Bigger Love

by Rick R. Reed

  Mike grinned. “Get used to it, sweetheart.”

  They were just about to lean in for a kiss when the sound of a car starting up interrupted. Mike turned toward the sound, a little surprised because he thought he was the last one in the parking lot. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the other vehicle because it was at the opposite end.

  But as it neared, Mike got a chill because he recognized the car—a beat-up old red Mustang. It came close, the headlights blinding Mike for a second, but when the car turned toward the exit, Mike recognized the face behind the wheel, maybe because it was a face he’d seen previously in darkness. He put two and two together once he saw the guy with the glasses and thinning hair coupled with the old red Mustang.

  His mouth dropped open. And something queasy and dread-like woke up in his gut, making him feel a little sick.

  Truman looked after the car, watching it, Mike guessed, to make sure it disappeared down the hill. He turned back to Mike. “I’m surprised they just drove on by. I mean, without calling us fags or something. Or maybe telling us we were on the highway to hell. Or worst of all, that they’d pray for us. I don’t need their sanctimonious prayers. And neither do you.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You do know who that was, don’t you?”

  Mike knew.

  Mike knew all too well. His recent night at the park rose up in memory like one of those old 70s porn movies he’d discovered online. He didn’t know, though, if he wanted to admit that association to Truman. He tried to swallow and discovered he had no spit. With a shaking voice, he asked, “Who?”

  “Tammy Applegate and that homophobe dad of hers!” He laughed. “By themselves, they were probably too cowardly to say anything to me, or to us.”

  Mike turned, staring off into the darkness. The lights of Summitville glowed down below, warm yellow. He imagined everyone in the world safe and sound, snug in their homes, free of memories like the one torturing him at this very moment. How could a moment go from magical to sick with one swift turn? “Shit,” he whispered.

  He turned to find Truman staring at him, arms crossed, head cocked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Mike had to look away from Truman’s inquiring eyes. He felt vulnerable, like he’d been under the rock Truman had just lifted.

  “Yes,” Mike said, turning back to face Truman. He let loose a big sigh, almost a moan.

  Truman took a step closer. “What is it?”

  “That guy. Mr. Applegate. I’ve seen him before.”

  Truman shrugged. “It’s a small town.”

  “No. You don’t get it.” It’s time to tell him. So what? You didn’t do anything with him. You just happened to see something. The thought was cold comfort when Mike put it in the context of how he’d reacted to what he’d seen—the arousal, the temptation. You don’t have to tell Truman everything. You have a right to some privacy. How your body responded to something it saw is not cause for shame or guilt. Neither is it cause for confession. “You know the park?”

  Truman nodded.

  Mike didn’t need to name it because there was only one.

  “You know what, uh, sometimes goes on up there, after it gets dark?”

  Truman eyed him warily. And Mike could imagine where his mind was going. “No!” Mike cried. “I just go there to think, to be alone. But one night—”

  And he told Truman what he’d seen.

  He was surprised when Truman snickered. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re sure it was him?”

  “Oh yeah. Positive. Even though it was dark, no one else in town has a Mustang like that one. Vintage.”

  Truman shook his head, and then he burst into renewed laughter, so hard he was eventually holding his sides.

  “It’s not funny!”

  “The hell it isn’t,” Truman said. “Mr. Holier than Thou up there on the hill giving hum jobs to the local men. It’s priceless!” He doubled over. Suddenly Mike saw the humor in the situation—and the hypocrisy.

  What could a guy do but laugh?

  And he realized there was no reason for him to feel guilty. So what if he’d experienced a little vulnerability, a little temptation that night? He didn’t act on it. He gave himself some credit for that. He couldn’t help being tempted, but he could help how he reacted to that temptation.

  When they had reined in their laughter—and their tears, because, yes, it was that funny—Truman grabbed Mike in an embrace and kissed him. Long and hard. When they pulled away, a little breathless, Truman said, “I don’t want you going to that park at night alone.”

  Mike bristled—but for only an instant. His first thought was about what right Truman had to tell him where he could or couldn’t go. It wasn’t like they’d made a commitment to one another. Not yet, anyway.

  But that feeling, that indignation, was fleeting. Mike actually did want Truman to tell him where he could and couldn’t go. He cared. Mike wanted that concern, that jealousy, even. Hell, no one else in his life gave a shit where he was at any given hour or day.

  So he just said, “Okay.” A lightbulb went off above Mike’s head. “Should we hop in my truck and chase ’em down?” Mike took some malicious glee in imagining Mr. Applegate’s face when he “outed” him, especially with his daughter sitting beside him. Talk about priceless! “He doesn’t have much of a lead. I could catch up.”

  “And then what?” Truman asked.

  “Well, we could let Tammy know what a hypocrite her father is. Hell, we could let the whole town know.” Mike shook his head. “That asshole. Bad enough he’s sucking cock when he has a wife—she does my ma’s nails every other week. But okay, so he likes a bit of cock….” He grinned at Tru. “Who doesn’t? But then, does he have to try and be all self-righteous about anyone who’s different? We should shine a light on that motherfucker.”

  He fully expected Truman to chime in with agreement. But Truman surprised him. “Nah. I don’t think we want to do that, Mike. You and I both know that man’s tortured. He’s leading a double life. And after what you just told me, it kind of makes me feel different about him.”

  “How? Why?”

  “Because I know now that all this crap about me wearing a dress in a high school play is just camouflage for how he feels about himself. See, he doesn’t hate me, he hates himself. And in his own twisted way, what he did tonight was a bad attempt to deal with that.”

  Mike felt a little abashed when he thought of Truman’s wisdom—and his kindness. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Mike didn’t say it, but he thought if he’d acted on his own temptation that night in the park, it wouldn’t have been as much out of lust as it was out of a kind of self-loathing.

  He knew he had a lot to learn from Truman.

  He also realized he had a few other things he hoped Truman could teach him. And this latter thought caused a sly, lascivious grin to cross his face.

  He leaned close to Truman. “It’s fucking cold out here. What do you say we get in the cab, take a drive down by the river… and warm each other up?” His eyebrows wiggled.

  “I can’t imagine what you have in mind, mister, but I’m willing to trust you,” said Truman, smiling and then turning toward the driver’s side of the pickup truck. “But only if you let me drive. Tonight I feel like driving.”

  “Are you saying—?”

  “Just shut up and get in the damn truck.”

  Chapter 21

  IT HAD gotten even colder by the time they reached what Truman thought of as their trysting spot down by the river, in the shadows on the big bridge crossing over into West Virginia. The wind had picked up, and it had begun raining—hard. It pounded on the metal roof of the truck like hoofbeats—a whole team of tiny horses cantered up there. The rain smeared the glass all around them. And if the smearing wasn’t enough, their own breath further isolated them.

  Mike had left the heater on for a good ten minutes after they’d parked but then told Tru he was low on gas so they’d have to conserve, turning th
e engine off and on as necessary. With a nervous grin, he told Truman he’d need to do his best to keep him warm, and that if he was successful, they wouldn’t need to start the truck up again until they were ready to leave. Mike leered when he said, “Which I hope is hours and hours from now.”

  Truman hoped so too. For the last half hour or so, they had been locked in a passionate embrace, their bodies melded to one another’s as though they were one being. It made Truman think of a phrase he’d run across in some bodice-ripper novel Patsy had left lying around—making the beast with two backs. Their lips and tongues left each other’s only long enough to explore the nape of the other’s neck, an earlobe, even an eyebrow. All of Mike tasted good. And Truman hadn’t even gotten to the best parts of him yet.

  It was surprising to Truman that they’d never managed to get out of each other’s arms. Seriously, it seemed like they were clinging to one another every single second. And the thing that had Truman in a state of wonder? How they’d managed to accomplish the feat of staying together while at the same time getting undressed.

  They were both stark naked now.

  And Truman was grateful they were cocooned inside the truck in their own little world of raindrops and fog. If someone was standing on the running board outside his window, Truman believed they still wouldn’t have a clue as to what was going on inside.

  And what was going on inside was lovemaking, passion, down-and-dirty, the kind of raw sex that takes your breath and your ability for conscious thought away. Truman felt he’d become an animal, a desperate, wanting animal that knew no satisfaction but only lusted for more, more, more.

  He moved his lips away from Mike’s and started downward, licking and tonguing his ears, his neck, his chest, pausing to shower his nipples with pointed attention. From his moans and cries, Truman knew Mike was loving what he was doing to him. Truman had never had the experience of sucking a man’s nipples before, and he discovered a new joy. The light growth of dark hair around Mike’s broad nipples tickled his face—and he realized how those two pieces of salmon-colored flesh were hot-wired to Mike’s dick, which he was thrusting upward into Truman’s belly.

  Things could turn very serious, very soon.

  Or very messy….

  Which was why, Truman supposed, Mike pulled him back up, grasping him under the armpits as Truman began to head farther south.

  “No. If you get down there,” Mike said, panting, “I won’t be able to last a minute. And I want all of this to last much longer.”

  Truman was glad Mike had faith in Truman’s powers of longevity, faith he didn’t have in himself.

  “I wanna suck you,” Mike said. And then he did.

  Mike was so hungry, so perfect at what he was doing, Truman flailed his head back against the truck’s bench seat and buried a hand in Mike’s dark hair. He thrust into Mike’s mouth, faster, faster, thinking this was it.

  But Mike obviously had other ideas. Because just as Truman was about to shoot and, he thought, experience his most volcanic and delicious orgasm ever, Mike pulled away, grasping the base of Truman’s throbbing dick and squeezing. Truman thought the effort was too little and too late to interrupt the geyser of seed about to erupt.

  But somehow—a miracle—the pressure worked, and it stemmed the flow.

  For the moment.

  Mike looked up at him, chin wet and breathing hard. “I want you to fuck me.”

  Now that’s not what I expected. Maybe it was what I wanted—deep down—but I never thought he’d want me to. I thought he was going to say he wanted to fuck me.

  Good God, I’ve never fucked anybody before. What if I’m terrible at it? I’m supposed to be the bottom here. I’ve always been the bottom boy. Aren’t all sissies?

  Maybe not….

  His thoughts, more than a little frantic, came to a screeching halt when Mike pleaded, “Please! I need you inside me.”

  What do you do when a lover makes such demands?

  You comply if there’s any way you can.

  And Truman, staring down at the long, pale rod of steel that was his dick, knew compliance would be no problem. Staying power might be another story, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

  “Got condoms?”

  Mike reached over to fling open the glove compartment. “There.” He pointed to a box of Trojans.

  Truman was grateful to see they were lubricated, because he didn’t see any lube in the glove box or anywhere nearby. With a trembling hand, Truman reached out to grab the box. He held it for a moment, looking down to see it contained a dozen condoms, wondering if they’d use them all tonight.

  Wondering if they had enough….

  Mike slid off him, sitting restlessly in the passenger seat, watching.

  Truman removed one of the condoms, his hands shaking so badly he couldn’t open the foil packet. He tried once, twice, three times… and even the third time wasn’t the charm. “Damn it,” he whispered. “Why do they make ’em so hard to open?”

  Mike said, “Fuck it.” And Truman thought they were going to bareback, which, at this point in the fever of his passion, would have been just fine. The odds were good there was little risk for either of them. But Mike snatched the packet out of his hand, tore it open with his teeth, and then proceeded to roll it onto Truman’s dick. When it was in place, he smiled up at Truman, proud. Breathlessly he said, “Trade places.”

  They exchanged places on the bench seat, Truman sliding over to the passenger seat. He sat back, legs splayed, dick sticking up as though to point the way to heaven. Mike grabbed Truman’s dick and climbed on board his lap. And slid down, an inch at a time, a little bit faster with each inch….

  In just a few seconds, Truman felt the wonder—for the first time—of being deeply inside another man, that embracing, clutching warmth. “Oh God,” he moaned. “I want to stay this way forever.” What do you know? I might be a top after all. Because, damn, this feels amazing.

  Mike gripped Tru’s shoulders and then started to move, sliding up and down. Truman grabbed his hips to stop him, holding him down, impaled. “Don’t fucking move.” It seemed like his whole body was twitching. The prospect for this being over in less than a second was very likely. He breathed rapidly through his mouth, willing himself not to come. Please no. Please no. Not yet.

  And yet another miracle occurred. The spasms coursing through him slowed just enough to reassure Truman he wasn’t going to come. At least not for the next minute or so.

  He thrust upward and into Mike slowly, smoothly. Back out, up again. He started to establish a rhythm. Mike was doing a sort of groaning, humming thing, so Truman knew he was pleasing him, delighting him, leading him to the edge of ecstasy. He smiled.

  “I’m doin’ okay?” Truman managed to ask.

  “Better. Much better than okay.” Mike’s eyes were beginning to roll back in his head. His mouth was open, and Truman could feel Mike’s ass tightening down on his dick.

  Heaven is right here on earth.

  Of course, as Truman had known they would be from the moment he’d slid inside Mike, things were over all too soon. With one mighty thrust upward, Truman cried out as the first gush of semen jetted out of him, filling the tight rubber to capacity. Mike groaned, guttural, and within a second, hot splashes of come landed on Truman’s cheek, chin, and chest.

  They collapsed against each other, shuddering. Truman couldn’t help it—he started laughing almost hysterically, with relief, with joy. Mike followed in the laughter after a second.

  When he could get his breath back, Mike asked, “What the hell are we laughing about?”

  Truman squeezed him, still buried deep inside. He wondered if he’d stay hard enough for round two without having to pull out. This top thing, he thought, agreed with him. “We’re laughing because we’re happy. We’re laughing because we’re together—and that brings us joy. Right?”

  Mike inclined his head so his forehead rested against Truman’s. “Right,” he agreed breathlessly. />
  “Where do we go from here?” Mike asked after a while, when their bodies began to relax, their muscles to at last loosen a bit, their blood to redistribute, maybe a bit, to the more regular places. He softly planted a small kiss on Truman’s neck, just below his earlobe.

  “What do you mean?” Truman grinned. He was beginning to get hard again.

  “Sexually. Geographically. Us,” Mike said.

  “Sexually, I want to try fucking you on your back, with your legs on my shoulders.” He gazed into Mike’s eyes, serious as a heart attack.

  “In this cramped little cab? I mean, I like the idea, but—”

  “Hush. You can lay across the seat, and I’ll stand outside on the running board.”

  Mike snickered. “You have it all figured out, don’t you?”

  Truman nodded. “The little head down south helped me put all the puzzle pieces in place.”

  “Won’t you get cold?”

  “With your ass around my dick? I doubt it. No, I know I won’t. No matter if a fucking monsoon is pounding down on my back and Arctic winds are blowing.”

  “Well then, maybe we should see how this little plan of yours works out.”

  Truman nodded eagerly. “Maybe we should.”

  Mike slid off him.

  “But before we get started again, I think I need to answer your other questions—you know, about where we’re going. Geographically, I want to bring you home. I want to fall asleep in your arms. No worries—I think I can sneak you in, even if Patsy’s up late listening to her namesake, Patsy Cline, and doing a crossword puzzle. I have my ways of getting you in undetected.” He winked. “I’ve done it before.”

  Mike frowned. “Really?”

  Truman gave him a tap on the arm. “Don’t get the wrong idea. With Stacy. Never with a guy.”

  Mike’s long exhale indicated he was both appeased and relieved. Maybe relieved because he was appeased. Was he going to be the jealous type? Truman wondered.

  Mike said, “Well shit, man, if we have a bed, wouldn’t you rather have me on my back there… where it’s warm and cozy?”