"Dude, it's getting outta hand," Chris whispered to Lance one morning when they were heading bus-wards, lugging their overnight bags and trying to pretend like they were really awake.
"What?" said Lance, and Chris just nodded towards the lobby, where security were escorting two people out. A tall, skinny girl in a red dress and a tall, skinny boy in tight jeans.
"Justin's playmates. Haven't you noticed?"
Lance stared after the couple. They were quiet and let themselves be shepherded towards the exit without a fuss. They seemed to walk with perfect ease. Not like people who'd been kicked out of someone's bed. "What?" he said again.
"Don't pay attention much, huh?" Chris laughed and ruffled his hair. Lance saw the tall, skinny boy turn and look back. His face was angular and gaunt and asketic. The corner of his mouth curled, and Lance could have sworn he winked.
It was an endless row of hotel rooms. Sometimes, he was next door to Justin. Like tonight.
He wondered again how he could ever not have noticed what was going on. It was a lot like suddenly seeing the 3-D picture in one of those computer-scrambled things.
He'd spent some time with Joey, just hanging out, but Joey was on his way out with Chris, and Lance always felt a little out of his league with them. Clubs were smoky and loud and crowded, and most of the time not very much fun to hang out in.
On his way back to his own room, he bumped into Justin in the hall.
"Yo," Justin said. He was wearing pants that were too big for him and a t-shirt that was too small. He was carelessly carrying a bucket that dribbled slivers of ice all over the carpet. "Goin' for ice."
"I can see," Lance said. He opened his door and saw Justin just rap on his with the side of the bucket. Someone opened it.
"Later," Justin said. Arms were grabbing him and pulling him into the room. The door slammed closed behind him. Lance stood where he stood, quietly staring at the dark spot where the ice water had splashed.
Finally he shook his head and went to bed. He could hear muted laughter from behind the wall. He wasn't picturing whatever was happening there.
He did start picturing things after the night a few weeks later, when he walked in on Justin kissing a girl in the dressing room. She was pretty and black and wore a very tight skirt. Justin had pushed it up a little, so Lance could see her black, lacy panties. Justin's hand was very pale against her milk-chocolate skin. Lance backed out of the room quickly, but he still saw Justin licking her lips and move against her, and her hand pressed tight against the front of his pants.
A few days passed. Lance had pictures in his head that he couldn't quite reconcile with the Justin that shared a bus with him, the Justin that had disgusting eating habits and was impossible to watch movies with, since he would always spoil them out loud, and then laugh about it. Now there was another Justin superimposed on that annoying, funny, familiar guy. Someone who kissed girls in dressing rooms and put his hand up their skirts, and had 'playmates'.
Hotel room again. Lance told himself he wasn't hiding out. But when there was a knock, he didn't open. Not until the knocker started banging on the door. And there was Justin on the outside, tapping his foot and fidgeting. "Were you ever gonna let me in," he muttered irritably.
"I just did, didn't I?" Lance took a step backwards and waved an invitation. "Please enter."
"Whatever." Justin marched right up to the easy chair and threw himself into it, arranging his long legs artfully over the armrest. "Man, what is up with you?"
Lance sat down, carefully, in the sofa. "What do you mean, what's up with me?"
"You're ignoring me."
"I'm not."
Justin's eyes were narrow and he was fidgeting with his shirt. "Are too. Is it cause of - cause of the girl? I didn't fuck her right there, man."
Lance flinched, like he always did when Justin exercised his potty mouth. He felt stupid for doing it, but it was a reflex. "I didn--" he started, but Justin was already plunging ahead.
"It wasn't like that. She was fun. We went back to my room after the show, and we fu-- fooled around some and watched TV. There was some National Geographic Special on, man. She really liked cheetahs." He giggled a little, his eyes distant for a second, remembering.
"But you don't. You don't know her," Lance said, helplessly. He didn't want to have this conversation, but Justin had settled in and was clearly expecting some sort of interaction.
"Do too. Her name was ... Louise, she's from Atlantic City, she's twenty-two, her dog's name is Spike." He grinned, satisfied with himself. "I know she likes big cats. And I know what she likes to do. Um. Maybe you don't need to hear about that."
Lance thought about Danielle, with whom he'd had sex exactly eight times. He had known her all his life, and he had no idea what she liked to do in bed. She'd been sweet and lain very still. He'd told her he loved her and meant it. It hadn't been very memorable. He tried to imagine lying down with a perfect stranger, someone you only knew the most basic things about, and try to do ... that. And he couldn't.
Justin shiften in the sofa, stretched and yawned. "I just wanted to, you know, like check on you? You've been acting all weird."
"I haven't--" Lance tried, weakly. He had.
"You really got a problem with ... with the stuff. The sex stuff? I don't hurt them. It's fun."
Lance gritted his teeth and went on, doggedly, "But you don't know them, it's-- how can it be--"
Justin blinked and sat up, leaned forward. His hair caught the sun from the balcony windows and shone around his head. Lance shifted out of the glare. "Man, you need to get out more," Justin said. "Sex is, like, supposed to be fun."
"I've had sex," Lance said, too sharply, feeling ashamed just saying it. He probably hadn't had sex the way Justin did.
Justin made a sour face. "Yeah, but I bet you haven't had. Like. Dunno, bet you haven't had a good blowjob in ages if you're like that."
"I have--" Lance started, but he could feel the lie wouldn't get past his lips, and Justin's expression told him it was already too obvious.
"Oh, man. Did Danielle give bad head? You know, you should just ... give it time. Cause it is not easy the first time," and he grinned a little, a little smugly, and Lance flinched again. Justin's grin vanished. "Look, is it cause of, cause of how I make it with guys sometimes? Cause it's not all the time--"
"It's not that, it's just-- you never meet these gi-- people again ..."
Justin frowned. He looked as if he was sincerely trying to understand, and just couldn't. "You - you're making it sound like it's bad. I don't hurt anyone, I told you. It's just ... fun," he finished, throwing his arms out helplessly.
Lance tried one more time. He wasn't being very articulate, and neither was Justin. They were talking right past each other, and Lance didn't think there was anything he could do about it. But he wanted to, desperately. He was sick with that desperation - making Justin understand something that wasn't all that clear even in Lance's own head right now. Justin sat in the sofa, leaning forward now, his arms on his knees. Lance leaned forward a little, too. He felt his back creak, and realised he'd been so tense his muscles ached dully. He tried to relax, but didn't do very well.
"It's not love," he said, and knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say, wrong wrong wrong wrong, and there - Justin made a frustrated gesture, a little movement forward, and Lance didn't know why the prospect of him maybe just leaving in a huff scared him so much, but it did, it made his kneecaps quiver, his breath seize. He didn't know what forced him, but it felt as if a great hand pushed him down, down, down on his knees on the floor in front of Justin, and he felt graceless and clumsy, every bit the inbred hick, and he could not look up and maybe see contempt on Justin's face.
He heard, vaguely, a surprised "whatthefuck--" but he ignored it; his hands were fumbling with Justin's fly, tugging frantically. How difficult it was suddenly, such an everyday thing - opening button, unzipping, pushing the pants down a little - difficult from this side, difficult with numb, trembling fingers.
Justin's hands came down on his shoulders, gently, and there was his voice again: "Lance, you don't--" but Lance ignored him and just pushed his own hand against Justin's groin, against the heat there, and Justin's tentative protest turned into a soft hiss. Lance rubbed carefully, and felt more heat, swelling, hardness. Justin melted - well, the rest of him did - and relaxed back into the couch. He might have said something, but Lance didn't hear it. He was leaning forward, pushing down the loud, horrified voice in his head, the one that was shrieking "what are you doing! What are you doing! What are you doing!"
He took a deep breath and leaned closer, kept his left hand where it was, pushed his right hand up, stroking the smooth, downy skin of Justin's stomach, feeling the steel-spring muscles flex and tighten.
Lance's own stomach was so tightly clenched that his diaphragm hurt, like it sometimes did when he sang without warming up, or when he'd been trying to match Justin's pace in a work-out. He had his hand on-- on Justin's-- and he couldn't even think the word, and he bit his lip viciously and thought you stupid wimp, wimp, wimp! and, closing his eyes, cock, cock, cock, cock, and bit his lip again, because he realised he'd been subvocalising it, almost-whispering, almost saying it out loud.
To keep himself from thinking, he crossed the line in his head, the last line he'd set up for himself - a wall, really, a sturdy brick wall; but it ws a heap of broken tiles now - and pressed hit hot, burning hot face against the matching heat of Justin's groin. He felt soft skin and springy, rough hair and humid heat, and he smelled clean skin and a hint of soap and the underlying pungent, intimate smell, the same smell Lance could smell on his own fingers when he'd jerked off, the same, but maybe a little different, a subtly different nuance. He rubbed his face against the smell and the hot skin, liking the way it felt, liking Justin's little movement, his quietly indrawn breaths, the way his hands tightened just a fraction on Lance's shoulders. He liked it, and he hated it, because it made this easy; it tore down the last remnants of that wall and carted all the rubble away until it was as if it had never existed. He wondered if he'd feel better if Justin had recoiled and maybe shouted in anger or punched his lights out. That kind of humiliation might have been easier to endure than this, than opening his mouth and having that first taste and liking it.
The world blurred together into a slow spin of disjointed impressions after that. Colours and forms bled into a smear of mottled light. His knees ached, but he ignored then. His jaw ached, but he ignored it. His head pounded with a fear headache, but he ignored it. He could hear Justin mutter under his breath, but the words made no sense to him. He could feel Justin's hands on his shoulders, he could feel them branded there, even when they left to pet his hair or stroke his neck. He was so tired and so afraid, and he wanted this to last forever so he'd never ever, ever, ever have to look Justin in the face again.
All things, good and bad, come to end, and he wasn't exactly surprised when he heard Justin cry out, a throaty and incoherent cry (although he was surprised to hear his own name in there, his own name and perhaps even baby or something tender or wanton like that), and felt the hands - one on his shoulder and one twined in his hair - tighten almost painfully. Justin might have made a feeble effort to pull him off; a weak jerk, not enough to make him understand what it meant, not enough to really warn him for the sudden spurt of hot, stringy goo that filled his throat and made him choke and gag and sputter and cough.
He fell back on his ass, graceless as a toddler, wiping his mouth frantically and wishing and wishing again and maybe even praying (although he didn't dare direct those prayers to God, no way was he talking to God about this, not about this shame) for an easy exit. Maybe a convenient abyss opening in front of him so he could jump right down to hell and be done with it.
"Hey, are you okay?" Justin said, his voice warm and mellow and too close by. "I'm sorry, I got way too into that, I forgot to--"
Lance cringed back, scrabbling desperately for purchase on the carpet, but it felt as if his limbs were weighted with lead, and he couldn't seem to coordinate them into anything useful. Justin's hands were on him, petting softly, wiping his face, trying to soothe. Lance just wanted him to go away and never speak to him again.
"Lance, come on, come on, did you choke on it? I'm sorry, really, it was just good, it was really good, you're good at that, baby, you're really good, come on ..." and Justin had Lance's face between his hands, and his face came closer, and his lips were soft and pliant and unhesitant. Lance froze in the kiss, too stunned to react or respond or move away like he wanted to. He realised that his mouth had fallen open, and Justin was taking it as approval, and the whole thing was reminding Lance's body that things had transpired, that sexsexsexsex was in the air and it hadn't gotten what it was set out to get, and it almost hurt. And he came out of his paralysis, but his body was not talking to his brain, so his arms rose and clutched at Justin, pulled him closer, could not get enough of his strong shoulders and long back and tightly-muscled arms.
And Justin kissed him, licked his mouth and in between, mumbled all sorts of nonsense at him, told him he was great and hot and sexy and should calm down, because all this was good and well, and Justin would take care of business, yeah, he'd make sure things stayed good, so don't worry, baby, it's all right, it's gonna be all right--
And it wasn't entirely clear how they ended up on the bed, but that they did, and when Justin pulled back suddenly, and Lance panicked and prepared for the worst, it was only to casually pull off his tee and shimmy out of his pants and shorts, and maybe that was worse than the alternative.
The fear must have shown on his face, because Justin frowned (making Lance realise, suddenly, that he was looking at Justin, looking him in the eye, in fact, and he dropped his eyes quickly, stared at the soothingly blue bedspread, studied the texture and tried to empty his mind) and said, "oh, oh, we don't have to-- we don't have to fuck, you know, if you're not into that, really. I just want you to feel good, okay?" and Lance wasn't sure he understood what Justin was talking about.
And Justin was naked and sleek and leaning over him, confusing glimpses of perfect skin and perfect teeth and the smell of clean sweat and fresh come, and Lance fell back against the blue bed and gave up.
Justin helped him out of his clothes, in between trailing little kisses along his jaw and neck and shoulder and chest, and whispered continuous encouragement, his breath making goosebumps rise on Lance's sweaty skin.
Justin's hand stroking his chest, his stomach, and down from there. Justin's hand on his - cock, he told himself angrily, not sure if he was more humiliated because of what he'd done or because he was a wimp and couldn't face it, if you can suck it, you can say it, that's my cock and that's Justin's hand on it - on his cock, and he arched against his will into the touch, and Justin dropped onto him, not heavily, but still trapping him completely, pushing him into the mattress, and Lance wondered, disjointedly, whether it was like this for girls, whether he'd made Danielle feel this small and scared and helplessly caught when he'd been on top of her.
Justin's mouth on his collarbone, and he didn't know why that light, wet touch would send such sharp arrows of excitement straight into his aching groin, but it did, and the arrows were met by Justin's hand doing things, doing them better, probably, than Lance could do them even to himself, and again he found himself moving along, lifting his hips and begging for more. And Justin was on top of it, on top of Lance, too, and not complaining at all. In fact, Lance could feel a new hard-on pushing into the ridge of his hip, rubbing there, slicking the skin and skidding along it in little thrusts. Lance didn't know what to do, but his body had decided what it wanted, so his legs spread and his arms held Justin close, and his eyes were squeezed shut so tightly that the tears burning right under the lids couldn't escape.
"Lance, Lance, Lance, Lance," Justin chanted in his ear, sounding almost surprised for some reason, "Lance, oh, oh, I love you, baby, I love you, love you--" and this sounded far too much like something out of some really cheesy soft porn film, and it took Lance a moment to figure out that Justin might have watched a lot of those cheesy soft porn films. It might not mean that Justin was lying or just talking hot air or anything like that. Or it did. And right now, maybe it didn't really matter. Lance knew what he felt, that he loved Justin, of course he did - he wouldn't have touched him otherwise, would he? He would never do this with someone he didn't love for real, would he?
But Justin would, and remembering this was good, that was something to bear in mind, especially when it felt like his insides were on fire and he couldn't lie still because this pleasure was really only a fraction of an inch away from pain, and Justin's hand was the best thing that's been anywhere near Lance's cock in what felt like ages.
Orgasms are always too short, and this one felt like it was a long, long stretch of time compressed into the space of one painfully cramped second. "yeah, yeah, you're - great - you - oh--" Justin mumbled and thrust hard against him, flattening him against the bed, and then shudders and a small cry, and there was even more slickness between them, a whole flood of it.
Justin relaxed where he was, heavy and warm-damp and breathing deep, long breaths into Lance's neck. Lance opened his eyes a little and let the tears out. It didn't really matter anymore. He felt wrung out and limp, like a dish rag or a dirty towel. And at the same time - how could he be this divided without knowing it before? - he was swimming in heady bliss, intensely satisfied with the weight on top of him, with the way Justin had made himself at home right there.
He cried quietly, not sure if the worst shame was reacting like such a girl, or just being here, naked under a boy who had playmates.
Justin stirred languidly, stretching a little, rolling off, finally. Lance blinked away the tears - stop, stop, stop crying, you little wimp! - and saw that Justin was smiling, a lazy little smile that made his face glow. Then Justin saw Lance, really saw him, and the smile fell off his face.
"Are you okay? Shit, did I hurt you? What's wrong?" He sounded nervous and upset and not entirely sure of himself. Lance immediately missed the other Justin, the one that knew exactly what he was doing and took charge and let Lance just hang on for the ride. This Justin might actually ask Lance to explain himself.
"Nothing," he squeezed out. The attention made the crying worse, more painful, more forced. He couldn't see Justin anymore, didn't really want to, but he could picture his face, that concerned puppy face he'd be making now, that one he made when things were Not All Right and he didn't know how they got that way. "Nothing," he said again, willing Justin to drop it.
"Please, Lance," and it sounded almost pleading now, with a touch of panic, "just tell me what's wrong? I'm sorry if I-- I don't know, what did I do?"
and because he sounded so scared and so concerned and so honestly upset, Lance tried: "'It's-- I-- you-- we-- it's not--" but it wasn't there; he couldn't communicate this to Justin because he knew Justin just didn't have the background, the capacity to feel this. Justin wasn't stupid, or callous, but he wasn't Thoughtful Boy, either.
Finally, Justin pulled back a little and asked, almost morosely, "do you want me to stay? Do you?" and Lance swallowed and said, honestly,
"No."
and Justin moved further back, and asked, "do you want me to go then?" and Lance wiped his face and turned his back and whispered, honestly,
"No." |
