Curious

by Seth King

  “Why do you say it like that?” I ask, and he just laughs again.

  “Oh, young one – you have so much to learn. Beau Lindemann is hot as shit, and gay guys aren’t going to let something like that stand alone in a bar for too long before they pounce.”

  And with that, I turn on my heel. Nobody else is going to talk to him tonight, that’s for sure…

  “Thanks, G! See you at the wedding!”

  Beau Lindemann

  I stand at the bar gritting my teeth and clutching my beer so tightly, I’m afraid it’s going to shatter any minute. Where the fuck is Nate, anyway?

  Look. I’m not jealous. I swear to God. This is just a hookup thing, anyway, and he just went on a walk with the kid, for Gods’ sake. It doesn’t matter. I’m just using him for sex while we’re both here for a single-and-ready-to-mingle week in Florida, and that’s all it is. If he wants to go hook up with other guys, that’s on him. Whatever. I’m not envious at all. I’m just…

  I’m just…

  Okay, fine, I’m fucking jealous.

  As I stand there ordering beer after beer, I become absolutely furious. I shouldn’t be, of course, but I am. Because I want his hole to be mine. I want his dick to only be accessible to me. I want him to be…well, mine, like I said. I thought I had time to figure this out. I thought we had a few more days to explore all this, and for me to probably waffle back and forth and think about the fact that I know nothing in the world anymore because Nate is populating my dreams and my nightmares. But clearly we don’t have any more time. That mile-high model dude from CofC is clearly in love with Nate. I don’t think it’s just me being paranoid – when they started talking, Genaro looked at Nate like he was on fire and Nate was an extinguisher. And then they left. What the fuck am I going to do now? Maybe this thing is already over, and tasting my dick gave Nate a taste for other dicks…

  I spend half an hour in a blind rage, totally ignoring everyone around me. He shouldn’t get to go run around with model dudes while I sit here, alone, trying to figure out what we are, and why this means so much to me. It makes me feel insane and possessive and very, very sexual, too.

  When Nate finally returns, alone, I swallow a shot of whiskey and turn to him. I’m relieved Genaro is gone, but I still feel volcanic. “We’re going,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “What?”

  “We’re going. Back to the room. Now.”

  “Um. Okay…? Why?”

  “Because you’re about to get your ass played with.”

  His eyes grow. “What?”

  “I want to do things to you. More things than we already did. And now I’m going to. Because I’m mad. And you need punishment.”

  He grabs me by the hand and turns me around. “What are you doing, Beau? What is this?”

  “He’s definitely hot,” I say as I smirk back at the doorway. “He aged well, that’s for sure. Is he your new hookup buddy now?”

  “He’s…he’s…”

  “Oh, I get it – he’s your boyfriend. That’s why you’re silent. I get it. I’ll leave you alone now.” I rip my hand from him and turn away, then turn back just as quickly. “How was it, anyway? Did you suck him off?”

  “Stop, Beau. That’s so crude. Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Well you liked him. Admit it.”

  He sets his mouth. “I don’t like him. I won’t admit to lies. Stop being crazy. All we talked about was how I’ve fallen for someone, and about how he always knew it, too.”

  My anger fades a little. “He did? And you…what?”

  “He said we were always like this. And that he was pretty much just waiting for this to happen, basically.”

  I try not to smile. I’m a little flattered, but I still want to be pissed. “Well, fuck that. He doesn’t know you. Maybe he’s just obsessed. Maybe he’s your stalker.”

  He rolls his eyes and blows out some air. “Beau, you’re the one who was so intent on the pact including a clause about not falling in love. If we’re just each other’s sex toys, who the fuck cares about what I do? You can’t have it both ways.”

  Shit. He has a point. There’s no way I can claim to be mad if I’m the one who keeps reinforcing the fact that we’re simply sexual partners. But losing control of my emotions like this tonight…I hate it, I absolutely hate it. And it makes me angry at him for having this power over me.

  “Fine,” I say. “I just…it was just weird, I guess. To stand here alone, to not know what you were doing…”

  A smile creeps across his face. “Aw. Beau-Beau is jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous. This thing is just getting…weird.” Suddenly I notice that he’s staring down at my pants with large eyes. “Hey, what is it?”

  “It’s just…why is your dick hard right now?” he asks, horrified. “It’s kinda distracting, when we’re trying to fight…”

  I look down and groan at my penis. Oh, God. When I get in this mood I am completely unable to stop myself. I always know what’s coming, and yet I can never stop it. My temper is a boner trigger, and it’s that simple. Tonight I am about to do one of two things: make a fool of myself, or hook up with Nathan.

  “You’re right. Sorry. Being mad makes me kinda…horny.”

  “Is that right?” he asks, laughing at me. But then I notice his dick, too, bulging against his leg, semi-hard. And that’s when I realize what I need to do. I need to punish him in a different way. One that both satisfies my temper and satisfies my boner, too.

  “I need to go to sleep,” I say as I turn away from the bar and head for the door. “And don’t worry – I already covered our tabs. So come with me – now.”

  Ten minutes later we’re back in the room. This is getting more complicated by the day, by the second. We’re either at each other’s throats or on each other’s lips. It needs to either stop, or become perfect. There will be no in-between with this.

  But I can’t stop now, and on the walk back here I only got angrier. The truth of the matter is that he still left me alone – he abandoned me in a gay bar, when we’d showed up together. Even if we were just friends, that would still have been uncouth. Where was he raised, anyway? A swamp?

  “Don’t touch me,” I say when he walks up behind me. “I’m still your best friend. And I’m still bigger than you. Remember when we got drunk last Thanksgiving and got into a fight in the backyard and I kicked your ass?”

  “How could I forget? You chipped my front tooth.”

  “You chipped your own tooth.”

  I turn around, right at the end of the bed. His eyes roll up to the ceiling. “Yes, because that is my main hobby, causing expensive dental damage to myself. I love it. I live for it.”

  “Shut up. Don’t tempt me. I’ll do it again.”

  He doubles back. “Oh, so am I just some little bitch now for you to boss around, just because we hooked up a few times?”

  “We won’t do it again, I can tell you that much. Don’t worry.”

  He leans in and puts a hand on my shoulder. I scoff, then slap it off. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

  Anger shades its way into his eyes. He reaches out and touches my shoulder again.

  “Don’t touch me,” I repeat. “I’ll still fight you again.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I already tried. You didn’t want to. Remember? After the pool the other day? You said you were too tight.”

  This time, he slaps me in the shoulder. My eyes narrow. I reach over and push him, too.

  “Fuck you, bro. You’re annoying.”

  He growls, and before I can even register what is happening, he’s rushing forward and pushing me backwards. Emotions have been simmering under the surface for days, complicated ones, and I can feel them exploding every second. We both fall onto the bed, and I fight back by wrapping my arms around his shoulders and trying to immobilize him. But he’s too agile, too slippery, and he shimmies away and elbows me in the ribs.

  “Fuck you, asshole!” I cry as we begin writhing
and wrestling.

  “No, fuck you!”

  My shirt comes off in the madness, and I ignore the tingles I get from my skin being against his clothing as we fight. I push him up against the headboard and slap him in the face, and he lunges forward, tackles me, and gets me into a chokehold. We’re fighting now, full-on wrestling like brothers, and I kick and punch and elbow, just trying to keep him away from me. He’s so mad, so angry, so passionate…

  “What’s your fucking problem?” I ask as he kicks me into the bedside lamp, knocking it over. I retaliate by wrapping my legs around his neck.

  “You like me,” he says soon. “You like me and you can’t handle it and so you’re angry.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You know I’m right,” he says. “Fucker.”

  “Prove it.”

  We stop, mid-wrestle. “How would I do that?” he asks. I pause and stare into his eyes. My libido has run away from me. I’m pulsing with an energy I’ve never known before, but somehow I trust it, too. The anger has triggered a sheer sense of kinkiness I didn’t even know resided in me…

  “The condoms we got at the gas station are on the bedside table,” I growl. “Let’s duke it out. If you win this fight, you can fuck my ass. If I win, I fuck yours. If you really like me, fight me so hard, you win my ass.”

  He glances over, sets his mouth, then looks back at me. “Fuck you, this isn’t a game,” he says as he slides away, but then he fakes me out and charges me again and pins me against the headboard. I try to move, I try to do anything at all, but I’m trapped.

  Shit, that was good. Seems like I was too drunk to finish the fight I caused, and I just lost. I try to push back again, but I can’t – he’s in the perfect position against me. I should’ve remembered how strong he was when I challenged him…

  “Fuck,” I whisper. It’s already over.

  “So you really want this ass fucked?” he asks. “Looks like I won. Time to reap the spoils.”

  I hold his eyes with mine. “You won’t do it,” I say, testing him. I’m drunk and sloppy and I don’t know what I’m doing, but I trust it at the same time – it just feels right to follow my emotions right now.

  Keeping me pinned with one arm, he reaches over with the other and grabs the condoms and lube. I try to reach up, but he pushes me back.

  “Nope. You lost, bitch. You’re mine now.”

  I moan, overcome with passion.

  “And I’m not taking off my clothes, either. You’re about to feel my clothes against you as you get fucked.”

  I groan more quietly as he whips out his dick through his fly, slides on the condom, and yanks down my jeans a little. My legs are now around his shoulders, and we’re in the perfect position for this to happen. But do I want it?

  Our eyes meet again, and the jolt that shakes my body tells me the answer.

  “You shouldn’t have been so mean,” he says, positioning himself against my hole. “Now you’re about to pay the price.”

  He pushes his hips forward, and I scream as his tip opens me up. I squirm backward, and concern creases his face as he watches.

  “Ahhhh,” I moan. “I’m fine, that was just…tight.”

  “I know it is. But it’s the price you’ve gotta pay, right?”

  “Just shut up and fuck me. Please, Nathan. I earned it.”

  “Call me Mr. Sykes.”

  “Okay, Mr. Sykes, sir. Please fuck this ass.”

  He pushes forward again. It burns, but it also feels better than anything I can remember feeling in my life – I feel so full, so satiated, so satisfied. And the fact that it’s my best friend inside me, the person who knows me better than anyone…fuck…this is just so intimate. I can’t even imagine feeling closer to anyone, for any reason.

  He pulls me up by the waist, arching my back for me. How does he know how to do this so well? Did Genaro teach him? That fucker…

  Before I can think any more, he leans into me again – and I make a sound I never knew I could make, something between a scream and a sigh.

  “Yes, fuck me, fuck me harder!”

  “You got it,” he says, and I look down at his Oxford shirt and his khakis against my sweaty skin. He’s even still wearing his shoes as he fucks me, slowly at first, and as I start to lean into his thrusts, he goes harder and harder…

  “Oh fuck, Mr. Sykes…oh fuck, Nathan…yes, my man…”

  His name becomes a chant, a hymn, and he is my captor, giving me the punishment I asked for. I enjoy the dynamic so much, actually, a thought comes to me.

  “Slap me in the face while you fuck me,” I grunt soon, and I have no idea where it comes from – it just rises out of nowhere. I feel so aggressive, I just want to be fought again.

  “Fine, bitch,” he says, slapping me lightly in the cheek as his big dick fucks me. “How do you feel for trying to fight me? Do you feel bad? You should.”

  “Yes, I do,” I moan subserviently.

  “Say it louder,” he demands, slapping me harder. “Now, bitch.”

  “I’m sorry for fighting my man,” I whisper, and then I open my eyes – I can’t believe I just called him that. But he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Good,” he says, slapping me once more, then grabbing my ass cheeks from the back and plunging in harder than ever. Fuck, it’s too much – the passion, the anger, his balls slapping against my ass…

  I lean back, cry out in a choked tone, and then bust all over my bare chest. He pulls out of me, then gets closer and squirts all over my chin. As I look up and watch, his chest heaves and his tendons twitch as he unloads all over me. It feels warm and sexual on my face, and I love every minute of it.

  When he’s finally done, he just smiles down at me, panting.

  “What?”

  “That ended differently from our Thanksgiving wrestling match, didn’t it?” he asks, laughing, as he reaches over for a towel for me.

  “You could say that. I don’t remember getting dicked down after I drunkenly tackled you into some marshland and ruined your phone.”

  “Let’s make sure they all end like this in the future, yeah?” he asks.

  “How about no fights at all, actually?” I smile as I wipe off my face. “Just sex.”

  “I can get behind that,” he smiles, his face happy and thoughtful again. “Literally.”

  Nathan Sykes

  The next day’s breakfast is a little awkward and tense – and charged. In the electric sense, I mean. He is either glaring at me or making eyes at me, and he doesn’t even care anymore if anyone notices.

  “Would you like any more of that sausage?” the server asks at one point, and Beau leans over and interjects before I can say anything.

  “Oh, yes, he would love some – but make it sausage from another company,” Beau says. “He loves to jump around, where his sources of sausage are concerned.”

  But his attitude only lasts so long. That afternoon we’re all scheduled to explore downtown Key West before meeting up at the famous sunset spot, Mallory Square, for drinks and dancing and other tourist-y activities. At first Beau and I discuss going alone, and not really associating with the wedding crowd, since people have been whispering about how we’ve been a little absent lately. But after we agree to stay far away from each other for the day, he gets this cloudy look on his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just…I have to be with you,” he says. “I don’t feel like me without you.”

  I just stand there for a moment, dazed. But at the same time I completely understand. It is becoming a nuisance to be around anyone but him. My world is shrinking, and he is becoming the star of my mini-universe.

  I smile as casually as I can. “Well, then. It’s settled. Let’s go together!”

  Downtown Key West is just as I expected it, pretty much: rows and rows of Victorian mansions with an insane amount of bars and palm trees and tropical flowers in between. The public beach at the end of the highway is gorgeous, too. We start out down the main drag, wh
ich is full of grimy bars and grimier tourist shops with tacky shirts on display that say things like MOM’S OUT TO PLAY! and SOUTHERN GURL 4 LIFE.

  But on these streets, something keeps happening. When I look over at him, I don’t really see Beau, the guy I’d play video games with until three in the morning, laughing and drinking beer and talking about the previous weekend’s hookups. I don’t see Beau, the guy I’d get into fistfights with three or four times a year when we were young and dumb and full of testosterone. I see Beau, keeper of the light, the newest, shiniest thing in my life, the person I suddenly want to get to know on the deepest level imaginable, not so much the apple of my eye as the apple orchard in my eye.

  He is not just one piece of fruit anymore, he is the whole tree…

  I tell Beau I want to visit the house of Ernest Hemingway, my writing hero, and he shrugs and agrees. But whatever I was expecting Hemingway’s house to be, it isn’t what we find. Instead of some dark, masculine writing shack, it’s a light, airy mansion full of lace and plasterwork and chandeliers. What surprises me most is his life story – he was a drunk and a womanizer, and none of his four marriages seemed particularly happy. How could you try four times and still not make your match?

  “His portraits are so sad,” I say in what looks like his study. “He looks so…lost.”

  “What do you mean?” Beau asks.

  “It’s just so sad – all his life, with all this success, he never found happiness. He never found real love. He even slept with the light on, because he was scared of the dark.” I swallow. “I’ve read a lot of articles that said he was actually secretly gay, and that was why he tried to be so hyper-masculine, and never found happiness with any of his four wives.”

  “I don’t know about that…”

  I turn to a portrait of a sad-eyed young Hemingway and shake my head. “Hmmm. I’m not so sure…”

  After touring the pool and gardens and listening in on a tour guide’s stories about Hemingway’s hilariously melodramatic love life, we finally meet everyone at Mallory Square. The scene is…it’s breathtaking, really. The Square is a huge area on the water filled with dancers and performers and tents selling tacos and margaritas and all kinds of weird little things, and it all faces the most beautiful sunset I’ve seen in years. All sunsets look the same, and nobody needs to describe them – until now. Until this one. This is somehow different. It looks like a melting pile of rainbow-hued sherbet, splashed out in the sky for all to see.