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Bob enters the darkened movie theatre cautiously. He's never bought a ticket to a pornographic movie before, and he didn't like the look the woman at the ticket counter gave him when he said the name of the film he wanted to see. He feels like an absolute creep skulking in late.
It wasn't even his decision to see it. Carl had called him, explained the situation at the office, and said Bob should come hide out at the movies with him in case their homes were being staked out as well. Bob couldn't fault that logic, and so here he is. It's just his luck that Carl has a rotten sense of humor.
Luck is on his side, however, in that Carl is the only person aside from Bob in the theater. Shockingly, Deep Throat doesn't appear to be popular two p.m. viewing on a Friday, so there are no more scandalized eyes to follow Bob's awkward movements as he makes his way through the row of seats towards the middle, where Carl is.
"Really?" he says, when he reaches the seat beside Carl.
Carl doesn't look away from the screen. "Shh, there's a movie on."
"Very funny." Bob pushes the seat down and sinks gingerly on to it, careful to make sure his knee doesn't touch Carl's. He isn't sure he even wants to sit next to Carl at a pornographic movie, but sitting somewhere else would probably be weirder. He'd spend the whole film wondering what Carl thought of it. This way, he can look to the side and know.
"I saw the opportunity and I took it," Carl says with an easy shrug. "It's got a decent plot so far."
"Oh yeah, and what's that?"
"Well, she's got this medical condition where her clit's in her throat," Carl says. It's so matter-of-fact it's absurd.
Bob chokes. "Excuse me?"
"That's why she has to deep throat all those men."
Bob finds himself lost for words. Firstly, he's never heard Carl say the word clit before, and he likes it a concerning amount. He should probably never want to hear it again. Secondly, "that's absurd. What do you mean she has to?"
"She can't come otherwise," Carl says. "'cause her clit's -"
"In her throat, yeah.” Bob's chest feels strangely tight; he might be having a heart attack.
Carl doesn't seem at all rattled by the strangeness of the situation. “Well, come on, sit. Did you buy popcorn?”
“No, I - should I have?”
“Something to do with your hands,” Carl says with a shrug. His eyes are still fixed on the screen.
The screen. Linda Lovelace is beautiful, and maybe if this were happening on Bob's television in his own home he would be as enraptured as Carl seems to be. As it is, he's excruciatingly aware of the fact that they're in public, even if there's no one else in the theatre, and, more importantly, if he gets a hard-on Carl will probably laugh at him.
He sits.
The problem, he quickly realizes, is that there's nothing to look at but the screen. It fills his field of vision, larger-than-life and entirely obscene. And, if he turns his head even a little to the right, there is Carl in his periphery, head tilted slightly back to see, mouth ever so ajar as he watches, transfixed. Bob can almost imagine a faint blush splashed across his cheekbones, even washed out as they are in the pale light of the projector.
Bob wishes he had popcorn. His hands are in his lap, too close to his dick, and all he can think of is Carl's comment. Something to do with your hands. He knows what he'd be doing if he were watching this at home. Maybe even with Carl beside him on the couch, the veil of plausible deniability allowing them to do something they'd never otherwise do in the presence of another man.
Linda Lovelace's performance isn't the reason Bob's cock is starting to chub up.
“Kind of familiar, isn't it?” Carl says.
“Huh?”
Carl darts a quick look at Bob, brows furrowed. “You know. They keep saying it over and over. A bit ironic.”
“Right. Yeah.” Bob doesn't for a minute believe that isn't why Carl chose it in the first place. He just said that to shock Bob, and it worked. Damn him. “Kind of ironic.”
“What did you think I meant?”
Bob keeps his gaze on the screen and doesn't answer. No good would come of it, not even were they alone in Bob's apartment.
“Is it familiar?” Carl presses. Bob's traitorous cock likes the roughness in his voice.
Bob tries for deflection. “What, are you trying to tell me you've never had a blowjob?”
“Had, yes.” The implications are clear. Carl waits for a reply, and, when there is none, speaks again, low and thoughtful. “How many guys do you think have jerked off to this movie?”
“Hopefully none in these seats,” Bob says, a weak attempt at a joke. He is completely, uselessly hard, and it's not because of Linda Lovelace at all. It's because of stupid Carl stupid Bernstein with his stupid knowing grin and his innuendoes, asking Bob if he's ever sucked a guy off like that's a question Bob can answer.
Carl laughs perfunctorily, which is about what the joke deserved. He looks at Bob again.
“We could christen them.”
Bob stares hard at the screen. “Carl, I don't want to jerk off in a movie theatre.”
“Don't, then.” Carl's gaze is burning into the side of Bob's head. “I dare you not to.”
The sound of Carl's zipper is loud amidst the theatrical moans piped through the speakers. Linda Lovelace is deep throating yet another man, but all of Bob's attention is fixed on the quiet rustling of Carl pulling his dick out of his boxers - he wears boxers, Bob knows, because he's seen Carl folding his laundry during stretch breaks on long nights spent working from one another's homes. He can picture them, a little worn with age, perhaps a little damp if Carl has been hard for as long as the movie has been playing. Or maybe, absurd though the idea is, he, too is affected by Bob's presence just like Bob is affected by him.
Bob stares straight ahead. If he focuses entirely on the screen, he can't see Carl's arm moving in his peripheral vision, can't think too hard about how it's Carl's left arm and how it's somehow kind of charming that Carl jerks off with his non-dominant hand. He can't catch a glimpse of pale flesh, or even know whether it is pale or whether Carl's cock flushes red when he's aroused.
He doesn't see any of that.
What he hears is the snap of Carl's waistband as he pulls out his cock, the sound of Carl spitting into his palm and then the slight, slick noise of his hand moving in a leisurely rhythm. The film has chosen that moment to go cruelly quiet, and there is nothing to muffle the sounds of Carl touching his cock right beside Bob. It's torture.
“Stubborn,” Carl says, low and raspy.
You dared me not to, Bob might retort, but that would mean acknowledging that he, too, is hard enough to pound nails and might, if not for Carl's presence, give in to it.
“Just not interested,” he says instead.
Carl laughs. “Bored, then?”
“Not at all,” Bob says, although to tell the truth he hasn't absorbed a word of the movie. But he could never be bored with the auditory feast of Carl still jerking off mere inches away from him. “I like the cinematography.”
“Uh-huh. You're picking a hole in your jeans.”
Bob forcibly stills his fingers. “Just need something to occupy my hands.”
“You should have bought popcorn,” Carl says.
Bob wrestles down a curt reply. He wouldn't need to fidget if Carl weren't so distracting and upsettingly arousing beside him. He watches movies and keeps his hands to himself all the time.
“I know something you could do with your hands,” Carl says.
Bob grits his teeth. “I'm not going to touch myself.”
“No,” Carl says, audibly pleased. The sounds of his hand are wetter now. “I told you not to. But you could touch me.”
That's a crazy suggestion. But wasn't Bob just thinking it, or something close to it? If they were at home, on Bob's couch, maybe it would be easy after all to reach out and replace Carl's hand with his own. Maybe Carl would want him to.
Fuck it, alright.
He turns away from the screen to give Carl his full attention and is momentarily blindsided by the sight of Carl's fist wrapped around his short, thick cock, paused in the act of stroking as he stares back at Bob with wide eyes. Bob wants to devour him.
“The armrest,” Bob says in explanation, because he feels he ought to defend himself somehow. Carl suggested the handjob, yes, but Bob is the one who turned it from something furtive and impersonal to something real by making eye contact.
Carl swallows. His hand still isn't moving. “Right. Of course. Well, go on, occupy yourself.”
Bob has no idea if the movie is even still playing. All he knows is that he is reaching out to cover Carl's hand with his own, slotting his fingers into the empty spaces between Carl's knuckles in his quest to touch flesh, and all the while Carl's gaze bores into him, bright in the reflected light of the projector. Frightened, maybe.
Since Carl, frightened or not, still isn't moving, Bob takes it on himself to move for them. He guides their joined hands in a single slow stroke up, and, when Carl jolts and blinks at the renewed sensation, back down. There's an odd hush in the theater, though Bob is fairly sure the movie is still playing. He couldn't care less - Carl is tense and quivering beneath his touch, clearly holding himself back, and he's still staring at Bob like he can't believe he isn't dreaming.
“Should I stop?” Bob asks, before the hush becomes too oppressive.
“No.” Carl's answer is immediate, panicked. “I just didn't think you'd do it. Or - or look at me.”
“The armrest,” Bob says again, but it's a weak excuse. He's always watching Carl, just like Carl is always watching him, and it wouldn't feel right to do something like this without being able to see how Carl feels about it.
Carl clearly doesn't buy it, but he nods along anyway and lets Bob continue to guide their joined hands. His cock is short enough that their overlapping fists nearly cover it, which Bob finds strangely charming, and he sets up a fast, shallow stroke in an effort to shock Carl out of his deer-in-the-headlights paralysis. It doesn't work.
Maybe Carl really is scared. Maybe Bob has surprised him so badly that he can't let himself enjoy it. Sure, this whole movie outing was a ruse to get Bob into this exact position, Bob knows that, but Carl probably never thought it would work. He's waiting for the punchline.
“I don't give a shit about Linda Lovelace,” he says, an offer of vulnerability in the hopes that Carl might let his guard down in return. “She doesn't make me hard.”
Carl's breath hitches. “Oh yeah? So you're not turned on right now, then?”
“No, I am.”
“Well. Alright.” Carl laughs, a little incredulous, and passes his free hand over his face. “I really didn't think you would. I was just giving it a shot anyway.”
“You might have had an easier time of it inviting me over to watch something. Are you going to let me give you this handjob now?” Bob says.
Carl's gaze has finally lost that panicked cast, and he grins and pulls his hand out from under Bob's. Bob tightens his grip instinctively, palm finally meeting warm flesh instead of Carl's knuckles, and he is the one who has to suppress a groan.
“We're going to get arrested. Indecent exposure,” he says helplessly, but he can't stop his arm from moving to jack Carl off with purpose, cupping the head in his palm and squeezing around the base whenever he can. The armrest is still in the way, but that's small potatoes compared to Carl turning to putty in his hands.
Carl has to fight to keep his eyes open and locked on Bob. “Nah, they'll get us for dodging - dodging a subpoena. I could blow you here and we'd be fine.”
Bob curses and his cock twitches pitifully in his pants at the thought. That would be a step too far, but god does he want it.
“Come home with me,” Carl says abruptly, arching up into Bob's fist. “We can pretend to watch the afternoon soaps and I'll suck your dick.”
“We have work. Subpoenas,” Bob reminds him.
“You're not going back to work like that. The RNC would have a field day. Bradlee isn't expecting me to call him until five. Come home with me, Bob, come on.”
Bob has always been a soft touch where Carl is concerned.
“I want to make you come first,” he says, and he is rewarded with a quiet groan from Carl - the first sound among all the gasps and moans of the film that has really, actually set his blood on fire.
“Please, yeah,” Carl says, rocking his hips into Bob's grip and making his chair creak ominously. “It wasn't the movie, I didn't care about the movie, I was thinking about sucking you down the whole time. That's why I asked you to come.”
Bob knew that already; Carl is a consummate schemer but he is also, at times, incredibly transparent. It sends a thrill through him to hear it said aloud anyway.
“You come first,” he says, nonsensically, and pairs it with a punishingly tight squeeze over the head of Carl's cock. Carl shudders and, amazingly, comes into Bob's cupped palm with the softest, most perfect moan Bob has ever heard.
He stares at his come-covered hand for several seconds before the problem now confronting them makes itself obvious.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
Carl, the asshole, bursts into laughter. He uses his untucked shirttail to wipe Bob's hand clean before re-tucking it and doing up his pants once more, still grinning brightly.
“You're telling me you've never jerked off in a movie theatre before?”
“Never have, never will,” Bob says. There is some sort of sex happening on the screen, but he's entirely lost the plot and he didn't care about it to begin with. He wants to go home with Carl. “Do you want to stay and see how it ends?”
Carl shoots him a pleased, teasing smile. “I don't give a shit about Linda Lovelace. Let's get the hell out of here.”