Less Than Three

by Jess Whitecroft

  I caught his foot between mine. “I want you,” I said.

  He hesitated for a moment, and then surprised me by saying, “Why?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

  “Just that,” he said, with a shrug. “When I was a little boy people used to buy me toy cars and pirate Lego, which I liked – don’t get me wrong – but they used to buy my sister all these big pink boxes full of things you could make. Beads and stickers and things. Craft kits. Calligraphy pens that wrote in glitter. All of her things looked so much more exciting than mine.”

  “And you think that’s what you are to me?” I said, deciphering what he was trying to say. “Something I want because of sibling rivalry?”

  Rob sighed. “I don’t know, Nathan. But you have to admit that kids have a rotten habit of coveting one another’s toys.”

  “I’m nearly thirty-two. And you’re not a toy.” I moved my chair closer and took his hand. “Come on, Rob. Please? I know we’ve been trying to take things slow, but I promise you that I want you because you’re you.” He blushed an adorable pink and I nuzzled the edge of his ear. “No other reason. Well, other than the fact that just the sound of your voice is enough to make me want to work my way through the pictures on those Greek vases back there.”

  “I’m not doing a spitroast,” he said.

  I laughed. “No, of course not. I wasn’t talking about a spitroast.” I grabbed hold of his beard and managed to steal a kiss. “I’m talking about nice, normal sex.”

  “Which you have never done sober before.”

  “I’m sober now,” I said. “And canoodling with you in broad daylight in front of the British Museum. How much more proof of my commitment do you need?”

  Rob shook his head. “Fine,” he said. “But we do this my way.”

  “Anything you say.”

  “I’ve been a bit of a slut in the past, and I want this to be…special. Romantic.”

  “What? Champagne? Candlelight?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Okay,” I said, tickling the palm of his hand. “Sounds good to me.”

  “There’s an art exhibition on the twenty-first,” he said. “We could make a date of it. And then afterwards…you could stay over. Spend the night. What do you think?”

  I leaned forward and kissed him again. “I think I’m going to have to look at a lot more dirty Greek vases. For inspiration.”

  *

  I was ready. I was beyond ready. Here I was, shaved, exfoliated and scrubbed clean in corners I hadn’t even been aware needed scouring until now. My body was spotless, prepared for absolutely anything, and instead I was standing in a gallery space, staring up at a giant fibreglass…gland?

  I had no idea. It was red and purple and lumpy and at least eight foot long. It hung from the ceiling on wires and we stood below, clutching glasses of Prosecco and wondering what the fuck it was supposed to mean. Which I supposed was how these things were supposed to work, but it felt like a massive waste of time right now.

  “I think it’s a bollock joke,” said Rob. “Some people say modern art is bollocks and this guy just…”

  “Strung up a nad from the ceiling?” I said. “Subtle.”

  “Well, what else could it be?”

  “I don’t know. Any other organ. A spleen. A tumour.”

  He gave me a sidelong look. Why were we not having sex right now? “You’re diagnosing art?” he said. “Is that a family thing?”

  “No, that was me, remember? I was the one who diagnosed the dead nymph.”

  “Oh, yeah. So it was.” Rob sipped his drink. “How did you know all that anyway? About the hand position and the upper vertebral trauma?”

  “Uh, have you met my brother?”

  He nodded. “Point.”

  Rob cleared his throat and peered up at the giant dangling ball. I stared up, too, trying to look serious and appropriately interested.

  “Maybe it is a tumour,” he said. “Maybe it’s a commentary on the fact that we are all terminal patients, running out the clock. The planet is a terminal patient. Even the sun is a terminal patient. We are all diseased, and life is transitory and pointless.”

  I frowned up at the sculpture. “Mm, maybe,” I said. “But it does look a lot like an eight foot testicle.”

  He shook with stifled laughter. We escaped into the next room, where a series of holes in mid-air seemed to be pouring streams of petrified paint into a drain in the middle of the floor. “I can’t believe you dragged me here to look at literal bollocks,” I said. “It was bad enough you made me look at Neil Breen’s ball sac…”

  “Oh, please. Everyone’s seen Neil’s ball sac. It’s the most viewed ball sac on YouTube.”

  The other people in the room moved on. We were alone, and I took the opportunity to sweep his hair from the nape of his neck and kiss the top of his spine. He shivered and made a soft sound of approval, making me ache for later. “Why don’t we cut this short?” I said. “Go back to your place?”

  He drew in an audible breath, and even that turned me on by that point. I was aroused by him breathing, because I’d lain awake night after night, jealously counting the scraps of him that I’d hoarded like treasures; the way his hand fit mine, the river-breeze smell of his hair, the flare of heat from his sunburned waist, where his shirt had rode up at the back.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “Rob, I’ve been sure forever. Let’s go.”

  “Don’t you want to see the rest of the exhibition?”

  “I want to see the rest of you.”

  He was enjoying this, the tease. “The Observer said it was one of the most interesting modern art exhibits of the year,” he said, leading the way into the next white room. This one was empty, but the ceiling was completely covered in metal rods of varying lengths, pointing down like metal stalactites. As soon as you entered the room you had no choice but to look up.

  “Deliberately oppressive, don’t you think?” said Rob, with an demonic gleam in his eye. “Like thousands of swords of Damocles.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, hustling him along. “Next.”

  He laughed as we left the room, emerging into a corridor. I spotted a door, almost featureless in the white wall, and might have missed it entirely if it hadn’t been for the yellow CAUTION WET FLOOR parked just outside. Caught up in the game, I reached for the handle. “Is this art?”

  “No, I think that might be a cupboard,” he said.

  “No, it’s definitely art.”

  “Nathan, it’s a cleaning cupboard,” he said, laughing. “There is literally a vacuum cleaner in the corner.”

  “It’s not,” I said, and grabbed him by the wrist. “It’s an installation. You have to come inside for the full experience. It leans heavily on claustrophobia, I’m told.”

  Someone was coming. He dived into the cupboard with me and we quickly closed the door, both of us giggling like kids. It was very dark and I had no idea where the light switch was, but then he tapped his Fitbit and a faint LED glow told me where he was. Against the wall, under my hands. He was still giggling when I started to kiss him, his mouth hot and soft and tasting of wine. His giggles subsided and he moaned quietly around my tongue, his narrow hips already rocking into mine.

  “I want you so fucking much,” I whispered, my hand in his hair.

  “Not here,” he said, but he could hardly keep from kissing me long enough to get the words out. “I have champagne at home.”

  My lips were on his neck. I couldn’t get enough of the abrupt silkiness where his beard ended. We were grinding, desperate, insanely horny.

  “I changed the sheets,” he said, but it was a weak protest. His fist twisted the fabric of my shirt, his other hand in my hair, messing it up. I felt his breath as his mouth sought mine and I kissed him hard, pushing my cock against him through my jeans.

  “It’s going to be so romantic,” he said, but it wasn’t, because we’d waited too long. I couldn’t wait for champagne and fancy sheet
s. Or even a bed. I reached down and grabbed him through his jeans and he was so, so hard. A rock solid ridge under the denim.

  “Nathan, no,” he said, urgently rubbing himself against my hand. “We are not having sex in a cleaning cupboard.”

  “We’re not having sex,” I said, pushing my other hand under his shirt. His chest was bare beneath it. He was wiry but delicate and the touch of him made me burn with the thought of how he would move in bed, when he was helpless and naked and begging for more. “We’re just kissing.”

  “Yeah, and grinding,” he said, his breath exploding in a soft gasp as my fingers found his nipple. “Oh Christ…yes…there…yes.”

  His hands were on my belt. I heard voices outside, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop him. The sound of my zip seemed nearly deafening in the quiet, panting dark, and then I felt his fingertips on the bare skin above the band of my underwear. I was about to give him a hand, but of course he’d done this before. His hand slithered deftly inside my shorts and I lurched blindly forward, our noses bumping.

  “Ow.”

  “Shh.” He giggled and I found his lips again. His tongue curled inside my mouth as his fingers curled around my cock. I was huge, the tip wet with wanting him; I could feel the moisture spreading under his thumb as he touched me.

  “I thought we weren’t having sex?” I said, thrusting into his warm hand.

  “Hand stuff,” he whispered, between kisses. “Not sex.”

  We heard footsteps approach outside. I froze for a second, but he was relentless, his hand working my cock.

  “…I never know the difference between pretentious and post-modern,” someone was saying, beyond the door. Oh God. Were they going to hang around in the corridor and have a conversation? Not now. I was far too turned on as it was, and the edge of danger had always got me hot. I was breathing too loud and his hand on my cock filled the cupboard with the soft but distinctive sound of masturbation. I could feel his smile when we kissed. So the sex monster had a taste for mischief, did he?

  I fumbled for his belt. He wriggled and giggled, silently protesting only for a moment before he pushed me away. The people outside were still talking and here I was, on the other side of the door with my dick out and pointing to the ceiling. I’d never felt so naughty, or so excited. I heard the swoosh of denim against skin and then Rob grabbed me by the pubes and pulled me in again, and this time he was bared to me in the dark. Hips, arse, upper thighs – all there for the taking. His cock jostled against mine, hard and hot and rubbery, and unexpectedly large. God, was he going to try to put that thing inside me? The thought wrung a thin, soft cry from my mouth and he stifled it quickly with a kiss – “Shh…shh…” – and we hung there for a long moment, silent, hip to hip and lip to lip, waiting for the people outside to move down the corridor.

  He teased, rocking his hips slowly as the voices receded. His dick moved against mine and I gasped, astonished at how good it felt. I moved with him, thrusting, fencing, sliding and gliding as we both leaked and sweated. Frottage. Jesus – those Ancient Greeks had been onto something.

  “Oh God,” he whispered, his naked hips butting and bucking against mine. “Harder…yes…fuck me.”

  I couldn’t resist it. “Wait…does this mean we’re having sex?”

  His hand tugged at the nape of my neck. “Shut up and make me come,” he said.

  I moved faster, fucking him against the wall, unable to believe how easy this was. And how good. Perhaps it helped that we’d been dying to do this for so long that our bodies were completely in charge. He arched to meet me, his cock hot and huge. “Oh God, I’m coming,” he panted, and I thought ‘here we go – twenty minutes of this before he finally does.’

  “Are you sure?” I said, and then he went stiff, arching into me. I felt sticky heat flood between our bodies. There seemed to be a lot of it, but I didn’t have time to complain about the mess, because as soon as his body went slack, Rob started to slither down the wall. His hand landed on my hip with a slap and then he pulled me in and I was in his mouth.

  I almost cried out. I bit my lip just in time. He’d come all over my cock and balls and now he was licking his own come off me. I thrust instinctively and he stopped. I thought I’d made him gag but he whispered, “Fuck my mouth. I want it,” and that was how I finished, jeans around my knees, both hands on the wall, steadying myself as I emptied my balls into his filthy, silky mouth.

  “Incredible,” I said, when I could speak again. His hair had come loose and I couldn’t stop touching it, a soft cloud in the dark. “You’re incredible.”

  He swayed towards me. I felt his lips on my bare hip. “So are you.” His hand was on the back of my thigh. I felt him exhale, his breath tugging at the roots of my pubic hair. “Oh, I had champagne and everything,” he said. “Candles. Massage oil.”

  “We can still do all of that.”

  Rob scrambled up from the cupboard floor. “Oh, we’re going to,” he said, opening the door just enough to peek out. He was looked flushed and indecent and utterly fucked. “You’ve done it now. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Oh dear,” I said, taking the opportunity to grab a handful of tiny bare bum. “Does this mean I’ve unleashed the sex monster?”

  He shook his head. His eyes were bright and dark. “Nathan, you have no idea what you’ve done.”

  “No,” I said, stealing a kiss. “But I have a feeling I’m going to really enjoy finding out.”

  11

  Thunder rumbled above the river that night. We were naked on navy blue sheets that smelled of spilled champagne and sweaty sex. His hair was loose, the curls spread out like a golden fleece. In the candlelight his eyes were so dark that only a thin, grey ring around the pupil gave a hint as to their true-blue colour. I kissed the lids of his eyes, the tip of his nose, his soft, blond-furred lips. When I kissed him I couldn’t get enough of the way his whole body moved against me, like an open invitation to run my hand down the irresistible slope of his long, lean back. He was on top now, his hair tumbling down around my face, his breath ragged against my lips. I lay dazed between his thighs, unable to stop touching him. We were both soft, still buzzing from our last orgasms, but we couldn’t seem to stop stroking, fondling and exploring.

  “You are gorgeous,” I kept saying. “Just so gorgeous.”

  “So are you,” he said, and I got lost in the cloud of his hair again. I shivered at the sensation of his mouth on my nipple, hot tongue, and sharp teeth. He teased me with a bite and moved onto the other.

  “What happened here?” he said, tracing the line of a thin cut just below my collarbone.

  “Oh, that? Fencing accident. The safety tip flew off the end of the foil and he got me.”

  He looked up, wide-eyed. “You fence?”

  “Not really. But Danceny kills Valmont in a duel, remember?”

  Rob swatted me playfully. “Uh, spoilers.”

  I laughed and kissed him again, because I could. “Obviously I lose the sword fight,” I said. “But I have to look like I know what I’m doing.”

  “Well, be careful,” he said. “You’ve got enough scars as it is.”

  “Have I?”

  He blushed and I immediately knew why. It must have been hard not to compare, since he’d already been to bed with my mirror image. And as fucked up as it was, a little part of me was still curious. Once upon a time, when Simon and I were two small pink sticks of boys, we’d compared everything. Finger length, height, the shapes of our noses, and yes – even that. But somewhere around the time the first hairs started sprouting, that particular form of comparison slammed shut like the door to a vault, never to be opened again.

  “I was always the accident prone one,” I said. “When I was five months old I managed to roll off the couch and gashed my head open.” I took Rob’s hand and directed his fingers to the barely there scar that was almost entirely covered by my hair. “For a while it was the only way to tell us apart, but then my hair grew over it and it was back to b
eing anybody’s guess all over again.”

  “What about that one?” he said, running his fingers over the scar on the underside of my left forearm.

  “You mean you don’t know about that?”

  “No,” he said. “Why would I?”

  “No, it’s just that I thought Simon would have told you that one. Being as it’s his origin story and all.”

  Rob giggled. “Origin story?”

  “Yeah. How he became Orthopod Man. You mean he never told you?”

  “No. And now you have to tell me.” He sat up and poured out the last of the champagne. It had lost its chill, but there were still a few bubbles left.

  “We were ten,” I said. “And we had the day off school – Ofstead inspectors, I think – and so we went down to the trampoline place down by the beach.”

  “Uh huh.” He stretched out on his side, facing me, glass in hand. I couldn’t believe how attractive I found him.

  “One of the perks of being a twin,” I said. “You can go out alone much younger than single children—”

  “—because safety in numbers.”

  “Right. And this was in Littlehampton. It’s a nice town, and we only lived about ten minutes walk from the beach anyway. So, off we went to the trampolines, and I started showing off, the way I always did. I loved trampolines, and I was getting good at doing all the tricks – seat drops, spins, pikes, flips. And my newest trick was this handspring thing. A full body flip.”

  Rob winced in anticipation.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Basically what happened is that I went to flip, but I didn’t come down the way I should have done, with my weight evenly distributed on both hands.” He made a small, distressed noise, but I kept going. “My left hand hit the canvas, then there was this almighty crack—”

  “—oh fuck—”

  “—and the next thing I know the front half of my forearm was sticking out at right angles to the other—”