Michael did that Disney spread, Ryan has been talking about his tail. The fake one.
Michael looks up and down the street and then punches Ryan in the arm. It kind of hurts. Like a lot. "Ow, shit!"
Michael grins widely. "That army," he says before walking away.
It's not too late in the day, a little bit after seven, but it's far past Ryan's feeding time. They spent the entire drive here with Michael bitching about the desk jockeys clogging up traffic on their way home. This is nothing of note, except that Ryan forgot that it was a Friday, and when they walk through the door of the restaurant, it's packed like they're giving away free TVs.
It's kind of hard to go unnoticed when you're as tall as Michael, or as famous, and Ryan knows immediately that this is going to be a bad idea. All it takes is the three women shrieking 'OH MY GAWD! IT'S MICHAEL PHELPS!" for that post-sex calm to get jarred right out of him.
Ryan doesn't mean to run, but the way people charge toward Michael kind of freaks him out, and he just instinctively grabs Michael's arm and drags him along behind.
They end up running past the car and then doubling back, which is just stupid. Not them, this fame thing. That's just fucking stupid.
They don't say a word for the first ten minutes of the drive back.
"I'm not going out with you in public anymore," Ryan says very seriously.
"It's not normally like that," Michael protests. "I think it was the booze."
"You think?" Ryan snaps. He's not angry; he's just hungry. And a little freaked out.
Michael doesn't say anything, but he keeps glancing Ryan's way. "I'm sorry, dude," he tries.
"It's not your fault people are fucked," Ryan says, "I just, I mean, damn, really?"
Michael shrugs. "It's fame."
Ryan stares out the window. "Next time we go eat at your mom's, okay?"
"Okay."
They get back to the condo and Ryan heads straight for his backpack in the living room. Which doesn't have what he wants. Maybe he put it in the bathroom. Or the bedroom.
Ryan's been at Michael's place for four hours and his belongings have already managed to make themselves at home in every room possible. He heads back to the living room, where Michael's sprawled out on the sofa rubbing Herman's stomach. He glances up. "What're you looking for?"
"I'll know it when I find it," he promises, before spotting the box of Froot Loops sitting neatly beside his bag (he gets hungry a lot). Tucked away in the bottom of the box is exactly what he was looking for: his little sandwich baggie of joints.
Life is good without drug tests always making him say 'how high?'
Michael just watches with a raised eyebrow. "I'm thinking that stressed you out," he says, scratching behind Herman's ears as Ryan sparks up.
"So, seriously, is it always like that when you go out?" Ryan asks, taking a deep inhale.
"I haven't been to Obrycki's since before Beijing," Michael admits. "Normally it's just a few stares here and there. Maybe a phone number."
"I didn't know you'd turned into Brad Pitt," Ryan says, taking another hit. He's standing in the middle of the living room, toking pretty hard, but he is most definitely not leaving the condo for the rest of the night so that's okay. As long as he and Michael are in here and the crazy people are out there, he shouldn't get that bad paranoid high.
He twitches when Michael crowds his space. "So, is sex when you're high really as good as they say it is?" Michael asks.
Ryan fists Michael's shirt and pulls him down a few inches to Ryan's height. He leans forward, and Michael freezes with his mouth slightly open; Ryan exhales slowly to give Michael time to inhale.
Michael blinks once, twice, and then blindly takes the spliff from Ryan's hand. "I have to try everything once," he says inhaling deeply.
Ryan nods. "Okay, then we need to have sex in the kitchen. Right now."
Michael coughs hard and turns red.
Ryan pats him on the chest a few times after taking away the joint. "Well, we haven't tried that yet, right?"
Michael ponders this. "You're right."
Ryan grins. "Always."
Michael just rolls his eyes.
Ryan doesn't spend much time on the internet, unless it's on YouTube. Or downloading music. So, for the most part, he tends to avoid the articles that talk about him being a dumbass or an obvious stoner or the way that he's kind of a tool with his grillz and his love of Lil' Wayne. But every now and then he'll trip over something that's so wild that he kind of wishes he smoked as much weed as everyone thinks he does.
"Dude, why do people keep saying you're a douchebag and a manwhore?" he asks Michael the next morning.
Michael's on his hands and knees cleaning the carpet, because if you don't take the dog out for a walk, he will pee inside. It's kind of like an a + b = c type thing. Logic. Right, it's logical. "Wait, I'm a douchebag and a manwhore now? I thought I was just one or the other."
Ryan looks up from Michael's laptop and shrugs. "According to Facebook, you are, like, a mad manwhore. You fucked half the Australian swim team, you made Eamon Sullivan cry, and -- you kick puppies. And eat babies."
Ryan closes the window before Michael can grab the laptop away. "I didn't fuck the Australian swim team," Michael bitches. "It was the French. You stick your tongue down somebody's throat one time, and you never hear the end of it."
And that is why they don't kiss.
Ryan just smirks. "Yeah, well, you're a douchebag too."
"To those assholes that were mean to me at school, and now tell everybody how I don't return their calls." Michael rolls his eyes. "Or to that girl who didn't want to date me when I was sixteen and told all her friends that I was so weird-looking, and now, suddenly, we were dating for years and then I forgot about her in Athens?"
Ryan chuckles and slaps Michael on the back; he knows exactly what Michael's talking about.
Nobody knows you until you're famous.
It takes 18 hours, four pizzas, $75 dollars worth of Chinese food and a blow job in the shower for Michael to convince Ryan to go back out in public with him in Baltimore.
They go to this bar down the street from Michael's condo in Fells Point, and it's okay. They actually walk there, and nobody accosts them on the sidewalk. Somebody honks driving past, but that's probably because they're jaywalking and hanging out on the yellow line.
When they walk in the bar, nobody looks up. The bartender doesn't really pay them any mind when they order their beers, and they practically have to tackle the waitress to get an order in. She raises an eyebrow when they order six hamburgers and eight orders of fries, but that's about it.
There are other patrons, but nobody seems to give a shit about the two tall white guys; it's kind of awesome. Everyone seems much more interested in the Orioles game on channel 2 than the Olympic swimmers racking up the bottles of Bud.
After several rounds, Ryan starts to forget about the crazy people, and he starts to remember how good it is to be able to hang out with Michael on an everyday basis.
On the way back, Ryan tries to vault over a fire hydrant, trips and lands on his knees. Michael just laughs and goes back to singing Beyonce's 'Crazy in Love.'
"You so sing like a girl," Ryan mocks.
"I dunno if you got the memo," Michael says, "but Beyonce is a girl."
"Nooooo," Ryan corrects, "that is a woman, but I know you don't get to see them much. I can vouch though; I've had some." Michael whacks him on the back, and Ryan stumbles a bit. "Asshole," he says cheerfully.
Michael sticks out his tongue.
Ryan gives him the finger.
Yeah, they're just fine.
On Saturday, they have sex. And smoke some weed. And Ryan kicks Michael's ass at GTA: Vice City, Halo, Madden 99 and Pac-Man. Michael sucks at video games at the best of times, and under 'enhanced' conditions, he just sort of pokes at the controls.
It's nice to see him so relaxed.
Most people think stoners can't do anything complicated and involved, but the truth is that most stoners are experiencing life so fast, that by the time they ask you a question and you answer, they've already moved on to another topic altogether.
In one hour, someone who's high can get through a whole year of emotions; this is why they're always so fucking worn out.
On Sunday, they pretty much do the same things that they did on Saturday, but in the afternoon they clean themselves up and take Herman for a walk in the park. Ryan brings along his skateboard, and Michael plays with his iPhone and throws sticks for Herman while Ryan does rails and singings 'Damn, It Feels Good to be a Gangsta' under his breath.
They go to Michael's mom's place for dinner, and she makes them so much food that Ryan kind of wants to marry her, if only for the fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, chocolate cake and spaghetti with meatballs.
On Sunday night, there's no sex. They just sort of sprawl out in the sofa next to each other and fall asleep. Ryan wakes up in the middle of the night with his nose mashed against Michael's thigh, and Herman snoring, curled up against his chest.
He's also drooling on the sofa, but whatever, it's seen much worse.
The next morning, Michael's up before Ryan. Ryan knows this because he's woken up by Michael poking him in the ribs. "C'mon, let's go! Field trip."
Ryan yawns, stretches and rolls right off the sofa, ending up with his nose in somebody's sneaker. Damn, feet stink.
Michael is way too happy, way too early. "What the hell?" Ryan bitches from the floor. "It's, like, o-dark-thirty."
He inhales deeply when a massive whiff of salty, greasy goodness reaches his nose. "McDonalds?" he says, sitting upright and cracking open one eye. "I smell it; give it to me."
And indeed is it McDonald's salty goodness that Michael waves before him. In particular a ham, cheese and egg McMuffin sandwich. Ryan makes grabby hands and Michael shakes his head. "Shower. Dress," he commands.
Ryan sulks. "You're a hard man," he says getting to his feet. "No food, no sex, early mornings. What did I ever do to you?"
"If we have sex, the food'll get cold," Michael reasons.
"There's this thing called a microwave."
Michael gives this some serious consideration. Actually, he gives Ryan stroking himself through his boxer-briefs consideration; the farting kind of kills it though. Ryan's a guy; it happens.
Michael shakes his head and laughs it off. "The sooner you get ready the sooner you can have your Egg McMuffins. And your pancakes. And hash browns. Oh, and apple pies."
Both of Ryan's eyes snap open. "You got me apple pie."
"Three."
Ryan nods once, turns, trips over Herman, and keeps going until he's in the bathroom. Ninety seconds later he comes streaking out naked with the shower still going, water everywhere and soap in his hair.
"I want food to finish," he demands, dripping a huge puddle on the carpet.
Michael grins and hands over one of the egg sandwiches. "You drive a hard bargain."
Ryan takes it, nods, and goes back in. Three minutes after that he comes out reasonably clean. He's still not wearing any clothes and he's still dripping everywhere, although with less soap. His clothes have managed to spread themselves to the far reaches of Michael condo: his shirts are in the kitchen, his underwear is in the bedroom and his pants are under the coffee table.
"I'm ready," he announces, after pulling everything together.
Michael smiles and hands over a bag bulging with food. "You can bring along your skateboard if you want," he says magnanimously.
Yes, Ryan knows words like 'magnanimous.' He's also totally curious now.
The Baltimore Aquarium is huge. Ryan gapes as Michael leads him inside, up the escalator and through a huge room with kids and adults and giant floor to ceiling tanks with bubbling water. He doesn't know if other people are staring at them, because he's too busy staring at everything else.
There's a massive open area with a high railing and when Ryan looks over the side there's an open-air tank with sting rays and skates. There's a guy in a wetsuit lecturing about feeding the rays; Ryan just marvels.
They have aquariums in Florida, but nothing like this.
When he looks across the room, there's another huge tank with massive fish and sharks. Ryan glances over at Michael, who's looking super pleased with himself. "Yeah, okay," Ryan says, "this is the shit."
Michael nods for Ryan to follow. "I thought you might like it."
They take an escalator that's sort of claustrophobic and clearly not meant for people who are over 6 feet tall. There are frog sounds and bird sounds, and it's like Ryan just stepped into the Everglades. Once they get off the escalators, they're dumped into a massive exhibit of every fish ever. Ryan's completely sucked in; there's even a touching pool with horseshoe crabs, sea anemones and starfish that Michael has to physically drag him away from.
A class of school kids nearby are learning about starfish reproduction, and one of the little girls shrieks when the boy next to her splashes water on her dress.
Ryan chuckles. "I don't miss that," he says to Michael.
"Which part: the water or the girls?" Michael replies.
"The school part, dude. There's always going to be girls and water."
Michael shakes his head with a smile. "Always thinking with your dick, huh?"
Ryan pretends to be scandalized. "Not in front of the kids, man, you're supposed to be a role model."
They go to the Amazon exhibit and Ryan kind of wants is to stick his hand in the piranha tank. Michael dares him. "Go on, you can be the first Olympic swimmer with a metal hook for a hand."
"That's Captain Hook to you," Ryan retorts, but he pushes his sleeve back down and moves on.
At one point they find themselves in the deep ocean exhibit, which is a lot darker than the rest of the aquarium. Ryan's staring at these weird infrared fish when Michael grabs his wrist and drags him behind a black curtain.
They're supposed to be looking at some sort super scary deep sea fish, but Michael shoves Ryan against the wall and palms Ryan's dick through his pants. Ryan just goes with it when Michael shoves his leg between Ryan's thighs and rubs his cock against Ryan's hip.
He makes this high-pitched grunt when Michael uses the heel of his hand to apply pressure, and Michael slaps a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.
They break apart rapidly when they hear little voices outside the curtain though. Scaring little kids by being caught dry humping at the aquarium. Yeah, that would go over great on the front page of the National Enquirer. Ryan's grandma reads that, and his mom would never forgive him if he gave Nana a heart attack for being caught with his pants down with Michael Phelps.
They hastily move onwards, Ryan stopping to look at every little thing until they come to a dark room full of purple neon and a declining circular ramp. Ryan's first thought is about how awesome it would be to try and skate this. His second thought at the lack of exhibits is that the trip is over.
This makes him way sadder than it should.
They walk down down down, Michael with his hands in his pockets and that "I want to get laid" smirk on his face. Ryan pondering doing the rounds again, until, a few turns down, he sees Jaws.
"That's Jaws, dude," he says, grabbing Michael's forearm and coming to a halt.
Michael cuts him a look and his smirk goes wide. "I know; I have eyes, too."
"That's fucking Jaws," Ryan repeats in awe as another shark goes swimming past. "Oh my god, dude, you, brought me to the land of Jaws!" he says, chasing down the ramp after that shark before dashing back up to see another.
He goes back and forth and up and down the series of ramps, like, five times, scaring moms with strollers and playing with kids who are just as excited as he is.
After a while he goes looking for Michael and finds him at the end of the shark exhibit, sprawled out on a bench with a huge grin on his face. "Who's the man?" he asks as Ryan approaches him with a shit-eating grin.
Ryan rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Yeah, okay, you're the man, MP. You are most definitely the man."
They're barely in the front door before Michael's all over him like cheap sunscreen. It's the middle of the afternoon and they should totally be thinking about lunch, or dinner, or afternoon snack. Instead, they're racing down the hall to Michael's bedroom, elbowing each other in the ribs, trying to trip each other and yanking off clothes.
They burst through the bedroom door, scaring the shit out of Herman, who grunts in irritation and trundles off. Ryan stands there with his underwear around his ankles, breathing hard and looking at Michael, who's got half a shirt on and not much else. There's this thing happening between them that he's not too sure about. He's pretty sure something should happen before he shoves Michael back on the bed and reaches for the condoms and lube on the nightstand, but this isn't like that. They're guys, guys don't -- Ryan falls on his face when Michael grabs his waist and yanks him back.
He rolls over just in time for Michael to steal the lube and slather it all over Ryan's fingers. He's pretty sure that he'd been planning on getting -- every brain cell dies off when Michael grips Ryan's hand and pushes it between his legs.
"Mike-don't you think-"
Ryan makes this dying noise when Michael begins easing Ryan's fingers inside of him. Michael's stupidly warm and tight, and this, this is way too much without preparation; the tension on Michael's face is crazy. He's going to snap or -- do a fucking Michael Phelps and do shit nobody else can do.
Ryan exhales loudly as Michael tightens his grip on Ryan's wrist and begins to fuck himself with Ryan's fingers. "Are you fucking serious?" Ryan hisses.
Michael's got that focus thing happening; it's kind of scary and amazing at the same time. He's got eight gold medals for a reason. "Ry?" Michael grits out. "Shut up and fuck me."
Ryan opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
He's got Michael 'I May Not Be Human And Nobody Cares' Phelps in the literal palm of his hand. A crook of Ryan's fingers and Michael's whimpering and yanking at his own dick like he's going to die if he doesn't get off.
Michael's not normally really vocal in bed. Demanding? Yes. Loud? Not so much so. But every now and then he gets loud and pushy. "C'mon and fuck me," he orders, letting go of Ryan's wrist long enough to grab several condoms and fling them at Ryan's head. It's kind of hard to open a condom with someone fucking themselves with your the fingers though.
It takes a lot more brain cells than Ryan normally requires for him to rip open the foil packet with his teeth. He's just extracting the condom when Michael comes all over his stomach.
"Fuck," Ryan freezes in the moment. Michael pauses for four whole seconds and then he's moving again, slowly removing Ryan's fingers and moving back to straddle Ryan's thighs.
Ryan twitches when Michael's hand closes over his cock and he begins to roll the condom on. Michael gets this little line between his eyebrows when he focuses hard, and he exhales this breath that's so long it reminds Ryan about Michael supposedly having the biggest lung capacity ever.
When Michael's done, he slaps Ryan playfully on the stomach and Ryan automatically thrusts up. "You going to help me out here?" Michael asks
"What're we trying to do?" Ryan asks somewhat belatedly.
"I'm trying to get fucked," Michael says wryly. "What about you?"
It's the smile that shuts down Ryan's brain completely.
This is kind of thing that could get somebody in trouble if they weren't careful.
The One Chair Rule is an unspoken agreement among heterosexual males. It states that if you go to the movies with your friends, you are required to keep one chair between you at all times, so people don't think you're gay and dating. It's a stupid rule, and doesn't apply in crowded theatres, but it's there to keep people from acting weird. Sometimes, though, one chair doesn't really cut it, literally or figuratively. Sometimes, you can have a whole row between two guys and it won't change a damn thing.
Ryan wakes up in bed the next morning, his limbs tangled together with Michael's, and Herman cutting off the circulation to his right foot. They're not, like, cuddling or that girlie shit, but their heads are on the same pillow, and Ryan finds himself looking really hard at Michael's mouth. He knows its time to go.
He doesn't really want to leave, but this is supposed to be fun. They're supposed to enjoy themselves, not get all bogged down, with, like, emotions or whatever.
He extricates himself, despite Herman's protesting, and starts getting his shit together, picking up shirts and pants and underwear that might not be his. He takes a shower using shampoo instead of the bar soap, and puts on the least offensive clothing he can find for the flight home.
He's in the living room watching America's Best Dance Crews on MTV and eating Froot Loops out of a mixing bowl when Michael stumbles in. "What time is it?" he asks blearily.
"Time for me to head home," Ryan says, not tearing his eyes away from the TV. This shit is crazier than women's gymnastics.
Ryan can sense it when Michael invades his personal space, and his cereal slops over the side when Michael kicks his shin. He looks up. "Ow."
"You didn't tell me you were leaving today."
"I didn't? My bad."
Michael narrows his eyes. "You're an asshole, you know that?"
Ryan turns away and slurps more of his cereal. "Yeah, I know. You gonna drive me to the airport anyway?"
Michael stomps off, presumably to get dressed, and Ryan sighs, puts the cereal on the coffee table and slouches back into the sofa. He closes his eyes and thinks about swimming, not the how or the why, but just the feeling, the calm. Like nothing else matters. He feels like that here; yeah, he's gotta go.
He cracks open one eye when something wet lands on his hand.
Herman nudges his hand again, and Ryan scratches behind his ears. "Try to cut him some slack," Ryan says patting the bulldog on the back. "He's just human; we fuck up a lot."
"You ready to go?" Michael's voice carries from somewhere behind him.
Ryan looks over the back of the sofa at Michael in the doorway and nods. Getting up, he grabs his backpack and follows Michael down the hall.
Michael stops at the front door automatically and turns back around. He looks like he's going to say something, so Ryan cuts him off. "You still coming down for the Super Bowl? You still going to take me?"
"No, I'm going to take one of your sisters," Michael says, "maybe they'll put out." Ryan punches him in the arm. "Ow!"
"Not funny," Ryan says.
Michael leans against the front door and when he slips his hands in his pockets, his keys jangle. He crosses his legs at the ankle, and anybody else would think this was casual, but Ryan figures he's just trying not to trip over his own two feet. Or he's trying to barricade the door. "You have everything?"
Ryan nods. "It's all good, dude." He's got everything he came with. Mostly.
Michael nods back. "So, when are you coming up again?"
"I haven't even left yet," Ryan points out.
"Yeah, that's not what I asked."
"I'm only off for another couple weeks. We're not all kicking back until February, slacker."
Michael wheezes. "Slacker. I'm a slacker, now?"
Ryan shrugs. "Hey, man, don't hate the player, hate the game."
Michael pushes himself upright. Ryan never really thinks about how tall Michael is until he has to actually look up at him. "Let's try this again." Why does Michael always have to ruin shit by being serious? Some people are so damn committed. "When do I get to see you again?"
Ryan is so not this deep. "When you hire a jet and fly your ass down to Florida. Duh."
Michael smiles. "So, next week then."
Okay, maybe Ryan's a bit deeper than he thought. "Yeah," he agrees. "That's good."
"Sweet. Now are you going to leave my house so I can jerk off in peace?"
Ryan can feel his face twisting into a strange combination of a dropped jaw and a huge smirk. He makes a noise like a choking donkey. "I didn't see you complaining when I had your dick down my throat."
Michael leans in and Ryan reels back, his backpack digging into his kidneys as he plasters himself against the wall. Michael isn't kissing Ryan, but he's very close.
When Michael speaks, the air leaving his mouth brushes against Ryan's lips. "Manwhores never complain during sex -- it's rude. We wait until afterwards." Ryan blinks as Michael stands up and opens the door. "Now c'mon, you'll miss your flight."
Ryan tosses Michael a dirty look over his shoulder as he walks out into the Baltimore afternoon. "And you wonder why people call you a douchebag."
Michael's quiet after this remark, and Ryan pauses to look behind him.
Michael's standing in the doorway with his mouth open, and after a long moment he begins to wheeze and then laugh. Ryan smiles. "I told you I'd get your ass one day, Phelps."
Michael just shakes his head and wipes away the tears. "Fine. I give up. You win."
Ryan smiles. "Yeah, I know."
-end-
--
ETA 09/03/08: This is now Part II of the Rules & Republics Trilogy
Part I: The Golden Rule ('When Zeus Met a Dolphin' Playlist)
Part III: The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps
--
Oh, boys, why so entertaining to write?
Yes, there's just as much sex as the Olympics as you think there should be. Maybe more.
Thanks to everybody who sent me the links and research contained in this story, including alethialia, lyra_sena,metrosex,ruidoso,serialkarma and thorne_scratch. You make the crack possible.
Reporter: [insert de rigueur questions about Michael]
Ryan: Yesterday was the first time I, like, saw him, actually, like, act like himself [now that the races are over].
Ryan: Oh look, there he is. [cue biggest smile ever]
Reporter: Will we see you in Baltimore? Are you going to swing through there? [Now that Michael's moving back there].
Ryan: Yeah, I told him -- I told him I wanted to come see him. Just hang out with him. Now that we have some down time I want to go -- hangout. Relax.
Olympics RPS
Ryan Lochte/Michael Phelps
Rated NC17
Improv: pewter, noise, slick, neon
The One Chair Rule of Heterosexuality
Michael leaves for London a few days after the swimming events are over. The IOC wants him to go be the poster boy for the 2012 games, even though they're, like, a way long way away and nobody's even thinking about them yet.
It's not like Ryan expected to be able to hang out with Michael all the time now that their events are over, but he calls bullshit; you can always work until you're miserable when you're old. This sort of press crap is why he and Michael came in the spring -- to do all that shit they knew they weren't going to be able to during the games -- but it still kind of grates.
In fact, eight minutes after Michael's left the dorms, Ryan's sprawled out on his bed decidedly 'not being bitter'.
The whole 'not being bitter' concept is helped immeasurably by the fact that Ryan's pants and underwear are down around his ankles, and he's got friction burn and saliva on his dick. Michael thought a hand-job-cum-blow-job would be a great parting gift; Ryan did not disagree. Of course, his right shoulder is also kind of sore from where Michael mauled it with his teeth, and his jaw hurts because Michael felt that the best way keep Ryan quiet was to keep his hand over Ryan's mouth.
If Ryan could actually lift his head right now, he might find himself staring at that spot three feet to the right of the door where he fucked Michael last night, but now Michael's on some jet and Ryan's in the Olympic village in fucking Beijing. What he really needs to do is stop acting like some pussy-whipped teenager, clean his ass up, find Cullen and Aaron and see if they want to try some of that scorpion-on-a-stick that Michael was too much of a pussy to try in February.
Ryan's Lochte's life does not revolve around Michael Phelps.
Michael calls when Ryan's knee-deep in Chinese Maotai (a kind of booze), cards and trying to convince Cullen, that, yes, nice boys can totally sleep with as many Olympic athletes as they can get it up for.
Cullen's kind of dubious, but he plays a mean game of spades, and for the first time in weeks, Ryan's not getting his ass handed to him by Ian and Aaron over cards.
Ryan only notices the vibrating coming from his ass pocket on his way back to his dorm room. He's thinking it'll be his mom or one of his sisters checking to make sure he didn't pass out drunk someplace 'unsuitable' for the Olympic games, but since Michael's gone, Ryan doesn't know where that could really be.
Except, it's not his mom, it's his voicemail, and Maotai must be a hell of lot stronger than he thought because it takes him three tries to remember his password.
Hey, it's me, Michael says kind of obviously. His voice is really loud, there's a lot of background noise. I'm in London. It's raining. I would go out and get drunk, but I've got crap all day tomorrow. If you were here, I could at least say it was your fault.
Ryan rolls his eyes. Michael's the boy scout, and he's the bad influence. Right.
People have no idea what the fuck they're talking about.
Michael Phelps could corrupt a van full of nuns with that crooked smile and that wide-eyed look, and nobody would realize it until he drove off with their underwear.
The team doesn't call him Gomer (Pyle) for no reason.
Life after Beijing goes like this: Michael does that hand over for the London Olympics, comes home, packs up the rest of his shit in Ann Arbor and moves to Baltimore. It takes about three weeks; it's a move, not rocket science.
Ryan's still got two weeks left of his Free At Last vacation schedule, and he gives Michael eight days from his text message of, I am being suffocated by boxes, to make his move.
Michael picks up on the first ring. "Young Jeezy says 'Jeah!"
Ryan laughs. "Jeah!"
"What's going on in Flo Rida?" Michael pronounces the state like the rapper, and Ryan can hear noise in the background; someone's hollering about their sick ride. It could be Michael's iPod or BET or MTV Cribs, who knows.
"The heat, dude," Ryan says around a yawn. Vacationing is hard fucking work. He went to sleep at four this morning after a long night of breaking into school playgrounds to do some skating; it's, like, three in the afternoon now. He should probably get out of the bed.
"Did you see that car link I sent you?" Michael says. "I want that Aston Martin; I need it."
Last week Michael 'needed' a Bentley. The week before it was a Ferrari. "You gonna get me one while you're at it, dude?" Ryan asks. "You know, since you're flossin' and all?"
"You want something to match your grillz?"
"Hell, yeah," Ryan rolls out of bed and onto the floor. It was too much work to stand up. He belches loudly and farts once. Now, he can get up.
"That was real special," Michael says dryly.
"I know," Ryan replies. "Speaking of real special, I was thinking about coming up, like, tomorrow." Ryan wasn't really thinking tomorrow, but why not? He doesn't have anything else planned.
"Young Jeezy says 'Hell jeah!'" Michael laughs. "I was wondering when your ass was going to show up."
Ryan snorts and scratches himself. "Remember you said that."
Ryan could just drive up to Maryland. He fucking loves road trips with all the Cheetos, Red Bull and Snickers a man can eat, pissing on the side of the road and yelling along with Jay-Z and bad 90s pop. MapQuest says it's a 13 hour drive from Gainesville to Baltimore, which means he could probably do it in 10 hours -- but fuck that. He's rich, bitch -- well, rich enough to get a next day flight and not have to deal with being bored out of his skull with nobody to talk to on the road. Road trips are only fun if you can piss on somebody else's shoe during group leaks.
Anyway, Ryan doesn't tend to make real solid plans, he just sort of goes with it. So when the taxi from BWI drops him off on Michael's doorstep around two in the afternoon, he thinks he's well within the 'Expectations of Ryan' parameters.
Judging by the fact that the door cracks open right as he's reaching for the doorbell, Ryan's doing really well. Michael's left eye peers out at him. "We don't want any," he says gruffly, but the stupid grin kind of gives him away.
Ryan just rolls his eyes. "Dude, open the door, I'm hungry."
Michael laughs and swings the door wide. "'sup fool?" he says breezily.
Ryan stuffs his backpack into Michael's hands. "Take this. Make yourself useful."
Michael looks down at the bag in his hands and then back up at Ryan. "You want room service, there's a Sheraton down at the harbor, just saying."
Ryan slides past Michael and into the condo. "It's hard to suck dick and hold a bag," he says, grabbing Michael's arm and using the momentum of his body to shut the door.
Michael's eyes go wide as Ryan drops down on his knees. "You're not serious," he begins.
Michael's wearing a tee shirt and a pair of cargo pants, and Ryan bats the shirt of the way and pops the button on the pants. "Do I look like I'm joking?" Ryan asks, lowering the zipper.
It was a long flight; he had plenty of time to think about making his entrance.
He hooks his fingers into the belt loops and pulls downward until the pants pool around Michael's ankles. This is probably a really bad idea; Michael's super clumsy, and he'll probably drop the bag on Ryan's head and give him a concussion, or he'll trip over his own feet and they'll end up in the nearest ER, but fuck it, they're young.
Ryan runs his hand from Michael's left thigh, up and over the thin, greying cotton of his boxers. Just because people pay you to wear their super- expensive, pansy underwear doesn't mean you have to. Ryan's fingers press against a conspicuous wet spot and a very obvious bulge, Michael grunts.
Ryan rubs harder. "If you drop that on my head, I'm going to stop," he warns. "Just so you know."
"You are a fucking asshole," Michael groans, as Ryan uses the heel of his hand to apply more pressure, rubbing back and forth along the outline of Michael's dick.
"What's that, MP? You want to fuck my ass?" Ryan quips. "Maybe later, if you're lucky."
Michael fumbles the bag, and Ryan leans back in case there's going to be an accident, but Michael manages to keep hold. "You really are an ass, you know that?"
"Don't insult people who are going to suck your dick, dude, that's just bad manners," and in three quick movements, Ryan shifts the weight from his knees to his heels, hooks his fingers into the waistband of Michael's boxers and yanks them down too.
Michael's cock slaps against his hip and then bobs in mid-air between them. Ryan looks at it: the slick head and the swollen length. He doesn't really think about sucking cock until he's actually doing it. He exhales a long breath and then looks back up at Michael innocently.
Michael looks like he's about to pass out.
"You okay there?" Ryan asks blithely. "You look a little stressed."
Michael tosses the bag on the floor several feet from Ryan, grabs his cock and rubs it against Ryan's mouth. "If you don't suck me off, I will spend the rest of my life making you miserable."
"Sucking cock really makes me miserable," Ryan mocks sarcastically. He pointedly licks his lips, his tongue flickering against the head of Michael's dick. "That's serious punishment."
Michael sags back against the door. "Please. Will 'please' work?"
Ryan frames Michael's hips with his hands to hold him in place. "See, all you have to do is be nice to people and they'll give you whatever it is you want. Didn't your mom teach you that?"
"Please don't talk about my mom while I'm thinking about fucking your mouth."
"My bad," Ryan concedes before going down on Michael's dick. They've never had some engaged conversation about how Michael likes his blow jobs, so Ryan just does what he likes himself: a lot of mess, a little noise and some tugging on Michael's balls, and he's helpless in Ryan's hands.
When Michael's hands fist in his hair, he digs the tips of his fingers into Michael's hips to keep him in place.
Michael may be taller, but Ryan is stronger. He only lets Michael fuck his mouth after he's had a chance to get into the rhythm, so he doesn't nearly choke to death, and then Michael's really pulling on his hair. Ryan pushes Michael back at the same time that Michael surges forward, and Ryan just knows there are going to be bruises later on.
Michael comes partially in his mouth and partially on his shirt.
Ryan spits on the clothes pooled around Michael's ankles and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You want to fuck like that, you'll have to buy me dinner," he says, slowly getting to his feet. His knees don't really like performing on anybody's linoleum.
Michael's pupils are blown and his lips are wet. Ryan stares, shifting his weight back and forth; they don't kiss, it's not their thing.
"For a blow job like that," Michael says haltingly, "I will buy you a restaurant."
"Jeah?" Ryan mocks.
Michael chuckles. "Yeah."
Michael has this seafood place down by the water that he loves. "Obrycki's has the best crab cakes you've ever tasted," he promises Ryan on the drive there.
They're in the Beemer, listening to Lil' Wayne, and Ryan's splayed out with the passenger seat back; life is good. "I thought you were going to take me to see your mom?" Ryan protests. "She promised me macaroni and cheese!"
"You can see my mom tomorrow, when you don't have stains all over your clothes."
Ryan snorts. "Hey man, you're the one that made a mess."
Michael slams on his brakes before running a red light. "I made the mess?" he says incredulously.
Ryan smiles toothily at the car next to them before turning to Michael. "I'm not the one who was getting the blow job, was I? Anyway, you think we don't have seafood in Florida? Did you miss that part where it's, like, surrounded on three sides by water?"
Michael just sputters; Ryan loves when he makes that happen. Most people think he's kind of slow and dense, that he's that typical stoner-skateboarder kind of guy. And yeah, okay, he is, but he's also a swimmer, a fucking good one. That takes talent, dedication and -- wait for it -- brains.
Okay, he's not Michael, but Scotty Pippin looked kind of shabby next to Michael Jordan, too, and he made the NBA All-Defensive Team eight times and All-NBA First Team three times. So, Ryan's kind of like Scotty. If Michael Jordan hadn't come along then Scotty would've had all those shoe deals in his stead. Except that Ryan would be kind of lacking without Michael around; he gets that.
"Earth to Ryan, come in, Ryan!"
Ryan shifts in his seat, directing all his attention to Michael. "Was there something you wanted?" he asks, practically climbing out of his seat and into Michael's lap. He's only stopped by his seat belt.
"That's not fucking funny," Michael snaps, but Ryan can see his face flushing. The car behind them honks in irritation, and Ryan waves through the back window before shifting back into his seat.
"Drive the car, dude," he says, gesturing towards the green light.
"I hate you sometimes," Michael bitches.
"Well, better than hating to fuck me, I suppose," Ryan says with a laugh as Michael makes a U-turn and slots the car right into an open space.
"Be happy I need to eat," Michael says as they get out of the car. "Or I would totally beat you down in the middle of the street."
"You and what army, Little Mermaid?" Ever since Michael did that Disney spread, Ryan has been talking about his tail. The fake one.
Michael looks up and down the street and then punches Ryan in the arm. It kind of hurts. Like a lot. "Ow, shit!"
Michael grins widely. "That army," he says before walking away.
It's not too late in the day, a little bit after seven, but it's far past Ryan's feeding time. They spent the entire drive here with Michael bitching about the desk jockeys clogging up traffic on their way home. This is nothing of note, except that Ryan forgot that it was a Friday, and when they walk through the door of the restaurant, it's packed like they're giving away free TVs.
It's kind of hard to go unnoticed when you're as tall as Michael, or as famous, and Ryan knows immediately that this is going to be a bad idea. All it takes is the three women shrieking 'OH MY GAWD! IT'S MICHAEL PHELPS!" for that post-sex calm to get jarred right out of him.
Ryan doesn't mean to run, but the way people charge toward Michael kind of freaks him out, and he just instinctively grabs Michael's arm and drags him along behind.
They end up running past the car and then doubling back, which is just stupid. Not them, this fame thing. That's just fucking stupid.
They don't say a word for the first ten minutes of the drive back.
"I'm not going out with you in public anymore," Ryan says very seriously.
"It's not normally like that," Michael protests. "I think it was the booze."
"You think?" Ryan snaps. He's not angry; he's just hungry. And a little freaked out.
Michael doesn't say anything, but he keeps glancing Ryan's way. "I'm sorry, dude," he tries.
"It's not your fault people are fucked," Ryan says, "I just, I mean, damn, really?"
Michael shrugs. "It's fame."
Ryan stares out the window. "Next time we go eat at your mom's, okay?"
"Okay."
They get back to the condo and Ryan heads straight for his backpack in the living room. Which doesn't have what he wants. Maybe he put it in the bathroom. Or the bedroom.
Ryan's been at Michael's place for four hours and his belongings have already managed to make themselves at home in every room possible. He heads back to the living room, where Michael's sprawled out on the sofa rubbing Herman's stomach. He glances up. "What're you looking for?"
"I'll know it when I find it," he promises, before spotting the box of Froot Loops sitting neatly beside his bag (he gets hungry a lot). Tucked away in the bottom of the box is exactly what he was looking for: his little sandwich baggie of joints.
Life is good without drug tests always making him say 'how high?'
Michael just watches with a raised eyebrow. "I'm thinking that stressed you out," he says, scratching behind Herman's ears as Ryan sparks up.
"So, seriously, is it always like that when you go out?" Ryan asks, taking a deep inhale.
"I haven't been to Obrycki's since before Beijing," Michael admits. "Normally it's just a few stares here and there. Maybe a phone number."
"I didn't know you'd turned into Brad Pitt," Ryan says, taking another hit. He's standing in the middle of the living room, toking pretty hard, but he is most definitely not leaving the condo for the rest of the night so that's okay. As long as he and Michael are in here and the crazy people are out there, he shouldn't get that bad paranoid high.
He twitches when Michael crowds his space. "So, is sex when you're high really as good as they say it is?" Michael asks.
Ryan fists Michael's shirt and pulls him down a few inches to Ryan's height. He leans forward, and Michael freezes with his mouth slightly open; Ryan exhales slowly to give Michael time to inhale.
Michael blinks once, twice, and then blindly takes the spliff from Ryan's hand. "I have to try everything once," he says inhaling deeply.
Ryan nods. "Okay, then we need to have sex in the kitchen. Right now."
Michael coughs hard and turns red.
Ryan pats him on the chest a few times after taking away the joint. "Well, we haven't tried that yet, right?"
Michael ponders this. "You're right."
Ryan grins. "Always."
Michael just rolls his eyes.
Ryan doesn't spend much time on the internet, unless it's on YouTube. Or downloading music. So, for the most part, he tends to avoid the articles that talk about him being a dumbass or an obvious stoner or the way that he's kind of a tool with his grillz and his love of Lil' Wayne. But every now and then he'll trip over something that's so wild that he kind of wishes he smoked as much weed as everyone thinks he does.
"Dude, why do people keep saying you're a douchebag and a manwhore?" he asks Michael the next morning.
Michael's on his hands and knees cleaning the carpet, because if you don't take the dog out for a walk, he will pee inside. It's kind of like an a + b = c type thing. Logic. Right, it's logical. "Wait, I'm a douchebag and a manwhore now? I thought I was just one or the other."
Ryan looks up from Michael's laptop and shrugs. "According to Facebook, you are, like, a mad manwhore. You fucked half the Australian swim team, you made Eamon Sullivan cry, and -- you kick puppies. And eat babies."
Ryan closes the window before Michael can grab the laptop away. "I didn't fuck the Australian swim team," Michael bitches. "It was the French. You stick your tongue down somebody's throat one time, and you never hear the end of it."
And that is why they don't kiss.
Ryan just smirks. "Yeah, well, you're a douchebag too."
"To those assholes that were mean to me at school, and now tell everybody how I don't return their calls." Michael rolls his eyes. "Or to that girl who didn't want to date me when I was sixteen and told all her friends that I was so weird-looking, and now, suddenly, we were dating for years and then I forgot about her in Athens?"
Ryan chuckles and slaps Michael on the back; he knows exactly what Michael's talking about.
Nobody knows you until you're famous.
It takes 18 hours, four pizzas, $75 dollars worth of Chinese food and a blow job in the shower for Michael to convince Ryan to go back out in public with him in Baltimore.
They go to this bar down the street from Michael's condo in Fells Point, and it's okay. They actually walk there, and nobody accosts them on the sidewalk. Somebody honks driving past, but that's probably because they're jaywalking and hanging out on the yellow line.
When they walk in the bar, nobody looks up. The bartender doesn't really pay them any mind when they order their beers, and they practically have to tackle the waitress to get an order in. She raises an eyebrow when they order six hamburgers and eight orders of fries, but that's about it.
There are other patrons, but nobody seems to give a shit about the two tall white guys; it's kind of awesome. Everyone seems much more interested in the Orioles game on channel 2 than the Olympic swimmers racking up the bottles of Bud.
After several rounds, Ryan starts to forget about the crazy people, and he starts to remember how good it is to be able to hang out with Michael on an everyday basis.
On the way back, Ryan tries to vault over a fire hydrant, trips and lands on his knees. Michael just laughs and goes back to singing Beyonce's 'Crazy in Love.'
"You so sing like a girl," Ryan mocks.
"I dunno if you got the memo," Michael says, "but Beyonce is a girl."
"Nooooo," Ryan corrects, "that is a woman, but I know you don't get to see them much. I can vouch though; I've had some." Michael whacks him on the back, and Ryan stumbles a bit. "Asshole," he says cheerfully.
Michael sticks out his tongue.
Ryan gives him the finger.
Yeah, they're just fine.
On Saturday, they have sex. And smoke some weed. And Ryan kicks Michael's ass at GTA: Vice City, Halo, Madden 99 and Pac-Man. Michael sucks at video games at the best of times, and under 'enhanced' conditions, he just sort of pokes at the controls.
It's nice to see him so relaxed.
Most people think stoners can't do anything complicated and involved, but the truth is that most stoners are experiencing life so fast, that by the time they ask you a question and you answer, they've already moved on to another topic altogether.
In one hour, someone who's high can get through a whole year of emotions; this is why they're always so fucking worn out.
On Sunday, they pretty much do the same things that they did on Saturday, but in the afternoon they clean themselves up and take Herman for a walk in the park. Ryan brings along his skateboard, and Michael plays with his iPhone and throws sticks for Herman while Ryan does rails and singings 'Damn, It Feels Good to be a Gangsta' under his breath.
They go to Michael's mom's place for dinner, and she makes them so much food that Ryan kind of wants to marry her, if only for the fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, chocolate cake and spaghetti with meatballs.
On Sunday night, there's no sex. They just sort of sprawl out in the sofa next to each other and fall asleep. Ryan wakes up in the middle of the night with his nose mashed against Michael's thigh, and Herman snoring, curled up against his chest.
He's also drooling on the sofa, but whatever, it's seen much worse.
The next morning, Michael's up before Ryan. Ryan knows this because he's woken up by Michael poking him in the ribs. "C'mon, let's go! Field trip."
Ryan yawns, stretches and rolls right off the sofa, ending up with his nose in somebody's sneaker. Damn, feet stink.
Michael is way too happy, way too early. "What the hell?" Ryan bitches from the floor. "It's, like, o-dark-thirty."
He inhales deeply when a massive whiff of salty, greasy goodness reaches his nose. "McDonalds?" he says, sitting upright and cracking open one eye. "I smell it; give it to me."
And indeed is it McDonald's salty goodness that Michael waves before him. In particular a ham, cheese and egg McMuffin sandwich. Ryan makes grabby hands and Michael shakes his head. "Shower. Dress," he commands.
Ryan sulks. "You're a hard man," he says getting to his feet. "No food, no sex, early mornings. What did I ever do to you?"
"If we have sex, the food'll get cold," Michael reasons.
"There's this thing called a microwave."
Michael gives this some serious consideration. Actually, he gives Ryan stroking himself through his boxer-briefs consideration; the farting kind of kills it though. Ryan's a guy; it happens.
Michael shakes his head and laughs it off. "The sooner you get ready the sooner you can have your Egg McMuffins. And your pancakes. And hash browns. Oh, and apple pies."
Both of Ryan's eyes snap open. "You got me apple pie."
"Three."
Ryan nods once, turns, trips over Herman, and keeps going until he's in the bathroom. Ninety seconds later he comes streaking out naked with the shower still going, water everywhere and soap in his hair.
"I want food to finish," he demands, dripping a huge puddle on the carpet.
Michael grins and hands over one of the egg sandwiches. "You drive a hard bargain."
Ryan takes it, nods, and goes back in. Three minutes after that he comes out reasonably clean. He's still not wearing any clothes and he's still dripping everywhere, although with less soap. His clothes have managed to spread themselves to the far reaches of Michael condo: his shirts are in the kitchen, his underwear is in the bedroom and his pants are under the coffee table.
"I'm ready," he announces, after pulling everything together.
Michael smiles and hands over a bag bulging with food. "You can bring along your skateboard if you want," he says magnanimously.
Yes, Ryan knows words like 'magnanimous.' He's also totally curious now.
The Baltimore Aquarium is huge. Ryan gapes as Michael leads him inside, up the escalator and through a huge room with kids and adults and giant floor to ceiling tanks with bubbling water. He doesn't know if other people are staring at them, because he's too busy staring at everything else.
There's a massive open area with a high railing and when Ryan looks over the side there's an open-air tank with sting rays and skates. There's a guy in a wetsuit lecturing about feeding the rays; Ryan just marvels.
They have aquariums in Florida, but nothing like this.
When he looks across the room, there's another huge tank with massive fish and sharks. Ryan glances over at Michael, who's looking super pleased with himself. "Yeah, okay," Ryan says, "this is the shit."
Michael nods for Ryan to follow. "I thought you might like it."
They take an escalator that's sort of claustrophobic and clearly not meant for people who are over 6 feet tall. There are frog sounds and bird sounds, and it's like Ryan just stepped into the Everglades. Once they get off the escalators, they're dumped into a massive exhibit of every fish ever. Ryan's completely sucked in; there's even a touching pool with horseshoe crabs, sea anemones and starfish that Michael has to physically drag him away from.
A class of school kids nearby are learning about starfish reproduction, and one of the little girls shrieks when the boy next to her splashes water on her dress.
Ryan chuckles. "I don't miss that," he says to Michael.
"Which part: the water or the girls?" Michael replies.
"The school part, dude. There's always going to be girls and water."
Michael shakes his head with a smile. "Always thinking with your dick, huh?"
Ryan pretends to be scandalized. "Not in front of the kids, man, you're supposed to be a role model."
They go to the Amazon exhibit and Ryan kind of wants is to stick his hand in the piranha tank. Michael dares him. "Go on, you can be the first Olympic swimmer with a metal hook for a hand."
"That's Captain Hook to you," Ryan retorts, but he pushes his sleeve back down and moves on.
At one point they find themselves in the deep ocean exhibit, which is a lot darker than the rest of the aquarium. Ryan's staring at these weird infrared fish when Michael grabs his wrist and drags him behind a black curtain.
They're supposed to be looking at some sort super scary deep sea fish, but Michael shoves Ryan against the wall and palms Ryan's dick through his pants. Ryan just goes with it when Michael shoves his leg between Ryan's thighs and rubs his cock against Ryan's hip.
He makes this high-pitched grunt when Michael uses the heel of his hand to apply pressure, and Michael slaps a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.
They break apart rapidly when they hear little voices outside the curtain though. Scaring little kids by being caught dry humping at the aquarium. Yeah, that would go over great on the front page of the National Enquirer. Ryan's grandma reads that, and his mom would never forgive him if he gave Nana a heart attack for being caught with his pants down with Michael Phelps.
They hastily move onwards, Ryan stopping to look at every little thing until they come to a dark room full of purple neon and a declining circular ramp. Ryan's first thought is about how awesome it would be to try and skate this. His second thought at the lack of exhibits is that the trip is over.
This makes him way sadder than it should.
They walk down down down, Michael with his hands in his pockets and that "I want to get laid" smirk on his face. Ryan pondering doing the rounds again, until, a few turns down, he sees Jaws.
"That's Jaws, dude," he says, grabbing Michael's forearm and coming to a halt.
Michael cuts him a look and his smirk goes wide. "I know; I have eyes, too."
"That's fucking Jaws," Ryan repeats in awe as another shark goes swimming past. "Oh my god, dude, you, brought me to the land of Jaws!" he says, chasing down the ramp after that shark before dashing back up to see another.
He goes back and forth and up and down the series of ramps, like, five times, scaring moms with strollers and playing with kids who are just as excited as he is.
After a while he goes looking for Michael and finds him at the end of the shark exhibit, sprawled out on a bench with a huge grin on his face. "Who's the man?" he asks as Ryan approaches him with a shit-eating grin.
Ryan rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Yeah, okay, you're the man, MP. You are most definitely the man."
They're barely in the front door before Michael's all over him like cheap sunscreen. It's the middle of the afternoon and they should totally be thinking about lunch, or dinner, or afternoon snack. Instead, they're racing down the hall to Michael's bedroom, elbowing each other in the ribs, trying to trip each other and yanking off clothes.
They burst through the bedroom door, scaring the shit out of Herman, who grunts in irritation and trundles off. Ryan stands there with his underwear around his ankles, breathing hard and looking at Michael, who's got half a shirt on and not much else. There's this thing happening between them that he's not too sure about. He's pretty sure something should happen before he shoves Michael back on the bed and reaches for the condoms and lube on the nightstand, but this isn't like that. They're guys, guys don't -- Ryan falls on his face when Michael grabs his waist and yanks him back.
He rolls over just in time for Michael to steal the lube and slather it all over Ryan's fingers. He's pretty sure that he'd been planning on getting -- every brain cell dies off when Michael grips Ryan's hand and pushes it between his legs.
"Mike-don't you think-"
Ryan makes this dying noise when Michael begins easing Ryan's fingers inside of him. Michael's stupidly warm and tight, and this, this is way too much without preparation; the tension on Michael's face is crazy. He's going to snap or -- do a fucking Michael Phelps and do shit nobody else can do.
Ryan exhales loudly as Michael tightens his grip on Ryan's wrist and begins to fuck himself with Ryan's fingers. "Are you fucking serious?" Ryan hisses.
Michael's got that focus thing happening; it's kind of scary and amazing at the same time. He's got eight gold medals for a reason. "Ry?" Michael grits out. "Shut up and fuck me."
Ryan opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
He's got Michael 'I May Not Be Human And Nobody Cares' Phelps in the literal palm of his hand. A crook of Ryan's fingers and Michael's whimpering and yanking at his own dick like he's going to die if he doesn't get off.
Michael's not normally really vocal in bed. Demanding? Yes. Loud? Not so much so. But every now and then he gets loud and pushy. "C'mon and fuck me," he orders, letting go of Ryan's wrist long enough to grab several condoms and fling them at Ryan's head. It's kind of hard to open a condom with someone fucking themselves with your the fingers though.
It takes a lot more brain cells than Ryan normally requires for him to rip open the foil packet with his teeth. He's just extracting the condom when Michael comes all over his stomach.
"Fuck," Ryan freezes in the moment. Michael pauses for four whole seconds and then he's moving again, slowly removing Ryan's fingers and moving back to straddle Ryan's thighs.
Ryan twitches when Michael's hand closes over his cock and he begins to roll the condom on. Michael gets this little line between his eyebrows when he focuses hard, and he exhales this breath that's so long it reminds Ryan about Michael supposedly having the biggest lung capacity ever.
When Michael's done, he slaps Ryan playfully on the stomach and Ryan automatically thrusts up. "You going to help me out here?" Michael asks
"What're we trying to do?" Ryan asks somewhat belatedly.
"I'm trying to get fucked," Michael says wryly. "What about you?"
It's the smile that shuts down Ryan's brain completely.
This is kind of thing that could get somebody in trouble if they weren't careful.
The One Chair Rule is an unspoken agreement among heterosexual males. It states that if you go to the movies with your friends, you are required to keep one chair between you at all times, so people don't think you're gay and dating. It's a stupid rule, and doesn't apply in crowded theatres, but it's there to keep people from acting weird. Sometimes, though, one chair doesn't really cut it, literally or figuratively. Sometimes, you can have a whole row between two guys and it won't change a damn thing.
Ryan wakes up in bed the next morning, his limbs tangled together with Michael's, and Herman cutting off the circulation to his right foot. They're not, like, cuddling or that girlie shit, but their heads are on the same pillow, and Ryan finds himself looking really hard at Michael's mouth. He knows its time to go.
He doesn't really want to leave, but this is supposed to be fun. They're supposed to enjoy themselves, not get all bogged down, with, like, emotions or whatever.
He extricates himself, despite Herman's protesting, and starts getting his shit together, picking up shirts and pants and underwear that might not be his. He takes a shower using shampoo instead of the bar soap, and puts on the least offensive clothing he can find for the flight home.
He's in the living room watching America's Best Dance Crews on MTV and eating Froot Loops out of a mixing bowl when Michael stumbles in. "What time is it?" he asks blearily.
"Time for me to head home," Ryan says, not tearing his eyes away from the TV. This shit is crazier than women's gymnastics.
Ryan can sense it when Michael invades his personal space, and his cereal slops over the side when Michael kicks his shin. He looks up. "Ow."
"You didn't tell me you were leaving today."
"I didn't? My bad."
Michael narrows his eyes. "You're an asshole, you know that?"
Ryan turns away and slurps more of his cereal. "Yeah, I know. You gonna drive me to the airport anyway?"
Michael stomps off, presumably to get dressed, and Ryan sighs, puts the cereal on the coffee table and slouches back into the sofa. He closes his eyes and thinks about swimming, not the how or the why, but just the feeling, the calm. Like nothing else matters. He feels like that here; yeah, he's gotta go.
He cracks open one eye when something wet lands on his hand.
Herman nudges his hand again, and Ryan scratches behind his ears. "Try to cut him some slack," Ryan says patting the bulldog on the back. "He's just human; we fuck up a lot."
"You ready to go?" Michael's voice carries from somewhere behind him.
Ryan looks over the back of the sofa at Michael in the doorway and nods. Getting up, he grabs his backpack and follows Michael down the hall.
Michael stops at the front door automatically and turns back around. He looks like he's going to say something, so Ryan cuts him off. "You still coming down for the Super Bowl? You still going to take me?"
"No, I'm going to take one of your sisters," Michael says, "maybe they'll put out." Ryan punches him in the arm. "Ow!"
"Not funny," Ryan says.
Michael leans against the front door and when he slips his hands in his pockets, his keys jangle. He crosses his legs at the ankle, and anybody else would think this was casual, but Ryan figures he's just trying not to trip over his own two feet. Or he's trying to barricade the door. "You have everything?"
Ryan nods. "It's all good, dude." He's got everything he came with. Mostly.
Michael nods back. "So, when are you coming up again?"
"I haven't even left yet," Ryan points out.
"Yeah, that's not what I asked."
"I'm only off for another couple weeks. We're not all kicking back until February, slacker."
Michael wheezes. "Slacker. I'm a slacker, now?"
Ryan shrugs. "Hey, man, don't hate the player, hate the game."
Michael pushes himself upright. Ryan never really thinks about how tall Michael is until he has to actually look up at him. "Let's try this again." Why does Michael always have to ruin shit by being serious? Some people are so damn committed. "When do I get to see you again?"
Ryan is so not this deep. "When you hire a jet and fly your ass down to Florida. Duh."
Michael smiles. "So, next week then."
Okay, maybe Ryan's a bit deeper than he thought. "Yeah," he agrees. "That's good."
"Sweet. Now are you going to leave my house so I can jerk off in peace?"
Ryan can feel his face twisting into a strange combination of a dropped jaw and a huge smirk. He makes a noise like a choking donkey. "I didn't see you complaining when I had your dick down my throat."
Michael leans in and Ryan reels back, his backpack digging into his kidneys as he plasters himself against the wall. Michael isn't kissing Ryan, but he's very close.
When Michael speaks, the air leaving his mouth brushes against Ryan's lips. "Manwhores never complain during sex -- it's rude. We wait until afterwards." Ryan blinks as Michael stands up and opens the door. "Now c'mon, you'll miss your flight."
Ryan tosses Michael a dirty look over his shoulder as he walks out into the Baltimore afternoon. "And you wonder why people call you a douchebag."
Michael's quiet after this remark, and Ryan pauses to look behind him.
Michael's standing in the doorway with his mouth open, and after a long moment he begins to wheeze and then laugh. Ryan smiles. "I told you I'd get your ass one day, Phelps."
Michael just shakes his head and wipes away the tears. "Fine. I give up. You win."
Ryan smiles. "Yeah, I know."
-end-
--
ETA 09/03/08: This is now Part II of the Rules & Republics Trilogy
Part I: The Golden Rule ('When Zeus Met a Dolphin' Playlist)
Part III: The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps
--
Oh, boys, why so entertaining to write?
Yes, there's just as much sex as the Olympics as you think there should be. Maybe more.
Thanks to everybody who sent me the links and research contained in this story, including alethialia, lyra_sena,metrosex,ruidoso,serialkarma and thorne_scratch. You make the crack possible.