Drew Hunt

by You Rock

Where are we going? Tank’s mood has gone back to being distant.

  As I continue to drive in silence, the negative thoughts come flooding back and I feel powerless to hold them at bay. I’m the reason Tank is undecided about signing the recording deal.

  There aren’t many rockers who are out and proud. Without me, Tank could easily pass for straight. He’s told me he’s slept with women in the past, got one pregnant once but she decided not to keep the baby.

  “Left here.” Tank points.

  We’re in the middle of nowhere. It’s late evening; I haven’t seen a streetlamp or another vehicle for over a mile. There’s just this dirt track with tall trees looming up on either side. I slow down so I don’t drive us into a ditch.

  Ditch. The word echoes in my head. Tank must be ditching me now that he’s on the eve of becoming a major star.

  That has to be it. That’s why he’s so nervous. I glance over at him. He’s starting to shiver.

  “Cold, babe?” I ask. The AC is on; it’s at least eighty degrees outside.

  He nods. I turn off the AC but a couple of minutes later he’s still shivering. Tank doesn’t do drugs, so I know it isn’t withdrawal.

  Concern for the man I love easily shuts out my pity party and I reach into the backseat for the afghan.

  “Thanks.” He spreads the thick blanket over his knees and up his chest—the chest I love to stroke, lick, and worship. Tank has an amazing chest. Heck, everything about him is amazing. I hold back a sob. What will I do without him?

  I grip the wheel tighter and set my jaw. I wonder if he’s picked this middle of nowhere location so if I kick up a stink when he dumps me, no one will hear me. Because I won’t give up this man without a fight. I’ve stood by him, supported him when the Vikings hardly had any gigs, only performing to a handful of drunks in dive bars. I’ve helped, directly and indirectly, over the past three years to make them the success they are now.

  I shake my head. What the hell am I thinking? Tank and I are solid. We love each other, we say the words often and I know he means them.

  * * * *

  We’d been together a couple of months—okay, seven weeks and four days—when Tank turned to me, cupped my face in his hands, leaned in to kiss me before saying, “I love you, William Prout.”

  Up until that point I’d prided myself on not being a girl where Tank was concerned. I hadn’t ever spoken aloud the classic line, “Why me when you can have anyone?” even though I’d thought it many times. I’d puffed up with pride when Tank first introduced me to the band as his boyfriend. I’d stayed strong when we’d been at my apartment when the doorbell rang and it was Jerry. Tank had dealt with the situation calmly, but I knew there was power and a steely determination just under the surface of his control. He’d told a bewildered Jerry that he didn’t want Jerry anywhere near his boyfriend. Jerry had opened his mouth to say something, but must have caught the look in Tank’s eyes and left without another word.

  But when Tank said those three magic words my resolution to stay manly crumbled and I bawled like a girl, pressing my face into his oh-so-wide shoulder.

  “William?” Tank rubbed circles on my back. “You okay?”

  “You tell me that you love me, you turn every dream I’ve ever had about being in a relationship into reality, and you ask me if I’m okay?” I could feel hysteria rising. “Hell, no, I’m not okay. I’m a damn mess.” And to prove it I cried all the harder.

  Okay, so when I break a resolution I shatter it and stomp all over the pieces.

  Sex, or rather lovemaking, with Tank, was always mind-blowing, but that night—the night my awesome rock god told me he loved me—was the best ever.

  Tank gently held me at arm's length, then gave me the tenderest of smiles that turned what little remained of my dignity into a pile of quivering Jell-O. He ran his large hands along my shoulders and down my arms, briefly squeezing my hands before dropping his arms to his sides. I continued to just stare at Tank, unable to believe my luck. This man loves me.

  Tank crossed his arms and took hold of the hem of his long-sleeve T-shirt. In one slow, fluid movement he peeled it up his chest and over his head. He then shook his head, his long mane of dark brown hair freeing itself and magically settling back into place—looking as if he’d just stepped off the set of a hair-product commercial. Okay, so I’m biased. I think Tank could model a paper grocery sack and still look stunning.

  My eyes hungrily drank in his chiseled features, his strong, square jaw with its permanent five-o’clock shadow, down his powerful neck to the shoulders that had to be a yard wide, his awesome pecs, the brown nips just peeking out from the lush carpet of brown hair that covered much of Tank’s trunk. I didn’t used to think much about nipples but I couldn’t seem to ever get enough of Tank’s. When we lay in bed at night after we’d made love I would often play with his nipples, fascinated how they could change texture and stiffness, seemingly at will.

  But before I could lean in and suck on those amazing nips, my attention was drawn to Tank’s hands. They were undoing his belt buckle. He then lowered his zipper and pulled down both pants and underwear.

  I’d seen him naked many times since that fateful first night when Tank had brought me home from the hospital and carried me to his bed where all we’d done was sleep. I’d wanted to do more but Tank had insisted we would have plenty of other opportunities for that. He’d insisted what I’d needed most was sleep. And, as I would soon come to realize, Tank had been right, as he was on most things. That first night I’d slept like a baby, safe and secure in Tank’s strong arms.

  “You’re giving me that look again,” Tank said in a low, sultry voice.

  “There’s a lot to look at,” I said, sweeping my gaze over his muscles.

  My attention fixed itself on Tank’s dick which was starting to rise to the occasion. It, like the rest of him, was big.

  I admit it. I’m not fond of how my own body looks. But then anyone, save a professional body-builder, would feel inferior next to Tank. So before he could encourage me to strip off my own clothes, I sank to my knees and licked the head of his dick as it peeked out from its collar of foreskin. I hadn’t been with an uncut guy before, and the first time I’d been up close and personal with Tank’s dick I hadn’t known quite what to do. But that soon changed and I couldn’t ever imagine going back to a dick that had gone under the surgeon’s knife.

  “You’re still giving me that look,” Tank’s voice rumbled even lower in his chest.

  “I’ve still got a lot to look at,” I said before leaning in and licking a pearl of pre-cum that had gathered at his piss slit. “And a lot to taste.”

  Tank huffed out a laugh but I didn’t care, I had other, more important, things to focus on. Getting that big boy into my mouth and down my throat was quite a challenge, one I hadn’t, up until that point, managed to master. I was determined this would be the day when I would succeed.

  I lost track of time as I tongue-worshiped Tank’s dick and balls. It didn’t help that images of Tank on stage singing into his microphone kept popping into my head. It was positively pornographic what he did with that thing.

  “Suck me, babe, please,” Tank moaned.

  I got a huge kick out of how much power I was able to wield over this guy. I held this rocker’s nuts in the palm of one hand and his dick in the other. I could do what I wanted with them. To prove it, I applied gentle pressure to his nuts, which elicited the sexiest moan from Tank.

  But I knew I couldn’t tease him for long. I had my secret mission to complete. It had been impossible to find a dildo the exact length, girth, and shape of Tank’s dick. I’m not sure what the clerk at the sex store thought when I examined pretty much every false phallus they had. In the end I found a dildo that came close, so bought it, took it home and, when Tank wasn’t around, practiced conquering my gag reflex.

  Once, twice, three times I went down, taking more of Tank in each time, but, God, the last couple of inches were the thickest.

&nb
sp; “It’s okay, babe, you’re doing great as you are, you don’t nee…” The fourth swallow was the charm. “Oh, Christ!” Tank yelled, grasping the sides of my head. “You did it!”

  Yes, with my airways totally blocked off, tears streaming down my cheeks, and snot running out of my nose, I’d finally taken all Tank had to offer. I swallowed a couple of times before needing to come up for air.

  “Wow!” Tank said, relaxing his grip on my head.

  I had to give it to him; he didn’t ask me to go back down again. But I was determined to prove I could. And I did.

  As I continued to go down on my lover, I realized deep throating was kinda like riding a bike. Once you learn how, you never want to stop pedaling. However, I mistimed things and Tank came much sooner than either of us expected and the majority of his juices went straight down my throat, robbing me of his unique flavor.

  * * * *

  I unconsciously lick my lips, remembering all the many times I’ve savored Tank’s taste.

  “Should be just up ahead,” Tank says. “Look out for a red-painted sign on your right and take the little track down to the lake.”

  This is the most Tank has spoken for the past twenty or so minutes. His hands fist in the afghan, and he rolls the fabric around his arms. I can’t help thinking that I’ve tasted him for the last time. But when I glance quickly over to the passenger’s seat, my fears yet again are eclipsed by my concern for Tank.

  I lay the back of my hand across his forehead. He doesn’t appear to have a temperature. I then move the hand down to squeeze his left biceps through the blanket.

  “Tank?”

  “Nearly there.” He lets out a long breath.

  I hope so, because whatever we’re about to arrive at is creeping the hell out of me.

  “Just over this rise.”

  The Honda’s headlights sweep across calm, dark water, then grass, before picking out a checked tablecloth with a picnic basket at its center. I stare, uncomprehending, but have enough presence of mind to bring the car to a halt.

  With the engine off, the inside of the car is silent, save for the ticking of the cooling engine.

  Tank lets out a breath. “Well, better go and do it,” he says more to himself than me.

  Before I can ask him what it is, Tank throws aside the afghan, unbuckles his seatbelt and is jumping out of the car. Not knowing what else to do, I undo my own seatbelt and open my door.

  Tank is there to help me out of the car, not that I need it. I give him a confused look; he ducks his head, takes my right hand and leads me over to the lake, the almost-full moon reflecting off its glass-like mirrored surface. It’d be romantic if it wasn’t so weird.

  Quickly Tank walks around the blanket and lights a series of Tiki torches that I hadn’t noticed earlier.

  “You hungry?” Tank asks, kneeling on the blanket and flipping open the lid of the picnic basket.

  I’m more confused than hungry. What the hel is al this about?

  “I had them put in all your favorites.” Tank digs through the basket, and isn’t looking up at me.

  “Tank?”

  “They said they’d put in some of those baked potato chips you—”

  “Tank!”

  He finally looks up.

  “All this.” I gesture to the food, the tablecloth, the flickering torches, the clearing in the woods, the lake. “It’s…I don’t know.

  What’s going on? Are you trying to lessen the blow?”

  “Blow?” His brow wrinkles in confusion.

  “Of you dumping me, ’cause of the recording contract? If I’m not around you can go back to being straight. That’d be easier for your future success. I know you’ll be successful because you’re an amazing singer and person and…” I grind to a halt, determined I won’t give him the satisfaction of my tears.

  The pained look on Tank’s face tells me I’ve hit the nail on the head. Despite his on-stage persona, Tank is a sweet, caring man. Having to do this for the sake of his career must be tearing him up inside. Even though I feel more miserable than I can ever remember, a big part of me still wants to comfort Tank, tell him I understand why he has to do this. And I do understand. This is a huge opportunity, one Tank must embrace. He’s a very talented musician and deserves to have that talent recognized.

  Despite my best efforts, I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I turn away, not wanting Tank to see.

  I begin to trudge back to the car, each step another nail in the coffin that was my life with the amazing Alex Sherman.

  “William, no!”

  I keep on walking.

  Tank hurries after me, catches up and tugs on my arm, but I ignore him.

  “Stop. William, stop. Look at me, God damn it!”

  I spin around, my fists clenching, but I know I could never hit Tank. Looking down, I see Tank on one knee gazing up at me. There’s something in his right hand.

  “William.” He stops, swallows, wipes his eyes, and returns his penetrating denim-blue gaze to me. “Shit, I’d got this whole fucking speech planned out, but…” He shakes his head. “I need you, now more than ever. If it wasn’t for you, the band, including me, wouldn’t be where we are now. Heck, we would’ve taken the advances and blown the lot. But you, you showed me, us, that wasn’t smart. I’m not smart without you.”

  “So you’ve decided to sign the contract?”

  Tank nods.

  I close my eyes. I knew it. Yeah, it was a good deal, especially for an unknown band. Tank says he needs me. I know I can’t be his advisor, legal go-to guy, not without also having Tank himself.

  “William, open your eyes.”

  I snap my eyes open, determined to tell him to go to hell.

  But his next words floor me.

  “Will you marry me?”

  I open and close my mouth, but no words come out. Tank, me, marriage? I must have misheard.

  “I mean it.” Tank’s tone is growing more insistent, more desperate. “I need you. I love you.”

  I still can’t form words. Oddly, my legal brain kicks in.

  Marriage between two men isn’t legal here in Texas.

  Tank must be reading my thoughts because he says, “We could marry in New York. I checked when we were there.”

  I continue to stare amazed at him. Eventually I realize he looks foolish, kneeling there.

  “William?” Tank gives me the most pleading look I think I’ve ever seen. “What do you say? I know I’m not exactly ideal husband material, but I love you, I’ll work hard for us, I’ll keep you safe…happy—”

  Finally I manage to squeak, “Yes.”

  “—healthy, safe, happy—” Tank continues.

  “Yes!” I repeat more loudly.

  I pull him to his feet and wrap my arms around his broad and muscular frame. He winces. I’m not aware I have that much strength. Kissing him with as much passion as I can—given the recent roller coaster ride of emotions—I try to convey just how much I want to marry this man.

  “I thought you wanted to break up with me.”

  “No, never. Here, put this on,” Tank says, finally breaking away from my hug. “I hope it fits, I had to guess at your finger size.”

  We both look down at the box he’s been holding all this time. It’s empty.

  “Shit!” he says. “I must have dropped it somewhere. Shit!

  I’ve been planning this for days and I’ve fucked it up.”

  I kiss him again. “This,” I say, taking in the torches, the blanket and the picnic basket. “is perfect. You’re perfect.” Then I see something glint on the ground a foot or so from where we’re standing. I bend down to retrieve it. “This what you’re looking for?”

  Tank gives me one of his most beautiful smiles. “See?

  What would I do without you?”

  I hope he never has to find out. “So…I waggle the fingers of my left hand. “You going to do something with that ring?” Was it unlucky to wear it before the ceremony? Is all this real? Am I goin
g to wake up in a minute and find it’s a dream?

  Tank brings my fingers to his lips and kisses each in turn.

  With each kiss I hear a soft, “I love you.” He then slides the gold band onto my ring finger. It fits perfectly.

  Even though I’m shaking, my mind firing in God knows how many directions, I realize something is missing. “Did you get a ring for yourself?” I scan the ground but don’t see anything.

  “Uh, not exactly. Well, not yet.”

  I look up at him in confusion. This only increases when Tank raises his T-shirt and pulls it over his head. Instantly my eyes take in his cobblestone abs, sweep up to his firm pecs and… “Oh, my, God!” Tank’s left nipple has a metal barbell through it.

  “Got it done in New York,” Tank admits.

  I reach out to touch it but he stays my hand.

  “Be gentle. It still hurts!”

  My gaze moves between Tank’s left tit and his face.

  “Why? I mean you’re…” I know how afraid he is of needles.

  “I thought about getting a tattoo but then figured this would be quicker.” He winces. “It might have been, but it hurt like a motherfucker. The guys had to hold me down while the tattoo guy did it.”

  “Why?” I ask again.

  I start to explain my question—I know why the other band members would have to hold him down—but Tank saves me the trouble.

  “I did it for you. Sure, I could have gotten a matching wedding ring, but I wanted to do something…something that’d show you just how committed I am to this…us.”

  “Oh, Tank.”

  “You’re everything to me. The label wasn’t happy about having a gay rock star, but—”

  “You told them about you, about us?”

  Tank gives me a look. “Of course. You’re more important than any recording deal.”

  I swallow. Can he get any more perfect? I ask myself as fresh tears run down my cheeks.

  “The guys backed me one hundred percent. Even the agent went to bat for us. It took some negotiating, but eventually the suits at the label agreed.”