Time for some sexing up, methinks.
Jesus God, I don't know where all this is coming from, but I hope it keeps up!
What do you all think? Does it follow well?
************************
John avoided the other guys for a few days, and then one morning Dino stuck his wet head through John’s bedroom door, dripping water on the carefully pristine mauve-colored carpet, and announced, “We’re all going to breakfast -- Troy’s buying. Come on, you fucker,” and just like that, everything was back to normal again.
Except that John couldn’t stop looking at Rodney just a little differently.
He thought that he should have remembered what it had been like, to have Rodney’s mouth on his, breathing air into his drowned lungs.
The feel of Rodney’s hands on his body should have been even easier to recall, but every time their fingers brushed as they passed the pen between them when working on equations, John shivered at the newness of the experience.
His dreams were filled with misty memories and wild fantasies, and the more he thought about it, the harder it was to keep from asking Rodney how he felt about it.
John overcompensated for his new sense of panic and alternated between spending every waking minute trailing Rodney’s steps and complete avoidance of him altogether.
Rodney didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. That was the worst, John thought, the idea that *he* was the only one going crazy all the time, and Rodney wasn’t even enough of a friend to give a shit that John was fucking falling apart.
Even though John was pretty sure that *he’d* do anything for Rodney.
Anything at all.
But the only things Rodney wanted John to do for him involved getting him food, which he needed every four hours like clockwork.
John remembered Eleanor Fernandez from school, who like Rodney was hypoglycemic, but he didn’t think she was anywhere near as careful about her food intake.
But the weird thing was, no matter what, John still felt . . . *safe* with Rodney.
No, that wasn’t the right word. Well, it *was*, but there was so much more to how he felt, and not for the first time, John really wished there was a dictionary or a thesaurus in the house somewhere, because he was sure that there was a better word to describe his feelings.
He just didn’t know what it was.
John was sulking in his room on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, trying to make some progress on one of the novels that seniors always had to read for English class. Most of the guys had gone over the mainland to the movies, which meant they’d probably be gone until late.
John hadn’t felt like making the effort, and he waved from the porch as two of the four resident cars pulled away.
He finished his smoke, stubbed out the butt in the bucket of sand next to the stairs for just that purpose, and ambled inside, locking the door behind him even though there was probably no reason to bother.
Ronnie and Don were on the sofa, watching a movie on the video player. “Should’ve gone with Beta,” one of them mumbled. John snorted. Rodney owned stock in Betamax and was always complaining that the company was going to lose him a bundle.
John argued that if Rodney felt that way, he should buy stock in VHS instead, which always sent Rodney into a flurry of complaints about the stupidity of arcane laws of majority, which generally meant that his parents controlled his shares and wouldn’t let him sell until he turned eighteen.
“Shep, c’mon in,” Don called, glancing over at the doorway. “Relax for a while.”
John shook his head and smiled, maybe a little wistfully. He’d noticed how Ron’s feet were propped on the couch, toes just barely brushing Don’s thigh. “Nah, it’s cool,” he called back as he moved through the house. “I’m gonna crash for a couple of hours.”
He wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a six-pack of soda, noticed as he did that the back door was unlocked, so he flipped the deadbolt.
Returning to the hallway, he shouted towards the living room, “The doors are locked, but if you guys go out, let me know, okay?”
Don laughed but called back agreeably, “What the fuck, Shep -- I thought Mike had that cop schtick down cold!”
“Whatever!” John yelled back, smiling as he mounted the stairs. “Don’t come bitching to me when you scream like a little girl ‘cause you didn’t hear the guys come in tonight!”
He envied them the chance to be close the way they were, and he wasn’t going to interfere with what was probably one of the few chances the two of them had to really relax and just enjoy each other’s company.
God, it would be *so* awesome if he and Rodney could be like that.
What if he could sit on the couch with Rodney like that, maybe put his head on Rodney’s shoulder and take his hand?
John shook his head, trying to push away the errant thoughts, even as he entered his room again. He was hard already, just from the brief flicker of vague ideas, half-formed wisps that teased at the back of his mind.
He cracked open a Coke and from habit, forced himself to think about something else, willing his cock to quiescence.
Then he stopped, and glanced at the closed door.
After a moment, feeling his heart pound in his chest at his own daring, John hooked the latch and deliberately pulled down the shades most of the way, leaving the room in semi-darkness.
The sodas he set on the floor beside the bed, before perching uncertainly on its edge.
Jesus Christ, was he *really* going to do this?
A chill wind whistled through the windows where John had left them open about an inch or so, and he shivered. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he kicked off his docksiders and stripped off his pullover, diving beneath the quilts.
Lying back against the pillows, with the covers pulled up to his chin, John tried to breathe more evenly.
His palms were sweating with just the thought of what he was about to do.
God, this was so fucking wrong, if anyone ever found out about it he’d be dead, they’d beat him to a bloody pulp and then kill him some more, and Jesus, Mary and Ralph, that’s nothing compared to what Rodney would say if he knew . . . .
*Rodney*.
John was rock-hard again already in his shorts, and he reached down to open the snap and the zipper, wriggling a little as he eased the elastic of his briefs over his throbbing cock.
He bit his lip at the feel of his own hand. It always felt good when he touched himself, but this time, he wasn’t thinking about last summer when one of those Madonna-wannabe girls from Our Lady of Mercy Academy took him under the boardwalk and showed him just how good lace mitts and rosary beads could feel on his dick.
Or after the Winter Snow Ball dance this year, when he unzipped Diana Masso’s satin dress and touched her creamy, freckled breasts.
John was thinking about Rodney, and the way his sandy blond hair flopped over his strong forehead, the way Rodney would push it irritably out of his blue eyes, those eyes that focused on John with all the intensity of a laser, those hands that had pressed the life back into his heart, those lips that had breathed for him and to him and spoke promises that John just needed to be brave enough to live up to, because if he could he *would* speak, he would speak and kiss and touch and make Rodney his, all his and he would ------
Come.
Pleasure like blacking out, like being struck in the base of the spine with a baseball bat, and John gasped and shuddered and stroked himself through his orgasm, squeezing out the last bits of sensation, until it was too much and he couldn’t bear even the slightest touch any more.
He curled on his side, knees drawn up, and wiped his hand somewhere on the sheets.
John pulled the covers over his shoulders and most of his head, letting just his face poke free, one hand fisted in the blankets beneath his chin.
Shit.
He was so fucked.
************************
What do you all think? Does it follow well?
************************
John avoided the other guys for a few days, and then one morning Dino stuck his wet head through John’s bedroom door, dripping water on the carefully pristine mauve-colored carpet, and announced, “We’re all going to breakfast -- Troy’s buying. Come on, you fucker,” and just like that, everything was back to normal again.
Except that John couldn’t stop looking at Rodney just a little differently.
He thought that he should have remembered what it had been like, to have Rodney’s mouth on his, breathing air into his drowned lungs.
The feel of Rodney’s hands on his body should have been even easier to recall, but every time their fingers brushed as they passed the pen between them when working on equations, John shivered at the newness of the experience.
His dreams were filled with misty memories and wild fantasies, and the more he thought about it, the harder it was to keep from asking Rodney how he felt about it.
John overcompensated for his new sense of panic and alternated between spending every waking minute trailing Rodney’s steps and complete avoidance of him altogether.
Rodney didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. That was the worst, John thought, the idea that *he* was the only one going crazy all the time, and Rodney wasn’t even enough of a friend to give a shit that John was fucking falling apart.
Even though John was pretty sure that *he’d* do anything for Rodney.
Anything at all.
But the only things Rodney wanted John to do for him involved getting him food, which he needed every four hours like clockwork.
John remembered Eleanor Fernandez from school, who like Rodney was hypoglycemic, but he didn’t think she was anywhere near as careful about her food intake.
But the weird thing was, no matter what, John still felt . . . *safe* with Rodney.
No, that wasn’t the right word. Well, it *was*, but there was so much more to how he felt, and not for the first time, John really wished there was a dictionary or a thesaurus in the house somewhere, because he was sure that there was a better word to describe his feelings.
He just didn’t know what it was.
John was sulking in his room on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, trying to make some progress on one of the novels that seniors always had to read for English class. Most of the guys had gone over the mainland to the movies, which meant they’d probably be gone until late.
John hadn’t felt like making the effort, and he waved from the porch as two of the four resident cars pulled away.
He finished his smoke, stubbed out the butt in the bucket of sand next to the stairs for just that purpose, and ambled inside, locking the door behind him even though there was probably no reason to bother.
Ronnie and Don were on the sofa, watching a movie on the video player. “Should’ve gone with Beta,” one of them mumbled. John snorted. Rodney owned stock in Betamax and was always complaining that the company was going to lose him a bundle.
John argued that if Rodney felt that way, he should buy stock in VHS instead, which always sent Rodney into a flurry of complaints about the stupidity of arcane laws of majority, which generally meant that his parents controlled his shares and wouldn’t let him sell until he turned eighteen.
“Shep, c’mon in,” Don called, glancing over at the doorway. “Relax for a while.”
John shook his head and smiled, maybe a little wistfully. He’d noticed how Ron’s feet were propped on the couch, toes just barely brushing Don’s thigh. “Nah, it’s cool,” he called back as he moved through the house. “I’m gonna crash for a couple of hours.”
He wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a six-pack of soda, noticed as he did that the back door was unlocked, so he flipped the deadbolt.
Returning to the hallway, he shouted towards the living room, “The doors are locked, but if you guys go out, let me know, okay?”
Don laughed but called back agreeably, “What the fuck, Shep -- I thought Mike had that cop schtick down cold!”
“Whatever!” John yelled back, smiling as he mounted the stairs. “Don’t come bitching to me when you scream like a little girl ‘cause you didn’t hear the guys come in tonight!”
He envied them the chance to be close the way they were, and he wasn’t going to interfere with what was probably one of the few chances the two of them had to really relax and just enjoy each other’s company.
God, it would be *so* awesome if he and Rodney could be like that.
What if he could sit on the couch with Rodney like that, maybe put his head on Rodney’s shoulder and take his hand?
John shook his head, trying to push away the errant thoughts, even as he entered his room again. He was hard already, just from the brief flicker of vague ideas, half-formed wisps that teased at the back of his mind.
He cracked open a Coke and from habit, forced himself to think about something else, willing his cock to quiescence.
Then he stopped, and glanced at the closed door.
After a moment, feeling his heart pound in his chest at his own daring, John hooked the latch and deliberately pulled down the shades most of the way, leaving the room in semi-darkness.
The sodas he set on the floor beside the bed, before perching uncertainly on its edge.
Jesus Christ, was he *really* going to do this?
A chill wind whistled through the windows where John had left them open about an inch or so, and he shivered. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he kicked off his docksiders and stripped off his pullover, diving beneath the quilts.
Lying back against the pillows, with the covers pulled up to his chin, John tried to breathe more evenly.
His palms were sweating with just the thought of what he was about to do.
God, this was so fucking wrong, if anyone ever found out about it he’d be dead, they’d beat him to a bloody pulp and then kill him some more, and Jesus, Mary and Ralph, that’s nothing compared to what Rodney would say if he knew . . . .
*Rodney*.
John was rock-hard again already in his shorts, and he reached down to open the snap and the zipper, wriggling a little as he eased the elastic of his briefs over his throbbing cock.
He bit his lip at the feel of his own hand. It always felt good when he touched himself, but this time, he wasn’t thinking about last summer when one of those Madonna-wannabe girls from Our Lady of Mercy Academy took him under the boardwalk and showed him just how good lace mitts and rosary beads could feel on his dick.
Or after the Winter Snow Ball dance this year, when he unzipped Diana Masso’s satin dress and touched her creamy, freckled breasts.
John was thinking about Rodney, and the way his sandy blond hair flopped over his strong forehead, the way Rodney would push it irritably out of his blue eyes, those eyes that focused on John with all the intensity of a laser, those hands that had pressed the life back into his heart, those lips that had breathed for him and to him and spoke promises that John just needed to be brave enough to live up to, because if he could he *would* speak, he would speak and kiss and touch and make Rodney his, all his and he would ------
Come.
Pleasure like blacking out, like being struck in the base of the spine with a baseball bat, and John gasped and shuddered and stroked himself through his orgasm, squeezing out the last bits of sensation, until it was too much and he couldn’t bear even the slightest touch any more.
He curled on his side, knees drawn up, and wiped his hand somewhere on the sheets.
John pulled the covers over his shoulders and most of his head, letting just his face poke free, one hand fisted in the blankets beneath his chin.
Shit.
He was so fucked.
************************