Work Text:
-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 14:13 --
EB: hey.
TT: Sup.
EB: can i talk to you about something?
TT: Sure.
TT: I'm not sure what you want to talk about, but, sure.
EB: thanks. it's uh... kind of personal?
EB: and i'm not sure who else to talk to about it.
TT: With all due respect,
TT: If it's a personal issue, I might not be the best guy to reach out to?
TT: I don't mind. It's just that we don't really know each other that well.
EB: no, no, that's exactly why.
EB: it's something i need to talk to another guy about...
EB: and i definitely can't talk to dave about it, and it would be too awkward with jake...
TT: Ok.
TT: Then stop beating around the bush and spit it out, bro.
EB: ok then...
EB: arg, this is awkward.
EB: so... you're gay, right.
EB: ...
EB: are you still there??
TT: Yeah.
TT: Man, I'm not sure what I was expecting you to ask, but it wasn't that.
EB: haha.
EB: ... so...???
TT: If that's your question, the answer is yes.
EB: ok yeah that's what i thought. just making sure.
TT: Did you just want to ask about me being gay?
EB: no!
EB: it's about me.
TT: You're gay?
EB: no!!!
EB: i mean.
EB: i don't know??
TT: Oh.
EB: that's the problem.
EB: so you know how dave and karkat are like, an item now, right.
TT: Right.
EB: and i didn't THINK i had a problem with that... but...
EB: it's just that whenever i see them together, i feel... kind of weird about it?
EB: they don't really do pda, but even the littlest things set me off.
EB: like i was watching movies with them the other day, and dave put his arm around karkat's shoulder.
EB: and that's not even a weird thing!
EB: but it was all i could think about all of a sudden. they might as well have been just making out on the couch next to me.
EB: and i felt kind of weird and uncomfortable about it...
EB: and i have no idea if i'm some kind of secret homophobe or something, or if i'm just jealous.
TT: Jealous of Dave, or of Karkat?
EB: just in general!
EB: like, i don't THINK i'm a homophobe? but i don't know!
EB: and i've never had a crush on another guy, so i don't know if i'm gay either.
EB: and mostly i'm just feeling really guilty at the possibility that there's some part of me that's angry at dave and karkat for being gay with each other.
EB: oh man, please don't tell dave about any of this.
TT: Well, first off,
TT: I don't know you well enough to say for sure. But you don't seem like a homophobe to me.
TT: I think if you were actually a homophobe, you wouldn't be as concerned about this as you are.
TT: It definitely sounds like you have some underlying issues with male attraction, which isn't a shortcoming on your part.
TT: You grew up in a middle-class suburban community in millennial America. That shit got instilled in you from a young age, culturally.
TT: Even if you were harboring a secret attraction to men, it would probably manifest as repulsion at first.
TT: But I can't say if you're experiencing some run-of-the-mill homophobia, or some internalized shit.
TT: Which is maybe a little heavier than I'm prepared to deal with.
TT: That's something you have to do a lot of thinking about on your own.
TT: Or at the very least,
TT: If you wanted my opinion, I'd need a whole lot more information.
TT: We're talking a full-blown, long-term therapy arrangement.
TT: Get real fuckin' comfortable with the deconstruction of your childhood trauma. Lay down on my couch while I show you some ink blots shaped like dicks.
TT: Or whatever.
EB: ok...
EB: is that an invitation?
TT: It was mostly a joke.
TT: But, if you really need somebody to talk to about it, I guess I can't turn you away?
TT: We can talk it out sometime, if you like.
EB: um... are you free today?
EB: we can meet at my place.
EB: i can smoke you out for your trouble.
TT: Nice.
TT: Yeah, I can come over later.
EB: ok cool.
EB: see you later then!
TT: Yeah.
TT: Later.
-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 14:41 --
Around an hour later your phone buzzes with the words TT: I’m out front. emblazoned across your push notifications. He doesn’t knock. When you open the door Dirk’s slouched awkwardly on your front step, phone in hand; he looks right up at you and pockets it when you swing the door open.
“Hey,” you say.
He nods curtly. “Can I come in?” he says in lieu of a greeting.
You step out of the way and he crosses your threshold. He moves past you like a ghost, footfalls silent. It occurs to you that in all your past interactions with him, he’s been lingering around Roxy, or Dave, or Jane or Jake—standing off to the side quietly, just watching. You think the only time you’ve actually gotten him by himself was… when you were sixteen, back during the game. Back when everyone else was dead. Wow, that sets a great precedent for this encounter. Thinking about it makes you wince. Luckily he’s got his back to you—he’s slipping off his shoes, this pair of obnoxiously traffic cone-orange Vans—and you distract yourself by trying to maintain eye contact with his fucking tattoo.
“Kind of out of the way, aren’t you?” he asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. He’s trying to affect this air of nonchalance, making small talk, leaning casually with a shoulder to your wall. It’s not working. You see how tight his jaw is. This is as tense and uncomfortable for him as it is for you. Man, this is going to be a lot easier on both of you when you’re high.
“Yeah. I, um—you can follow me—” you start walking across the living room and up the stairs. You don’t hear him following, but when you turn to look he’s right behind. “I guess over the course of five thousand years this settlement got abandoned. It’s still legally within Can Town city limits, I think. But there’s not a lot of foot traffic. It’s nice… quiet.” You’ve spent a few long, sleepless nights up on your balcony, watching the sun rise, listening to the wind chimes tinkling from your backyard below.
The door to your room is already wide open. (You don’t ever shut it anymore, really.) Dirk hesitates for a moment out in the hall, looks at you and raises his dark eyebrows slightly, before following you inside.
“Feels a little surreal in here,” he says. He’s standing stiffly near the door, looking at your posters while you fish all your smoking supplies out of your desk. “I’ve spent more time in Jane’s room. It’s just different enough to be off-putting. You know.”
“Yeah.”
You sit down at your desk, herb grinder laid out before you, and start picking buds out of the mason jar you keep in your drawer. You notice out of the corner of your eye he’s still just kind of standing in the middle of your room, arms across his chest, watching you.
You tilt your head in the direction of your bed. “You can sit down, dude.”
He does that thing again where he nods briskly instead of responding and sits down, gingerly, ass right at the end of your mattress. It takes you a minute or so to finish packing the bowl, and as soon as you do you come back across the room to join him on the bed. (He scoots incrementally away from you.) You hand him the pipe and lighter first, because he is your houseguest, and your dad raised you right.
“Thanks.” You notice he’s wearing those ridiculous fingerless leather biker-gloves, even though you’ve never seen him on a bike in his life. You wonder absently if he’s aware of how ridiculous they look—as far as you’re aware he still takes the irony shtick pretty serious. You watch his chest swell under his muscle shirt as he takes a deep inhale. (Ah, jesus, you think, that was pretty gay, wasn’t it.)
“Hey,” you say quickly, “thanks for coming over. And for talking to me about this… whole thing.” He nods again, still holding his breath in, and hands the pipe back to you. “You didn’t have to do that, but it’s cool of you.”
He exhales while you light up. “It’s no problem. I, um… I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while, actually. You’re the only one I haven’t really hung out with.” He shrugs. “Dave and Rose talk about you a lot.” He’s not looking at you, his hands flat on his knees.
You don’t hand the pipe back to him immediately—you thumb at the mouthpiece for a second, thinking about how Rose would have a fucking field day if she knew you were sharing a pipe with another man on your bed. You pass it back to him.
“What do they say about me?”
“Good things,” he says. He takes a hit. “Friendly ribbing sometimes, but never bitter. Never complaining. They like you. You probably know that, though.”
“Haha. Yeah.” You take a second hit. You’re both very skillfully navigating around the elephant in the room. Might as well just spit it out. “So, um… how did you know you were… gay?”
He hesitates, pipe and lighter raised halfway to his mouth. It’s only for a second, but you’re sure you saw it. Maybe you should have waited until you’re both baked to start getting into the nitty-gritty. “Sorry,” you say quickly.
He holds onto the hit a little longer than necessary, and when he starts talking it’s slow, like he’s carefully weighing every word.
“Liking men wasn’t ever something I had to think about,” he says. “Before puberty, even, when I thought about intimacy or closeness with another human being, it was always—the first thing that came to mind was being with men.” He’s still not looking at you, sitting straight forward, hands idly sliding back and forth over his knees. “It wasn’t even a coherent—identity, I guess, like a facet of myself I felt worth acknowledging. Like, I wouldn’t consider myself—or rather I didn’t consider myself a gay person any more than I considered myself a blond person.”
“You didn’t? So you do now?”
Dirk shrugs. “Yeah. It was something the others struggled with—Jane and Dave especially—and it seemed like I could support them working through that better if I stopped pussyfooting around it.”
You knew about Dave—you remember the conversation you had with him years ago—but Jane takes you by surprise. Not that she’s into girls, you know that, she and Roxy and Callie are so cloyingly sweet together it’s overwhelming, but… you didn’t know she was struggling. She’s family. Why didn’t she tell you?
“You told me I didn’t seem like a homophobe,” you finally say. “On Pesterchum, earlier.”
“You don’t.”
“Why not?”
Dirk scoffs. “Most folks would take that as a compliment.”
“I mean, I just told you I feel weirded out every time I see Dave and Karkat together, how is that not homophobic?”
Dirk has to pause and think about that one. You feel yourself getting agitated and nervous and you take another quick toke.
“I think if you’re straight—and that’s the root of the problem, I think, that’s what you really want to talk about—then yeah. It is. But you obviously care a lot about Dave and Karkat and you’re reaching out because you don’t want those feelings of discomfort to get in the way of your friendship with them. You want to respect their relationship. Right?”
“Right.”
“So if you’re straight and you want to respect their relationship then you’ve already taken the first step. But if you’re not…” He holds that sentence precariously in the air for a few seconds. “If you’re not then it’s not going to be about respecting and understanding anyone else. Getting comfortable with your own wants and needs—that’s going to have to be about respecting and understanding yourself.”
God, that sounds like some touchy-feely mumbo jumbo you’re not ready for. “Okay,” you say, a little tenuously.
You pass the pipe back and forth til it’s all used up, thin white ash caking the bowl. You’re feeling much more relaxed and comfortable, now, but you’re not sure if that’s the weed talking or if it’s a result of seeing Dirk act forthright and honest like a normal human being. You’re definitely high, in any case, your head feeling heavy and slow. You’re not sure about Dirk, though. You still can’t read him when he’s not talking.
“You want me to refill this?” you ask, motioning to the pipe.
He does this strange thing where it sounds like he’s chuckling, but his facial expression doesn’t change. He shakes his head politely. “I am pretty toasted right now, to be honest with you.”
You laugh. “Good.” You lay back and your head bumps against the wall. (You used to be able to lay flat across your bed, knees hanging off the side.)
Dirk reclines a little, arms propped behind him, looking at you over his shoulder. Or at least you figure he’s looking at you. Can’t tell through the dumbass anime shades.
“Um,” he says, and looks away. You fold your arms behind your head.
“Yeah?”
“So… when you asked me to come over,” he says with his eyebrows pulled together in a maybe I shouldn’t be saying this kind of way, “were you just wanting to sit around and talk about your feelings for men, in a purely theoretical context? Or were you hoping to… experiment.”
Aw, geez.
He’s giving you an out. He is providing you with the golden opportunity to say haha, no way. Let’s talk about our feelings like normal adults, and keep our fucking hands off each other. How easily you could make like you hadn’t reached out to Dirk to have this conversation rather than, say, Rose or Jade, specifically because you were kind of wondering in the back of your mind what it would be like to kiss a dude. It’s an opportunity that your blitzed ass is simultaneously too dumb and too hopeful to take.
So you giggle nervously and say “Uh, well, if you’re offering, I guess I won’t say no?”
You let the proposition hang in the air for a while, like some kind of big, horny cloud over the two of you.
Dirk nods slowly, like he’s considering it. He reclines back fully, laying on the bed next to you, arms folded across his chest thoughtfully. And then he says something very blunt.
“You know, it’s kind of fucked up to treat me like the proxy for your own sexual awakening just because I’m a gay dude.”
You grimace. “Augh, geez, yeah, I’m—sorry. Sorry. I didn’t think… yeah, this is a bad idea. Forget I said anything—”
“I just wanted you to know it’s fucked up,” Dirk interrupts. “I didn’t say no.”
Your brain processes the words one by one for a minute before you put them all together.
“Really?”
“I’ve kissed people for worse reasons.”
You guess that’s as good as invitation as any. So then it’s just you lying on your bed with your best friend’s brother, pleasantly baked, each waiting for the other to take the initiative.
Finally he says, “What, you’ve never kissed anybody before?”
“I mean, I have, but she was dead at the time. Oh, man, that sounds gross.”
“Nah, I get it. Sburb shit, right.”
“Yeah.”
He gives you this wordless I feel you look. “Right. So.” He rolls over so he’s facing you with his full body and reaches one arm over your shoulder. He’s never been so close. If you look hard enough you think you can see his eyes through his shades. “Soon as this goes sour, you let me know so we can cut it out, okay.”
“Yeah. Okay.” You suddenly notice you’re breathing kind of heavy.
“Alright.” You feel the soft pressure of his hand brushing against the back of your head, your jaw. Then he leans in—
The first thing that happens is the graceless clank of your glasses against each other. Your slow, heavy brain is so preoccupied with the uncomfortable grinding of plastic that when you catch up to yourself there’s already a mouth touching your mouth. His lips parted, deliberate, somehow tense; yours hanging open inelegantly like a dead fish. Your smoked-out psyche chugs along for a good three or four seconds before you make a little grunt that sounds like an oh! and figure you should start reciprocating.
You purse your lips in kind, as best as you figure you’re supposed to—you’ve seen movies—and whether you’re doing it right or not, it’s enough to get Dirk to relax. You feel him exhale a little through his nose and his jaw shifts, his lips soften over yours. He pulls back, and then he kisses you again—and again—and again, each time softer, but with more feeling, steadily intensifying. His hand is still over your jaw, palm resting on the pulse of your jugular, thumb idly stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear.
It’s a lot to take in, and you let it permeate you, your brain too occupied with sensation and feeling to think. It feels good. It feels steady. It’s soothing—you could stay here forever like this, locking lips with a boy and melting into the mattress.
You wonder if you should… You raise a hand and rest it on the dip of Dirk’s waist. He sighs long and slow into your mouth.
Something wet swipes suddenly against your lips and you shiver. You never realized how sensitive the flesh is there. That’s his tongue, you realize all at once. And you think well, better not be rude and you part your lips.
And then, yeah, that sure is Dirk’s tongue inside of your mouth.
It’s definitely a weird feeling. Not unpleasant, necessarily. It’s warm and wet, and it’s bigger than you were expecting—you never realized how much of the real estate in your mouth a tongue occupies—and then he does this thing where he kind of, licks your tongue with his tongue. And that sensation sends chills up the back of your skull and along your spine, all the way down until it makes something jump between your legs.
So you try to reciprocate, a bit more clumsily. You push your tongue back up against his. And before you even get the chance to think oh no, that wasn’t very good, you hear him make this very small, soft noise into your mouth, and you feel his fingers tighten in your hair.
So you do it again, and he licks your tongue again, and you keep doing that back and forth, and you guess this is what French kissing is. You always figured there was some kind of high-level, super elite strategy to it. Turns out it’s just that touching tongues feels super fucking good.
Which isn’t to say that you’re a natural at it or anything. You’re still awkwardly bumping your teeth against his every once in a while, and you still haven’t figured out how to keep yourself from drooling all over your bedsheets. Dirk’s breathing steadily through his nose while you’re still struggling to manage your air flow with your mouth open and occupied. But it feels good. And you’re getting better at it.
At some point, without your realizing it, he’s come much closer to you, and you’re very nearly pressed chest-to-chest now. He slides his free hand up between you, palm steadfast right over your heart, fingers splayed like he’s trying to grab a handful of boob. Your own free arm is sandwiched between the two of you as such that it would be uncomfortable to move it, so you use the one that’s resting on his waist instead. You reach along the hem of his shirt, and you lift—and your fingers crawl under—and you touch the bare skin of his hips, and his waist, and you feel the muscles clench underneath in time with the wind of his breathing against your cheek.
It’s a whole lot happening at once, very quietly, in a very small space. You’re now pretty confident you’re nursing a half-chub in your cargo shorts.
Dirk pulls all the way off you for the first time since you started (albeit with his left hand still resting on your boob). “Hey,” he says. He’s very obviously out of breath, which is kind of really hot to you for some reason. “Is it okay if I touch your dick?”
Oh. You’re wiping the excess drool off your chin with the back of your hand. You nod. “Yeah.”
He says, “cool,” and then he starts kissing you again.
He doesn’t go for the gold immediately. His right hand sits innocently on your hip for a minute before he dips it between your legs. You’re expecting it, but somehow still the warm pressure of his hand on your groin makes your hips jump. You make a little noise into his mouth and then immediately feel embarrassed about it. He feels you up through your shorts, palming the full length of your cock until your shameful half-chub is standing fully at attention. Before you realize it you’re grinding your hips into his hand, humping his palm like you’re desperate. It’s enough to get you worked up, and just short of satisfying so you keep chasing after it. Then it’s gone and your hips are canting up into empty air. He stops kissing you.
He props himself up on an elbow and says “We need to re-orient ourselves. This is not sustainable.”
You’re offended for a second before he makes a gesture with his arm to indicate both your legs hanging off the side of the bed and the top of your skull grinding against the wall. Yeah ok.
You both squirm and scoot around until you’re laying on your bed longways, much more practically, propped up with your pillows under your shoulders. (It’s more comfortable this way, although you were too busy getting felt up to notice the cramping in your right arm.) Dirk climbs on top of you, knees bracketing your thighs, face hovering over yours.
“This okay?” he asks.
Instead of answering you lean forward into his mouth again. It’s a little impolite of you, but Dirk gets the message.
From this position you feel like Dirk’s calling the shots, like he’s steering you, your head gradually tilting back as he gets more aggressive with his tongue. You don’t mind. You don’t know what you’re doing. And when he reaches back down between your legs with both hands you feel like you’d let him do anything he wants. He squeezes the head of your cock right through your shorts and it makes your hips pump up. You make a noise that sounds almost like a deflating balloon, and then—and you can’t quite tell because your eyes are still closed and his mouth is still right on top of your mouth—but it feels, from the way you feel his lips quirking and a little huff of breath right through his nostrils, like he might be laughing.
You hear a snap and feel your shorts loosen around your waist as his deft fingers work on your buttons. He’s still swirling his tongue in your mouth. Very impressive multitasking, especially for someone who’s baked. He’s probably done this before, you think. You wonder why that didn’t occur to you until now. You know he and Jake were… you never asked Jake about it, obviously, that would be weird, but they dated for months, even if it was years ago, that’s why Dirk’s so good at it—you are entirely out of your league and for whatever Freudian self-resenting reason the thought makes your dick twitch under Dirk’s hand.
You are suddenly extremely self-conscious.
Dirk’s kissing you softly, quick and chaste against your lips over and over again, and between kisses you start to mumble.
“What’s up?” he asks.
Your embarrassing gay boner is out and exposed in the open now, Dirk’s fingers loosely framing it at the open slit of your boxers. He’d just pulled it out without your even noticing. Your crotch is sweaty and dank and it somehow feels even grosser out in the air where Dirk can see it. You have to ask him or you’ll die not knowing.
“Do you think…” Ugh, god, how do you phrase this. “Is it, like… good?”
“Is what good.”
“My dick. Is it alright?”
He laughs, for real, openly, and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen his face do that. “It feels pretty healthy to me.”
“That’s not what I mean,” you whine petulantly, although you’re giggling. “I’m asking you if you think I have a nice dick.”
He breathes in to quell his laughter, straightens his face, and leans back to get a better look at it. He is considering it very thoroughly (or at least pretending to), tilting it back and forth to examine it from different angles. His face is stoic, but you scan it anyway, trying to pick up hints. He stews in thoughtful silence for longer than you think is strictly necessary, probably to tease you.
“It’s pretty good,” he finally says.
“Pretty good?” you press.
“What do you want me to say.”
“I don’t know, you’re the expert.”
He gives you a single huff of laughter. “Well, in my expert opinion,” he says, “it’s a solid dick. Big enough to feel like a challenge, not enough to be frightening. It’s thick, which is nice. Attractive, even color.” He tilts it back like he’s examining the underside. “And you’re cut, which makes it look neater, but it lacks character. Four out of five hats.”
It is so absurd and he says it so sincerely that you burst out laughing. “What’s the missing hat for?” you demand, still laughing, still hard in his hand.
“What can I say? I’m a harsh critic.” It’s infectious. He’s laughing too.
It feels good. All of the tension that was heavy in the air before is lifted. It feels less like you’re experiencing a life-changing event and more like you’re just fooling around. Just guys being dudes.
As the laughter subsides he strokes smooth and quick up your cock with a flick of his wrist and it makes you gasp.
He’s not laughing, anymore, but he’s smiling. You rest your idle hands on Dirk’s thighs and watch him start to slowly stroke you off. It’s weird and surreal, seeing another hand on your—
“When’d you take the gloves off?”
He hums. “Before I started touching your dick. What, you’d rather I keep them on? I can assure you it doesn’t feel great, but… different strokes.” Haha. Strokes.
“No, you’re good, dude.” Your muscles clench as Dirk slides his thumb across the head of your cock. “You’re so good.”
“You got lotion or anything? Might go a bit smoother.”
You grunt and pull yourself out of the reverie of your first handjob. You reach under your bed with one hand and feel around the mess of junk til you find your trusty little pump-top bottle of cocoa butter.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Dirk laughs, taking it from you. “Your dick’s gonna smell like chocolate, bro.”
The new and improved butter-slick, sweet-smelling handjob is transcendent. Dirk’s palm moves like a fucking dream as it pulls steadily, deliberately at your cock. You feel so much more sensitive than when you beat yourself off. You don’t know if it’s the THC pumping through your system, or if your brain’s giddy off the social, human connection, or… if Dirk’s just really good at handjobs. Might be all three. He pulls up with a firm, gentle squeeze, milking a fat, clear glob of precum out of you. Your lungs feel full.
You’re not kissing him anymore. You’re just watching him work you over with one hand, mesmerized. And he’s watching you watching him. And when you shift your gaze a little your eyes settle on Dirk’s groin, where you can see his dick is hard inside those health-goth Adidas sweatpants that don’t lend his boner any modesty at all.
He hasn’t said anything about it. You don’t know if he knows you know. But now that you’ve seen it it’s rude not to do anything about it, right? It’s only polite to give him at least a courtesy handy, right? Jesus, handjob etiquette is so complicated.
It’s not really gay experimenting if you don’t get to look at his dick, you think. You could get a handjob from anybody.
Your hand migrates inwards and upwards from Dirk’s thigh. The bulge in his pants feels hot and strange in your hand—different from yours but not different enough—and you’re surprised at the sound he makes when you touch it, this long, low sigh with his voice creeping up the corners. His hand gets tense and tight around your cock, just a little, just for a second.
You don’t know what you’re doing. Your first instinct with a dick in your hand is to do whatever you do to yourself, but the angle the opposite of what you’re used to and it makes relying on experience impossible. So you do what Dirk did—you feel him up, grope slowly but haphazardly through his pants until you’ve squeezed all up and down the length of him. Dirk is pumping you throughout but less steadily, a little faster, a little tighter. You time your strokes to his. You move in sync.
Your fingers drift up towards his waistband and you look up at him, asking permission to continue. You’ve never seen his face so red.
“Go ahead, man,” he says. “Consider this an engraved invitation to get your hands on my knob whenever you get the hankerin’ to.”
You laugh. And you pull his sweatpants down to around mid-thigh. And underneath the effortless-street-fashion elegant black fabric are these hideous, eye-searing goldfish-cracker-orange briefs that make his hard-on look like a traffic cone. Which makes you laugh even harder.
“C’mon, bro, don’t laugh at my dick after you made me say all those nice things about yours.”
“I’m not laughing at your dick. I’m laughing at your underwear.”
“What’s wrong with them?” You genuinely do not know if Dirk is affecting ignorance to joke with you or if he’s actually distressed at your disrespect for his drawers.
“Nothing. Let’s get these off of you,” you say between bouts of giggles. You go to disrobe him when he stops you with his slippery cocoa-butter hands.
“Well, if there’s nothing wrong with them, maybe I’ll just keep them on.”
“Don’t be like that, man. Let me see your dick.”
“Say please.”
“Fuck off!” You fall all the way back onto your pillows, shaking with laughter, lucidly aware of the absurdity of you on your spooky ghost bedsheets with your naked dick out and fuckin’ Mango Tango over here. Dirk laughs with you.
When your guffaws settle down into intermittent snickers, he leans forward. “Here. Follow me.” And he starts kissing you again—slow, gentle, no tongue, just his mouth on top of your mouth like it was when you were first starting out. And you hum and let him do it because you like it so much.
With your eyes closed, you feel his hands loosen around your wrists, and then he’s guiding you—holding your hands as you pull along the circumference of his briefs and then down, down, until they’re stretched around his thighs with his sweatpants. And then—without his prompting—you slide your hands back up his naked thighs. His hair is unexpectedly soft and you can feel how tight his muscles are beneath the skin. And before you even get your hands on his cock you swear you can feel the heat radiating off of it, like it’s some kind of gay beacon broadcasting its horny energy at you.
And then you touch his dick. Achievement unlocked.
You have to look at it. You have to. You stop kissing him, crane your neck to get a good look, and he straightens up so you can see better.
“Haha,” you laugh, “your dick’s wearing a sweater.” (Being a wholesome young heterosexual man, you’ve never actually seen an uncut penis in person before.)
“Yeah, forgive me for not performing any cosmetic surgery on my own personal hog,” he retorts, but he’s chuckling a little so you know he’s not really offended. “That’s all natural, baby.”
Cautiously, you pull his foreskin back over the red, swollen head of his dick, and you hear him hiss softly through his teeth.
“Sorry, does that hurt?”
“Fuuuck no, dude, you are all the way in the clear.”
You’ve got one hand examining Dirk’s erection, and the other splayed flat against his pelvis because you’re not sure what to do with it. He lays one of his hands over it—not threading your fingers together, that’s a bit much, just—placing his own fingers conspicuously in the grooves between your knuckles. You give him an experimental stroke (the circumference is different from your own, you have no idea how much pressure to use) and it seems to work when his abs clench and his hips cant up just barely into your hand.
“Stick out your hand.” He gives you a squirt of the cocoa butter. “There. Now you can go to town.”
You warm up the lotion between your hands while he gives himself another pump out of the bottle. And then there’s a bit of shifting and re-strategizing as your two idiot stoner brains figure out how to orient your arms so you can most effectively jerk each other off at the same time. And after you do, you start making out again.
This is the fucking tops. It feels like there’s a tether running straight from your tongue to your dick and every time he strokes one or the other you get static electricity all the way back and forth over your spine. You very quickly fall in sync with each other again, wrists pumping in time. You roll the head of his dick between your fingers on the upstroke and you’re rewarded with a quiet, breathy noise right out of Dirk’s throat. You are a natural at this, you think. Like some kind of handjob savant. His free hand is squeezing your boob again.
He pulls his lips off of yours when you’re not expecting it and there’s a deliciously lewd splack sound as your wet mouths separate. “John, do you—aah, fuck—” You give him a long, slow squeeze when he’s not expecting it just to see him get worked up over it. “Do you think our relationship is ready for the dick-on-dick phase yet?”
You snort. “I dunno, dude, that sounds pretty gay.”
“Don’t you know? It’s not gay unless balls are touching.”
“Oh, well in that case, feel free to rub your dick all over my dick, as long as our balls don’t touch.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says as he scooches his hips forward. He stops touching your cock and places his hands on your waist instead, like he’s taking you ballroom dancing. You mirror him, lotion-sticky hands right over the sloping edge of his hipbones. And then—he kisses you with his whole body, his mouth on your mouth, the flat, sturdy pane of his abdomen against your much broader, softer one; you feel his thighs squeeze against yours and then in one elegant gold medal move he rolls his hips forward and land sakes alive we are cooking with petrol now
You groan into his mouth and he gives you a breathy giggle in return, like he knew what was coming and he’s pleased as punch he took you by surprise.
It feels very good to touch dicks with another dude. Remarkable, even. Perhaps not mathematically—inch-for-inch, the messy friction doesn’t light up as many nerves as a good handjob—but it’s so much more intense. He’s so close. His whole body is moving over you. His hands squeeze your waist when he grinds down, loosen when he lifts, squeeze again. Everything is touching. You swear to god you think you can feel his nipples pebbled through layers of fabric even though you know that’s impossible. He manages to stay so graceful somehow, his hips rocking in a perfect figure eight where yours flinch and jerk towards stimulation arrhythmically like an animal.
One of his hands leaves your waist and snakes conspicuously between you, right in the middle of the tight, sweaty heat where your abdomens are pushed together, and with a little dexterity he gets both your cocks right together in his hand. It’s all wet with lotion and sweat and sticky precum and the first pump is so smooth and hot and tight that it feels out of this fucking world. When you moan he moans back, too overwhelmed to even laugh at your greenness.
His hips recalibrate from the smooth, circular motions to a more authoritarian, straightforward back-and-forth. Which is just as good, with his cock pressed fully against yours and his fingers binding the two of them together. You can feel every time his dick twitches and you think if you focus you can feel his pulse thrumming through it, too.
You’re messy. Your mouth is hanging open—his too—chins pressed together, lips grazing but not locked, breathing heavy and swallowing the air right out of each other. You’re both panting and it’s so agonizingly loud. His hips rock faster and you hear his voice growing, creeping up into the margins of his breath, getting louder every time.
You don’t know what to do. You want him closer, impossibly so. Your hands on his hips reach back around his ass and squeeze, pulling him down and forward and against you, as much as you can.
“John—” His voice doesn’t sound like him, high at the top of his lungs, threatening to crack. “John, John, wait, oh, oh sss—shiii—t—”
He reels back and you get a good look at his face, all tense, eyebrows drawn tight together, his mouth wide open. He doesn’t make a sound, barely even breathes: just a single long exhale that stutters in time with his hips as his cock pumps stripe after thick, pearly stripe of cum over your belly.
His hand is still like the rest of him, frozen right near the roots of your matching boners. You watch his orgasm slow and subside right in front of you til the head of his cock is just lazily dribbling all over your own. You are so fucking painfully hard.
“Holy fuck,” he says, hoarse and entirely out of breath. “Holy shit, dude.”
He lets go of your dicks and you whine petulantly, tilting your hips up against him. Your cock feels harder and heavier than it ever has in your life and you feel like if you don’t get to cum it’s just going to fall off.
“Shit. Sorry. That was rude of me. My bad.” He wiggles back, removes his softening boner from the vicinity of your still-very-much-alive one, and then pauses thoughtfully.
“Hey, you mind if I try something?”
“Please,” you keen, about to die.
He laughs, a lilting little exhausted chuckle. “Oh my god, bro, of course I’m going to finish you off. What kind of asshole do you take me for.”
He scooches all the way off you and lays on his belly and it doesn’t occur to you that he’s assuming a blowjob position until your dick is already in his mouth.
All you can say is “oh,” but you say it without even meaning to. It feels better than him jerking you off, better even than the full-body friction: that lovely tongue that felt so good writhing in your mouth now lapping at the head of your cock. Involuntarily you dig your heels into the mattress, your toes curl, your whole body flexes as you try to temper yourself from fucking recklessly into Dirk’s throat.
He lays his hands flat on either side of your hips, probably to keep you grounded when he purses his lips and starts sucking. Tight and wet, hot and alive like you’ve never felt before—between the pressure and the steady pulse of his tongue rolling against the underside of your cock it feels like he’s trying to milk your orgasm out of you, eagerly unwinding it from your insides. He bobs his head, pulls you in deeper. He’s making no effort to take you even more than halfway but it still makes you feel like you could sink all the way into the extravagance of his mouth until you disappear. Your brain is full of your own blood pounding in your ears and the obscenely wet sound of your cock getting pulled into his mouth over and over again.
You’ve been on the edge for too long and it’s too much and then it feels like everything, all your guts and every conscious thought you’ve ever had, bursts through the dam. You’re outside yourself. You can’t take your eyes off of him but you’re seeing double. It feels like the longest orgasm you’ve ever had, pumping relentlessly right down his throat, and he’s entirely unfazed.
And then.
And then. It’s over. And he lets you go with a quiet, wet little pop.
And you see him swallow.
“Jesus christ,” you say.
His lips are all red and swollen and wet in a way that is, honestly, kind of gross, now that he doesn’t have your dick in them. He sits up and unceremoniously wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand. You still feel your wilting dick throbbing with aftershocks.
“Mind if I grab something to drink?” he asks. “My mouth’s dry and it tastes like fucking lotion.”
Slowly, you peel yourself up off the bed. Your back’s all sweaty and your shirt sticks to your skin. Also it’s still got Dirk’s cum all over the front of it.
“Oh, shit,” he says apologetically. “Sorry for nutting on your shirt, bro.”
“Yeah. Um,” you swallow and try to pull yourself together. “Don’t worry about it. Lemme go grab you a glass of water.”
You tentatively ease one leg off the bed, like you’re afraid the floor’s not gonna be there anymore, and even when it is you feel like it’s been a hundred years since you’ve touched land. Your center of gravity shifts. You’re a little wobbly—not enough that Dirk notices, you hope—but you make it to the bathroom fine.
You have the presence of mind to tuck your flaccid dick back into your underwear so you’re not wandering around your empty house with your junk hanging out. You still leave your shorts totally undone though. Whatever.
It’s late afternoon now, robust gold sunlight blaring through your bathroom window. You throw your cummy shirt in the laundry basket—in the heat of the moment it was kind of sexy but now you’re worried about how you’re going to scrub that shit out of your invaluable Gone Squatchin’ tee—while you let the faucet run. You grab a couple of dixie cups out of the cabinet and when you stand up straight you get a good look at yourself in the mirror: uneven and splotchy flush all over your face, glasses askew, eyes red. Your pants are undone and your whole hairy torso is just kind of… out there in the open. You look like a caricature. You guzzle a few tiny cups’ worth of cold tap water and fill another one up to take back to Dirk.
He’s entirely unfazed when you return. He’s reclined on the bed, sweatpants back up around his hips like they should be, tapping away to somebody on his phone. He looks up when he hears you come back.
“Who are you talking to?”
He swallows the whole cup in one go and you feel like kind of a dick for giving him the tiny dixie cup instead of a regular glass when he’s the one who had your penis all the way in his mouth. “Dave.”
“Are you telling him all about the blowjob you just gave me?”
“Nah.” His phone screen is lines and lines of red and orange text. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Something in your stomach feels a little heavier. “You think I should keep this secret?”
He pauses and with a twitch of his finger his screen goes black. He looks straight at you. “I kind of got the impression that you wanted it to be. Of course I’m not going to go around bragging about my sexual conquests.” You don’t respond, so he continues: “I mean, if you want to tell people about the blowjob I just gave you, I’m not going to stop you or anything.”
You’re grounded now. Earlier this afternoon, before Dirk started kissing you, you felt deeply ashamed about what you were thinking of doing. And when you had him all over you it was perfect, untouchable, suspended in space. And now everything is very quiet and the shame is flooding you again.
It’s just your best friend’s brother laying on your bed, and you, standing barefoot and shirtless in the middle of your room like a jackass.
He seems to detect that something’s going on behind your eyes. He scoots over close to the wall and pats the vacant space next to him. Slowly, you sit down.
He goes back to his conversation with Dave, and you sit there with him, stewing in silence. You notice he put those fucking gloves back on.
Finally, you say “I can’t believe you swallowed it.”
That actually gets him to swivel his head to look at you, eyebrows quirked. “Why? What else am I supposed to do, spit it out all over your nice carpet?”
“I mean, it’s… it’s gross, isn’t it? Like that’s somebody else’s bodily fluid.”
“It’s almost entirely protein, bro.”
You laugh. “I wasn’t talking about the nutritional value, dude! I didn’t think you sucked dick for your health!”
“I mean, it doesn’t taste good, if that’s what you’re asking. Maybe next time you can suck my dick and see if you like it or not.”
Next time.
Uh.
“Next time,” you say.
“Uh,” he says.
“Well, I’m not saying—”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything.”
“No, no, that’s not what I—”
God, this is awkward. Because of course you don’t want to say yes, please, come over and let’s touch dicks some more. But you also… really, really don’t want to say no?
He seems to realize you’re conflicted. “Let’s table this for now,” he says mercifully. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”
There is not. But you don’t want him to leave.
“Do you want anything to eat?” you ask. “I don’t have a whole lot but I think there’s pizza rolls in the freezer. We could get takeout.”
“Dude,” he says, “I could fucking destroy some pizza rolls right now. I could advance through your kitchen and there’d be nothing left. Scorched earth.”
You laugh. “Okay. I’ll make pizza rolls and we can watch Netflix or something.”
You make pizza rolls and you watch Netflix and you don’t ever get around to putting another shirt on.