by Hawke, Jessa
Ian considers himself in the mirror, twists this way and that, then takes off his shirt. After posing and brushing his long blonde hair back, he considers his roommate. And how ever since that fateful night in college, all he can think about is how to get Jack back into bed.
Ian smiles. Back into bed. It sounds like the beginning of a terrible porno movie. Wry grins aside, all he knows is that the one guy he has ever wanted to be with has been silly little green-eyed Jack. Little Jacky. Ian steps away from the mirror and steps instead in front of his easel. As he lifts up the paintbrush to free-form, his mind drifts back, tumbling past images of tight muscles and soft brown hair.
Jack and Ian had been assigned to the same dorm room their first semester of college and after a semester of living with each other, never considered having a different roommate. They partied hard, drank the same beers, and always respected each other’s privacy. But more than that, they never bothered to be anything other than completely themselves around each other. There was a reason they decided to live with each other even past college.
For all the proposed bro-ness that ultimately helped propel him into the life of a hedge fund manager, Jack turned out to be a one-woman man. And when the girl he had been going out with for two years ended up in bed with her literature professor Jack’s sophomore year of college, Jack was beside himself. Ian was already fast asleep when Jack stumbled into the room, tripping over himself and swearing like a madman as he clutched a nearly empty bottle of tequila. The minute he saw that bottle, Ian knew something was wrong. Tequila was a sorority girl’s drink.
“What’s the matter sweetie?” Ian lisped like a Valley Girl, rubbing his eyes as he sat up in bed. “Lost your big?” he cooed.
“None of your shit, okay, Ian? I’ll fucking kill you, I’ll hurt—“ and Jack had broken off, sobbing, collapsed on their communal rug, the tequila dribbling out next to his face where it lay, overturned, in his hand.
I’ll hurt indeed, thought Ian as he picked his friend from the floor. Laying to rest all stereotypes about wimpy artist types, Ian was a pro MMA fighter, a hobby he had pursued for most of his teenage and adult life; that was why Jack was always little Jacky to him, even though Jack was by no means a small guy. He lay Jack down on his wide queen-sized bed, and waited for him to blubber out the story.
This did not take long. In a fit of uncharacteristic tears, Jack raged on for an hour about how he had tried to give his girlfriend her birthday present and instead, found her panting aloud in a fake British accent to the professor inside her about how manly he was.
“It was disgusting,” Jack raged, sitting up and grabbing Ian by the collar. Ian gently, but firmly directed his hand away and winced at the image of Jack’s very blonde preppy girlfriend riding the old tweed he knew to be her lit professor.
“You don’t paint too pretty a picture,” he agreed, leaning back against his pillows and absent-mindedly stroking Jack’s hair. Jack hiccupped and began to cry again; this lasted for a good ten minutes until the tears subsided into a silence that almost fooled Ian into thinking it was all over. Then suddenly, Jack was looking up at him, peering so piercingly into Ian’s almond-colored eyes with his huge green ones that it almost floored him.
“Why doesn’t anyone love me?” he asked, and the intense vulnerability in his eyes almost swallowed Ian whole.
Oh Jacky, sweet Jacky. “I love you, man,” Ian said, planting a brotherly kiss on top of Jack’s hair, which smelled like beer and shampoo.
“You do?” Jack sat up and looked intently at Ian. Something tender was there, something so innocent about the question that it startled Ian out of his usual sarcasm. Jack seemed suddenly completely sober, even though it couldn’t possibly be true.
“Of course I do.”
Hesitantly at first, Jacky placed a hand on Ian’s chest, and Ian’s heart began to hammer with the unexpected move. Looking down, he clasped Jack’s hand in his and looked back into the big green eyes that threatened to drown him if he looked too long; but even then, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Jack leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips, and it changed Ian forever.
He had fooled around with boys before, and it was indiscriminate. But he had never felt before what he felt when Jacky touched him so innocently and sweetly. Leaning forward, Ian kissed him back, grasping his face in his hands and almost literally drinking him in. He felt the soft bristle of Jack’s boy’s haircut against his fingers, felt Jack’s body arch as he surrendered himself completely to Ian’s touch.
They melded into each other. They tumbled, legs and torsos over sheets until their bodies rubbed against one another in a frenzy older than sliced bread. They kissed each other’s necks and faces, hardly coming up for breath, traced each other’s nipples until they both moaned. “Jacky, Jacky,” Ian gasped, but Jacky silenced him with a kiss. Their fingers roamed over each other’s abdomens, and it was sloppy and hot, and unpracticed and incredible. And the best part of all was watching Jacky forget that stupid girl, watching his green eyes come alive instead.
Ian touched Jack’s cock, which was hard and velvet-soft simultaneously. He held Jacky in his hand until he felt him swell, felt him begin to lift his hips in rhythm with the motion that milked him, heard his ragged gasps fill the air around them like the sweetest symphony Ian had ever known. Sweet little Jacky, coming undone.
Ian could not tear his eyes away from that incredibly angled face, cheekbones so sharp he knew he would cut himself if he leaned too close. A single drop of moisture pearled at the head of Jacky’s penis, and his lips formed soundless, wild words that had no name or meaning, when suddenly, Ian felt Jacky’s hand pushing him away.
“No, no, no,” he heard Jack mutter, and felt his heart crumple.
He pushed himself off the bed and went to the couch, leaving a half-drunk and confused Jack behind in his dorm bed. He stared outside at the moonlight, teeming with the rage of rejection and a hard-on that matched it in intensity. He sat up, cradling his head in his hands. He heard the bedsprings creak as Jack stood up from the bed, felt his warm presence on his naked back as Jack joined him on the couch.
Lips touched the bare knobs of his spine, and Jack’s hands closed gently on his shoulders. “I meant,” he whispered into Ian’s neck quietly, “Not like this. Not after some girl.” Ian turned around to face him. Jacky’s eyes were wet and shining in the moonlight. He said nothing. When he woke up the next morning, still on the couch where he had lain, wrapped around Jacky’s wiry body, Jack was gone.
Four years later and Ian finds that the image he is free-painting on his canvas is Jacky’s body.
He groans and tosses his paintbrush down onto the ground; the wooden handle clatters against the floor. Did he love Jacky? Did it really matter? The fact was that “after” never really came, and he could still taste Jack on his lips at night if he squeezed his eyes tight. Could still feel the ribbed press of Jacky’s cock in his hand as he stroked himself, imagining Jacky doing the same in the adjoining room. And when he wanted to come, all he had to do was build up to the moment of the single pearl of moisture that signaled to him that Jacky wanted him, too.
Did he still want him?
Ian retrieves the brush from the floor. Either way, nothing matters. Their friendship is too important now. Or is it? Maybe all Ian really needs is a good, long fuck. His mind drifts to Amanda, the girl Jacky’s going out with tonight. From how Jacky described her, she sounds like a tasty morsel herself. The joke that he tossed out to Jacky before he left about all of them playing together has a certain grain of truth to it. If Amanda hasn’t morphed into the bell ringer of Notre Dame over the years, it could turn into an exciting romp indeed.
Ian puts brush to easel again and begins to paint.
* * *
Amanda licks her lips as she nervously smooths down the red bandage of her dress. She is standing outside the hibachi restaurant that she and Jacky agreed to meet at, and she finds that for the first time in a long time, she’s pretty nervo
us about the upcoming date. Twenty-nine isn’t the same as nineteen, certainly, but she thinks she looks pretty good as she checks out her reflection in the storefront of the restaurant. Red dress, red heels, red lips. Dressed to play.
She’s just tossing some of her honey-colored hair behind her shoulder when a voice behind her says, “Stop primping, you look fine.”
Her hand stills and her heart beats faster. She turns around to face the voice and finds herself delighted.
Jacky, oh Jacky. You sure did grow up nice.
Combed back brown hair, revealing a large, intelligent forehead, the faintest line of stubble around his jaw. Straight nose, form solid and wiry beneath his expertly tailored blue suit, every inch the hedge fund manager he is. Except for those huge green eyes, where the real Jack—no, Jacky—is. That part hasn’t changed. Even though now, he dwarfs her even in her heels, and he’s so compactly built that the first impulse Amanda has is to snake her arm around his waist, press close, and breath in the smell of him.
Jacky breaks out into an impish smile, startling her out of her horny little reverie. God, he looks good.
“Just fine? Is that any way to greet an old friend?” she tosses back at him roguishly.
He leans back and rinks her in from head to toe, in a way so appreciative that she blushes. She hasn’t done that in years, not even with this last boyfriend. But she shakes him out of her mind; tonight is a new night, and there is no room for past mistakes in it. She peeks at Jacky again from the corner of her eye. Maybe it’s a night for new ones.
Jack takes a small bow. “A thousand pardons, my lady. You happen to look incredibly hot.”
Amanda laughs aloud. “Well, it’s nice to see you haven’t changed at all, baby Jacky,” she says as they head towards the door of the restaurant.
“How so?” he wrinkles his nose in confusion as he holds the door open for her.
“You never had a filter to begin with.” And now there’s a cute sarcastic edge to it that lends Jack a sex appeal he had no way of having ten years ago. Cocky little bastard, but she’d be damned if she didn’t say she found it appealing as hell.
One hour and two steak courses later, they’re laughing like old pals. Jack’s grown up to be quite a guy, thinks Amanda as she knocks back some of her red wine, fingers twining around the stem of her glass. She notices that when she licks her lips, Jack’s eyes stray there. She toys with the idea that this night could take a most interesting turn.
“So, what happened after college?” she asks, reaching her hand halfway across the table casually, stretching her body just a little bit closer to his.
“Well, I moved out of my parent’s house, obviously. I’m living with my friend Ian now. He makes a living doing commissioned paintings for clients. Not gonna lie, I’m pretty jealous that he’s a ton more creative than I am. He’s a good guy, though. Except for when he gets all the ladies.” Jack’s tone is light, teasing.
Amanda smiles as she begins to lightly stroke the back of his hand with her index finger, a movement so light and unassuming that Jack almost doesn’t seem to notice its’ there. “Oh, I’m sure you do plenty fine for yourself. Are you seeing anyone now?”
It’s Jacky’s turn to blush, something that takes Amanda by surprise. “The last two relationships I had didn’t end too well. Seems like there’s something I’m missing so that women are happy with just being with me.”
Something in his voice tugs at Amanda’s heart strings. “I know what that’s like,” she says sympathetically.
After a moment of silence, Jack clears his throat. He glances up shyly at her. “Besides, I’ve had this thing recently; I think I’m developing a type.”
“What type is that?”
“Sexy older women who used to babysit me.”
The statement is so bald in its arrogance that Amanda almost doesn’t know quite how to take it. One glace at Jacky’s hopeful green eyes is enough to soothe any doubts she has, however. His body has moved incrementally towards hers and now he has softly intertwined his fingers with hers. He is asking a question without using a single question word. Amanda glances down at his hand, large and beautiful, holding hers almost reverentially.
“You’re in luck,” she tells him, squeezing his hand a little. “One of that type has just become available.”
* * *
Jacky’s heart is thumping so loudly against his ribs he’s pretty sure that not only can Amanda hear it, but he’s about to resemble the cartoon Pepe LePew, with his love organ beating visibly out of his chest.
Well. One of his love organs.
Is he hallucinating, or has Amanda just admitted she’s attracted to him? The sexy babysitter of his dreams, the girl who has been haunting every fantasy he’s ever had for the past ten years, has just given him an unspoken yes?
Someone somewhere is smiling down on him.
“I was telling Ian about you tonight,” he says to her.
“Oh?” one of her beautifully shaped eyebrows arches. “What did he say?”
“He said if you’re as hot as I made you out to be, all three of us should have some fun tonight.” Jack looks away for a moment, then looks her in the eye. “He’s a sleaze.”
He sees her mulling something over in her head, kneading a thought and watches it emerge. “Might be fun,” she says softly, and uncrosses her legs beneath the table.
Jacky swallows hard. “What?”
One of her long, lean legs encased in red strappy sandals brushes against his ankle. Mistake? She just smiles at him, her lips curving into a knowing smile.
“Your friend, is he good-looking?”
“Ian? Yeah, I guess.”
Jacky catches himself on the thought that he’s lying. He guesses nothing. He remembers, quite clearly, a night not too many years ago when he found himself lost in the caring expression of Ian’s eyes. He remembers vividly the feeling of the sloppy drunk kisses that inflamed his skin when he and Ian went tumbling over in Ian’s dorm bed, and the low curve of his shoulders as he, Jack, promised to revisit what they started. He recalls the building excitement as his best friend stroked his cock, pleasure he never imagined he could feel sharpened by the knowledge that this person cared about him.
Was it time to open this case up again?
Jacky frowns. He isn’t a guy’s guy, strictly speaking, but the thought of Ian’s almond eyes closed in pleasure is enough to almost make him groan aloud. So is the sensation of Amanda’s foot trailing a careful, delicate path up the inside of his leg, coming to rest momentarily on his thigh. As she moves her foot gently back and forth, Jack feels a swelling in his crotch that erases the years that have passed. He suddenly can’t stop staring at the swell of her breasts against that damn red dress and is as horny as a teenager.
“Let’s go,” he says, grabbing her foot and calling for the check.
* * *
It’s around eleven P.M. when Jacky’s car finally pulls into the drive. Ian puts away his brush and easel, not bothering to change out of his work clothes. If they’re not happy with his paint-spattered work jeans, so be it. He hears a key turn in the door; seconds later, Jacky is coming into the apartment with a woman who Ian would gently describe as sex on heels.
Ian nods approvingly to himself from his vantage point in the doorframe of the kitchen. Jacky has good taste. Ian’s eyes travel up the long legs, the generous hips, and the big, round breasts that are all but spilling out of the red crisscross neckline of her dress. Dark blond hair trails over her shoulders and the look in her eyes talks about experience Ian can only dream about.
“Ian, Amanda. Amanda, Ian.”
Amanda breaks out in a smile that lets Ian understand why Jacky liked her to begin with. She’s nice, this woman, with a little hint of naughty to her. Jacky’s text of “Coming home with Amanda” might have been cryptic, but a small taste of what’s in store is becoming rapidly clear to Ian as he shakes Amanda’s hand and sits her down on the couch.
“Jacky, come help me with the dri
nks,” he calls out to his friend.
Jacky comes into the kitchen, bouncy as a puppy. “What’s up, man?”
Ian is pouring more wine into glasses. “What’s going on here?”
A wide grin splits Jacky’s face nearly in two. “Ever wanted a threesome?”
The bottle bangs down on the marble tabletop. “Are you kidding me?”
The brow above Jacky’s green eyes furrows. He looks genuinely confused. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
A wave of emotions is coming over Ian; he doesn’t even know how to respond, at first. They never spoke about what happened between them, not for years, and suddenly now, Jack is willing to jump into bed with him and some girl Ian doesn’t even know? At the same time, Jack is saying that he wants to… with him? Rage and hope and years of pent-up desire are pounding over him, and he tries to sort them out. What to deal with first? What to ask? How do you even answer that question?
“Of course I have. I just never imagined having one with you,” Ian finally says, folding his arms across his bare chest and leaning his lower back against the countertop. He feels suddenly defensive, and his body language bespeaks it.
Jack takes a step back. “Oh,” he says slowly, as if ingesting that comment is difficult for him. “I just thought that after that night in college…”
Ian’s heart takes a giant leap. And he inadvertently takes a step away from the counter towards Jack, dear lovely Jacky who looks so hurt that he can hardly stand it. “You remember that?” Ian asks softly, taking one of his hands in his, loving the way his paint-spattered fingers look against Jacky’s smooth skin.
Jack is looking at the floor and skimming it with the toe of one shoe. He looks so young, so shy that Ian is filled with tenderness. “Of course I remember it. You were there for me at my lowest time. I didn’t think I’d ever feel safe again.” They’re standing almost chest to chest now, and Ian wonders if Jack can smell the paint on him, the green he used to paint his eyes.
