by Daryl Banner
Published by Frozenfyre Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover & Interior Design : Daryl Banner
Cover Model : Nick Duffy
Photo of Nick Duffy by Simon Barnes
[ 1 ]
He throws me into the couch, then climbs atop me like a horse, straddling my chest and gripping my shirt tight.
It’s finally going to happen.
He tells me he wants to have his way with me, his eyes greedy and black, all his dark hair tousled from our bout of wrestling on the floor where he almost tore my sleeve. Not that it matters, as I suspect my clothes won’t be on for much longer at this rate.
I tell him I’ve always been his to do with as he pleases. He laughs in my face and, just when I think he’s going to kiss me, he reaches down, slips his hand into my jeans and grabs a mighty handful of my manhood. I gasp, my lips parting, and an evil look of triumph takes his face.
This is mine, he tells me in a word or two. This is mine until I’m done with you, Benny. You got that? Your cock belongs to me.
Between stolen breaths, I tell him to do whatever he wants with it. My roommate of two years and best buddy of seven, I tell Trent I’m so fucking horny for him I feel sick.
Or maybe it’s his vice grip on my balls that’s inspiring the nausea. You’re goddamned right, he whispers, then clasps my hair into his other hand and pulls my head back onto the couch. One hand gripping my junk, the other my hair, I’m in his complete control.
Just where I’ve always wanted to be for years. Ever since grade school when he started dating girls and I felt the stab of jealousy every time he brought one around. Ever since we enrolled at (and dropped out of) the same college and our parents called us “inseparable” and my sister rolled her eyes and said we had a bromance. Yeah, a bromance, a romance, every kind of mance, whatever kind, I want it all. Trent and his messy hair and his piercing eyes and his slender sculpted swimmer’s body and his skinny jeans and his lip ring and about a hundred other things I could list about him.
I’m not sure how it happens, but suddenly his lips are an inch from mine. He smells so clean. He calls me something—horny fuck, dipshit, my bitch, boy toy, I don’t quite hear him—and then he lets go of my hair and starts to unzip himself. Through the tattered skinny jeans, I see the outline of Trent’s cock. Yes, it’s big, I’ve seen it many times, though not in this context. And it is raging.
I can’t believe this is happening. All these years … why hasn’t this happened yet? Why didn’t I know that my own best friend …?
Fuck face, I hear him say, though I don’t see his mouth move. Those full lips and that lip ring and that look in his eyes … Kiss me, Trent. Stop being such a tease, please, and put those lips on me. Let me feel those lips, please. Don’t make me beg.
Then he sits up and I get a front row seat to his pants opening. He’s going commando today and his cock, throbbing and veiny, pops out and stares me in the face.
Little Trent: not so little at all.
He asks me if I want to suck it. Even with the courtesy of a question, I know I don’t really have a choice. Not that I want or need one. I want that cock so far down my throat I gag. Please, please, please. Please let me have that cock. I open my mouth, ready, my tongue ready to receive, my hungry eyes watching.
You want it? The evil grin that spreads across his face makes my cock pulse. It’s strange how he’s let go of my balls, yet I feel like he’s still got them squeezed with his long, mighty fingers. I want it so bad.
My mouth is open. Please, please, please.
All the times our hands would graze when we both reached into the chip bag. All the video games we’d play—how even the boyish competitiveness between us would somehow seem so sexual. All the times we’d borrow each other’s clothes, even though I’m bulkier and his clothes fit hilariously tight on me.
Trent brings his hands up behind his head, all cocky-like, and just with his hips he thrusts himself at my mouth.
His cock slides in like a friend who’s come home. My tongue, the welcome mat. I feel his weight on my chest as his thighs squeeze, pushing his cock in, deeper and deeper.
I moan, feeling his cock in my mouth, twisting my head and sucking. I hear him laugh, as if my horniness amuses him. There is something about the taste of his cock that intrigues me—something musky, masculine, sweaty. The scent and the taste reel me in, making my heart drum with excitement. I’m consumed by him. I’m engulfed in everything Trent, from his smell to his taste to his weight on my body.
“How’s that taste, dumb fuck?”
I open my eyes.
“Tasty?” asks Trent again, and he’s not straddling me. He was never straddling me. I was dreaming. His pants are zipped up and there’s no cock in mouth.
I try to speak, find my mouth is stuffed. I reach up and pull out a sock—Trent’s sock.
“What the fuck?” I say, half a laugh and half a repulsed choke bleating out of me.
“You were moaning and shit, I felt left out,” answers Trent, amused. “What the fuck did you dream you had in your mouth? My cock?” He laughs, then adds: “Need a trip to the spank bank, Benny?”
I look down my body and realize I’m tenting in my sweat pants. My face flushes red, but I fight the humiliation and say back, “Yeah, alright, wanna tell me how long you were lookin’ down at my boner like that, fag?”
He snorts. “I’m out. Catch you after work, bitch.” Then he struts to the door.
I watch him as he leaves, how his ass and his tiny waist move in those skinny jeans and how his broad shoulders give him that athletic triangular shape. I’m breathing heavily as though my dream were real, watching hungrily as Trent shuts the door behind him.
But my dream will never be real. He doesn’t know I’m into him. I’m just his best friend who’s only dated two girls in my life. Trent will always be the straight roomie I can never have. I will always be the desperately lonely dude everyone thinks is straight, the man’s man, the dude with the bulky football build who’s never played a day of football in his life. It’s only in my longing mind that these desires are fulfilled. If only it weren’t for the agony of waking up …
His sock still in my grasp, I cram it back in my mouth and slip a hand down my sweat pants. My eyes rocking back, I start jerking off and struggling frenziedly to return to my place on the couch, to the engorged cock on my tongue, to the weight of Trent atop me with his smart fingers and evil plans.
[ 2 ]
I told him it was a bad idea, but in typical Trent fashion, he did it anyway.
“You’ll like her,” he insists, slapping my tummy as he gets off the couch to grab another beer. “Wear somethin’ snazzy, bro.”
I scoff, annoyed, and return my attention to the game I’m playing, tapping buttons on the controller mindlessly. When Trent returns and passes in front of me, I’m distracted by his jeans hanging low, teasing me with more than just the waistband of his underwear, then find when my gaze returns to the TV that I’m being attacked and am nearing zero health. That’s pretty much my life in a nutshell: always distracted by boys that I’m caught off-guard and drained to near-death by zombies.
“Tonight at seven,” Trent tells me as he cracks open his can, “at the Kegs & Dregs.”
“Ugh, I hate Kegs.”
“She’s way the fuck into you,” he goes on, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. His fingers graze my neck. “Showed her t
hat pic of you with the green background, told her you were the no-sex-‘til-marriage type. That made her wet.”
“Dude, that pic of me’s almost five years old, from prom.”
“You look the same. Go take a shower, get ready. I’m taking you.”
My character dies and I grunt, tossing the controller into his lap, giving up. “Your turn. I’ll take myself.”
He takes it, starting the level over. “Gross, controller’s sweaty. You can’t take yourself, bro. I need the car tonight, so I’m dropping you early. Just call when you need to be picked up, or decide to go home with her, or fuck her in the unisex, whatever. You need to get laid, you’re way too uptight.”
I roll my eyes, cross my arms and sink into the couch, willing myself to disappear. His shoulder pushes into mine as he relaxes into the couch himself. Suddenly, my sourness is replaced by comfort, just with the subtle presence of his body against mine. It doesn’t take much to make me happy, it really doesn’t. Trent could make me so happy, if he only …
“When you bone her,” says Trent, “make sure you eat her out real good first, get her all nice and wet. And condom-up, dude, you don’t want to splooge in her and have a little Benny running around our pad.”
Way to spoil my passion, roomie. “Noted. What do you need the car for anyway?”
Trent smirks, sucking in his lips and squinting at the screen. I know that look.
“You’re kidding me,” I say flat out, giving him a shove from my shoulder. “I thought—”
“Her parents are gone for the weekend, so I gotta get as much ass as I can, bro.” He sighs, likely because he feels my disapproving glare. “You saw the same pics of her house as I did, didn’t you? She’s fuckin’ loaded.”
“So’s her daddy’s shotgun,” I spit back. “A girl you gotta tiptoe around parents to see is not a girl you can make it with. Especially when you got five years on her.”
“Six.” Trent swallows hard, mashes his fingers into the controller and narrows his eyes to practically slits.
I sigh, feeling equally annoyed with and sorry for my dummy roommate I’m in love with—or whatever. I don’t even want to argue with him whether the girl he’s trying to see is even legal. I have my own girl issues to worry about. What do I wear tonight? What outfit says: “Hello. I’m only going out with you because my roommate thinks I need to get laid, but I’m actually zero percent interested, to no fault of yours, as I’m, unbeknownst to roommate, a big horny virgin homo.”
My roommate throws the controller across the room and hollers out in frustration. I stare at the “GAME OVER” on the screen with little zombie bites in it. Game’s always over when it comes to me and craving anything with a dude. It’s hopeless. It’ll never happen. Maybe I should meet a girl I like enough and just do the husband-and-wife thing, have a few kids, coach the local soccer team. Pump enough self-denial into the marriage bed and just about anything can happen when the lights are out.
“I ain’t ever gonna be happy,” Trent groans, glaring at the screen.
Took the words outta my mouth.
[ 3 ]
She orders a tea with no lemon because lemons make her queasy. She decides she only wants a salad because she’s got this goal of losing fifteen pounds by the fifteenth. Her name is Sandy and she’s wearing something and her hair is some kind of color and blah, blah, blah.
“Are you alright?”
I lift my eyebrows. “Sorry?”
She nibbles at a forkful of greens with the daintiness of some princess, overlooking the massive burger and fries I ordered for myself with judgment. “You seem a bit preoccupied. I hope I’m not boring you.”
“Not at all. Sorry, I didn’t know I—”
“This was sprung on me too,” she admits with a shrug, chewing. “If you’d rather just call it a night and, I don’t know, meet up another time maybe, I’m just fine and dandy with that.”
Her Texan accent is thick and borderline annoying, if it weren’t for the fact that she’s so damn nice. Actually, her niceness is annoying too. I don’t want to be here.
“Nah, it’s alright,” I say instead after struggling to swallow a stale fry. I hate Kegs & Dregs. I hate everything. “We’re here, so …”
“Trent told me you work in sales?”
I roll my eyes. “What he means by that is, I’m a retail clerk. Lame, I know, but it’s just a day job until I get the chance to do what I really want.”
“And that’s …?”
“Take over my pop’s business,” I answer after swallowing a bite of dried-out burger. I really, really hate Kegs. “He’s got a store off Stoneridge and Fourth. I always wanted to own my own store, call the shots.”
“You like being in charge?”
“Usually.” I throw back my Coke. Even that’s flat. I fucking hate Kegs.
I hear her moan. When I look up, I find her face wrinkled in disgust, staring across the room. I turn, following her line of sight.
The likely capturer of her attention is the local gay. Poor fool is all on his own on the dance floor, wagging his ass and flinging his arms around like four pinwheels. He is such a faggy McFaggerson. Dressed in a skin-tight yellow shirt with some angel-looking thing on the front and pants that he probably pulled from a woman’s rack at Macy’s, he dances all alone to the pop country music that’s pumping the bar tonight. He’s basically “the gay guy in town”. If I talked to him, I’m one hundred percent sure I’d get at least a blowjob. I could have my gay cherry popped, just like that.
So why does he bother me so much?
Just in this moment, he turns around, his eyes connecting with mine. We went to school together, even though we never talked, but when he looks at me, he seems almost startled. Then a twisty sort of smile happens on his face and, as if inspired by my watching him, he dances with even more vigor than before. It’s like I’m paying witness to some sort of gay mating ritual. This weird peacock is trying to wake little Benny between my thighs. He’s not yet successful.
“I don’t know why he comes here,” my date Sandy says after sipping her no-lemon water. “No one wants him around.”
Despite finding the flamer annoying as a fly in my dinner and never having had a thing to do with him in my life, I’m struck with a sudden desire to defend the little shit. “He’s out there, but he ain’t hurtin’ no one.”
“He’s hurtin’ my eyes.” She rolls said eyes, then fixes them on me, smiling. “Trent said you were old-fashioned. I love an old-fashioned boy. You seem awful sweet.”
“Thanks.” I sneak another glance at the Dancing Queen. When he spins around, I see his little tight ass in those bright pants that might as well be painted on him with blue and white inks. His skinny jeans rival Trent’s. To be fair, he doesn’t have that bad an ass. I’d grab a handful of it if he wasn’t shaking the thing so desperately on that dance floor.
My attention is drawn back to my date when I feel her foot graze my leg. I turn and lift a brow, as if to ask the precise question of: what the fuck? She smiles coyly, as if she’s up to nothing, then says, “If you’re not into something serious, we can just … have a little fun back at my place, Mr. old-fashioned.” She gives a wink, then sucks down some water from the straw, as if to suggest precisely what sort of “fun” she has in mind.
I’m not gonna lie—I’m tempted. After my recent frequently-recurring dreams involving Trent almost fucking me, I’m charged up as a lightning bolt and ready to be set off by just about anything.
I look back and find the homo’s mercifully removed his party-of-one off the dance floor, having taken a seat at the bar. The stool to either side of him once occupied a dude; now they’re both empty. He certainly knows how to clear a bar. That’s a skill I might like to utilize sometimes on a busy Saturday night.
“What the fuck?”
I return my gaze to Sandy, the source of the outburst. “Huh?”
“You gonna just ignore me all night? A sweet ol’ gal like me?” She purses her lips, seeming to suck h
er tongue in annoyance.
The burger stares me in the face like a half-opened mouth drooling ketchup and gooey diced onions. I’ve decidedly lost my appetite. “I gotta take a piss.”
Ignoring her scandalized face, I abandon the table and slump to the bathroom. When the door shuts behind me, all the clatter and twang of country music and drunken banter goes away. All I’m left with is a wet countertop, two dirty urinals, a stall I couldn’t be dared to touch, and a big smudgy mirror through which I see the semi-handsome face of a guy with everything going for him—a guy who will, despite his appeal, be heading home alone tonight. Again.
The door opens behind me and I can’t be bothered to turn around, opting to just stare at my own baby blues in the mirror. I think about Trent, wondering what he’s doing right now. Is he scaling his girlfriend’s wall where some ivy grows? Is he bumping her on her parent’s bed? Is he helping her with her math homework?
“You aren’t gettin’ any prettier.”
I turn to look at the bathroom’s newest occupant. It’s the guy from the dance floor. Upon closer inspection, the angel on his shirt is actually a winged skeleton creature with a sword in either hand. No idea what the fuck it is, but it doesn’t look like it takes it up the ass.
“Huh?” I finally respond, still staring at his shirt, studying it.
“Looking at your face in the mirror, you aren’t getting any prettier,” he says, coming up to my side to get a look at his own. He presses a few fingers into his cheek, lifting the skin, then letting go and watching it drop. “And neither the fuck am I.”
His name’s Charlie. We went to school together too, same school Trent and I and every other loser in this town went to, except back then Charlie wasn’t so … colorful. He was just another face in the school band.
He twists his eyes, looking at me from the side of his face. “You gonna hide in here from your date all night? Pretty sure she’d go for you. You’re the prettiest guy I see around.”
