HCL Joe/Billy NC-17
Here is a Joe/Billy sexual history, written in a semi-chronological series of escalating vignettes, intended to lead up to the Joe/Billy encounter that so unsettled Mary The Fan.
WIP, currently unfinished, hope to be finished by 1/17, but a little stuck, in need of concrit.
Tentatively titled Never. Countless.
Additional note: Although I've written a lot of DS fic, I've never before written HCL fic. So, please be gentle but constructive. Also if anyone can point me to a web site of notes and references for HCL canon, or a transcript, that would be a huge help. I've been waiting for the Hard Core edition of the DVD since July from Amazon.ca, so my VHS copy is getting unhappy with all the pausing and rewinding... If I had the DVD I'd just check the subtitles, although subtitles frequently lie...
--Surfgirl
Never. Countless.
Fandom: HCL
Pairing: Billy/Joe
Rating: NC-17
~ ~ ~
The first time. . .
There was no "first time." There was never a "first time."
It was all incremental, like climbing a mountain, up one side, and down the other. One foot in front of the other, over and over; pretty soon there's a mountain behind you. And you don't even realize how you got where you are, because no individual step seemed very big at the time you took it. Just seemed like one little step. One after the other.
After the other.
Little increments.
‘Til you stop and look back and see the mountain.
~ ~ ~
Incremental moves. Building on each other. Like the first time Billy and Joe fucked a couple of groupies together. Both of them - the boys, that is, not the groupies -- were pretty wasted, but (ah, youth!) still horny, still hard, still happy to sit back on the saggy motel bed, side by side, and get their cocks sucked until they were even harder.
Billy looked at Joe, big grin, ear to ear, dreamily imagining (in the back of his drunk and horny young mind) the world of free ‘n easy pussy ahead of them when Hard Core Logo made it big.
Not if. (Not in Billy’s mind). When.
Joe looked at Billy without smiling, quite. Just the corners of his mouth smirked, that smirk Billy already knew so well -- too well -- and that intensity in his eyes. Their eyes met while dishwater blonde Jeanine and her brown-haired friend sucked them, not particularly well - but well enough for a couple of eighteen year old boys.
And later after the nothing-special-but-competent-enough blowjobs, Billy was on top of Jeanine, fucking her. Drunk and fucking - screw that Dead Kennedys “too drunk to fuck” shit, an old man must’ve wrote that song - Billy got into it because he was drunk, because it just felt so good, and he didn’t look at Joe or what Joe was doing with Jeanine's friend, at all.
Until once when he glanced briefly over at Joe in alcoholic camaraderie, in an “is this fucking cool or what?” haze. Joe who was doing Jeanine's friend doggie style.
And who wasn't watching what he was doing at all.
Joe was watching Billy fuck Jeanine. Watching the way Billy's lean body undulated, snakelike: chest and shoulders pushed against the girl’s chest, then raised as his stomach pushed into her, and then that moved up a little too, leverage so his pelvis could push harder, deeper, between her legs, legs at the crazy angles of only the young or truly flexible.
Joe watched as Billy undulated again. And again. Repeatedly. Not very fast. Not banging her, no. Billy was getting into it. Sweat gathered in the small of his back.
Joe watched and Billy looked drunkenly and a bit cross-eyed over at Joe fucking Jeanine's friend (Billy couldn't even remember her name then, let alone now), and saw Joe watching him. And Billy felt funny -- how, he's not sure, but funny (not funny ha-ha, but funny weird, not necessarily in a bad way).
Joe licked his lips once, twice, watching Billy, until Billy started to slow down, feeling self-conscious. And then Joe looked back at Jeanine's friend, down at her ass as he banged her doggie-style. And he slapped her ass and looked back at Billy and winked. And then grabbed her hips with both hands and started really banging her.
Billy turned back to Jeanine then. Sped up, put his mind back on what he was doing: fucking. He came, she came.
Jeanine was blissful. "You guys coming back this way again?" she slurred after Billy had been collapsed on her for a few minutes. "Whenever you do, let me know," she murmured into Billy's ear, and giggled.
And Billy lifted his head, kissed her quick, and looked over at Joe. Who was already putting his jeans back on. And Jeanine's friend, who looked kinda pissed and was still throwing her clothes at Joe as he dressed. Something must've gone wrong, but Billy didn't know what. Maybe she didn't come. Lots of girls didn't.
"Fucking asshole," she growled as she threw another article of clothing at Joe. Her T-shirt hit him in the face. The bliss had obviously hit Jeanine, but missed her friend.
Joe peeled the T-shirt off his face, threw it back in hers and, shoving a cigarette in the corner of his lips, said,
"No, I wasn't fucking your asshole, but next time I will." Smirked at Billy.
Billy just grinned and turned away, settling back on Jeanine. Which got him another kiss on his smooth young cheek as they both felt his cock slip out.
~ ~ ~
Increments.
Like the first time they only had one groupie between them and they shared her. Sandra and her friend wanted to fuck Billy, but they both wanted to fuck Billy, and neither one of them wanted to fuck Joe -- he having endeared himself to them by calling them the "sluts du jour" backstage. They had weed, though, and blow, and were so tickled to be in the presence of their punk rock gods that they were happy to share (give) all their drugs to the boys (Joe).
But when Sandra's friend -- Billy could never remember the names of the girls he didn't fuck -- started trading insults with Joe, Joe just picked her up bodily and threw her out of the motel room. And slammed the door.
And Sandra, happy to have been chosen, just giggled and snorted another line. Her friend pounded on the door, and Joe stood there, leaned back against it, a wicked "fuck it" grin on his face, listening to her pound and yell, and Billy let Sandra unzip his pants. She was just about to wet her finger and wipe some powder off her compact mirror, then rub it on her gums, but Billy stopped her.
"Don't. You'll numb my cock. I wanna feel it," he said quietly, smiling that disarming smile.
"Oh, right," she smiled back happily. "Sorry!"
"Yeah, sweetheart, don't numb Billy's cock," Joe drawled. “Billiam needs the full effect.”
Sandra's friend still pounded and yelled on the door, but Joe just stood there smoking, occasionally jumping slightly if Sandra's friend landed a particularly good kick, and the door jumped.
Joe watched Sandra unzip Billy's pants and take out Billy's already hard cock.
Sandra's friend still ranted on the other side of the door.
Sandra started sucking Billy. This was more-than-competent sucking; this was "I got backstage and got Billy and Joe, and the others didn’t, so I must be better, an' I'll prove it" sucking.
Joe watched and smoked. Watched Billy shiver and his stomach quiver and watched as Billy picked up her hair so he could watch her blow himself better. They had learned some things from porn. (Billy also, thanks to later repeated encounters with Mary The Fan, eventually learned what you couldn't learn from porn, learned what porn misled you about. This made him more popular with the ladies than he already had been, and much more popular with the ladies than Joe, at least those who'd already slept with Joe. Which Billy already was -- the gap just widened.)
(Joe didn't care. Much. He knew what he needed to know for chicks. That wasn't where it was at for him, anyway.)
Finally Joe moved, turned, and opened the door, just as Sandra's friend was launching herself against it again. Like an episode of the Three Stooges, the girl’s momentum and the suddenly missing resistance of the open door pitched her right onto the floor. Billy and Joe laughed, Sandra stopped sucking to turn around briefly, and Sandra's friend launched herself at Joe, who easily over powered her and just lay on her, on the floor, squishing her down by brute force but not smacking her around.
(For all the spitting, the anarchy, the see/want/take, Joe never hit a girl. Years later, a drunk groupie accidentally bit Pipefelcher's cock, and Pipe reflexively slapped her. After he managed the incident, Joe lectured Pipe -- in his own way.
Beer in hand, wrapped around the neck of the bottle, lit cigarette protruding between the first two fingers, he stabbed his index finger inches from Pipefitter's face for every word he spoke.
"You never hit a girl. Never. Unless you're a fucker.")
So, yes, Sandra's friend lay on the floor struggling and fighting and biting, with Joe on top of her, Joe who simply tried to contain her flailing limbs and cover her screaming mouth. The commotion distracted Billy from Sandra's mouth, and his mouth flattened into a line of concentration. Joe saw this, saw it from on top of Sandra's struggling friend. So he picked her up bodily again and this time took her into the bathroom, threw her in the shower, and turned on the cold water.
Sluts du jour like cold water about as much as cats. She slapped Joe pretty good a few times, but finally stomped out, leaving wet foot prints from her combat boots on the ancient, ugly, orange shag carpet, and slamming the door behind her.
Joe pulled her dime bag of weed out of his pocket, threw it on the night stand. Unbuckled his jeans, unzipped 'em. Watched as Billy sank back on the bed to lay down, then wiggled up 'til he could put his head on the pillow. Joe watched as Sandra followed Billy's cock from her kneeling position on the floor to kneeling between his legs on the bed, and continued her amazing blowjob. Joe pushed his jeans down -- no briefs; commando. The bed was parallel to the door, which Joe leaned back against once more. Had Billy seen, he'd have noticed that Joe was already hard.
But Billy wasn't watching, so he didn't see that, and he didn't see Joe stroke himself harder and faster. Joe watched Billy's stomach tighten up, in the way he knew meant Billy would come soon. Watched Billy's face screw up and eyes squint. Joe came when Billy came in Sandra's mouth; Sandra swallowed. Joe wiped his come off himself with his T-shirt after a few minutes.
Billy saw Joe wipe off out of his peripheral vision, and turned to watch quizzically as Joe zipped and buckled back up, Joe meanwhile unaware he was being scrutinized. It took a few seconds in Billy's post-orgasmic (and slightly drunk) haze before he realized what Joe must've done. He shook his head and smiled at Sandra, who smiled back, smacking her lips in that exaggerated way of porn actresses. (Clearly she'd learned from porn, too.) Joe stared hard at the two of them, 'til Billy looked over at him, grinning, thinking, perverse motherfucker. Then Joe smirked and looked away
~ ~ ~
Increments. Like the first time they had only one groupie between them. They were, what, 20? 21? Did it matter?
It was originally supposed to be one of those "sloppy seconds" deals. One of those "Okay, I'll fuck him, but only if I can fuck you first" situations. First, Billy (her first choice), then Joe.
They almost all wanted Billy, Billy, Billy. Joe was, well, could be, kind of a dick. Some groupies didn't want to fuck him at all. He was quite capable of being sweet to the girls when he wanted to; he just often didn't want to. Why make it into something it wasn't? Either they got off on fucking their punk rock gods, or they didn't. Either they were backstage and in the van and in the shitty motel rooms to get fucked, or they weren't. It was really no big deal either way. He could read the situations. Joe knew Billy needed the affirmation of chicks wanting him more than Joe did. Joe didn't really need it at all. And sometimes there were the chicks who didn't want Billy at all, who just wanted bad boy Joe. And those were often the only ones who really appealed to Joe, anyway.
What could Billy do? What could he say? He was nicer to them than Joe, a lot of the time. He was smoother. Even back then when they were still kids. But, down deep, he never stopped enjoying the attentions of the ladies. It wasn't just girls, groupies, sluts, snatch, gash, 'tang like Joe said. Billy simply liked the ladies.
And the girls, they could tell Billy was flatterable. He was still, somehow, sweet enough to blush sometimes, to get embarrassed -- but never too embarrassed to carry through with whatever bizarre scenario might come up. He was more tolerant, less judgemental than Joe. Joe would call them sluts, whores, hookers. Billy would shrug. Once he said to Joe, "So what does that make us?" because, after all, what were these girls doing that was any different than what he and Joe did, whenever possible?
Joe shut the fuck up for a moment, then smirked and stood up from the plastic chairs of the "dressing room" (cleaning supplies closet) .
"That makes us kings of the road," Joe boasted, and stomped off.
So it was in their capacity as kings of the road that they did the groupie sandwich one night. "Decided" was not a word Billy would have chosen for the way the groupie sandwich occurred. Like many things between Joe and Billy, it wasn't decided; it just happened.
It was post-show, they were sweaty and hyped up, and this girl Clarice just kept following Billy backstage, all ga-ga. Nice tits -- a good handful, maybe more, but still pert -- strong arms, hair like Joan Jett (or was it Chrissie Hynde?), studded collar, studded wrist bands, combat boots, no bra. Just the way Joe liked 'em.
An hour later in their motel room they had her drunk and high on grass, and while Billy kissed her and squeezed and caressed her breasts under her thin, black, ripped Clash T-shirt, Joe pulled up her skirt and took down her panties. He had his fingers in her before Billy had even put his mouth on her nipples yet. Billy had a tit thing, kind of. Sometimes.
"How about a sandwich, huh?" Joe murmured in her ear, smirking at Billy as she bucked back against him, Joe's fingers having reached either a very sensitive spot inside her, or some place she absolutely didn't expect to be touched at all. Joe was more slowly and less effectively than usual (with his left hand -- his right being occupied in Clarice's cunt) unbuckling and unzipping his jeans. She got wet and slippery quickly, more from Billy kissing her and roughly fondling her tits than from Joe fingering her.
"Sandwich?" she mumbled into Billy's mouth. Her eyes were closed, but Joe and Billy could look each other in the eye around her head, except when her hair got in the way.
"Billy, you, me," Joe whispered, showbiz sleazy. He stopped stroking his cock and fingering her to take her panties all the way off -- she stepped out of them as he carefully pressed the tender spots at the back of her knees, one at a time.
"Wha. . .?"
"Like this," Joe said, and picked her hips up. Billy stumbled a bit, catching part of her body weight against his chest, her breasts squashed in his hands. "Here, like this," Joe repeated, and set her boyish hips down right on his cock.
She moaned, not unhappily, into Billy's feverish French kissing. "Unnnh..."
"Here," Joe said with finality, and yanked her backwards on the bed.
Torn from Billy's lips, Clarice looked irritatedly over her shoulder at Joe, who wasted no time; he had her out of her shirt in seconds.
"Hey!"
"Billiam, get over here and give her what she wants," Joe ordered, shoving his pants down to his knees and pushing Clarice onto all fours. He knelt behind her, looking pointedly at Billy, jerked his head towards the bed, and then nodded down at the hard cock straining at Billy's threadbare fly. "Come on, give 'er your cock. She wants it, you know."
Joe stroked his cock a few strokes, pushed Clarice's skirt up onto her back (which she still had on, along with the studded collar, wrist bands, and combat boots), then introduced the head of his cock to her pussy. She moaned, looking hungrily at Billy through slitted, black-lined eyes.
Needing no more urging than that, Billy unbuckled, unzipped, skinned off his jeans, ripped his ratty T-shirt off, and got on the bed, cock wagging in her face.
"There you go. Say hi to the real Billy," Joe patted Clarice's ass -- nicely.
No, not nicely -- shrewdly. Billy, getting another amazing blowjob, was not about argue with the way Joe did anything that gave such great results.
Joe fucked her from behind and then sucked his thumb 'til it was really wet and stuck it in her ass while he fucked her. She squirmed a little, but obviously enjoyed it. The blowjob became even more enthusiastic.
Billy pushed her off his cock sometimes, to stop from coming. Once he got up and had another swig of whiskey, watched Joe fuck her and finger her ass simultaneously. She was into it, eyes shut, moaning into the bedspread. Then Billy rejoined them.
Joe had Clarice switch then -- sucking Joe, getting doggie-styled by Billy. Billy was happy to oblige; her pussy was hot, tight from puffing up in arousal, and incredibly wet.
"Come on, don't shirk," Joe said to Billy.
"What...?" Billy said, banging her as he held her hips, so that sometimes she'd get knocked hard enough onto Joe's cock to gag. But that had happened already a number of times while she sucked Billy and got banged by Joe, and she didn't seem to mind at all.
"You're shirking," Joe said. Gave Billy the thumbs up.
Billy's forehead wrinkled and his rhythm slowed. "Huh?"
Joe took his thumb -- the same one that had been in her ass -- and slipped it into Clarice's mouth alongside his dick. Raised his eye brows at Billy.
"Get it?"
"Right," Billy said, ducking his head a moment, then grinning ferociously back at Joe.
Joe took his thumb from the girl's mouth and sucked it and smiled around it, watching Billy. Billy rolled his eyes and then sucked his own thumb, looking down at Clarice's asshole. His thumbs -- all his fingers -- were slimmer and more dextrous than Joe's. The guitar thing.
The two of them sucked their thumbs, one naked, blond and slim, the other with his pants at his ankles, T-shirt, shoes and socks still on; the former's hair spiked, the latter's black hair mohawked. Clarice moaned between them, impaled on both ends, Joe invading her mouth, and Billy in her pussy, and then finally Billy's thumb in her ass.
Clarice didn't see the look that passed between them, or the focus on Billy's face as he thumbed Clarice's ass and fucked her simultaneously. Joe watched Billy check Clarice's responses, to see if she liked it. She did. But Clarice didn't see any of that because she was not on all fours anymore, she was on all threes, rubbing herself with her right hand.
Scant minutes later, though it seemed to have taken longer, Joe growled through his teeth at Billy, "Don't come in her ass, don't--"
-- Joe had watched Billy getting closer and closer to orgasm while he fucked Clarice's pretty little face, heavy black eyeliner running with involuntary tears now -- what a trouper --
And Billy, through the fog of orgasmic inevitability, heard Joe, and obeyed. Pulled out and came all over her ass, just as Joe pulled out of her mouth and came in her face and hair.
~ ~ ~
They didn't sandwich her that night, not actually. The actual sandwich was later, maybe four months later. The next increment.
Clarice showed up at a gig, right there in the pit in front of the stage, where she was happily getting bruised by elbows, knees, buckles, studded wrist bands -- it wasn't called moshing back then; that term came later. Joe reached into the pit and grabbed her by the wrist, then lifted her out and onto the stage in a rather gentlemanly way. Or like plucking a ripe fruit you just want right now.
Clarice was already drunk, but grinned at him ferally, and Joe pushed her off into the wings of the stage. Winked at her. Just as Billy spun around and saw her. Joe winked at Billy, then, too.
Billy grinned down at his guit-tah strings.
Yeah, Clarice was happy to watch from the wings.
Later, much later, Joe watched Billy's eyes close and brow wrinkle and relax while Clarice sort of rode him, to the extent that she could with Joe up her ass.
Joe could feel Billy's cock through the thin wall of flesh separating Clarice's ass from her sweet pussy. Clarice was very loudly enjoying the dual attention.
Since Billy was paying no real attention to anything but himself, Joe figured out that (1) he liked it better when he shoved his cock in Clarice's ass just as Billy was on his outstroke from her pussy, and (2) apparently, it felt a lot better for Clarice when Joe fucked her ass in that counterpoint to Billy. Not that Joe usually cared, but Clarice was better than most and more than willing to try new things, and he respected that more than anything else in a woman. Groupies is groupies, but not many will let you fuck 'em in the ass, let alone sandwich 'em -- they're mostly just blowjobs and some fucking.
So Joe fucked Clarice's ass in counterpoint to Billy fucked her pussy -- or, rather, how she fucked herself by riding Billy's cock -- and watched Billy's face go slack and then screw up, and when they came, they came together, inside her, very bad disease-wise (for Clarice, actually, not them), but very fucking good sex-wise. Clarice seemed to come then too -- triple deluxe groupie 'gasm.
Joe, sweat dripping from his temples and his upper lip, collapsed on Clarice, and Clarice collapsed on Joe. Clarice didn't mind being squished between Joe and Billy, but Billy complained.
"Get off," he grumbled, pushing at Joe's shoulder which hung over Clarice's shoulder because she was fairly petite.
Joe pulled out of her ass before he was completely limp, and rolled over on his back next to them. Clarice lay on Joey a few minutes longer, panting heavily into his neck behind his ear, then slid bonelessly into the small space between Billy and Joe, forcing Joe to move farther away from Billy.
Joe got up to take a piss.
When Joe came back, Billy and Clarice were both asleep. He paused, looking down on them. Clarice and Billy had snuggled farther into the middle of the bed, closer to the far edge of the bed than the middle, than where they'd been when Joe got up to piss. Billy spooned her, bottom arm under her and top arm tucked over and around her.
Deadmonton. Winter. Yeah.
Joe slipped between the covers and into bed behind Billy. And spooned him. Threw an arm over the both of them, but mostly over Billy.
And that's how Billy woke up, briefly, a couple hours later: his arms around warm girlflesh in front of him, while behind him Joe was warm guyflesh and Joe's muscled arm lay heavily over the arm Billy had tucked around Clarice.
Billy opened his eyes. Felt Joe's wood at his backside. Heard Joe's light snores in his ear.
Billy shut his eyes and went back to sleep.
~ ~ ~
Joe and Billy found one other girl willing to do the sandwiched double penetration -- well, two, actually, but one girl was so drunk that she ended up vomting violently all over Billy (who was on the bottom), which kind of killed it for all three of them. The other girl, besides Clarice, and besides the sick one, was Jane, although Billy doubted that was her real name 'cause it was so John Doe of her to call herself that.
At any rate, they did Jane after a gig, similarly to the way they did Clarice both in the non-sandwich and the sandwich encounters.
With one major exception. Well, more than one, but don't put the cart before the horse.
Before they got down to it, Joe got Billy -- and Jane -- more fucked up than he would have usually. (Actually, many, if not most, of their sexual encounters were prefaced by drinking and doing drugs. . .) Billy had no idea where Joe scored it, but they smoked a small chunk of hash in Joe's pot pipe. Had he been paying more attention, he would have realized Joe smoked hardly any hash, while Billy and Jane smoked most of the chunk, about the size of a large vitamin pill.
Joe camouflaged his lack of smoking all by complaining that the hash resined up his pipe and he was gonna have to clean it before he could smoke any weed out of it, made a big production after they smoked it of getting some toothpicks to poke the resin out of the pipe from the shitty diner attached to the motel. Left the room and everything, came back with more beer and a handfull of toothpicks. Billy and Jane were on the bed making out languourously, really, really high.
The hash made Billy loose limbed, smiley, and very, very easy going. So during foreplay with Jane, Billy was a little less attentive than he normally would have been. (Which, honestly, wasn't all that attentive in the early years. . . with the Hard Cores, no one was ever straight by the end of a show, although Billy was usually the straightest, and Joe just controlled his inebriation by offsetting the liquor, downers and/or hallucinogens with coke, uppers, and/or excessive amounts of caffeine. Billy's attentiveness mostly came from Mary The Fan, but that was later. It was much more punk not to ask "did you come?" and it was definitely not punk at all to ask "was I all right?" -- which Billy often wanted to do, but virtually never did in front of Joe, except a couple times, which Joe mercilessly never let Billy live down. So, back then, most of the time, Billy was more attentive to the women, for what it was worth; Joe was more attentive to himself. Or Billy.)
And so, during this hash-high foreplay with Jane and Joe, Billy was almost completely absorbed by his own sensations, and a lot less attentive to his surroundings or who did what (and also a lot less attentive to the woman, in this case, Jane, than he would normally have been).
And so it was that at one point Billy was getting what he felt sure was the most excruciatingly pleasurable blowjob of his life. And he'd already had more blowjobs than he could count at this point, which was saying something, even if the hash had a lot to do with how amazing this particular blowjob felt. There was just something so wonderful and different about this blowjob. Billy's sex and hash fogged mind slowly searched for the right words to describe this blowjob. Thorough, he thought. Great attention to detail. Tortuous tongue swirls about the head of his cock, then nibbling of that seam that leads to your pee-hole, and then fast, constant up and down sucking, with a hand jacking the shaft helping the magnificent mouth. And it all felt as if it could go on tirelessly, forever. As if it had been happening forever.
This blowjob was positively loving. And Billy's mouth was being languidly explored, which must be Joe, but that wasn't so new, actually. . . Although Billy had forgotten, until this very moment, that first time he and Joe got drunk in Joe's basement -- were they thirteen or fourteen? -- and messed around with Joe's dad's porn magazine collection and then with each other, mostly jacking themselves off, though there was some kissing and jacking of each other. And, somewhat surprisingly, this memory drove Billy's arousal up to a new level, one that was approaching explosion in a very, very slow-moving, swimming-through-honey way.
Billy's eyebrows lifted sluggishly over his shut eyes -- it was so difficult and required such effort to actually open them. He wanted to speak, wanted to sentimentally thank Joe and Jane -- how cliche-ish, he suddenly realized: Joe and Jane? -- for their very good attentions. It's the hash, he thought, after the ridiculous idea of thanking the occurred to him.
And he wanted to warn them that he was soon going to let loose with the slowest, biggest uncontrollable jets of jism he would doubtless ever produce.
But his mouth was being ravished, which was very good, but made it difficult to speak, and, well, his limbs and arms didn't work so well tonight, thanks to the hash...
So, with great effort, Billy finally opened his eyes, the left eye opening slightly slower than the right. Opened his eyes to a surprise.
It was Jane who was all over his mouth. Her eyes were shut tight, black eyeliner only slightly smeared.
So this most spectacular blowjob ever must be...
Joe.
And with the hash and everything... well, it just felt so fucking good. Although there was that small back-of-the-mind sinking feeling.
But Billy supposed it really didn't matter. Much. In the big scheme. Of things.
He shut his eyes again, grunted unintelligibly into the mouth on his, as if through warm, deep water. It was the best he could do to warn anyone that his train was coming into the station, slowly, relentlessly. He was not about to stop it -- as if he even could, as if he had that kind of control now -- and then it started.
So Billy imagined it was Jane's mouth pulling the best damn spurts of semen -- long, slow, uncontrollable: one, another, another, another -- that he'd ever produced, ever ejaculated.
He knew, his brain knew, that it was Joe's mouth, but it didn't feel like a guy's mouth. It just felt amazing. His stomach tautened, his hands gripped the cheap bedspread under them, his knees tightened, his toes curled, his hips bucked up by themselves as it overtook him. Billy came, and came, and came, very hard, as if his soul were forced piecemeal out of his body, spurt by excruciating spurt. He would never know what it was like to give birth, but this seemed like as close an approximation as he'd ever imagine.
Joe swallowed all of it, swallow after swallow, still moving his mouth and hand in perfect synchrony. Until Billy's incoherent wail into Jane's mouth indicated his cock-head was at that overwhelmingly sensitive, nearly painful post-orgasm point. Only then did Joe loosen the tight suction of his mouth and stop jacking with his hand and let Billy's wet, saliva-covered cock slide out of his mouth.
Then Billy landed gently back in his body; the hypnotic hash parachute let him down so easy, back into himself.
It was nothing like when you're drunk and you're fucking and you're almost there and you're gonna come and then you're coming and it's pretty short and not nearly as good as it should be, for all the work you put into it, and then you're done and you suddenly crash back into your slightly sick and sweaty body, most unpleasantly because the endorphins of orgasm can't overcome the alcohol.
Nothing like that at all.
It was sheer euphoria.
In a distant part of Billy's brain, a tiny red flag raised. And, as with many things with Joe, he ignored it. The euphoria was beyond compare.
It was the hash, Billy thought.
It was just the hash.
Jane was still kissing Billy languidly, more distractedly, and she'd just recently twisted strangely somehow while kissing him, he realized with delayed reaction. Billy finally felt capable of opening his eyes, and, after another slight struggle, did so. He saw Joe eating Jane's ass, paying no attention to anything else whatsoever. Billy wondered if Joe was as completely stoned as he was, and decided slowly, with another extremely languid blink, that there was no way Joe could possibly be this active and capable if he was so completely stoned, and therefore he must not be. Fucker.
It was just the hash.
Pretty soon Jane was not kissing Billy anymore, Joe had laid her out flat on her back next to Billy and was eating her pussy and fingering her ass. Now Jane was where Billy had been about ten minutes ago, spiralling up to orgasm on the hash and on Joe's expert, simultaneous and successive manipulations and mouthing and tongueing and sucking and fingering of her most sensitive parts. Billy made another effort, mostly successful, which consisted of attempting to kiss Jane's mouth and fondle her nearest breast, and ended up with his mouth on her near nipple and one hand on her far breast.
That seemed to put Jane over the edge, or maybe it was the fact that Joe now sucked her clit hard as a hungry calf on a teat while moving his hand (two fingers in her ass and two fingers in her pussy) in and out of her fast as a sewing machine needle and Billy's mouth sucked one nipple while his fingers slowly and just a bit too roughly pinch-rubbed her other nipple between his thumb and index finger.
Jane came thunderously and screamed the entire time -- or so she thought, but really it came out as a long, drawn-out caterwaul, not entirely pleasant, and not (just by sound) the noise you'd expect an ecstatic woman to make. Like stray cats outside your window that might be fighting or fucking, you can't tell which. Which made Billy smile sleepily around the nipple in his mouth and begin to let go of both nipples with his lips and fingers.
Then, while she was still clenching reflexively, but more and more weakly, on Joe's four fingers, and Billy had sleepily lay back again, Joe pulled his four fingers out of her two holes, shoved one of her legs up so her knee was in her armpit, and plunged his aching, leaking cock into her unbelievably sopping pussy.
It took him about five thrusts before he came, face tilted towards Billy, eyes squinted shut tight, grimacing.
Definitely not as high as me, Billy decided. Fucker.
Even the thought came slowly.
Fuck.
Er.
It was just the hash.
Later, after a period of sleep -- how long? who knew? -- Billy woke again to the sucking of his cock. This time it was a sharper feeling, more immediate, with some jagged moves: teeth. He opened his eyes -- he could do that now, almost as soon as he thought he wanted to, unlike before. The hash was wearing off.
Billy realized Jane was sucking him and Joe was fucking her from behind -- in the ass? or the pussy? who knew? Joe was going at it good, Jane was on all threes, using one hand to help her --
And this just wasn't as good as before, although it was still good, because there is almost no such thing as bad head.
Wasn't as good as before because the hash wore off. Or so Billy told himself.
He wondered if he would come again. Wondered if he'd ever fuck this chick Jane. Apparently, Joe was having one helluva night. In more ways than one.
But. . . hard to be angry in any way when your cock is surrounded by lovely, tight, fast-moving suction.
And he didn't come, and it didn't matter, because Jane seemed to come again -- Joe did something, and the girl screamed (for real, this time) and stopped sucking, too distracted. She plunked her head down hard on Billy's flat stomach, above his navel. Joe ordered her to shut up, which she did by screaming rhythmically through her clenched teeth, which Billy could strangely feel in his abdomen because she had her cheek flat against him.
Which was kind of exciting. In an I'm-probably-not-gonna-come-again kind of way.
Joe seemed to come again, this time taking his time, pumping her roughly with each spurt of come, and then pulled out of her, collapsed next to her, and Jane stayed there for a moment, ass in the air, teeth still clenched, wheezy moans coming between them, before sinking down heavily between them, though she was not a heavy girl.
Jane and Joe slept, and Billy lay awake, and remembered the magnificent fellatio. Of Joe.
And rolled over onto Jane like a security blanket, tucked her half under him.
In the morning when Billy woke up, Jane was gone. Joe was buckling his jeans, baseball cap on backwards, and looking out the peep-hole in the door. As if he felt Billy looking at him, Joe glanced over his shoulder at Billy.
"Billy."
The blond guitarist paused. It seemed important to establish something. Right away.
"Joe. I like girls."
Joe gave him that steely look, and then his eyes went dead like they sometimes did when he wanted to appear bored.
"Billy. I like girls. Too." Shook his head, like, Don't you get it?
"Yeah, well. . ." Billy closed his eyes, wiped a hand across his face. His mind felt a bit numb, a bit slow, but still there.
"Yeah, well, don't freak out," Joe sneered, and turned back to the peephole to examine the parking lot without opening the curtains to let the morning sun invade. "What's the big deal? A blowjob between friends." He shrugged.
"I. Like. Girls."
Joe swung back around, hands out expansively, wicked grin and wink. "And I don't? 'Jane.' Mmmph." He mimed her hips in his hands, mimed a few short fuck thrusts with his pelvis.
Billy grinned back. "Ya sure did last night." He paused. "Pig."
Joe grinned, striding across the room towards Billy. Billy steeled himself, for what he didn't know. But Joe just grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the night stand, fingered one out of the nearly empty pack, shoved it in the corner of his lips, and lit it.
"Girls like pigs, Billy. They act like they don't, but they do. Where ya been?"
"Right. Doubt it. Maybe some." Billy shook his head, rubbing his eyes. He was naked under the covers, but unselfconscious. He yawned.
"Telling ya, bud. They like it." He grinned roguishly.
"Whatever. . ." Easygoing, no major hash comedown or hangover except a slight dullness of thought and action, Billy yawned and looked up at Joe. He pulled the bed covers up higher over his chest, but then clasped his hands behind his head, relaxed, content, mostly all right with the night's events. Mostly.
Joe paused, exhaling from his nostrils two great plumes of smoke like a horse in winter. Right onto the covers over Billy's chest.
"Jane did, didn't she?" he said, looking down on Billy, eyes intense, not smiling anymore.
"She did," Billy said lightly, a slight smile at the corner of his lips. Determined to pass over this quickly. Sorry he'd tried to establish anything at all. Joe was like that sometimes.
But Joe just looked down at him, looked him in the eye, with that piercing gaze. That gaze that wasn't looking through Billy, not at all, but swept and scrutinized his insides haphazardly, like one of those search lights during the London blitz. Looking for something. Something.
Joe didn't say it, but Billy heard it anyway.
Jane did. And so did you.
Joe's gaze penetrated and narrowed. Billy feigned tiredness, shut his eyes to the piercing, searching look, and yawned an excessive yawn again.
When he opened his eyes again, Joe was still standing over him, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, ash lengthening minutely as the seconds passed. Joe's hands were not in his pockets. They hung about his upper thighs, half-clenched.
Once more, Billy thought, It was just the hash.
Then Joe's eyes softened a bit. Did the corner of his mouth with the cigarette in it turn up a little, like he was trying not to smile? His eyes slid from softening scrutiny into conspiratorial mischief, then. Joe turned away, reaching up to pull hard on his cigarette and then flick the ash in the ashtray.
"You just tell yourself whatever you need, bro'," he smirked playfully. He took off the backwards baseball cap and ran his hand through his hair backwards, lifting his hair into a choppy mohawk.
Shit, I really said that. Out loud, Billy thought. Shit.
Billy looked at Joe's profile, clear, hard, almost noble, the profile and the mohawk like a Roman soldier with plumed helmet. Without the helmet.
And he thought, affectionately, Bastard.
You know it was just the hash.
Fuck. Er.
Fucker.
Affectionately.
~ ~ ~
The first time. . .
There were countless first times. Hundreds, if not thousands.
It was all incremental, like climbing a mountain, one foot in front of the other over and over and over. Pretty soon there's a mountain behind you. You don't know how many steps it took; you can't count that high, not while you're taking them. You lose track. You never kept track.
You just know that you climbed a mountain, up one side, and down the other. Because you can look behind you and it's there.
They were twelve when they found Joey's dad's porn magazine collection and jacked off to the beaver shots. One of those indelible moments Billy could never forget, because the centerfold was not a wholesome, Playboy-like, girl-next-door blonde, but a sultry, vixenish, full-lipped, dark-haired and -eyed woman with a tan and tan lines over her breasts and crotch, maybe Italian or Spanish or Mexican or something. Holding her lips open to show both her holes. Back in the seventies when they weren't all fully shaved.
They'd been moving shit in the basement to try to make room to practice. Joe didn't actually practice much; he posed and sang. Billy actually practiced his guitar.
Moving boxes of stuff. They'd gotten Joey's parents' okay to do this. Joey found a small box stuck up on the pipes just below the basement ceiling, so he stood up on the step stool and took it down. Covered in dust; they'd sneezed, Joey sneezing so hard he dropped the box and the magazines all spilled, and under the first few Sports Illustrated were a bunch of porn magazines.
The box clearly hadn't been moved for some time. So maybe his dad had forgotten about them. So this was a huge coup, because they would never get in trouble for taking something that hadn't been missed in a while.
So they sat on the dirty basement floor and paged through all of them. And got hard. And got harder and harder.
And pretty soon Joey was rubbing his dick through his pants, those bad polyester pants everybody wore back then.
"Didja ever...?" Joey looked up at Billy, tousled long bangs hanging over one eye, and mimed jacking off.
"Yeah," Billy whispered back, although, really he had only done it once, and then his mother had knocked on his bedroom door, which didn't lock, and he freaked out and hadn't done it since then.
"I do it in the shower," Joey confided.
"Yeah?" Billy replied, intrigued.
"Yeah. Or under the covers."
"Doesn't your mom ever come in?"
"My mom?" Joey snorted. "You're talking about my mom, remember? The one who never does the dishes and never goes to school conferences and never looks for me when it's ten thirty and I'm still at your house?"
"Oh." Billy didn't know what to say to that.
"It's great, man. She leaves me totally alone."
"Yeah, you're so lucky," Billy said, enviously, wishing he had the freedom Joey had.
"Yeah," Joey said, wishing he had the mom who baked stuff and cleaned and went to school conferences and called Billy's house to tell him to come home.
It seemed somehow wrong to be talking about their mothers while they paged through magazines of naked women, many of whom were on their knees opening men's flies, or laying on their backs with their legs spread. So they stopped.
"So..." Billy began.
"So, ya jack off, huh? Me too," Joey grinned.
"Yeah, but, I don't get a lot of privacy."
"Like I said, the shower. Or just the bathroom. Make it seem like you're taking a really long shit or something."
"Oh."
"You never did it, did you?" Joey began to tease him.
"Yes, I did," Billy shot back.
"Then prove it. Let's see you," Joey challenged Billy.
"Here? Now? Are you nuts?"
"You never did it! You don't even know how to do it!"
"I do too!"
"Then prove it."
Angry, Billy stood up. Angry and a little scared at the challenge. Because he couldn't really prove it, didn't know if he'd done it right that one time.
"Where's your dad?"
"He's not even home. Second job, 'member?"
"Where's your mom?"
"Napping," Joey replied easily.
"Napping?"
"Hey, she had lunch with her friend Dolores, during Happy Hour." He winked. "She's down for the count, at least 'til she has to get up to make dinner for my dad."
"Oh."
"So?"
"So what?"
"So prove it."
"You prove it. How do I know you're not lying, either."
"Fine. We'll both prove it."
Joey stood and began unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly.
Billy hesitantly did the same. "Can anybody see in here?"
"Sure, if their nose was up against the window. Seen anyone around her doing that, lately?"
"No."
"So..."
Joey had it out. Billy was impressed. Joey already had a lot of black hair around the top of his dick. Billy didn't. He had a few wisps, which, because they were blond, almost looked as if he had no hair there, yet.
"Not much hair yet, huh?" Joey said, looking over. Billy thought Joe would tease him again and began to turn away slightly, shy and embarrassed. "Well, it'll come, eh?" Joe said instead, and punched Billy in the arm with his left hand. Because his right hand was on his dick.
And Billy was grateful, ridiculously grateful Joe hadn't made fun of him. Another of those moments when trouble-maker, bad egg, bad-influence Joey was just cool. What Billy really dug about Joe.
"I guess," Billy replied, watching Joe jack off, and watching Joe's penis grow and grow. "Wow."
"So you have done this before, eh?" Joey nodded at Billy's hardening little prick.
"Told ya I did," Billy said nervously, not sure he was out of the woods at proving he'd done this before when he almost really hadn't.
"Okay, so we both did it before. So fine. Let's pick a girl and do it now, together." Joey stopped a moment and picked up the magazines and threw them on the workbench neither one of them could possibly move and had to be maneuvered around.
"The same girl?"
"I dunno, just pick one."
They paged through the magazines, left-handed, but really, the women -- their parts! -- were mind-boggling, and dick-boggling, and Billy went back to the second magazine they'd paged through and found the centerfold.
"Her." The dark-eyed, dark-haired, tan girl with white bikini lines over her tits and crotch.
"Her?" Joey asked quizzically.
"Yeah, why not?" Billy said defensively.
"I dunno..." Joey continued paging through the magazine he had, until he found what he was looking for. A woman on her hands and knees, ass to the camera, showing everything, and with her mouth very close to the fly of a man kneeling in front of her. A man whose face you didn't even see. "I like this one," Joey said triumphantly.
"That's a good one," Billy agreed. But he liked his dark-eyed woman with the tan lines. Her eyes looked right at you, like she was showing only you her secret parts, nobody else.
They both shut up and started to seriously jack off.
Joey paused. "Did you ever. . . behind school, with Carrie. A couple weeks ago. What were you guys doing?" he asked Billy seriously, no longer looking at his on-all-fours woman.
Billy paused, looking up from the girl who held her pussy open just for him. "Kissing."
Joey snorted. "Kissing!"
Billy shrugged. "She wanted to kiss me." Quick flash of smile, remembering. "So we kissed."
"So how was it?" Joey asked. Almost plaintive. Girls didn't like him like they liked Billy.
(This could have had something to do with the fact that he pulled their hair, tried to lift their skirts, and frequently belched and spit in front of them. Billy had done that stuff, too -- before -- but lately he'd stopped, in a way that Joey found irritating and confusing and a little disheartening.)
Billy stopped to think. "It was good."
"Did you get, ya know?" Joey jacked his cock a little to indicate what he meant.
"Uh, I don't remember. Yeah. I think so." Lying. Billy had gotten totally excited, but he hadn't really realized it until the kissing was over and Carrie ran off to join her girlfriends.
"How does she kiss?" Joey was full of questions, eyes big.
"Um, I dunno. Like, how anybody kisses," Billy said, embarrassed because Carrie was the one and only girl he'd ever kissed. And he was bragging to cover for that.
"Yeah?" Joey was openly envious.
"Yeah." Billy shrugged, feeling slightly guilty for exaggerating his kissing experience, but not enough to correct the impression he'd made.
Pause. "So, how is that?" Joey moved closer to him.
"Whaddaya mean?"
"Show me," Joey half-whispered, and leaned in to put his mouth on Billy's, the slightest whisper of a moustache on his upper lip which Billy hadn't noticed before and which Billy didn't have himself. Yet. Joey half-closed his eyes, focusing on Billy's lips so he wouldn't miss and hit Billy's chin like a dork. He'd only seen kissing in the movies, and, frankly, had found it pretty disgusting until recently, when it made him feel strange and excited and still mildly disgusted but curious.
Surprised, Billy paused. Thought about Carrie. Thought about how she kissed. She already knew how to kiss before she kissed Billy. She'd gone behind school with Mike before Billy, a few weeks before. And Tommy a few weeks before that.
So after Joey pressed their mouths together, Billy showed Joey how Carrie kissed. Imagining Carrie. Wanting to kiss Carrie again. And maybe she'd let go of his hands so he could feel her little nubby breasts over her shirt.
Joey awkwardly responded, so Billy told Joe what Carrie had told him. Their bodies were not close, just their heads and faces.
"Not like that," he said, backing up a little, foreheads pressed together. "Make your lips soft."
Joey obeyed. Billy proceeded. Nice to be the one in charge, instead of the one obeying like it had been with Carrie. Pretty soon they were French kissing. Or at least, Billy was. Joey was accepting Billy's tongue. Both boys breathed hard through their noses like frisky colts.
Billy realized he had both hands on Joey's shoulders, but Joey had only one hand on Billy's shoulder. The other was now feverishly jacking himself off.
Billy paused. Joey opened his eyes and paused in masturbating. "What?" he whispered.
"Nothin'," Billy breathed, taking one hand off Joey's shoulder and putting it back on himself. He closed his eyes and put his mouth back on Joey's. Imagining Carrie. And jacked himself off.
They came quickly, first Joey (more practice), then Billy.
And, because twelve year olds can do that sort of thing, they masturbated three more times over the course of the afternoon. Once with more kissing, then the other two trying to outdo each other in how far they could shoot their sperm. And Joey had explained that you had to clean it up before it dried and got crusty and stuck to things, handing the box of Kleenex to Billy. It occurred to Billy minutes later that Joey must've been doing this a lot, down here in the basement. Or so it seemed. The shower. Huh.
They'd wasted a lot of Kleenex. Joey put it all in the trash can by his father's work bench.
They lay on the floor, looking at the magazines again. The women were so amazing, and there were so many in the multiple magazines they'd found.
"When we're rock stars, we'll have to have stage names," Joey said, paging slowly through a girl on girl spread.
"We need a band name first." Billy was bored by the magazines now, and wanted to watch TV.
"Okay. Let's think of one."
"Like what?"
"Something rude."
"Such as?"
"Dickhead."
They exploded into giggles.
"You can't name a band that," Billy pointed out reasonably after they'd stopped laughing. "They would never put that on a marquee or print it in the paper."
"We're not old enough to play in bars anyway!"
"That's not the point."
"Sportin' Woodman."
"You can't name a band that, either!" They chuckled again.
"Woody's Wormhole."
"Would you stop?"
"What? That could be about Woody Woodpecker," Joe objected.
"Yeah, but it's not," Billy replied, shaking his head and smiling. He was paging back through the magazine with his favorite girl, the girl who showed him all of her, like it was only him who was looking at it. He wanted to take it home, but was afraid to ask Joey for it.
"Okay, how about Woodpeckerhead?"
"Well..." Billy relented.
"Then later we could shorten it to Peckerhead."
They exploded into giggles again.
"Okay, now our stage names."
"Okay."
"Should we keep our same first names?"
"Well, if we don't, when people call our names, we wouldn't know they were talking to us, would we?"
"We'd get used to it," Joe replied seriously.
Billy shook his head. "I'm gonna keep my same first name. And just change the last name."
"Okay, to what?"
"Billy... Fantastic."
"Egotistical."
"Okay, what about you?"
"Joey... Joey Woodpeckerhead."
"You can't do that, we already picked Woodpeckerhead as the band name."
"Well, we could be like the Partridges, all with the same last name," Joey smirked. "Joey Woodpeckerhead, Billy Woodpeckerhead."
They laughed so hard they couldn't talk.
"Oh, yeah, that's what I wanna do! Be a fag like David Cassidy!" Billy snorted With no real conception what 'fag' meant, then.
"But I love him," Joey said, mimicking the girls at school. "He's so dreamy!"
"He's a fag!"
"I would never be in any band that would take my sister," Joey said emphatically. "She is a total bitch."
"Yeah."
"Okay, Joey Woodman."
"That's better. Billy Guitar."
"That's too boring. Why don't you call yourself Billy Popstar or something!" Joe said sarcastically.
"That's not bad," Billy smirked, 'til Joey elbowed him. "How about Billy Rockstar?"
"God, ego!"
"Screw you! I will be a rockstar someday." Billy air-guitared enthusiastically.
"Fine. Joey Penis."
They laughed so hard Joey started to choke and they collapsed on the floor together, play fighting.
"Fine. Joey Dick," Joe said, after they'd stopped playfighting and he had caught his breath.
Billy chuckled. "I’ll be Billy Talent. But I'll change the spelling of Talent. It should be two 'L's, anyway, for the short A sound."
"Listen to you, teacher's pet," Joe elbowed him.
"Hey, I can't help it if I get grounded every time I get a bad grade. It's just easier to get good grades."
"Joey Dick."
"And Billy Tallent."
"No, wait." Joe paused, looking up at the dusty pipes hanging from the ceiling. "Not Joey. Joe. Joe Dick."
"Joe Dick and Billy Tallent."
They smiled at each other. Then Joey's mother woke up to fix dinner and they heard her moving around on the first floor above them.
"And Woodpeckerhead. Soon to be Peckerhead."
The door at the top of the basement stairs opened. "Joey, it's almost dinner," Joey's mother called down. "Get up here and set the table, your sister’s got something after school tonight. Billy, it’s time for you to go home, too."
"Yes, Mrs. ______," Billy replied politely. Joe elbowed him again.
"Coming, Mum," Joe called up.
They packed the magazines away, under the dusty Sports Illustrated magazines, which made them sneeze and laugh all over again.
They raced up the stairs, then, elbowing each other out of the way. Joe won, but Billy didn’t care.
Billy paused at the front door as Joe let him out.
"Next time, we really have to practice," the blond boy said emphatically.
"Yeah, we really have to practice more," Joe whispered, leaning in close to Billy, rakish smile.
"Not that!" Billy whispered, rolling his eyes and elbowing Joe as he stood on Joe's front steps.
"I mean. . ." Joe mimed jacking off.
"Oh. That." Billy smiled involuntarily, looking around, equal parts nervous, embarrassed, and slightly aroused at the memory.
"We'll practice, all right," Joe winked.
"Joey!" his mother called. "Say good bye and get in here and set the table."
"I gotta go. See ya tomorrow," Joe said, turning back to go inside. He shut the door.
Billy stood on the steps a moment, hearing Joe's muffled voice saying, "It's Joe from now on, Mum. Joe. Not Joey."
“I don’t care what it is, set the damn table,” came Mrs. _____’s cranky reply.
Billy ran down the steps.
And he ran all the way home, excited and breathless and happy with the discovery of this fantastic new thing, this jacking off. He would do it again, tonight, in the bathroom, maybe after dinner, maybe after brushing his teeth before bed. Thinking about kissing Carrie. And feeling her tiny tits. Thinking about Carrie showing all of herself to him, and only him.
With the only locking door in their entire house between him and his mother.
~ ~ ~
WIP, currently unfinished, hope to be finished by 1/17, but a little stuck, in need of concrit.
Tentatively titled Never. Countless.
Additional note: Although I've written a lot of DS fic, I've never before written HCL fic. So, please be gentle but constructive. Also if anyone can point me to a web site of notes and references for HCL canon, or a transcript, that would be a huge help. I've been waiting for the Hard Core edition of the DVD since July from Amazon.ca, so my VHS copy is getting unhappy with all the pausing and rewinding... If I had the DVD I'd just check the subtitles, although subtitles frequently lie...
--Surfgirl
Never. Countless.
Fandom: HCL
Pairing: Billy/Joe
Rating: NC-17
~ ~ ~
The first time. . .
There was no "first time." There was never a "first time."
It was all incremental, like climbing a mountain, up one side, and down the other. One foot in front of the other, over and over; pretty soon there's a mountain behind you. And you don't even realize how you got where you are, because no individual step seemed very big at the time you took it. Just seemed like one little step. One after the other.
After the other.
Little increments.
‘Til you stop and look back and see the mountain.
~ ~ ~
Incremental moves. Building on each other. Like the first time Billy and Joe fucked a couple of groupies together. Both of them - the boys, that is, not the groupies -- were pretty wasted, but (ah, youth!) still horny, still hard, still happy to sit back on the saggy motel bed, side by side, and get their cocks sucked until they were even harder.
Billy looked at Joe, big grin, ear to ear, dreamily imagining (in the back of his drunk and horny young mind) the world of free ‘n easy pussy ahead of them when Hard Core Logo made it big.
Not if. (Not in Billy’s mind). When.
Joe looked at Billy without smiling, quite. Just the corners of his mouth smirked, that smirk Billy already knew so well -- too well -- and that intensity in his eyes. Their eyes met while dishwater blonde Jeanine and her brown-haired friend sucked them, not particularly well - but well enough for a couple of eighteen year old boys.
And later after the nothing-special-but-competent-enough blowjobs, Billy was on top of Jeanine, fucking her. Drunk and fucking - screw that Dead Kennedys “too drunk to fuck” shit, an old man must’ve wrote that song - Billy got into it because he was drunk, because it just felt so good, and he didn’t look at Joe or what Joe was doing with Jeanine's friend, at all.
Until once when he glanced briefly over at Joe in alcoholic camaraderie, in an “is this fucking cool or what?” haze. Joe who was doing Jeanine's friend doggie style.
And who wasn't watching what he was doing at all.
Joe was watching Billy fuck Jeanine. Watching the way Billy's lean body undulated, snakelike: chest and shoulders pushed against the girl’s chest, then raised as his stomach pushed into her, and then that moved up a little too, leverage so his pelvis could push harder, deeper, between her legs, legs at the crazy angles of only the young or truly flexible.
Joe watched as Billy undulated again. And again. Repeatedly. Not very fast. Not banging her, no. Billy was getting into it. Sweat gathered in the small of his back.
Joe watched and Billy looked drunkenly and a bit cross-eyed over at Joe fucking Jeanine's friend (Billy couldn't even remember her name then, let alone now), and saw Joe watching him. And Billy felt funny -- how, he's not sure, but funny (not funny ha-ha, but funny weird, not necessarily in a bad way).
Joe licked his lips once, twice, watching Billy, until Billy started to slow down, feeling self-conscious. And then Joe looked back at Jeanine's friend, down at her ass as he banged her doggie-style. And he slapped her ass and looked back at Billy and winked. And then grabbed her hips with both hands and started really banging her.
Billy turned back to Jeanine then. Sped up, put his mind back on what he was doing: fucking. He came, she came.
Jeanine was blissful. "You guys coming back this way again?" she slurred after Billy had been collapsed on her for a few minutes. "Whenever you do, let me know," she murmured into Billy's ear, and giggled.
And Billy lifted his head, kissed her quick, and looked over at Joe. Who was already putting his jeans back on. And Jeanine's friend, who looked kinda pissed and was still throwing her clothes at Joe as he dressed. Something must've gone wrong, but Billy didn't know what. Maybe she didn't come. Lots of girls didn't.
"Fucking asshole," she growled as she threw another article of clothing at Joe. Her T-shirt hit him in the face. The bliss had obviously hit Jeanine, but missed her friend.
Joe peeled the T-shirt off his face, threw it back in hers and, shoving a cigarette in the corner of his lips, said,
"No, I wasn't fucking your asshole, but next time I will." Smirked at Billy.
Billy just grinned and turned away, settling back on Jeanine. Which got him another kiss on his smooth young cheek as they both felt his cock slip out.
~ ~ ~
Increments.
Like the first time they only had one groupie between them and they shared her. Sandra and her friend wanted to fuck Billy, but they both wanted to fuck Billy, and neither one of them wanted to fuck Joe -- he having endeared himself to them by calling them the "sluts du jour" backstage. They had weed, though, and blow, and were so tickled to be in the presence of their punk rock gods that they were happy to share (give) all their drugs to the boys (Joe).
But when Sandra's friend -- Billy could never remember the names of the girls he didn't fuck -- started trading insults with Joe, Joe just picked her up bodily and threw her out of the motel room. And slammed the door.
And Sandra, happy to have been chosen, just giggled and snorted another line. Her friend pounded on the door, and Joe stood there, leaned back against it, a wicked "fuck it" grin on his face, listening to her pound and yell, and Billy let Sandra unzip his pants. She was just about to wet her finger and wipe some powder off her compact mirror, then rub it on her gums, but Billy stopped her.
"Don't. You'll numb my cock. I wanna feel it," he said quietly, smiling that disarming smile.
"Oh, right," she smiled back happily. "Sorry!"
"Yeah, sweetheart, don't numb Billy's cock," Joe drawled. “Billiam needs the full effect.”
Sandra's friend still pounded and yelled on the door, but Joe just stood there smoking, occasionally jumping slightly if Sandra's friend landed a particularly good kick, and the door jumped.
Joe watched Sandra unzip Billy's pants and take out Billy's already hard cock.
Sandra's friend still ranted on the other side of the door.
Sandra started sucking Billy. This was more-than-competent sucking; this was "I got backstage and got Billy and Joe, and the others didn’t, so I must be better, an' I'll prove it" sucking.
Joe watched and smoked. Watched Billy shiver and his stomach quiver and watched as Billy picked up her hair so he could watch her blow himself better. They had learned some things from porn. (Billy also, thanks to later repeated encounters with Mary The Fan, eventually learned what you couldn't learn from porn, learned what porn misled you about. This made him more popular with the ladies than he already had been, and much more popular with the ladies than Joe, at least those who'd already slept with Joe. Which Billy already was -- the gap just widened.)
(Joe didn't care. Much. He knew what he needed to know for chicks. That wasn't where it was at for him, anyway.)
Finally Joe moved, turned, and opened the door, just as Sandra's friend was launching herself against it again. Like an episode of the Three Stooges, the girl’s momentum and the suddenly missing resistance of the open door pitched her right onto the floor. Billy and Joe laughed, Sandra stopped sucking to turn around briefly, and Sandra's friend launched herself at Joe, who easily over powered her and just lay on her, on the floor, squishing her down by brute force but not smacking her around.
(For all the spitting, the anarchy, the see/want/take, Joe never hit a girl. Years later, a drunk groupie accidentally bit Pipefelcher's cock, and Pipe reflexively slapped her. After he managed the incident, Joe lectured Pipe -- in his own way.
Beer in hand, wrapped around the neck of the bottle, lit cigarette protruding between the first two fingers, he stabbed his index finger inches from Pipefitter's face for every word he spoke.
"You never hit a girl. Never. Unless you're a fucker.")
So, yes, Sandra's friend lay on the floor struggling and fighting and biting, with Joe on top of her, Joe who simply tried to contain her flailing limbs and cover her screaming mouth. The commotion distracted Billy from Sandra's mouth, and his mouth flattened into a line of concentration. Joe saw this, saw it from on top of Sandra's struggling friend. So he picked her up bodily again and this time took her into the bathroom, threw her in the shower, and turned on the cold water.
Sluts du jour like cold water about as much as cats. She slapped Joe pretty good a few times, but finally stomped out, leaving wet foot prints from her combat boots on the ancient, ugly, orange shag carpet, and slamming the door behind her.
Joe pulled her dime bag of weed out of his pocket, threw it on the night stand. Unbuckled his jeans, unzipped 'em. Watched as Billy sank back on the bed to lay down, then wiggled up 'til he could put his head on the pillow. Joe watched as Sandra followed Billy's cock from her kneeling position on the floor to kneeling between his legs on the bed, and continued her amazing blowjob. Joe pushed his jeans down -- no briefs; commando. The bed was parallel to the door, which Joe leaned back against once more. Had Billy seen, he'd have noticed that Joe was already hard.
But Billy wasn't watching, so he didn't see that, and he didn't see Joe stroke himself harder and faster. Joe watched Billy's stomach tighten up, in the way he knew meant Billy would come soon. Watched Billy's face screw up and eyes squint. Joe came when Billy came in Sandra's mouth; Sandra swallowed. Joe wiped his come off himself with his T-shirt after a few minutes.
Billy saw Joe wipe off out of his peripheral vision, and turned to watch quizzically as Joe zipped and buckled back up, Joe meanwhile unaware he was being scrutinized. It took a few seconds in Billy's post-orgasmic (and slightly drunk) haze before he realized what Joe must've done. He shook his head and smiled at Sandra, who smiled back, smacking her lips in that exaggerated way of porn actresses. (Clearly she'd learned from porn, too.) Joe stared hard at the two of them, 'til Billy looked over at him, grinning, thinking, perverse motherfucker. Then Joe smirked and looked away
~ ~ ~
Increments. Like the first time they had only one groupie between them. They were, what, 20? 21? Did it matter?
It was originally supposed to be one of those "sloppy seconds" deals. One of those "Okay, I'll fuck him, but only if I can fuck you first" situations. First, Billy (her first choice), then Joe.
They almost all wanted Billy, Billy, Billy. Joe was, well, could be, kind of a dick. Some groupies didn't want to fuck him at all. He was quite capable of being sweet to the girls when he wanted to; he just often didn't want to. Why make it into something it wasn't? Either they got off on fucking their punk rock gods, or they didn't. Either they were backstage and in the van and in the shitty motel rooms to get fucked, or they weren't. It was really no big deal either way. He could read the situations. Joe knew Billy needed the affirmation of chicks wanting him more than Joe did. Joe didn't really need it at all. And sometimes there were the chicks who didn't want Billy at all, who just wanted bad boy Joe. And those were often the only ones who really appealed to Joe, anyway.
What could Billy do? What could he say? He was nicer to them than Joe, a lot of the time. He was smoother. Even back then when they were still kids. But, down deep, he never stopped enjoying the attentions of the ladies. It wasn't just girls, groupies, sluts, snatch, gash, 'tang like Joe said. Billy simply liked the ladies.
And the girls, they could tell Billy was flatterable. He was still, somehow, sweet enough to blush sometimes, to get embarrassed -- but never too embarrassed to carry through with whatever bizarre scenario might come up. He was more tolerant, less judgemental than Joe. Joe would call them sluts, whores, hookers. Billy would shrug. Once he said to Joe, "So what does that make us?" because, after all, what were these girls doing that was any different than what he and Joe did, whenever possible?
Joe shut the fuck up for a moment, then smirked and stood up from the plastic chairs of the "dressing room" (cleaning supplies closet) .
"That makes us kings of the road," Joe boasted, and stomped off.
So it was in their capacity as kings of the road that they did the groupie sandwich one night. "Decided" was not a word Billy would have chosen for the way the groupie sandwich occurred. Like many things between Joe and Billy, it wasn't decided; it just happened.
It was post-show, they were sweaty and hyped up, and this girl Clarice just kept following Billy backstage, all ga-ga. Nice tits -- a good handful, maybe more, but still pert -- strong arms, hair like Joan Jett (or was it Chrissie Hynde?), studded collar, studded wrist bands, combat boots, no bra. Just the way Joe liked 'em.
An hour later in their motel room they had her drunk and high on grass, and while Billy kissed her and squeezed and caressed her breasts under her thin, black, ripped Clash T-shirt, Joe pulled up her skirt and took down her panties. He had his fingers in her before Billy had even put his mouth on her nipples yet. Billy had a tit thing, kind of. Sometimes.
"How about a sandwich, huh?" Joe murmured in her ear, smirking at Billy as she bucked back against him, Joe's fingers having reached either a very sensitive spot inside her, or some place she absolutely didn't expect to be touched at all. Joe was more slowly and less effectively than usual (with his left hand -- his right being occupied in Clarice's cunt) unbuckling and unzipping his jeans. She got wet and slippery quickly, more from Billy kissing her and roughly fondling her tits than from Joe fingering her.
"Sandwich?" she mumbled into Billy's mouth. Her eyes were closed, but Joe and Billy could look each other in the eye around her head, except when her hair got in the way.
"Billy, you, me," Joe whispered, showbiz sleazy. He stopped stroking his cock and fingering her to take her panties all the way off -- she stepped out of them as he carefully pressed the tender spots at the back of her knees, one at a time.
"Wha. . .?"
"Like this," Joe said, and picked her hips up. Billy stumbled a bit, catching part of her body weight against his chest, her breasts squashed in his hands. "Here, like this," Joe repeated, and set her boyish hips down right on his cock.
She moaned, not unhappily, into Billy's feverish French kissing. "Unnnh..."
"Here," Joe said with finality, and yanked her backwards on the bed.
Torn from Billy's lips, Clarice looked irritatedly over her shoulder at Joe, who wasted no time; he had her out of her shirt in seconds.
"Hey!"
"Billiam, get over here and give her what she wants," Joe ordered, shoving his pants down to his knees and pushing Clarice onto all fours. He knelt behind her, looking pointedly at Billy, jerked his head towards the bed, and then nodded down at the hard cock straining at Billy's threadbare fly. "Come on, give 'er your cock. She wants it, you know."
Joe stroked his cock a few strokes, pushed Clarice's skirt up onto her back (which she still had on, along with the studded collar, wrist bands, and combat boots), then introduced the head of his cock to her pussy. She moaned, looking hungrily at Billy through slitted, black-lined eyes.
Needing no more urging than that, Billy unbuckled, unzipped, skinned off his jeans, ripped his ratty T-shirt off, and got on the bed, cock wagging in her face.
"There you go. Say hi to the real Billy," Joe patted Clarice's ass -- nicely.
No, not nicely -- shrewdly. Billy, getting another amazing blowjob, was not about argue with the way Joe did anything that gave such great results.
Joe fucked her from behind and then sucked his thumb 'til it was really wet and stuck it in her ass while he fucked her. She squirmed a little, but obviously enjoyed it. The blowjob became even more enthusiastic.
Billy pushed her off his cock sometimes, to stop from coming. Once he got up and had another swig of whiskey, watched Joe fuck her and finger her ass simultaneously. She was into it, eyes shut, moaning into the bedspread. Then Billy rejoined them.
Joe had Clarice switch then -- sucking Joe, getting doggie-styled by Billy. Billy was happy to oblige; her pussy was hot, tight from puffing up in arousal, and incredibly wet.
"Come on, don't shirk," Joe said to Billy.
"What...?" Billy said, banging her as he held her hips, so that sometimes she'd get knocked hard enough onto Joe's cock to gag. But that had happened already a number of times while she sucked Billy and got banged by Joe, and she didn't seem to mind at all.
"You're shirking," Joe said. Gave Billy the thumbs up.
Billy's forehead wrinkled and his rhythm slowed. "Huh?"
Joe took his thumb -- the same one that had been in her ass -- and slipped it into Clarice's mouth alongside his dick. Raised his eye brows at Billy.
"Get it?"
"Right," Billy said, ducking his head a moment, then grinning ferociously back at Joe.
Joe took his thumb from the girl's mouth and sucked it and smiled around it, watching Billy. Billy rolled his eyes and then sucked his own thumb, looking down at Clarice's asshole. His thumbs -- all his fingers -- were slimmer and more dextrous than Joe's. The guitar thing.
The two of them sucked their thumbs, one naked, blond and slim, the other with his pants at his ankles, T-shirt, shoes and socks still on; the former's hair spiked, the latter's black hair mohawked. Clarice moaned between them, impaled on both ends, Joe invading her mouth, and Billy in her pussy, and then finally Billy's thumb in her ass.
Clarice didn't see the look that passed between them, or the focus on Billy's face as he thumbed Clarice's ass and fucked her simultaneously. Joe watched Billy check Clarice's responses, to see if she liked it. She did. But Clarice didn't see any of that because she was not on all fours anymore, she was on all threes, rubbing herself with her right hand.
Scant minutes later, though it seemed to have taken longer, Joe growled through his teeth at Billy, "Don't come in her ass, don't--"
-- Joe had watched Billy getting closer and closer to orgasm while he fucked Clarice's pretty little face, heavy black eyeliner running with involuntary tears now -- what a trouper --
And Billy, through the fog of orgasmic inevitability, heard Joe, and obeyed. Pulled out and came all over her ass, just as Joe pulled out of her mouth and came in her face and hair.
~ ~ ~
They didn't sandwich her that night, not actually. The actual sandwich was later, maybe four months later. The next increment.
Clarice showed up at a gig, right there in the pit in front of the stage, where she was happily getting bruised by elbows, knees, buckles, studded wrist bands -- it wasn't called moshing back then; that term came later. Joe reached into the pit and grabbed her by the wrist, then lifted her out and onto the stage in a rather gentlemanly way. Or like plucking a ripe fruit you just want right now.
Clarice was already drunk, but grinned at him ferally, and Joe pushed her off into the wings of the stage. Winked at her. Just as Billy spun around and saw her. Joe winked at Billy, then, too.
Billy grinned down at his guit-tah strings.
Yeah, Clarice was happy to watch from the wings.
Later, much later, Joe watched Billy's eyes close and brow wrinkle and relax while Clarice sort of rode him, to the extent that she could with Joe up her ass.
Joe could feel Billy's cock through the thin wall of flesh separating Clarice's ass from her sweet pussy. Clarice was very loudly enjoying the dual attention.
Since Billy was paying no real attention to anything but himself, Joe figured out that (1) he liked it better when he shoved his cock in Clarice's ass just as Billy was on his outstroke from her pussy, and (2) apparently, it felt a lot better for Clarice when Joe fucked her ass in that counterpoint to Billy. Not that Joe usually cared, but Clarice was better than most and more than willing to try new things, and he respected that more than anything else in a woman. Groupies is groupies, but not many will let you fuck 'em in the ass, let alone sandwich 'em -- they're mostly just blowjobs and some fucking.
So Joe fucked Clarice's ass in counterpoint to Billy fucked her pussy -- or, rather, how she fucked herself by riding Billy's cock -- and watched Billy's face go slack and then screw up, and when they came, they came together, inside her, very bad disease-wise (for Clarice, actually, not them), but very fucking good sex-wise. Clarice seemed to come then too -- triple deluxe groupie 'gasm.
Joe, sweat dripping from his temples and his upper lip, collapsed on Clarice, and Clarice collapsed on Joe. Clarice didn't mind being squished between Joe and Billy, but Billy complained.
"Get off," he grumbled, pushing at Joe's shoulder which hung over Clarice's shoulder because she was fairly petite.
Joe pulled out of her ass before he was completely limp, and rolled over on his back next to them. Clarice lay on Joey a few minutes longer, panting heavily into his neck behind his ear, then slid bonelessly into the small space between Billy and Joe, forcing Joe to move farther away from Billy.
Joe got up to take a piss.
When Joe came back, Billy and Clarice were both asleep. He paused, looking down on them. Clarice and Billy had snuggled farther into the middle of the bed, closer to the far edge of the bed than the middle, than where they'd been when Joe got up to piss. Billy spooned her, bottom arm under her and top arm tucked over and around her.
Deadmonton. Winter. Yeah.
Joe slipped between the covers and into bed behind Billy. And spooned him. Threw an arm over the both of them, but mostly over Billy.
And that's how Billy woke up, briefly, a couple hours later: his arms around warm girlflesh in front of him, while behind him Joe was warm guyflesh and Joe's muscled arm lay heavily over the arm Billy had tucked around Clarice.
Billy opened his eyes. Felt Joe's wood at his backside. Heard Joe's light snores in his ear.
Billy shut his eyes and went back to sleep.
~ ~ ~
Joe and Billy found one other girl willing to do the sandwiched double penetration -- well, two, actually, but one girl was so drunk that she ended up vomting violently all over Billy (who was on the bottom), which kind of killed it for all three of them. The other girl, besides Clarice, and besides the sick one, was Jane, although Billy doubted that was her real name 'cause it was so John Doe of her to call herself that.
At any rate, they did Jane after a gig, similarly to the way they did Clarice both in the non-sandwich and the sandwich encounters.
With one major exception. Well, more than one, but don't put the cart before the horse.
Before they got down to it, Joe got Billy -- and Jane -- more fucked up than he would have usually. (Actually, many, if not most, of their sexual encounters were prefaced by drinking and doing drugs. . .) Billy had no idea where Joe scored it, but they smoked a small chunk of hash in Joe's pot pipe. Had he been paying more attention, he would have realized Joe smoked hardly any hash, while Billy and Jane smoked most of the chunk, about the size of a large vitamin pill.
Joe camouflaged his lack of smoking all by complaining that the hash resined up his pipe and he was gonna have to clean it before he could smoke any weed out of it, made a big production after they smoked it of getting some toothpicks to poke the resin out of the pipe from the shitty diner attached to the motel. Left the room and everything, came back with more beer and a handfull of toothpicks. Billy and Jane were on the bed making out languourously, really, really high.
The hash made Billy loose limbed, smiley, and very, very easy going. So during foreplay with Jane, Billy was a little less attentive than he normally would have been. (Which, honestly, wasn't all that attentive in the early years. . . with the Hard Cores, no one was ever straight by the end of a show, although Billy was usually the straightest, and Joe just controlled his inebriation by offsetting the liquor, downers and/or hallucinogens with coke, uppers, and/or excessive amounts of caffeine. Billy's attentiveness mostly came from Mary The Fan, but that was later. It was much more punk not to ask "did you come?" and it was definitely not punk at all to ask "was I all right?" -- which Billy often wanted to do, but virtually never did in front of Joe, except a couple times, which Joe mercilessly never let Billy live down. So, back then, most of the time, Billy was more attentive to the women, for what it was worth; Joe was more attentive to himself. Or Billy.)
And so, during this hash-high foreplay with Jane and Joe, Billy was almost completely absorbed by his own sensations, and a lot less attentive to his surroundings or who did what (and also a lot less attentive to the woman, in this case, Jane, than he would normally have been).
And so it was that at one point Billy was getting what he felt sure was the most excruciatingly pleasurable blowjob of his life. And he'd already had more blowjobs than he could count at this point, which was saying something, even if the hash had a lot to do with how amazing this particular blowjob felt. There was just something so wonderful and different about this blowjob. Billy's sex and hash fogged mind slowly searched for the right words to describe this blowjob. Thorough, he thought. Great attention to detail. Tortuous tongue swirls about the head of his cock, then nibbling of that seam that leads to your pee-hole, and then fast, constant up and down sucking, with a hand jacking the shaft helping the magnificent mouth. And it all felt as if it could go on tirelessly, forever. As if it had been happening forever.
This blowjob was positively loving. And Billy's mouth was being languidly explored, which must be Joe, but that wasn't so new, actually. . . Although Billy had forgotten, until this very moment, that first time he and Joe got drunk in Joe's basement -- were they thirteen or fourteen? -- and messed around with Joe's dad's porn magazine collection and then with each other, mostly jacking themselves off, though there was some kissing and jacking of each other. And, somewhat surprisingly, this memory drove Billy's arousal up to a new level, one that was approaching explosion in a very, very slow-moving, swimming-through-honey way.
Billy's eyebrows lifted sluggishly over his shut eyes -- it was so difficult and required such effort to actually open them. He wanted to speak, wanted to sentimentally thank Joe and Jane -- how cliche-ish, he suddenly realized: Joe and Jane? -- for their very good attentions. It's the hash, he thought, after the ridiculous idea of thanking the occurred to him.
And he wanted to warn them that he was soon going to let loose with the slowest, biggest uncontrollable jets of jism he would doubtless ever produce.
But his mouth was being ravished, which was very good, but made it difficult to speak, and, well, his limbs and arms didn't work so well tonight, thanks to the hash...
So, with great effort, Billy finally opened his eyes, the left eye opening slightly slower than the right. Opened his eyes to a surprise.
It was Jane who was all over his mouth. Her eyes were shut tight, black eyeliner only slightly smeared.
So this most spectacular blowjob ever must be...
Joe.
And with the hash and everything... well, it just felt so fucking good. Although there was that small back-of-the-mind sinking feeling.
But Billy supposed it really didn't matter. Much. In the big scheme. Of things.
He shut his eyes again, grunted unintelligibly into the mouth on his, as if through warm, deep water. It was the best he could do to warn anyone that his train was coming into the station, slowly, relentlessly. He was not about to stop it -- as if he even could, as if he had that kind of control now -- and then it started.
So Billy imagined it was Jane's mouth pulling the best damn spurts of semen -- long, slow, uncontrollable: one, another, another, another -- that he'd ever produced, ever ejaculated.
He knew, his brain knew, that it was Joe's mouth, but it didn't feel like a guy's mouth. It just felt amazing. His stomach tautened, his hands gripped the cheap bedspread under them, his knees tightened, his toes curled, his hips bucked up by themselves as it overtook him. Billy came, and came, and came, very hard, as if his soul were forced piecemeal out of his body, spurt by excruciating spurt. He would never know what it was like to give birth, but this seemed like as close an approximation as he'd ever imagine.
Joe swallowed all of it, swallow after swallow, still moving his mouth and hand in perfect synchrony. Until Billy's incoherent wail into Jane's mouth indicated his cock-head was at that overwhelmingly sensitive, nearly painful post-orgasm point. Only then did Joe loosen the tight suction of his mouth and stop jacking with his hand and let Billy's wet, saliva-covered cock slide out of his mouth.
Then Billy landed gently back in his body; the hypnotic hash parachute let him down so easy, back into himself.
It was nothing like when you're drunk and you're fucking and you're almost there and you're gonna come and then you're coming and it's pretty short and not nearly as good as it should be, for all the work you put into it, and then you're done and you suddenly crash back into your slightly sick and sweaty body, most unpleasantly because the endorphins of orgasm can't overcome the alcohol.
Nothing like that at all.
It was sheer euphoria.
In a distant part of Billy's brain, a tiny red flag raised. And, as with many things with Joe, he ignored it. The euphoria was beyond compare.
It was the hash, Billy thought.
It was just the hash.
Jane was still kissing Billy languidly, more distractedly, and she'd just recently twisted strangely somehow while kissing him, he realized with delayed reaction. Billy finally felt capable of opening his eyes, and, after another slight struggle, did so. He saw Joe eating Jane's ass, paying no attention to anything else whatsoever. Billy wondered if Joe was as completely stoned as he was, and decided slowly, with another extremely languid blink, that there was no way Joe could possibly be this active and capable if he was so completely stoned, and therefore he must not be. Fucker.
It was just the hash.
Pretty soon Jane was not kissing Billy anymore, Joe had laid her out flat on her back next to Billy and was eating her pussy and fingering her ass. Now Jane was where Billy had been about ten minutes ago, spiralling up to orgasm on the hash and on Joe's expert, simultaneous and successive manipulations and mouthing and tongueing and sucking and fingering of her most sensitive parts. Billy made another effort, mostly successful, which consisted of attempting to kiss Jane's mouth and fondle her nearest breast, and ended up with his mouth on her near nipple and one hand on her far breast.
That seemed to put Jane over the edge, or maybe it was the fact that Joe now sucked her clit hard as a hungry calf on a teat while moving his hand (two fingers in her ass and two fingers in her pussy) in and out of her fast as a sewing machine needle and Billy's mouth sucked one nipple while his fingers slowly and just a bit too roughly pinch-rubbed her other nipple between his thumb and index finger.
Jane came thunderously and screamed the entire time -- or so she thought, but really it came out as a long, drawn-out caterwaul, not entirely pleasant, and not (just by sound) the noise you'd expect an ecstatic woman to make. Like stray cats outside your window that might be fighting or fucking, you can't tell which. Which made Billy smile sleepily around the nipple in his mouth and begin to let go of both nipples with his lips and fingers.
Then, while she was still clenching reflexively, but more and more weakly, on Joe's four fingers, and Billy had sleepily lay back again, Joe pulled his four fingers out of her two holes, shoved one of her legs up so her knee was in her armpit, and plunged his aching, leaking cock into her unbelievably sopping pussy.
It took him about five thrusts before he came, face tilted towards Billy, eyes squinted shut tight, grimacing.
Definitely not as high as me, Billy decided. Fucker.
Even the thought came slowly.
Fuck.
Er.
It was just the hash.
Later, after a period of sleep -- how long? who knew? -- Billy woke again to the sucking of his cock. This time it was a sharper feeling, more immediate, with some jagged moves: teeth. He opened his eyes -- he could do that now, almost as soon as he thought he wanted to, unlike before. The hash was wearing off.
Billy realized Jane was sucking him and Joe was fucking her from behind -- in the ass? or the pussy? who knew? Joe was going at it good, Jane was on all threes, using one hand to help her --
And this just wasn't as good as before, although it was still good, because there is almost no such thing as bad head.
Wasn't as good as before because the hash wore off. Or so Billy told himself.
He wondered if he would come again. Wondered if he'd ever fuck this chick Jane. Apparently, Joe was having one helluva night. In more ways than one.
But. . . hard to be angry in any way when your cock is surrounded by lovely, tight, fast-moving suction.
And he didn't come, and it didn't matter, because Jane seemed to come again -- Joe did something, and the girl screamed (for real, this time) and stopped sucking, too distracted. She plunked her head down hard on Billy's flat stomach, above his navel. Joe ordered her to shut up, which she did by screaming rhythmically through her clenched teeth, which Billy could strangely feel in his abdomen because she had her cheek flat against him.
Which was kind of exciting. In an I'm-probably-not-gonna-come-again kind of way.
Joe seemed to come again, this time taking his time, pumping her roughly with each spurt of come, and then pulled out of her, collapsed next to her, and Jane stayed there for a moment, ass in the air, teeth still clenched, wheezy moans coming between them, before sinking down heavily between them, though she was not a heavy girl.
Jane and Joe slept, and Billy lay awake, and remembered the magnificent fellatio. Of Joe.
And rolled over onto Jane like a security blanket, tucked her half under him.
In the morning when Billy woke up, Jane was gone. Joe was buckling his jeans, baseball cap on backwards, and looking out the peep-hole in the door. As if he felt Billy looking at him, Joe glanced over his shoulder at Billy.
"Billy."
The blond guitarist paused. It seemed important to establish something. Right away.
"Joe. I like girls."
Joe gave him that steely look, and then his eyes went dead like they sometimes did when he wanted to appear bored.
"Billy. I like girls. Too." Shook his head, like, Don't you get it?
"Yeah, well. . ." Billy closed his eyes, wiped a hand across his face. His mind felt a bit numb, a bit slow, but still there.
"Yeah, well, don't freak out," Joe sneered, and turned back to the peephole to examine the parking lot without opening the curtains to let the morning sun invade. "What's the big deal? A blowjob between friends." He shrugged.
"I. Like. Girls."
Joe swung back around, hands out expansively, wicked grin and wink. "And I don't? 'Jane.' Mmmph." He mimed her hips in his hands, mimed a few short fuck thrusts with his pelvis.
Billy grinned back. "Ya sure did last night." He paused. "Pig."
Joe grinned, striding across the room towards Billy. Billy steeled himself, for what he didn't know. But Joe just grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the night stand, fingered one out of the nearly empty pack, shoved it in the corner of his lips, and lit it.
"Girls like pigs, Billy. They act like they don't, but they do. Where ya been?"
"Right. Doubt it. Maybe some." Billy shook his head, rubbing his eyes. He was naked under the covers, but unselfconscious. He yawned.
"Telling ya, bud. They like it." He grinned roguishly.
"Whatever. . ." Easygoing, no major hash comedown or hangover except a slight dullness of thought and action, Billy yawned and looked up at Joe. He pulled the bed covers up higher over his chest, but then clasped his hands behind his head, relaxed, content, mostly all right with the night's events. Mostly.
Joe paused, exhaling from his nostrils two great plumes of smoke like a horse in winter. Right onto the covers over Billy's chest.
"Jane did, didn't she?" he said, looking down on Billy, eyes intense, not smiling anymore.
"She did," Billy said lightly, a slight smile at the corner of his lips. Determined to pass over this quickly. Sorry he'd tried to establish anything at all. Joe was like that sometimes.
But Joe just looked down at him, looked him in the eye, with that piercing gaze. That gaze that wasn't looking through Billy, not at all, but swept and scrutinized his insides haphazardly, like one of those search lights during the London blitz. Looking for something. Something.
Joe didn't say it, but Billy heard it anyway.
Jane did. And so did you.
Joe's gaze penetrated and narrowed. Billy feigned tiredness, shut his eyes to the piercing, searching look, and yawned an excessive yawn again.
When he opened his eyes again, Joe was still standing over him, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, ash lengthening minutely as the seconds passed. Joe's hands were not in his pockets. They hung about his upper thighs, half-clenched.
Once more, Billy thought, It was just the hash.
Then Joe's eyes softened a bit. Did the corner of his mouth with the cigarette in it turn up a little, like he was trying not to smile? His eyes slid from softening scrutiny into conspiratorial mischief, then. Joe turned away, reaching up to pull hard on his cigarette and then flick the ash in the ashtray.
"You just tell yourself whatever you need, bro'," he smirked playfully. He took off the backwards baseball cap and ran his hand through his hair backwards, lifting his hair into a choppy mohawk.
Shit, I really said that. Out loud, Billy thought. Shit.
Billy looked at Joe's profile, clear, hard, almost noble, the profile and the mohawk like a Roman soldier with plumed helmet. Without the helmet.
And he thought, affectionately, Bastard.
You know it was just the hash.
Fuck. Er.
Fucker.
Affectionately.
~ ~ ~
The first time. . .
There were countless first times. Hundreds, if not thousands.
It was all incremental, like climbing a mountain, one foot in front of the other over and over and over. Pretty soon there's a mountain behind you. You don't know how many steps it took; you can't count that high, not while you're taking them. You lose track. You never kept track.
You just know that you climbed a mountain, up one side, and down the other. Because you can look behind you and it's there.
They were twelve when they found Joey's dad's porn magazine collection and jacked off to the beaver shots. One of those indelible moments Billy could never forget, because the centerfold was not a wholesome, Playboy-like, girl-next-door blonde, but a sultry, vixenish, full-lipped, dark-haired and -eyed woman with a tan and tan lines over her breasts and crotch, maybe Italian or Spanish or Mexican or something. Holding her lips open to show both her holes. Back in the seventies when they weren't all fully shaved.
They'd been moving shit in the basement to try to make room to practice. Joe didn't actually practice much; he posed and sang. Billy actually practiced his guitar.
Moving boxes of stuff. They'd gotten Joey's parents' okay to do this. Joey found a small box stuck up on the pipes just below the basement ceiling, so he stood up on the step stool and took it down. Covered in dust; they'd sneezed, Joey sneezing so hard he dropped the box and the magazines all spilled, and under the first few Sports Illustrated were a bunch of porn magazines.
The box clearly hadn't been moved for some time. So maybe his dad had forgotten about them. So this was a huge coup, because they would never get in trouble for taking something that hadn't been missed in a while.
So they sat on the dirty basement floor and paged through all of them. And got hard. And got harder and harder.
And pretty soon Joey was rubbing his dick through his pants, those bad polyester pants everybody wore back then.
"Didja ever...?" Joey looked up at Billy, tousled long bangs hanging over one eye, and mimed jacking off.
"Yeah," Billy whispered back, although, really he had only done it once, and then his mother had knocked on his bedroom door, which didn't lock, and he freaked out and hadn't done it since then.
"I do it in the shower," Joey confided.
"Yeah?" Billy replied, intrigued.
"Yeah. Or under the covers."
"Doesn't your mom ever come in?"
"My mom?" Joey snorted. "You're talking about my mom, remember? The one who never does the dishes and never goes to school conferences and never looks for me when it's ten thirty and I'm still at your house?"
"Oh." Billy didn't know what to say to that.
"It's great, man. She leaves me totally alone."
"Yeah, you're so lucky," Billy said, enviously, wishing he had the freedom Joey had.
"Yeah," Joey said, wishing he had the mom who baked stuff and cleaned and went to school conferences and called Billy's house to tell him to come home.
It seemed somehow wrong to be talking about their mothers while they paged through magazines of naked women, many of whom were on their knees opening men's flies, or laying on their backs with their legs spread. So they stopped.
"So..." Billy began.
"So, ya jack off, huh? Me too," Joey grinned.
"Yeah, but, I don't get a lot of privacy."
"Like I said, the shower. Or just the bathroom. Make it seem like you're taking a really long shit or something."
"Oh."
"You never did it, did you?" Joey began to tease him.
"Yes, I did," Billy shot back.
"Then prove it. Let's see you," Joey challenged Billy.
"Here? Now? Are you nuts?"
"You never did it! You don't even know how to do it!"
"I do too!"
"Then prove it."
Angry, Billy stood up. Angry and a little scared at the challenge. Because he couldn't really prove it, didn't know if he'd done it right that one time.
"Where's your dad?"
"He's not even home. Second job, 'member?"
"Where's your mom?"
"Napping," Joey replied easily.
"Napping?"
"Hey, she had lunch with her friend Dolores, during Happy Hour." He winked. "She's down for the count, at least 'til she has to get up to make dinner for my dad."
"Oh."
"So?"
"So what?"
"So prove it."
"You prove it. How do I know you're not lying, either."
"Fine. We'll both prove it."
Joey stood and began unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly.
Billy hesitantly did the same. "Can anybody see in here?"
"Sure, if their nose was up against the window. Seen anyone around her doing that, lately?"
"No."
"So..."
Joey had it out. Billy was impressed. Joey already had a lot of black hair around the top of his dick. Billy didn't. He had a few wisps, which, because they were blond, almost looked as if he had no hair there, yet.
"Not much hair yet, huh?" Joey said, looking over. Billy thought Joe would tease him again and began to turn away slightly, shy and embarrassed. "Well, it'll come, eh?" Joe said instead, and punched Billy in the arm with his left hand. Because his right hand was on his dick.
And Billy was grateful, ridiculously grateful Joe hadn't made fun of him. Another of those moments when trouble-maker, bad egg, bad-influence Joey was just cool. What Billy really dug about Joe.
"I guess," Billy replied, watching Joe jack off, and watching Joe's penis grow and grow. "Wow."
"So you have done this before, eh?" Joey nodded at Billy's hardening little prick.
"Told ya I did," Billy said nervously, not sure he was out of the woods at proving he'd done this before when he almost really hadn't.
"Okay, so we both did it before. So fine. Let's pick a girl and do it now, together." Joey stopped a moment and picked up the magazines and threw them on the workbench neither one of them could possibly move and had to be maneuvered around.
"The same girl?"
"I dunno, just pick one."
They paged through the magazines, left-handed, but really, the women -- their parts! -- were mind-boggling, and dick-boggling, and Billy went back to the second magazine they'd paged through and found the centerfold.
"Her." The dark-eyed, dark-haired, tan girl with white bikini lines over her tits and crotch.
"Her?" Joey asked quizzically.
"Yeah, why not?" Billy said defensively.
"I dunno..." Joey continued paging through the magazine he had, until he found what he was looking for. A woman on her hands and knees, ass to the camera, showing everything, and with her mouth very close to the fly of a man kneeling in front of her. A man whose face you didn't even see. "I like this one," Joey said triumphantly.
"That's a good one," Billy agreed. But he liked his dark-eyed woman with the tan lines. Her eyes looked right at you, like she was showing only you her secret parts, nobody else.
They both shut up and started to seriously jack off.
Joey paused. "Did you ever. . . behind school, with Carrie. A couple weeks ago. What were you guys doing?" he asked Billy seriously, no longer looking at his on-all-fours woman.
Billy paused, looking up from the girl who held her pussy open just for him. "Kissing."
Joey snorted. "Kissing!"
Billy shrugged. "She wanted to kiss me." Quick flash of smile, remembering. "So we kissed."
"So how was it?" Joey asked. Almost plaintive. Girls didn't like him like they liked Billy.
(This could have had something to do with the fact that he pulled their hair, tried to lift their skirts, and frequently belched and spit in front of them. Billy had done that stuff, too -- before -- but lately he'd stopped, in a way that Joey found irritating and confusing and a little disheartening.)
Billy stopped to think. "It was good."
"Did you get, ya know?" Joey jacked his cock a little to indicate what he meant.
"Uh, I don't remember. Yeah. I think so." Lying. Billy had gotten totally excited, but he hadn't really realized it until the kissing was over and Carrie ran off to join her girlfriends.
"How does she kiss?" Joey was full of questions, eyes big.
"Um, I dunno. Like, how anybody kisses," Billy said, embarrassed because Carrie was the one and only girl he'd ever kissed. And he was bragging to cover for that.
"Yeah?" Joey was openly envious.
"Yeah." Billy shrugged, feeling slightly guilty for exaggerating his kissing experience, but not enough to correct the impression he'd made.
Pause. "So, how is that?" Joey moved closer to him.
"Whaddaya mean?"
"Show me," Joey half-whispered, and leaned in to put his mouth on Billy's, the slightest whisper of a moustache on his upper lip which Billy hadn't noticed before and which Billy didn't have himself. Yet. Joey half-closed his eyes, focusing on Billy's lips so he wouldn't miss and hit Billy's chin like a dork. He'd only seen kissing in the movies, and, frankly, had found it pretty disgusting until recently, when it made him feel strange and excited and still mildly disgusted but curious.
Surprised, Billy paused. Thought about Carrie. Thought about how she kissed. She already knew how to kiss before she kissed Billy. She'd gone behind school with Mike before Billy, a few weeks before. And Tommy a few weeks before that.
So after Joey pressed their mouths together, Billy showed Joey how Carrie kissed. Imagining Carrie. Wanting to kiss Carrie again. And maybe she'd let go of his hands so he could feel her little nubby breasts over her shirt.
Joey awkwardly responded, so Billy told Joe what Carrie had told him. Their bodies were not close, just their heads and faces.
"Not like that," he said, backing up a little, foreheads pressed together. "Make your lips soft."
Joey obeyed. Billy proceeded. Nice to be the one in charge, instead of the one obeying like it had been with Carrie. Pretty soon they were French kissing. Or at least, Billy was. Joey was accepting Billy's tongue. Both boys breathed hard through their noses like frisky colts.
Billy realized he had both hands on Joey's shoulders, but Joey had only one hand on Billy's shoulder. The other was now feverishly jacking himself off.
Billy paused. Joey opened his eyes and paused in masturbating. "What?" he whispered.
"Nothin'," Billy breathed, taking one hand off Joey's shoulder and putting it back on himself. He closed his eyes and put his mouth back on Joey's. Imagining Carrie. And jacked himself off.
They came quickly, first Joey (more practice), then Billy.
And, because twelve year olds can do that sort of thing, they masturbated three more times over the course of the afternoon. Once with more kissing, then the other two trying to outdo each other in how far they could shoot their sperm. And Joey had explained that you had to clean it up before it dried and got crusty and stuck to things, handing the box of Kleenex to Billy. It occurred to Billy minutes later that Joey must've been doing this a lot, down here in the basement. Or so it seemed. The shower. Huh.
They'd wasted a lot of Kleenex. Joey put it all in the trash can by his father's work bench.
They lay on the floor, looking at the magazines again. The women were so amazing, and there were so many in the multiple magazines they'd found.
"When we're rock stars, we'll have to have stage names," Joey said, paging slowly through a girl on girl spread.
"We need a band name first." Billy was bored by the magazines now, and wanted to watch TV.
"Okay. Let's think of one."
"Like what?"
"Something rude."
"Such as?"
"Dickhead."
They exploded into giggles.
"You can't name a band that," Billy pointed out reasonably after they'd stopped laughing. "They would never put that on a marquee or print it in the paper."
"We're not old enough to play in bars anyway!"
"That's not the point."
"Sportin' Woodman."
"You can't name a band that, either!" They chuckled again.
"Woody's Wormhole."
"Would you stop?"
"What? That could be about Woody Woodpecker," Joe objected.
"Yeah, but it's not," Billy replied, shaking his head and smiling. He was paging back through the magazine with his favorite girl, the girl who showed him all of her, like it was only him who was looking at it. He wanted to take it home, but was afraid to ask Joey for it.
"Okay, how about Woodpeckerhead?"
"Well..." Billy relented.
"Then later we could shorten it to Peckerhead."
They exploded into giggles again.
"Okay, now our stage names."
"Okay."
"Should we keep our same first names?"
"Well, if we don't, when people call our names, we wouldn't know they were talking to us, would we?"
"We'd get used to it," Joe replied seriously.
Billy shook his head. "I'm gonna keep my same first name. And just change the last name."
"Okay, to what?"
"Billy... Fantastic."
"Egotistical."
"Okay, what about you?"
"Joey... Joey Woodpeckerhead."
"You can't do that, we already picked Woodpeckerhead as the band name."
"Well, we could be like the Partridges, all with the same last name," Joey smirked. "Joey Woodpeckerhead, Billy Woodpeckerhead."
They laughed so hard they couldn't talk.
"Oh, yeah, that's what I wanna do! Be a fag like David Cassidy!" Billy snorted With no real conception what 'fag' meant, then.
"But I love him," Joey said, mimicking the girls at school. "He's so dreamy!"
"He's a fag!"
"I would never be in any band that would take my sister," Joey said emphatically. "She is a total bitch."
"Yeah."
"Okay, Joey Woodman."
"That's better. Billy Guitar."
"That's too boring. Why don't you call yourself Billy Popstar or something!" Joe said sarcastically.
"That's not bad," Billy smirked, 'til Joey elbowed him. "How about Billy Rockstar?"
"God, ego!"
"Screw you! I will be a rockstar someday." Billy air-guitared enthusiastically.
"Fine. Joey Penis."
They laughed so hard Joey started to choke and they collapsed on the floor together, play fighting.
"Fine. Joey Dick," Joe said, after they'd stopped playfighting and he had caught his breath.
Billy chuckled. "I’ll be Billy Talent. But I'll change the spelling of Talent. It should be two 'L's, anyway, for the short A sound."
"Listen to you, teacher's pet," Joe elbowed him.
"Hey, I can't help it if I get grounded every time I get a bad grade. It's just easier to get good grades."
"Joey Dick."
"And Billy Tallent."
"No, wait." Joe paused, looking up at the dusty pipes hanging from the ceiling. "Not Joey. Joe. Joe Dick."
"Joe Dick and Billy Tallent."
They smiled at each other. Then Joey's mother woke up to fix dinner and they heard her moving around on the first floor above them.
"And Woodpeckerhead. Soon to be Peckerhead."
The door at the top of the basement stairs opened. "Joey, it's almost dinner," Joey's mother called down. "Get up here and set the table, your sister’s got something after school tonight. Billy, it’s time for you to go home, too."
"Yes, Mrs. ______," Billy replied politely. Joe elbowed him again.
"Coming, Mum," Joe called up.
They packed the magazines away, under the dusty Sports Illustrated magazines, which made them sneeze and laugh all over again.
They raced up the stairs, then, elbowing each other out of the way. Joe won, but Billy didn’t care.
Billy paused at the front door as Joe let him out.
"Next time, we really have to practice," the blond boy said emphatically.
"Yeah, we really have to practice more," Joe whispered, leaning in close to Billy, rakish smile.
"Not that!" Billy whispered, rolling his eyes and elbowing Joe as he stood on Joe's front steps.
"I mean. . ." Joe mimed jacking off.
"Oh. That." Billy smiled involuntarily, looking around, equal parts nervous, embarrassed, and slightly aroused at the memory.
"We'll practice, all right," Joe winked.
"Joey!" his mother called. "Say good bye and get in here and set the table."
"I gotta go. See ya tomorrow," Joe said, turning back to go inside. He shut the door.
Billy stood on the steps a moment, hearing Joe's muffled voice saying, "It's Joe from now on, Mum. Joe. Not Joey."
“I don’t care what it is, set the damn table,” came Mrs. _____’s cranky reply.
Billy ran down the steps.
And he ran all the way home, excited and breathless and happy with the discovery of this fantastic new thing, this jacking off. He would do it again, tonight, in the bathroom, maybe after dinner, maybe after brushing his teeth before bed. Thinking about kissing Carrie. And feeling her tiny tits. Thinking about Carrie showing all of herself to him, and only him.
With the only locking door in their entire house between him and his mother.
~ ~ ~