Bad Idea

by Damon Suede

  Trip licked his upper lip. “I bet you looked good. Football farm boy.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Near enough. If I’d gone to school with you, I’d have made a fool of myself.” Trip peeped out the window, then back. “Crazy.”

  “Mr. Spector, are you having inappropriate thoughts about junior varsity athletics in these United States?”

  “No. About your beautiful ass in those pants.” Trip swallowed.

  Silas shrugged. “That much, I cannot deny. I blew plenty of loads in ’em.” He cupped his junk protectively. “All junior year, I jerked off thinking about Eric Klune touching my crack during the games. I practiced.” He held up three fingers. “Hey, a hole has needs.”

  Trip tilted him sideways and squeezed a beefy cheek roughly. The tips of his fingers just grazed the smooth inner flesh near the hole. “I bet the team jerked off over your big glutes. How you didn’t get pillaged in the locker room, I’ll never know.”

  “That was the plan.”

  “Butch slut.” Trip milked his pale, soft dick, making the head bulge. His hungry gaze skidded over Silas. “You coming out of the shower with a little wet towel. Slick and sore. Your quads bunching.”

  “Stop.” But Silas didn’t mean it. His heart rolled inside his ribs like a bear cub.

  “They were probably afraid of you ’cause you were such a bruiser. They gave you hell and went home to spank it out.” Trip shifted over on top of him. “I would’ve.” He tipped his pelvis so his blunt head knocked against Silas’s loose balls.

  Silas laughed and inched closer. “Masturbation saved my life. Got wood doing crunches after football practice. I flipped over and humped the bed and Eureka! I thought I’d invented orgasms. For years I thought that was the only way to cum.”

  “And crunch your six-pack.” Trip patted his abdominals.

  Silas scootched up on the pillows. “Then when I started dating guys, being a little in shape made it easier to take my clothes off.”

  Trip stroked his backside. “Mmm-mmh. Soft.” He whispered in his ear. “Dumpling.” He fake-spanked the high haunch. Swack.

  Silas frowned. “You’re awful.” He rubbed the heated handprint.

  Trip gave him a wet kiss on the ear and got even quieter. “Dumpling.”

  “Schmuck.” But he knew they were both smiling.

  Trip humped the air once. “That’s what they call it.

  Silas flexed his rear end once. “Schmuck means penis?”

  “Mmh.” With their skin too dry to allow much slide, lying trapped against each other felt delicious.

  Silas exhaled. It felt funny to speak frankly, naked in bed. Usually he spent bed-time sucking in his gut and trying not to smother anyone by accident. “We fit pretty good.”

  Maybe he was getting old. Maybe Trip was different.

  When Silas blinked, he discovered Trip regarding at him with a tender expression.

  “Thanks.” Trip gave him a quick smile and glanced up.

  “For what?”

  “This. You. Scratch. I dunno. Coming over. Being amazing. Nothing. Anything.” Trip scowled at something and his fingers twitched. “I’m shutting up now. I don’t know what I meant.”

  Yes, you do. Silas leaned forward and waited for Trip to look up again. “Me too.”

  Trip crawled off Silas. “I think I get bored. I mean… pretending alla time. I mean, I’ve bottomed. I like it fine, but what I really love is breaking a big guy open with my joint.”

  “Yeah….” A languid smile leaked over Silas’s face.

  “Finding out what makes him tick, what makes him grunt, what makes him shout.”

  Silas coughed. His prick rolled and unfurled toward his hip.

  Trip raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “Oh, really?” As he watched, the shaft thickened in a heartbeat jerk.

  “Sorry.” Silas winced.

  “Why sorry?” Trip reached under his leg. “Don’t apologize for satisfying all my hang-ups and fantasies.” He pretended to shudder. “Egad! The horror. Forced to sodomize He-Man into submission!”

  How long could this last? Silas didn’t hold out much hope. In his experience, New Yorkers got bored. Gay men in New York were like ADD hummingbirds. “Over-the-shoulder syndrome,” he called it. No matter how happy city boys got, they were always checking over your shoulder to see any replacements who might be coming through the door: bigger job, bigger dick, bigger apartment, bigger wallet, bigger brain, bigger name. The pitfall of all those tantalizing options: settling in Gotham was next to impossible and upgrades were addictive.

  “I dunno. You’re so….” Trip watched the shaft in Silas’s lap bob awake. “I don’t get embarrassed.”

  “I’m afraid that’s gonna keep happening. You watching me like that? Fuck.” Fully aroused and he made no move to cover it. Trip’s intense eyes raked over him, making him feel itchy and gorgeous at the same time. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m yours.” He shut his mouth. That had slipped out.

  Trip didn’t seem to notice. “’F’you say so.”

  The tops of Silas’s ears burned. He noticed. “Anybody ever point out you are hung like a moose?”

  “I guess.” Trip blinked at his crotch as if a fierce animal had built its lair in his pants. “They called me ‘Triple-wiggle’ in high school because it hung so low it—”

  “Kids are monsters.” Silas kissed him. “Grown-ups too, mostly. Why I work so fucking much. Monsters sell tickets.” He petted Trip’s lean chest.

  “After I started, y’know, figuring out what was what and goin’ with guys, I found out an oversized dork wasn’t bad. But it still gets freaky reactions.”

  “This.” Silas squeezed Trip’s firm meat. “Is nice. But it’s the least of your charms.” Funny thing, he’d said it to come off as a gentleman, but he’d actually told the truth. He covered his embarrassment with a kiss. “Mr. Spector.”

  “I never cared.”

  “That’s ’cause you have a whopper.” Silas grinned.

  “You’re still bigger than a lot of guys.” Trip flopped onto his belly; the ruddy crown poked out under his hip.

  “Hey….” Silas gave him an impish grin. “There’s a million pin-dicks out there playing the deuce they been dealt.” How freaky and fun to talk like this on a date, with a date.

  “I guess.” Trip shrugged and shifted onto his side. “I just wish it didn’t matter so much.”

  “With great power comes great responsibility.” Silas took hold of the fat cannon.

  “I know it takes getting used to.” Trip’s length flexed shiny in the rough fist. “One thing to tug on it, but some guys—”

  “Some guys want something else.” Silas licked his teeth.

  “You.” Trip squeezed the base and the crest bulged, dark and rosy. “Are a log hog. Admit it.” He shook his erection as if it were a hungry, disobedient pet.

  “Sure. But that’s only part. And it isn’t even a little ugly.” Silas smiled. “Look, I ain’t stuffing a black rubber baguette up my ass every night, but I sure don’t mind a struggle.” His chest rumbled in pleasure. “Let’s say that early research indicates a dynamic duo at work: your beast cock and my supersonic butthole.”

  Trip cackled. “That’s so wrong!”

  “You laughed. If you laugh, then you think it’s true.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Everyone.” He huffed. “People laugh at the truth because if they didn’t laugh, they’d… I dunno. Cry or vomit.”

  Trip laughed loud and long at that.

  Silas ran his palm over Trip’s cheek and scalp. “I love the way that feels.”

  “My lazy-ass stubble? Cheapest haircut on earth.”

  “So clean and sharp. You’re like an etching. Clean lines.” Silas nudged Trip’s ribs with his nose. He dragged the back of his hand across Trip’s throat.

  Their eyes caught.

  They breathed a few seconds, regarding each other, as if communicating with amazing mutant tele
pathic powers.

  Silas wondered if Trip realized they would spend the night together. They hadn’t planned it, but he had no intention of leaving. For whatever reason, he wanted to know when they’d meet again before they’d even parted.

  “Hi,” Trip whispered and smiled.

  “You are gonna”—Silas dropped his gaze and muttered—“mess me up.”

  “I am?”

  “Or take me down. You watch. I got no defenses now.”

  Trip stared at the drafting table. Two spots of high color rose in his cheeks, and his eyes glittered in the dark when he tightened the blinds.

  Silas pushed back against the pillows and dropped one leg to the floor. “Whatsamatter?”

  “Something you said.” Trip chewed his thumbnail. “Defenses. You do monsters, right?” He pointed at the incubus drawing. “If you were gonna give him an archenemy, who would it be?”

  “Well, I’m not a writer, but in movies they say you look at your bad guy. Greater evil.”

  “Like Hitchcock.”

  Silas nodded, pleased that he’d remembered. “Give Scratch someone to fight.” He prodded Trip with a blunt finger. “You pick your poison and the story will follow.”

  “I’ve only got, like, the first eleven pages. Setting. Love interest. No villain yet.”

  “He’ll turn up. They always do.” Silas yawned and stretched.

  “Would you be willing to read what I got?” Trip shifted from one foot to the other, and the words tumbled out as if unbidden. “If you want, I mean. Just to eyeball it and see what pops out.”

  Silas batted away cobwebs of hesitation. How tough could it be? “Sure.”

  “Y’don’t have to say yes. ’S’just… until I have a script, I’m frozen. You sure?”

  “C’mon. I wanna read it. Hell, I’m gonna be in Arizona more than a week on location, so I’ll have lots of time.” That felt grown-up too. More than a trick. He knocked their shoulders together and smiled at the evening they’d had. “I bet I can come up with one or two scary ideas for you.”

  Trip sat up and crossed his legs. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Thanks for staying over. Staying the night. It started out as a terrible idea, and then it wasn’t at all.”

  Silas shifted closer. “You are most welcome, Mr. Spector.” He let his gaze roam over Trip’s rosy mouth, his huge eyes, the jutting collarbones. “Truth.”

  Silas laughed, and Trip laughed in response.

  He’d love to take Trip out on the town, just to test those waters, but it seemed unlikely. The black television screen on the wall reminded him about his dumb show and the Undercover Lovers party next month.

  “What?” Trip fell silent, and a big dopey grin stayed on his face. He ran a possessive hand over Silas’s flank.

  Rigid with desire and decision, Silas crossed his arms over his chest and jumped off the roof, praying the wind would catch him and he’d fly. “Would you like to go to a red carpet party?”

  Trip looked confused. “Party?”

  “Yes. A social gathering with booze and outfits? You mighta heard of ’em.” Silas grinned.

  “Jerk.” But Trip chuckled.

  “But this’d be business. I have to go to this big Showtime shindig for the buyers and affiliates. Black-tie nonsense. But I’d like you to come with me.” Silas neglected to mention that the party was in April, two months away. He’d never done that before.

  “Black tie.”

  “You don’t have to wear a tux.” He clenched his fists so they wouldn’t shake.

  Trip ducked his head and smiled. “I’d love to.”

  “Good. ’Cause I’d sure love to see you in a tux.” Silas shook his head fondly.

  “I meant I’d love to come. I have the tux I wore to Ben’s wedding, if that’s okay. It’s probably out-of-date and everyone will laugh at me.”

  “Not everyone. I’ll try to get it off you.” Silas kissed his cheek. “Good. Thanks.” Making a date that far in advance gave him a fluttery trapped feeling he chose to ignore.

  “Thank you.” Trip cupped his hands under his lean thighs. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “Neither did I. I usually hate industry shit, but I….” Silas took a decisive breath. “I like doing most anything with you, it seems.”

  “Well, when is it?”

  “Oh God! I forgot. Not till April. The twelfth. God, I’m sorry. Awful.”

  “I bet I can squeeze you in.” Trip blushed and smiled so wide, his rosy cheeks hit his eyes.

  “Likewise.” Silas kissed him again. He eyed the pile of pages on the end table, marked up with red pen and panel doodles in the margins.

  “Maybe you’ll find a little evil I can use.”

  Silas rubbed Trip’s side. His blunt cock flopped onto his inner thigh. “You know the style. You know the world.”

  Trip fidgeted. “I gotta finish the script before I ink the interiors. Anything could change. I don’t know enough about him.”

  “Scratch.” Silas asserted proudly. He loved how that title had just woven itself out of the spark between them. That’s what creating, what dating, should feel like.

  “Scratch. Yeah.” Trip agreed with obvious pleasure. “I just need my bad guy.”

  “You’ll find him one of these days.”

  Trip kissed him. “I guess I’ll have to keep looking.”

  10

  THERE’S a moment when gay guys have dated awhile and feel like they’re cheating on every guy they still haven’t had a chance to bone.

  Is he a fuckbuddy or a boyfriend?

  Over a week had passed while Silas managed to avoid reading Trip’s script in Phoenix, because he was terrified he’d hate it or that he’d sound stupid. Since he’d gotten the damn thing, he’d twisted the paper into a rumpled tube, as if he could wring an opinion out of it.

  He couldn’t not read the script and say nothing or slather on a bunch of fake praise, else he became an instant dick—and he didn’t want that. Now the twelve-odd pages for Scratch #1 felt like a uranium cinderblock in his backpack: toxic and unwieldy. He’d never let anyone trust him that much, and now he knew why.

  Guilty as all get out, he kept dodging Trip’s messages for fear he’d have to confess his failure. After weeks of talking and texting almost daily, Silas knew his sudden case of incommunicado was bound to confuse Trip.

  After getting home to his apartment last night, Silas knew he should go see Trip, but the Scratch script paralyzed him as surely as a spinal injury. He’d convinced himself he was too tired to think and had gone to bed. And this morning he’d gone right out to the Undercover Lovers set without so much as a heads-up to Trip that he’d returned safely.

  Outside, snow fell in fat flakes that muffled the city. Riding the Q from Queens toward Chelsea, Silas sat with his stomach in knots. He stared at the pages Trip might as well have written in ancient Kryptonian. In the past, he would’ve taken this kind of pressure as an excuse to bail… but not this time. Not this guy. So he bit the speeding bullet and texted Trip that he’d bring groceries over to make dinner.

  Splash’s happy hour was in full grind when he stepped inside and stomped his boots. The dancers took Speedo-showers on the bar, roid-rage bartenders poured bottom-shelf cocktails, and a scattering of lonely queeroes of all ages gossiped about nothing before they went home to watch RuPaul.

  Silas dropped the rolled script on the bar and zipped his backpack. He’d wrapped his damp gym clothes in a towel, and after this, he needed to haul ass to swing by Whole Foods before he went to Trip’s apartment. Maybe he could just bluff his way through with vague praise after he cooked. The script had become an angel with a flaming sword. None shall pass.

  At the side bar, Kurt chatted animatedly with one of the ripped bartenders who moonlighted in porn. He had slept with about a third of the staff, namely the ones who rented by the night and shot HGH.

  While he waited, Silas ordered a Heineken and claimed two high stools. Though psyched to s
ee Kurt, he didn’t have much time before he needed to split. He swigged the beer, then checked his watch as Kurt’s cool hands gripped his shoulders.

  “So Goolsby… for the season three affiliates party.” Kurt tilted his bearded head side to side to side like a child working up to a big lie. “I was thinking we could do matching suits. My treat. Undercover Brothers for Unbored Games. Maybe make out for the paps for bonus points.”

  “No.” Silas winced. He’d forgotten to say anything to Kurt.

  “Incest plays great with the chat shows.”

  “Sure, but I have a date already. I’m bringing Trip.”

  The grin on Kurt’s face shriveled.

  Silas steeled himself. “I sorta figured you’d figure.”

  Kurt shook his gray head. “We go to all these events together.”

  “Kurt, it’s a joke to you, and he’d enjoy it.”

  No response. Great. Fourth-grade playground here we come.

  Kurt scowled. “Does he even want to go?”

  “The whole thing happened by accident. We were in—”

  “Spare me.”

  “Kurt, the food sucks, the buyers are horrible. The stars will ignore us anyhow.” He shrugged. “I just would like to take him to a red carpet thing so he can see that side of what I do.”

  Maybe a swanky party would make up for ignoring the script and his silence for the past week. Or not.

  “I think you’re trying to wreck this. I think you know the two of you aren’t compatible and you want to move things along. You sure you aren’t getting bored?”

  “I like him. I more than like him. It’s been a month.”

  Kurt shrugged like a movie musical Frenchman. “He wears glasses.”

  “Just to read.” Silas looked up sharply. “How did you know that?”

  “Silas… you always-but-always get screwed up over the quiet nerdy ones.”

  “That’s not—that’s… true, actually. Isn’t it? Jesus. I do.” Silas widened his eyes in horrified recognition.

  “If they’re confident and social, ripped or rich, you could give a what-what, but another uptight dork with a pocket protector and a fat man candle? Bink: you spackle your tackle.”