by Amy Lane
Kane had been to enough parties to recognize that crash, the melancholy of having something that made you feel like Superman disappear like bubbles in the bloodstream, and he obliged.
Dex’s sweat had cooled, so he was a little clammy, and he just relaxed in the circle of Kane’s arms and sighed. “How much of this am I going to remember tomorrow?” he asked without a lot of interest.
“I have no idea,” Kane said honestly. “I never did coke. That other shit just sort of left the world all blurry. I didn’t like it. I’m not smart enough to deal with the world like it is, you know?”
Dex laughed softly. “You’re smarter than you think,” he said, and Kane shook his head.
“Yeah, whatever. Now I’m gonna turn the water on for you and get you in there and go make you a sandwich.”
“I told you I’m not hungry.” Dex took a step away anyway, and Kane held onto his elbow with one hand while he turned on the water with the other. He swore then, because he was wearing a hooded sweatshirt with his favorite sports team’s logo, and he didn’t want to get it wet. He let go of Dex long enough to strip it off and hang it up on the peg on the bathroom door and made another mental note. God, Dex’s bathroom had more class than Kane’s whole crappy house.
“I told you I don’t give a shit if you’re not,” Kane said, down to his jeans, kicks, and one of those silky T-shirts that clung to his biceps and the heavy muscles of his chest. He turned to Dex and took his hand and elbow and put him under the spray, which was warm now, and Dex sighed.
“God, if I could just wash this night away,” he said and hung his head beneath the spray.
Kane shrugged. “It could be worse,” he said, meaning it. “You broke up with Scott. How bad could it be?”
Dex let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob, and Kane handed him the soap and the bath sponge for something to do, then closed the curtain and went to get him a towel. He found sleep shorts and a T-shirt while he was rooting around in Dex’s bedroom, and left that on the top of the toilet seat too. Then he went to get Dex some tinned soup and a sandwich while Dex got out of the tub. He sat Dex up at the little island in the middle of the kitchen and made him eat the food, then swallow some Ibuprofen for the inevitable withdrawal headache. By then, the microwave clock (one of the few things that Dex had that Kane also had) said it was almost one in the morning.
“Okay,” he said when Dex whined about not wanting one more bite of soup. “You go to bed and I’ll crash on the couch, and then we can wake up and go work out tomorrow, okay? Is that good? You going to be okay?”
Dex shook his head. “I’ve been working out in the afternoon to check on Chase.” He shuddered then. “Or whoever’s running his body when he seems to have checked out of his head.”
“He been showing for that?”
Dex shrugged. “Showed this afternoon—looked surprised to see me. Mumbled something about going out with Mercy tomorrow night and how he’d been sick.” Dex sighed. “He’s….”
Kane shook his head. “He scared me so bad,” he confessed, and Dex nodded.
Kane’s hand was resting on top of the tile island, and suddenly Dex’s hand covered it. His skin was warm now, from the bath, from the soup, and when Kane met his eyes, he didn’t look stoned anymore, just tired and terribly, terribly sad.
“He scared us all—is still scaring us,” Dex told him. “And it’s just all such a mess in my head. Chase, Scott, me, Dex….”
Kane startled. “You are Dex!” he protested, and Dex’s smile was half bitterness, half bittersweet.
“I’m David,” he said quietly. “Did you know that?”
Kane shook his head. “Yeah, you told me. You just always seemed like a Dex to me. But you always knew who I was. I sorta like Kane better.”
Suddenly Dex’s easy smile, the reason Kane stopped to get coffee just so he could see it, showed up. “There’s no difference between Kane and Carlos,” he said, and he sounded happy about that, so Kane grinned back.
“I’m not that complicated,” he confessed, and Dex laughed.
“No. But that’s not always bad.” He closed his eyes then, and when he opened them, he was looking at Kane with such a humble need. “If I asked you nice and promised not to molest your body, would you sleep next to me?” he said after a moment. “It’s, well, I know it’s stupid, I just….”
Kane shrugged. “I ain’t never woken up next to someone,” he said, nodding his head. “That’ll be fun!”
And then he hopped down and put the dishes in the sink and followed Dex into his bedroom. He stripped to his boxers in the dark while Dex turned off all the lights in the house and locked the door. When Dex got into bed, Kane scrambled into the other side.
He spooned up along Dex’s back, no question, because Dex was the one who needed comfort, and Dex relaxed against him, that lithe body limp and helpless. Kane wrapped his arms around Dex’s shoulders and nuzzled Dex’s neck and purred a little.
“You know, Dexter, this ain’t a bad way to sleep.”
Dex chuckled. “Remind me to do it again sometime,” he said through a yawn, and that was the last thing they said.
The World of Crashes
Dex
DEX woke up alone, but the other side of his bed was warm, and there was noise coming from the kitchen. Loud noises. Profane ones, with crashing and swearing—much of it in Spanish. Dex closed his eyes and covered his head and groaned.
“Ka-ane?” he moaned and was relieved when the noises stopped.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll give you a blowjob if you could quiet that down.”
There was a meditative silence.
“You’d give me a blowjob if I asked anyway. You’re good like that. How about if I just bring you some painkillers and finish cooking while you’re in the shower.”
Dex didn’t mention that he’d just taken a shower, because the thought of warm water sluicing down the back of his neck sounded like heaven. He grabbed a spare pair of boxers to put on when he was done, and hopped in the shower, wondering what the hell Kane was going to do with his kitchen but not really caring.
He was grateful. God, he was grateful. His breakup with Allison had been ugly. She was a sweet girl, thin and blonde, with a face more delicate than his. He was just vain enough to think that was a bonus—he knew he looked fragile and would rather not. She had looked on his involvement in the porn business like any other business—selling shoes, selling suits, whatever—and that had been nice. She’d been serious—so extremely serious. When he’d finally come clean about his involvement with one of the guys from Johnnies, she’d pursed her lips and thought for a moment.
“You know, Dexter”—in a year he hadn’t told her his real name; that should have clued him in that it wasn’t going to work—“I think you should rethink why you’re in this business. It’s gay-for-pay, not get-paid-for-your-secret-fantasies.”
He remembered a slow, burning anger, which hadn’t been fair since he was the one who cheated. “They’re obviously not so secret, Allison, if I’m seeing a guy outside the office,” he’d muttered. He’d seen firsthand how Chase had been ripped up inside about this, how betraying the girl who thought he’d hung the moon had fucked with his insides, even when it had been clear that the only place Chase felt comfortable in his own skin was in Tommy’s reach.
Dex hadn’t felt any of those pangs of conscience with Allison, and that bothered the hell out of him. In the end it had come down to the way he saw himself. He’d told Allison he was going out with the guys because he was going over to Scott’s. Scott’s girlfriend came over unexpectedly while they’d been sitting on the couch, watching a movie, and Dex had faked his way through a friendly good night when he’d wanted to cry like a child.
He wasn’t sure why that had done it. He’d gone back to his apartment to a message from Allison, asking if he wanted her to come over that night, and he’d almost called her and said yes. And that’s when it had hit him. He was doing to her what Scott was doing
to him, and he refused to be that person anymore.
It was one of the reasons he didn’t hate Chase when Chase broke up with Tommy. Chase didn’t want to be that person either.
So breaking up with Allison had been rough, but the worst part of it was the moment he’d swallowed his anger down and conceded that she was right. He’d known. He might not have articulated it to himself, but he knew. The first seven years in front of the camera, he’d told himself a number of things. That nerve endings were nerve endings and it didn’t matter who stimulated them had been the first and foremost, and that one had worked for a while. He’d practiced on his body with toys and had discovered that yes, having his prostate stimulated and his rectum stretched felt pretty good without a man attached to the thing doing it. He’d told himself that when you liked and respected a person, that made it easy to enjoy being touched by them, and yes, there was no difference between hugging a girl versus hugging a guy when you were just happy to see that person. A hug, any hug, offered comfort and warmth, and so for a while, he had been able to live with that. But the past two years he’d been doing mostly filming and editing. Once he was no longer fucking guys on camera, he finally recognized that it was the guys who had been turning him on.
He’d hated that admission. Hated it. He still did. The morning after Allison left, he looked himself in the mirror and said, “Dex, you’re gay.”
He’d seen Dex’s eyes looking back at him. “If I’m gay, Davy, so are you!”
He’d wanted so badly to think that those moments with his first male lover had been special, had been perfect, not because of the word “gay” but because of David and Dex. Sometimes when he was with Allison, he closed his eyes and saw Dex, the real Dex, in his mind, the wicked bright brown eyes, the dimples, that one look.
Oh God, the look he’d given David as they’d lain there, side by side, naked under the sky. David had been his. He’d been claimed, made safe, taken in a way he hadn’t been since. Sometimes when he was with Allison, he’d remember a scene with someone to make it hotter. He never wanted to admit why it was that being with a friend or a workmate and fucking him stupid, flesh sliding through flesh, nerve endings afire with pressure and pleasure, had been like a sensual supernova compared to the small hearth fires inspired by his girlfriends, from Allison to Kelly and even, when he tried to think about it, Sandra.
God—even when thinking about Sandra, he was forced to admit that part of the reason being with her had felt so good was that the whole time he’d been with her, he’d been thinking about telling the details to Dex.
So sometimes when he was with Allison, he thought about Scott or a guy from Johnnies to get hard. Sometimes when he was with Scott or one of the guys from Johnnies, he thought about Dex.
And last night, he’d kicked Scott out of his life for good, and it had been as ugly as Allison breaking all his dishes against the back wall of the kitchen before she’d stormed out. When he’d woken up from that breakup, he’d been alone without even a job to do in the morning. This time, when he’d woken up, there’d been—
Oh shit.
Kane’s ruckus in the kitchen may have woken Dex up that morning, but it wasn’t the first time that Kane had done something to wake him up.
Dex was in the shower when this thought hit. He ran his hands over his body, down the shower-sluicing water in the crease of his ass, where he fingered himself, looking for telltale signs of lube, of soreness, of—
Hard, bare flesh sliding between his ass-cheeks but not inside his ass. It was dreamy and slow and sleepy, and Dex’s response was instant. Immediate. Necessary. Kane’s hands wandered around his flat stomach, skating on his six-pack, over his sensitive ribs. Dex had wanted a harder touch, but he couldn’t form a thought, foment a touch, even articulate that need.
The man behind him grunted, and wide, incredibly massy shoulders covered Dex’s rangier body. A hand started to stroke the cut of Dex’s planed stomach. Dex sighed, struggling to wake up, struggling to remember who he was with, why it felt so warm, so safe, and struggling to remember why it was wrong to feel this way. But it wasn’t wrong, it was lovely, even through the struggle, and suddenly there was a hard hand on his neck and a laconic, faintly accented voice said, “Take it easy, sweetheart. I gotcha.”
Dex held perfectly still, needing so badly to be touched with purpose that he whimpered for it.
“Don’t worry, baby. Here.” A hard hand wrapped around his cock and stroked expertly. It didn’t take long before his body tingled, spasmed, and he came gently, spurting over the milking hand that continued to stroke as he came down. Behind him, still riding the cleft of his ass, there was thrusting, building, and a final grunt. There was wetness on his backside, but it was warm and not unpleasant, and as he came down from his own orgasm, it felt right. He knew what sex felt like, and that wetness was what it should be, if he’d done his job.
His breath was still shaky, and the hand at his cock moved, wiped itself off on the sheets above him, and then Dex was hauled up into the body behind him while that hand pressed against his middle.
“You better now?”
“Yeah,” Dex mumbled. “Thanks.”
“No worries, brother. Anything for a friend.”
Bemused, he got out of the shower and dried off. As he was toweling off his hair, he wiped the steam from the mirror and looked into it, surprised like he often was to see his narrow, pretty face with his pouty lower lip and blue eyes looking back at him.
“Dex, you’re a porn model, for God’s sake,” he told his image.
His image shrugged. “Yeah, but this wasn’t like that.”
He didn’t have an answer for that, and after he wandered to his room and got a T-shirt to go with the boxers, then walked back into the kitchen, he still didn’t have an answer.
Kane was in the kitchen. He’d cooked breakfast.
Dex blinked at the mess of scrambled eggs, cheese, peppers, and onions, and then at Kane, who was busy wiping the counter. He was wearing a pair of Dex’s boxers, but his thighs were thicker with muscle, so the fabric stretched tight across Kane’s ass as he moved around the kitchen.
Kane had a bubble butt.
It wasn’t fat really as much as it was just… softness.
Most of the Johnnies models worked out until everything was diamond cut. From their toes to their necks, there wasn’t a muscle that wasn’t trimmed, defined, polished, and ripped—being naked on camera made you a stickler for such things. Kane was no exception, but his build was wider. Wide shoulders, heavy pecs, heavy thighs. And an ass that refused to chisel to diamonds.
Dex had been his first top, and Dex remembered that. It was one of two scenes they’d shot together, actually, and the sex had been secondary to the way Kane’s soft ass had felt as Dex slammed into it. Sometimes a guy could get bruises when he was rabbit fucking diamond-cut muscle or bony leanness, but that wasn’t going to happen with Kane. With Kane, it was… well, comfortable. Sweet. Fun.
And last night, those heavy shoulders had wrapped around Dex’s and Kane had said, Don’t worry, sweetheart. I gotcha.
Dex felt a little lump in his throat.
“Kane, gotta tell ya, breakfast looks awesome.”
Kane turned around and smiled, his dimples popping at his cheeks and his head dipping a little to indicate that he was embarrassed at the praise. “You don’t got no hot sauce,” he said apologetically, “which is a real fucking crime. But here’s some ketchup. This shit’s always better with something red on it.”
Dex had to smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Ketchup would rock.” Kane handed it to him and then shoveled the rest of the eggs in the pan—and there were a lot—onto his own plate. Dex offered him the ketchup, and he doused his eggs with about half the bottle.
“Holy God!” Dex said, his eyes wide open in admiration. “That’s a lot of ketchup!” He took a bite of his eggs experimentally and then took a bigger bite. “’Kay, Kane?”
“Mmmph?” Kane looked up from his own bulging
mouthful and swallowed through his scrambled eggs.
“The real fuckin’ crime is covering this shit with ketchup. This is really good.”
Kane ducked his head and smiled again. “Thanks. It was easy. You actually had shit in the refrigerator that cooks. I’ve got, like….” His face dropped for a second like he’d just remembered something sad. “I had, like, orange juice in my fridge, and frozen food. Like corn dogs.”
Dex took another bite and realized how hungry he’d been. “Well you should cook here more often,” he said when he’d swallowed. “Is there any milk in there?”
Kane swiveled and got him some from the fridge behind his chair, and turned back around to pour it. He was nibbling his lower lip with his teeth, an expression that made him look particularly vulnerable, especially because the distortion in his mouth made it easier to see the scarring from his cleft palate. Dex had noticed the place where his upper lip and palate had been carefully stitched together pretty much at their first meeting, but since he was still one of the most beautiful models Dex had ever seen, Dex hadn’t wanted to pry about the scarring.
Dex realized he was staring. Kane’s mouth was full and wide and mobile, and even though Dex had felt it on his flesh during the full range of sexual gymnastics that a scene required, that’s not what he was thinking as he looked at it.
He was thinking of a simple kiss.
Dex startled out of his own reverie. “What?” he asked abruptly. “What are you thinking?”
Kane shrugged and put the milk away. “It’s nothing. You got a real nice place here. I was going to ask you for something, but I don’t want to….” Kane trailed off and took a halfhearted bite of his eggs. “It was a stupid idea,” he said at last, his discomfort so acute Dex wanted to ease his mind.
“Well, tell me,” he said and took another mouthful of eggs. “If it’s stupid, I’ll tell you.”
Kane shrugged and leaned over the counter, supporting his weight with his elbows and sticking his luscious little bubble butt out behind him.
