by Eli Easton
Ten minutes later, Jake was on the back of my Yamaha, arms locked around my waist. At least a dozen people stood around filming us on their phones, and a half dozen more looked up at us from the bottom of the cliff. A couple of girls were crying. The crowd grew strangely somber.
The atmosphere was tense with dread, the air eerily quiet as we sat in position on the bike, well back from the jump. Two crows started up and flew across my view. Boston was visible but not audible, and the November air was still and cold as the grave.
It was like a bad omen or something. If I’d been Catholic, I would have crossed my chest. Jake and I had practiced a similar jump at the motocross park. I knew we could make it, technically. But being over a ravine caused a fear to ignite in my belly that I hadn’t anticipated.
It wasn’t myself I was scared for, I realized, but Jake. He’d insisted on doing this with me, said he was tired of me getting all the glory. And it was way more dramatic with two on the bike. But now that I was there at the starting line with his warm weight pressed behind me, I had a stark awareness of how alive he was. How fragile.
I turned my head over my shoulder to look at him, hoped he could hear me despite his helmet. “You sure?” I whispered. “Not too late to back out.”
His brown eyes looked a little frightened, but he shook his head and squeezed me tighter. “If you go, I go.” His voice was a tether that snaked around me and held.
And I felt relief. I nodded, turned back around, patted his hand in warning, and started the bike. The sound of the motor was a loud roar in the thin air. I mentally went through a checklist, but time felt slippery. It might have been five seconds or five minutes before I released the clutch and we peeled out across the top of the cliff. Closer. Closer. Jake about cut me in half he held me so tight, and yet it wasn’t tight enough. Someone screamed, maybe it was me, and then we were flying.
There was only air, the wind whipping me, sheer terror-joy, and a breathless moment of defying gravity before it pulled us down.
We landed, jolting so hard both Jake and I would have bruises for a week where his chin guard hit me between my shoulders. I managed to keep the bike upright, and the moment we stopped, Jake hopped off. I slammed down the kickstand and got off too, whooping and jumping around, overflowing with an incredible high. Jake grabbed me and we hugged, survivors, daredevils.
I never wanted him to let go.
June 2017
Jake
For the next few weeks, Andy and I had a ton of sex. We were getting off three times a day. After all, we had little else to do, it was fun, it didn’t require hands, and helped us forget the pain and discomfort of our burns for a short while. Andy was almost always the instigator.
“I had no idea you were such a horndog,” I told him after the third day. We were lying in bed after round three, head to foot and staring at the ceiling. “Maybe you should get that checked.”
“I’m a red-blooded male, what can I say?”
“Purple-blooded maybe. Or you’re being dosed. What’s the opposite of that saltpeter shit they give inmates in prison? Viagra, let’s just go with that. Maybe the township here puts it in the water.”
“Apparently. Because you’ve been keeping up with me just fine, Jakey,” Andy pointed out dryly.
Which was true. Then again, I was sexually attracted to him like crazy, whereas I figured I was just a means to an end for him. So I was surprised he was so enthusiastic.
Despite how much we were having sex, the act itself was always the same. Sixty-nine. It would be on my bed or Andy’s bed. We’d get each other off and not touch before or after or anytime in between. When we weren’t sucking each other off, we were total bros. There was nothing except those two extremes.
On the last Monday in June, we were in the kitchen after lunch. It was really hot outside, the kind of humid, heavy East Coast air that was rife with mosquitoes. We weren’t in a hurry to leave the comfort of the cottage’s air conditioning, despite there being nothing exciting to do inside. I was bent practically double at the fridge trying to put away the mustard bottle I had gripped between my wrists. When I straightened up and turned, I caught Andy checking out my ass.
He didn’t pretend he wasn’t looking, either. Instead, he sort of shrugged, raised his eyebrows at me, and grinned. But the heated, flirty glint in his eyes was unmistakable. “Nice ass there, Jakey.”
“Yeah, it is. Don’t think you’re ever gonna tap it, though,” I joked to hide the blush I could feel burning my face. I glanced down at his crotch to make my meaning clear, and saw he had a semi going in his silky gym shorts.
My knees went a little wobbly. Had Andy really gotten aroused just by looking at my ass? My ass?
Maybe it was because we’d already sucked each other off dozens of times, including just the night before, but my normal filters were weak. As in practically nonexistent. In that moment of want, I did what I’d only fantasized about doing before. I kicked the fridge door shut with my foot, and went up to him. He was leaning against the kitchen table, a sturdy pine rectangle with four chairs. I nudged my chest against him and pushed his legs apart with my thighs. I wanted to kiss him, dear God. But I didn’t dare. No, I had that much sanity left at least. That would give the game away, expose me.
His eyes went half-lidded, and he helped me as I used the tips of my bandaged hands to push at his elastic waistband. He wiggled, and I pushed, and soon his shorts were crumpled on the floor. I nudged him back until he sat on the table. Damn, I loved that table fiercely at that moment. It was just the right height to allow me to get to my knees.
It was broad daylight in the kitchen, and this was Andy, my best friend, but I didn’t care. This was a fantasy I’d run through my mind a hundred times over the years, and I had the chance to go for it. I wasn’t sure I could have stopped if I wanted to.
I nudged his legs apart with my shoulders. He was exposed, utterly and unabashedly revealed—every freckle, every hair, every fascinating wrinkle and furl, but Andy didn’t seem to mind. And oh my God.
My face was level with the core of him—the base of his dick, as it continued to fill and rise toward his stomach; his balls, which were a bit loose and ruddy-skinned and fuzzy with dark-blond hair; and the sweet plumpness where his ass met the tabletop. He was so gorgeous. So perfect, it caused my breath to hitch. Of course, I’d seen him a lot over the past few days, but never so well lit, never so open. My throat closed up and my pulse beat in my ears. I had enough sense left, though, to try to play this off as no big deal.
I looked up at him. He was watching me, his face serious, but otherwise unreadable.
“Let me try it without you doing me at the same time. It might be easier.” My voice wobbled only a little.
“Okay.” He attempted a laugh, but it came out a nervous sort of titter.
Justification out of the way, I let myself go. I leaned forward and ran the flat of my tongue over one of his balls and then sucked it gently into my mouth. I closed my eyes.
This. God. It was Andy’s body and Andy’s flesh, his sex. Raw and so real it hurt. I pushed down a sticky glob of emotions and focused on the physical. Part of me wanted to show Andy what I could do, to tease and torture him and worship him with my mouth, to force him to remember me. Maybe someday, when he was forty years old and married and bored, he’d think of this summer and of how good it had been. But another part of me was afraid of giving myself away, of revealing how much I loved his dick or, worse, loved him.
But, Jesus, the heat and smell and taste of him as I sucked under his balls, rubbed hard with my tongue at his perineum, and thrust into that tantalizing crease. Andy’s breathing went harsh and labored. He lay back on his elbows and lifted one foot to the tabletop, spreading himself further. I nudged the other leg up and over my shoulder.
“Jake, Jesus,” he gasped as I went for it, rolling over his furl with my tongue. “You’re insane.”
I stopped and drew back, looking up into his eyes. “You’re telling me somethi
ng’s too risky?”
He managed a smirk. “Hell no. Keep doing it.” He pressed against my shoulder with his calf, making it clear I wasn’t supposed to stop.
I’d never done this before. It wasn’t something Kevin and I’d ever done or that I’d even fantasized about. But I wanted to worship Andy, to drive him crazy, learn him in every way possible. I wanted to do something he’d never forget. I licked over his rim, tasting a hint of soap from his morning shower with Walter. Encouraged at the clean taste, I licked again and again, flicking the tip of my tongue sharply against his puckered skin or rubbing it hard and flat, and alternating that attention with sucking his balls and the insides of his thighs so that when I went back to his pink furl, it always made him shiver and gasp.
It was effective. Before long, Andy was squirming and moaning, thrusting slightly into the air. He pushed me down with the leg that was hooked over my shoulder, as if he could hold me where he wanted me.
“Fuck. Jake. Fuck,” he repeated with hisses and whimpers.
Damn, he was really sensitive there. I longed for my fingers. I wanted nothing more than to work a finger into him as I licked and to see if I could find his prostate, see if that would make him even more wild. And that made me think about fucking him, an image even my most secret heart had never dared conjure up before. I made an animal sound and pierced him as deeply as I could with my tongue.
I was throbbing in my shorts, so hard I was ready to pull down his other leg and rut against his calf. But before I could, Andy begged me, “Jesus, please, Jake, make me come. Please. I can’t take any more.” His voice was desperate and his thighs shook.
I couldn’t refuse him. I got to my feet and bent over him, taking his dick into my mouth and sucking him down hard and fast.
He gave a choked scream and tried to thrust his hips off the table. I worked him intently, in and out of my mouth, suction dragging against him on every withdrawal. He let loose a steady stream of moans, and his leg skittered like a live wire against my hip. He was close.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” he chanted.
I didn’t stop. When he came, he did so with a string of curses. His body bowed, curling in over his stomach. I glanced up to see his eyes rolled back in his head with the force of it.
God, oh God, I needed to come.
If I’d had my hands, I would have been working myself already, but I didn’t. Andy’s foot that had been on the table flopped down as he finished spasming and collapsed on the table. I hooked my arm around it and ground against him. Working my pulsing flesh against the bone of his calf.
“Jake—” he started, dreamily, probably about to offer to return the favor.
But I panted, my cheek on his thigh. I was so close. That had been the hottest thing I’d ever experienced, getting Andy that worked up, that he’d let me, that he was so sensitive there, that I’d—
I came in my shorts, burying my groan in his lap.
And then, as my flesh shrank and the pleasure faded, my heart seized up. I couldn’t raise my head. That. That hadn’t been just two bros getting the job done. I’d been so turned on rimming him, at the smell and taste of him, I’d rutted against his leg like an animal. Shame washed through me, hot and ugly.
I realized he had to feel the burning in my cheeks, pressed as I was to his thigh. But I couldn’t move. I wasn’t sure I could bear to face him long enough to get up and run to my room.
Then I felt his heel run along my back. “Christ, you fucking killed me. Warn a guy next time.”
His words were teasing, but his voice sounded tight. Did it sound tight? Was he embarrassed for me? Well, duh. You think? I swallowed.
Still, his words were enough to unfreeze me. I straightened up, not meeting his gaze. “Well . . . that was gross. Me, I mean. My shorts. Um. I’ll go clean up. Wash, wash, wash your cares away. And spunk too!”
He snickered. It sounded muffled, so I dared a look at him. He had his arm over his face, as if exhausted. Which meant I didn’t have to see what was on his face, thank God. And he hardly looked sophisticated, lying there with his softening junk. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, what I’d done? Maybe I could play it off as just a horny-guy thing?
“You’re such a dork,” he teased.
“Well obviously.” My voice sounded raw, just like I felt.
I left him there and escaped to the bathroom. Maybe somehow he’d missed the way I’d not only reveled in the gayest of gay sex but also pretty much admitted my feelings for him by worshipping his body and humping his leg. Maybe we could pretend it hadn’t happened.
From now on, I wasn’t going to initiate anything sexual, I promised myself. Not even a smoky glance. Andy would have to initiate if he wanted more. And then I would only do the minimum required. No more rimming. No more rutting wildly against him like his very smell got me off. Even though it did.
Dear God, how long could I hide it? It wasn’t even July yet. We still had most of the summer in front of us.
Andy
We’d been at the cottage for over a month and—as scenic as the Nantucket Sound was, as great as hanging out with Jake was—we were both climbing the walls. It would have been way more boring without the sex. God, I’d never had so much sex. Blowjobs on tap, why wouldn’t we do that three or four times a day? But even so, you could only have sex for so many of your waking hours, more’s the pity. Especially since Jake was stupidly good at getting me off and seemed disinclined to drag it out lately. I’d loved it that day he’d gotten adventurous in the kitchen and rimmed me. God. That was so insanely hot! I would have been up for lots more exploration like that. But Jake had acted awkward afterward, and since then, we’d stuck to the efficient sixty-nine.
One morning Emily lingered over coffee. “Our place is a lot smaller than this,” she said. “But we have a pontoon boat and a barbeque grill. Would you guys like to come over for dinner tonight? You must be ready for a change of pace.”
“Oh my God, yes,” Jake said at once, in a tone of joking desperation. Then he looked at me as if wondering if he’d spoken too soon.
But I nodded at him, silently agreeing. “Definitely. I think I’ve memorized the cracks on every ceiling of this joint.”
“Yeah, this joint,” Jake teased. “The ol’ Cape Cod slammer. We’ve named all the spiders too. Ethel is my favorite.”
I jabbed him with an elbow. Dork. “It’s nice of you to offer, Emily. You’ve done a lot for us already.”
“Well, I am getting paid for it.” Emily raised an eyebrow. “But tonight is ‘just because.’”
“That’s my favorite reason,” Jake said. He held up his hands. “What can we bring? We’ve got plenty of spare bandages and antibiotic cream.”
Emily chuckled. “Yeah, that’s okay. I’ve got it covered. Bob’s boss gave him a box of steaks, so we’ve got meat to spare.”
I studiously refused to look at Jake because I knew we’d bust out laughing if I did. Meat to spare. God, I was mature.
“Pick you guys up at five?” Emily offered.
“Sounds good,” I said.
The house where Emily and Bob lived was tiny. It looked like it had been built fifty years ago as a summer fishing cabin and had been converted to a year-round dwelling on the cheap. It couldn’t be more than a thousand square feet, and it was on a gnarly part of the coastline where there was a big drop down to the sound. The front of the cabin had a log face with white plaster between the beams and a front porch that was only about two feet wide and listed to the left, giving the impression of a crooked smile.
The inside was modest but clean. There was an open space that made up the living room, dining room, and kitchen. It had big windows that overlooked the water far down below. And there was a short hall that probably led to a bedroom and bath, probably just one of each given the size of the place. From the Formica cabinets to the old plaid couch, nothing was new or fancy, but the room felt cheerful and homey. There were braided rugs on the floor in bright colors, comfortable thr
ows and pillows everywhere, and the fridge door was covered in stuff.
While Emily and Jake chatted about the view, I took a step closer to see what was on the fridge. It was covered with ceramic heart frames in various sizes and colors, from pink polka dots to gold glitter. Each frame contained a photo of Emily and Bob. There was a large B + E in plastic letters in the middle too. It was like a shrine to their coupledom and the sappiest thing I’d ever seen, but it gave me a pang of . . . something. Jealousy? Envy? Maybe that.
I couldn’t imagine something like that at my parents’ house. Dear God, no. And I couldn’t imagine it with any girl I’d dated either. Amber would have called it tacky. She was more the ultra-modern chrome-kitchen type, with the Jag in the garage.
“Hey, guys.” Bob came in the back door, a wide smile on his face.
I’d seen Bob a few times when he’d been working on our yard. He was tall, maybe six foot three, with broad shoulders, a spare tire, a lumpy but good-natured face, and floppy brown hair. He wore a navy-blue T-shirt over tan cargo shorts and had flip-flops on his big feet. He went to the fridge and pulled out a pan covered in foil.
“Hey,” said Jake. “Thanks for having us over.”
“Good to see you, Bob. How’s it going?” I normally would have offered my hand for a shake, but since I couldn’t do that, I just nodded my chin in greeting.
“Me? I’m great.” Bob put the pan on the counter and took off the foil. It was filled with steaks in a brown marinade. He turned them with a fork, glancing at our hands with a slight frown. “What about you guys? Are your burns getting better?”
“Oh yeah,” said Jake. “It’s feels like it’s going really slow, but it is getting easier. Our nurse, Walter, says that we’re probably past the point where any infection is likely, or, you know, our hands falling off. So there’s that.”
“That’s good news. I hate it when my hands fall off.” Bob smirked at Jake. He went back to turning meat in the tray. “I hope you guys both like steak. ’Cause we’re having steak, steak, and steak.”
