The F Words

by Anyta Sunday

  He flicked the duvet over his lower half, and spread his legs, angling his groin so he could watch the blanket rise up and down as he pumped. It was a guy down there, sucking him off, eager, excited, needy for his come.

  He squeezed more lube onto the fingers of his other hand and twisted on his side, trailing the crease between his arse cheeks.

  The urge to continue, to push further, spindled through him. He was light and dizzy and on the cliff of liberation. Stepping over tempted him so badly. The fall had always held him back before, but he didn’t have to worry about that anymore, because, fuck, he knew he had someone that would—if he couldn’t do it all himself—catch him.

  And suddenly the guy’s tattoos on screen weren’t Chinese symbols, but Maori ones, a koru, a loop, a fern, a hook—

  Rory jerked himself harder, and pressed against his puckered hole, sucking more of that freedom into his lungs. God, he wanted this. Wanted more than this. He wanted to have a guy’s dick filling him, pounding him, making him see the fucking constellations. And he wanted to hear the guy cry out how good and tight it felt having him wrapped around his dick.

  He pushed the tip of the finger inside himself at the same time the tattooed guy on screen slapped his hands on the other guy’s hips and slid his cock home.

  The smell of pre-cum had Rory swiping a finger over himself and bringing it to his lips. He’d thought of doing this so many times but never could bring himself to extend his tongue and lick it off.

  But this was moving on, this was fucking living that part of his life.

  He closed his eyes and tasted it, imagining his groan was someone else’s. His come, theirs.

  It was warm and salty. A hot rush spiraled down his cock, gathering in intensity. He opened his eyes, latching his gaze on the tattooed man’s back as he pumped, arse flexing.

  Rory groaned, pushing into his hole harder, rougher, and as he clenched his cock, covering the head, he felt his come erupt out of him, shooting ropes into his hand.

  He was too exhausted to reach over for a tissue and clean up, and semen leaked though his fingers onto the duvet. He didn’t care. Tomorrow it would go in the wash. Right now, he was paralyzed in a cocoon of hot, musky freedom.

  He rolled over just enough to shut his laptop screen with his elbow, and then stared at the ceiling.

  Waiting.

  Waiting for the cocoon to snap open and shame to wash over him. He prepared himself to battle it away—tell it to fuck off. But the air didn’t constrict like he’d expected it to. It felt the same. No, not the same. Maybe it was only the contrast to the salty come only moments ago on his tongue, but the air tasted sweeter.

  A long sigh escaped him, one that had been trapped inside him for too many years, and he was left just . . . tired. Not bubbling with guilt or disgust or horror or regret. Just exhausted from having held back so long.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday evening, Rory lay on top of his bed, propped up with pillows, the last of the daylight slashing across his toes. His whole body hummed inside and out with warmth, and it had nothing to do with that inch of sun. He wriggled deeper into the pillows and pulled the laptop higher onto his stomach as he re-read the words in his chat box.

  Eric:

  What are you plans next week?

  Rory:

  Nothing much

  Willow is with her mum most of next week, except Friday

  Eric:

  And Christmas?

  Would you, maybe, want to come over to my place for Xmas lunch?

  As he poised his fingers on the keyboard to answer, he found himself wondering if Eric had been nervous asking him about the holiday. The way he’d written it made him think maybe he was. He scrunched his toes, catching the duvet and crinkling it. Stroking the keys, he smiled. But shit, he was touched Eric wanted to spend that day with him. The last few years he’d been on his own. Had been quite pathetic, really.

  This would be . . . good.

  -----------------------1 minute

  me:

  Yeah

  I’d like that

  Sure you want to do it at your place not mine?

  Eric:

  My oven has decided it works again

  If it’s okay, I’d prefer to do it here

  Rory was about to ask why there, but thought better of it as he remembered the way Eric had looked at his grandpa’s ashes the last time he’d gone over.

  Bing!

  Eric:

  I mean, if you really want we can do it at yours

  That’s cool

  me:

  Nah. Yours.

  Eric:

  Sweet.

  me:

  What you up to tonight, anyway?

  Eric:

  Other than chatting with you?

  Damn. It was getting ridiculous how much of a thrill he got every time his chat box binged. It reminded him of grass tickling in his ear when he lay on the lawn. He forced himself to stop jiggling his leg and plucking up more of the duvet with his toes.

  Thing was, he’d been wanting to ask since they’d started the chat what Eric was up to that night. It was Saturday, after all. Maybe Eric would be going out later, hitting the town, meeting friends, partying with guys . . . He swallowed the acid that flared up his throat suddenly. Then found himself typing something he never would have a couple of weeks ago.

  me:

  No hot date?

  Eric:

  haw haw

  I don’t particularly feel in the mood

  What about you?

  You there yet?

  Want a hot date?

  me:

  I . . .

  Never mind

  Eric:

  Spit it out

  Rory withdrew his fingers from the keyboard and picked at the duvet with his fingers this time. What did he want to say, exactly? That he wanted to be there? That he felt he might be getting closer? That certainly his body would love him if he got out there? Or that . . . that he just wanted to know more about fag stuff if Eric would be willing to tell him.

  Steeling his nerves, he just spat it out.

  me:

  what’s it like?

  Eric:

  you’ll have to be more specific.

  me:

  you know . . .

  Eric:

  spe-cif-ic. adjective.

  Explicit, definite . . .

  me:

  Smart ass

  Eric:

  It’s good, Rory. Very good.

  me:

  what is?

  Eric:

  Who’s the smart arse now?

  come over

  we can talk

  me:

  some things are easier with distance

  Eric:

  I’ll be waiting

  And bring the pumpkin pie leftovers

  I’ve been thinking how good that tasted all day

  Still can’t believe we made that

  me:

  me neither. See you in half an hour?

  Eric pulled the door open when he spotted Rory trudging up the path with a sketchbook under his arm, a pencil case in one hand and the rest of the pumpkin pie in the other.

  “Let me grab that off you,” he said, keeping the door open with his foot and leaning over to take the pie out of Rory’s hands.

  It wasn’t dark outside, yet, but already the street lamps were coming on. Without looking at him, Rory brushed passed him into the house, then kicked off his shoes at the door. They hit the skirting board with a dull thud but landed side-by-side.

  “You didn’t have to take your shoes off. The place is too cold for that.”

  Rory, his back to Eric, looked down at his grey and white socked feet. “Say that again. I wore tramping socks this time.”

  Eric took the pie to the kitchen, as Rory set down his sketchbook with more care than he had his shoes. He took his pencil case and tossed it in the air before catching it again. Then he prodded Yowler, innocently curled up on his ch
air, until the kitten leapt to life, claws bared. “Evening, sucker,” he said, with the sound of a smirk in his voice.

  Not that Eric could see since the guy still had his back to him. Turn around.

  “Like a drink?” Eric asked.

  “Sure. Something cold.”

  Huh. Was it his imagination or did Rory refuse to look at him?

  From the fridge, Eric took out some orange juice and coke and held both bottles up. “Which of these would you prefer?”

  Rory shrugged, dropping his pencil case and hitching up his jeans slung low over his hips. “Whatever you’re having.”

  Yep, sure enough, Rory wasn’t glancing his way.

  Eric filled two glasses with ice. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Even he’d been nervous to suggest Rory come around to talk about . . . things. It was no doubt harder for Rory.

  Yowler lunged at Rory’s pencil case when the guy picked it up and prodded him again. Though winding the kitten up, it somehow looked like a game between them. Yowler wasn’t hissing at the guy anymore or lunging to really attack him. Which was . . . unusual.

  “You want whiskey with your coke?”

  “No whiskey, thanks. I don’t drink.”

  Eric dropped the coke lid onto the bench. “Say what?”

  Finally Rory looked around, a sheepish flush stealing his face. “Well, I don’t usually drink. That last time was . . . an exception.”

  Eric opened the coke and satisfying chiii coming with it. “Can I ask why not?”

  Rory laughed. “You’re likely gonna ask me worse than that.”

  “I don’t have to ask anything if you don’t want me to,” Eric said lightly, pouring the coke.

  Moving to the bench, Rory mumbled something along the lines of ‘it’s okay’, and then took his drink. He twisted the glass a few rounds before he picked it up and sipped. Then his dark eyes, laden with memories stared at him. No, not at him, right through him.

  Eric felt it through him, too. His grip on his glass grew compromised and he rested it on the bench.

  “I used to drink with William,” Rory said, voice smooth and heavy, like stones that’d been beaten by hundreds of years of rushing water. “It was our thing. I tried, but it was never the same after he left. Eventually, I just stopped.”

  Eric lifted his glass again, the condensation cold on his palm. It was good Rory was talking about William and not looking like he was about to crack. Still, he continued, tentatively, “Why’d you drink the other week then?”

  Rory looked at him, then cocked his head as if thinking about the answer. Too soon, he looked away. “I . . . dunno. It doesn’t matter.”

  The way Rory stilled, fingers white against the glass, made Eric want to backtrack. He shouldn’t have pressed. Jeez, he was doing a fiiine job today.

  Rounding the counter, he moved to Rory’s art on the table. He opened to the first page, and then Rory was right next to him. “You’ve seen them all already. They’re the ones where I’m in almost every picture, remember?”

  Eric looked down to the scene Rory’d drawn at the pool. Then laughed. “Tell me about that. Why are you in them all?”

  Rory shrugged and the same time his bathroom window did its signature whack!

  He shut the living room door, noting how it no longer squealed as it had all the weeks before. Maybe it was weather related.

  “So, what were you saying?”

  “Nothing really. Just . . .” Their gazes caught. “Fine . . . Do you ever feel like you aren’t really living life? That you’re just observing it?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes.”

  Rory nodded. “That’s how I feel when I draw, you know? And that once was good, because it was a way I could just be numb and not feel anything. There were lots of times I just wanted that so sketching was, you know, like escaping.”

  Eric’s gaze dropped from Rory’s frowning face, only then did he see the hand he’d unconsciously wrapped around Rory’s forearm. He let go.

  Rory didn’t notice, he continued, eyes looking at his art in front of him. “But this last year . . . I wanted to be a part of life again, not just observe it. I couldn’t though. That’s when I started drawing myself into the scenes, sort of . . . vicariously living again or something.”

  It was Eric’s turn to nod.

  Rory’s voice switched to something deeper, more reflective. “It’s been better in Wellington. Like that picture of Sammy and Lily—I didn’t feel like I needed to be in it, because I feel more ‘there’ now. If that makes any sense.” He cleared his throat. “That was more than you wanted to know. Probably more than I wanted to tell, too.”

  “No, that was good.”

  Really good. There was something satisfying about Rory opening up to him. And it made him want to do it as well. It was all well, coaxing Rory to be honest and move on, but it didn’t mean much if he couldn’t do it himself now, did it? And he knew there was something Rory wanted to know about him. He’d tell him, too. Later.

  Rory put his drink down in the middle of the table and picked up his stuff before Eric could think of what to say. He turned to him. “I want to finish that drawing of us at the restaurant.”

  “Before or after some pumpkin pie?”

  “Before, if your stomach can handle it.”

  “Sure, as long as I get the bigger piece after. Where should we . . .?”

  Rory hooked his arm around a chair and dragged it to the door. “Open up, we can do this in your bedroom, it’ll have better natural light this time of evening.”

  Eric didn’t stop to wonder how he knew that. He opened the door and led him to his room.

  Rory positioned his chair facing the bed, stripes of light came through the venetian blinds, falling over the chair and the corner of the bed where Rory then pointed. “You sit there.”

  He turned and lifted the blinds. Warm light came through, but also the shadow of the cabbage tree outside his window. It didn’t seem to bother Rory though.

  Eric parked himself at the head of the bed with pillows behind him, crossing one ankle mid-calf. Hooking his hands behind his head, he watched as Rory sat and placed the sketchbook on his lap, then, as if thinking better of it, twisted the chair around and straddled it. A small breeze from his slightly opened window blew a strand of hair over Rory’s brow, which he wiped to the side with the back of his hand. Leaning the sketchbook against the top of the chair, Rory glanced his way.

  It wasn’t a glance to see if his art subject was where he should be. At least, Eric didn’t think so. Not judging by the flush in Rory’s cheeks and the way he kept smoothing his hands over the edges of his sketchbook.

  Eric breathed out, turning up his bottom lip up so the air hit his nose. “So, okay, I’m gonna just spit it out and ask.”

  Rory fumbled for a pencil, dropping his case on the floor. He quickly picked up a pencil before it rolled out of his reach.

  Eric wished he could lay a hand on the guy’s shoulder and calm him. Instead he settled for just getting on with the conversation. “We’re both thinking about it. . . . I know I have been. You stalled when I asked if you wanted a hot date. Is that . . . Do you want that?”

  It was quiet a moment. Rory had turned a few pages and begun moving his pencil. But he had to be drawing from memory, because he wasn’t looking up at him. A soft clearing of Rory’s throat sounded and then so quietly, Eric almost missed it: “yes.”

  “Sorry?” Eric wasn’t completely sure he’d heard right.

  “Yes.” Again, so quiet.

  Eric didn’t know why he pressed Rory to say it louder, but something in him needed to hear it. To be sure. Or something. “Was that a yes?”

  Rory snapped his eyes up over his paper at Eric. “Know what? I’m having second thoughts about you helping me.” His eyes were dark with vulnerability and edged with anger. “Yes! Fuck. I want to be with a guy.”

  Eric held his stare, accepting Rory’s fear and fury. “Should I just shut up?”

  Rory’s breath shudd
ered out of him. “No. I—this is why I came over here. I mean, it’s hard, but I need someone to just . . . talk to.”

  Eric unlinked his hands and dropped them onto his lap, his gaze following. “I get that.” What he wanted to add but couldn’t was: Thanks for trusting me. “So, what do you want to talk about, exactly?”

  Rory raised his shoulder and wiped his brow on his light brown t-shirt. “Um . . . I don’t know.”

  Eric heard the underlying plea for him to take charge. So he did. “How far have you . . . with a guy?”

  There came the sound of pencil strokes on paper. “Not far.”

  Eric caught his faint blush. “That’s cool. Have you kissed a guy before?”

  Rory sniggered. “Only you. Remember?”

  How could he forget? “I mean, no one else before or after that?”

  “No. No one else.”

  So Eric was his first. He swallowed the warmth he felt at that little piece of news. Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep down his next words. “Huh, it’s like I’m your sire into gay life or something.”

  Rory blinked at him over his sketchbook, pencil paused. “You did not just say that.”

  “My Vlad, I think I did.”

  Rory’s face quibbled like he was trying hard to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t hold it back; a grin quirked his lips. “I don’t know you anymore.” The smile broke free of the tenuous hold it seemed Rory had of it. “Now, shuddup and keep still.”

  “Tut-tut-tut, that’s no way to speak to your master.”