by Trisky
"What conversation? You always tell me to shut up or you run away. We never get to the actual conversing part of the conversation." I take a toke on the joint he passes to me, letting the smoke fill my lungs. This time he can't move an inch. I have him trapped between my legs, his back splayed all over my chest, one arm wrapped around his waist. He's helpless for once in his life. Not that he couldn't flip me off the bed with one toss, because I'm sure he could do that even with me behind him, but he wouldn't dare try.
Now this is my idea of celebrating the day I became a man in every official, legal, and practical capacity. I am no longer anyone else's responsibility. If I want to fuck, suck and toke until the sun rises and I can no longer be sure my dick is attached to my body, I can. That's just what I intend to do. I'm also totally responsible for any mistakes I might make along the way, including the one that might get me my dick handed back to me in my hand if I push this conversation any further. Because I can deny it all I want, but take away all the intellectualizing and it all comes back to the cock. It's an amazing tool. If I didn't have it, I wouldn't be where I am. If I didn't like it so much, I wouldn't be who I am. If it fails me, I don't get what I want. If it works, I can get almost anything. I can work a cock, his, mine... like no one else. That might be shallow but it's true.
I giggle and wrap my legs around his torso a little tighter so that I can dangle my toes near the head of his very naked, very willing cock.
"What's so funny?" He leans his head into my arm to try and catch a glimpse of my face which is lit up in more ways than one. "No more smoking for you, or maybe you're just sweet on me." He drawls slowly using his mouth to great effect to draw out every word and gives me a sweet but surly smile. He's a perversion of nature. No single person should be allowed to be that sexy without trying.
"No," I laugh again. "I don't like you at all, especially when you're avoiding the question." I inhale the last of our second shared joint and stab out the remainder in the ashtray.
"You don't like me but you loooovvveee me." He closes his eyes and relaxes, molding himself onto my skin.
"I don't love you." I poke his nipple with my finger. "I tolerate you. Love is for dykes and straight people, right? Just like marriage."
"I tolerate you too." He pats my hand condescendingly. He's such a shit. A very relaxed, contented, satiated, beautiful shit.
"Will you answer the question?" I feather my toes near the bulb of his dick. That should get his attention.
"If you put your dirty, disgusting feet anywhere near my cock, you'll be wheeling around in a wheelchair for the next few months after I break both of your legs."
"What does it matter? You didn't seem to mind my mouth being there, and that has, like, ten thousand more germs." I seize his shaft between my feet and move them up and down in torturously slow rhythm. He's really not going anywhere anytime soon, now.
"Hey, if you're interested in putting your mouth back there once your feet have been there, then by all means, go for it." I hadn't thought of that. Doesn't matter, that's what showers were invented for. I still have control over the cock.
"You just don't like being at my mercy," I fill in the blanks. "Now stop avoiding and answer the question."
"I am not answering the question," his hips quiver against my thighs as I work him over with my feet. It's a precarious, painful workout for my toes. Who know your feet could hold so much power?
"Christ Brian! I'm not asking you to get matching platinum cock rings. I don't want to marry you. I just want to know why you don't believe in marriage. That's it. Coast clear." I work my feet a little faster and his breathing gets a little more choppy, while my ankles get a little more weak and my toes a little more numb. "And don't tell me it's because it's for everyone but you. That's not an answer."
"Because..." he lets out a low, rumbling moan that runs right up my spine. "It's a bullshit concept that has nothing to do with reality and everything to do with money."
"What?" I heave my feet off his cock and press on his thighs instead.
"Why'd you stop?" He sounds like a three-year-old who had his lollipop taken away.
"I'm getting toe-lock." I sit up a little further and he reluctantly shimmies his back to move along with my chest and keep his body pillow, me, in place. "How can you say marriage is all about money?"
"Uh, Justin..." he points down to his place of worship, his mind too clouded with lust and smoke to think rationally. Just as I thought, it all comes back to the cock. I could probably get pretty much anything I wanted out of him right this very minute. "Would you like to help me out here?"
I lean my head on his shoulder and slide my hands down his waist, my fingers curling in his pubic hair. I whisper in his ear, "picture Melanie's box."
He slaps both of my hands away. "That'll do it." I expect him to shrug me off entirely. Instead he does something peculiar. He inhales a few breaths of air and reaches for my right hand to lace his fingers through and squeezes my palm into his own. I understand. "Marriage is an excuse to throw a ridiculously overpriced party to celebrate yourself and then spend the rest of your life paying yourself back with tax breaks. That's all it amounts to."
"Marriage is a commitment. It's a sacrament. You're so cynical." That doesn't actually bother me, the whole marriage thing. I really don't think I could see myself going through with whatever the queer equivalent of a wedding is. But I kind of like the forever part.
"And you're so naive. What the fuck do I give a shit about a sacrament from some hypocritical house of worship that doesn't even recognize my existence?" Now I'm pretty sure I know why he's never answered the question before and why I never pressed him on it. "That's the one thing these backward laws have protected us from, making the same asinine mistakes as the rest of the population," he laughs inwardly. I feel the need for my third joint coming on as he rubs his thumb over my palm.
"It's not about religion or legalities, Brian. It's about saying I want you around and I'm committed to keeping you around. I want your face to be the last one I see when I'm old and gray." I lean my neck into a propped up pillow for support and run the fingertips of my free hand up and down his arm.
"So why do you need a piece of paper to do that? If something is durable it'll endure on its own."
I think about it for a minute, because I'm not really sure. Who's to say you do need one? Maybe Brian is right, maybe it is all bullshit. "Because then you can't just walk out when it gets too tough. You can't just give up, you have to go through a whole process before you can be rid of each other and maybe in that process you figure out that you don't want to go after all." It's the best I can do.
"Don't kid yourself Justin, you can always walk out and just pretend like some shitty piece of paper doesn't exist," he remarks, passively. The joints must be taking their toll.
I think there are some things in life that just aren't meant to be explained, and the concept of marriage, as flaky as it might be, is one of them. You know you're doing it for the right reasons when you do it. It's not something that can be reasoned into. It's not a practical or legal decision, or a signature on a piece of paper. It's a decision you make with your heart. The paper is just the proof. I don't want any kind of ceremony or ring or any of that stuff, that's not me. I want the irrational proof that this whole thing matters. That we matter. I know we do, he knows we do even when he's knee deep in denial, but sometimes you just want some kind of tangible proof. I open my mouth to argue my case but decide against it. Sometimes my thoughts are better left in my brain. No one can talk me out of them there.
"I'm hungry," I declare.
"Half a puff and you get the munchies." He stops for a beat. "Ugh, I can't even say munchies and not picture Melanie's box now. Thanks!" He peels his back off of me and I laugh at the back of his head. He's so easy to annoy.
"I'm in serious need of food. I haven't eaten in forever," I remind him. He should know, he saw the last thing I consumed all over the bathroom a couple of days ago. "Make me something to eat," I whine pathetically. I have about ten more minutes left in this birthday. I intend to milk them for all they're worth.
"Eat my ass," he grins over his shoulder. Gladly.
"Eh, I already did that. I can't swallow your ass so that's not going to do anything for my hunger." I fake a yawn and swing my legs dramatically off the bed. "Do we have anything to eat in this house?" I wander down the stairs in search of something to consume.
"Debbie sent us home with some stuff. I put it in the fridge. It's the only thing in there, you can't really miss it."
I hear his voice trailing behind me and I turn to ask him if he wants to join me. I find him stretching his limbs to the ceiling and rolling his neck around. Fuck the food. I could feed on my lust for days and never come up for air. I can't be bothered to waste my time heating anything up so I take out the cake instead. I think it's one of my eyeballs, or maybe it's an ear.
"Wanna eat me?" I smile, exposing every single one of my teeth and lift the plate to tempt him.
"I'll just have some... milk," he rolls his tongue between his lips and my stomach growls in response. I'm sure he can hear it from way over there. "Come over here and open up some of these presents. Let's see if you got any good loot."
"Let's do it tomorrow. I'm tired." I grab the milk container, two glasses and a fork. Working in a diner comes in handy as I balance my way delicately towards the couch. He stands imperially over the stack of presents, sifting out the wheat from the chaff with his foot. "It was a long day."
"You're not the least bit curious about what you got?" he lifts a surprised eyebrow in my direction.
"I got what I wanted." I sit down on the floor arranging my plate and the glasses, ignoring the couch. The thought of sticking my bare sweaty ass on that fabric just isn't very appealing. I watch him select a couple of boxes, his poster and the frame from Melanie and Lindsay.
"What did you want?" He wriggles his toes under my ass and I move to give him room to sit behind me. It's his turn to trap me in place. He puts down my stack of gifts and takes the milk container out of my hand, stopping me from pouring the second glass. He encases both of my hands in his own and tickles my neck with a few sparse kisses.
"I wanted you to be there and you were. I didn't want it to be a disaster and it wasn't. That was pretty much it. The Jeep was a nice bonus."
"So the poster didn't disappoint you?" he tries to search out some imagined disappointment from my end.
"It was pretty cool actually. No wonder I couldn't figure your riddle out," I smile genuinely. I know he thinks I must have built up his present in my head. Maybe a little part of me did, but the bigger part of me is used to not having big expectations where Brian is concerned. It wasn't a big shock that he would go out of his way to make giving me a Jeep no big deal. He'd never admit to that being a huge deal. I won't make a huge deal out of it either for his sake. We can just pretend he was thoughtless and uncaring and only gave me a cheap poster. It'll make him feel better and save us the embarrassing task of explaining to everyone else the significance of giving up the Jeep. Once you start speaking Kinneyese, the rest of it just kind of falls into place.
I feel his stomach make waves on my back as he inhales a few more times. "Well, let's get the thing mounted so that you can hang it. I know you're dying to."
"Really?" I say it with a little more excitement than I mean to. I didn't think he would really let me just hang the thing wherever I wanted. I thought he was just pacifying Lindsay. I motion to climb out from between his legs. He nudges my spine forward a little and lets go of my left hand very slowly, but refuses to move his legs. "Brian?" His eyes roam tensely over the packages next to us. "Brian," I repeat, softly.
"Hmmm?" He sucks on his bottom lip, his throat responding to me, but his attention totally wrapped up in the floor.
"You gotta let me go. I can't do this with you hanging all over me," I pry my remaining hand out of his gently and my stomach turns. I don't know if something is wrong, but he looks through me so fiercely, I feel a tremble start in my toes and explode through my scalp. "I'll come back. I promise."
He nods his head discreetly and shoves his leg out of the way. I crawl over, suddenly embarrassed that I'm swinging my assets freely in the air. Maybe it's not all about the cock. I sit Indian style, wrapping my feet under my thighs and set out to unwrap the precious frame that I wasn't allowed to touch back at the house. It's chilly in this apartment, but not chilly enough for the goosepimples that form on my back. I can feel his stare pulsate through the entire course of my veins, every last twisted knot of them.
"Did you want to help?" I turn and offer him my hand to pull him onto his knees alongside me.
"What do you want me to do?" He looks around, sizing up the possible ways he might help, feeling totally useless.
"Unspool the poster," I instruct him.
He sets out to his task and leaves me to finish taking off the remainder of the wrapping paper. It's a beautiful mahogany frame that will look awesome with the brick background. I look around the room trying to determine the best place for it, still slightly shocked that he's letting me go through with this. Maybe I'll put it on the wall behind his computer. It'll totally ruin the flow of his space though. Somehow I don't think he'll mind.
"So where'd you get that picture," I chatter mindlessly, turning the frame over to unscrew the back.
"I don't really know. It was on my digital camera. Someone must have taken it without realizing it." He twists the poster in the opposite direction, trying to get it to lay steady.
"It looked like an old picture," I use my fingernail to dig into the remaining screw.
"Probably is. I just left it at the office," he shrugs his shoulders as if it was some meaningless forgetful thing he did once upon a time. I'll let him have that one.
I lift the back off the frame, expecting to lift the cardboard from the glass, only there's something stuck between the backing and the cardboard, a long white envelope with a very slight red ribbon around the center. "Brian?" He makes busy work of flattening the corners of the poster and pays me no attention. On purpose. "Brian, what is this?"
He feigns disinterest as he looks over casually and peruses the envelope that my fingers refuse to touch. It's too thin to have explosives, rationally I know this. Irrationally I think there could be razors waiting to slice my fingers off if I touch it. "I don't know. Why don't you open it and find out?" He leans back on his haunches, his eyes wide and expectant.
I feel like I'm going to screw this up somehow. I'm not sure what I'll be screwing up, but somehow I know that I will. Either by blubbering before I even know whether I have something to cry about, or by getting my hopes up so high about God only knows what, only to have them come crashing down so hard, that I cry anyway. Maybe I'm still suffering from dehydration. My mind races through the possibilities and comes up with one answer, over and over. Italy. We're going to Italy. That's why he got me a poster of David. That's why he didn't freak out when I said I needed to get out of Pittsburgh. That's why he wouldn't let me open this in front of everyone. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner.
I start laughing maniacally, "Italia" singsonging through my brain at warp speed.
"You didn't even open it yet." I don't care, it doesn't matter. I throw my arms around his neck and attack his face. "Justin," he pulls his head back, "open the envelope."
"I don't even have to," I practically yell the words and they reverberate off the walls.
"Oh, you know what it is?" he asks.
"I've got a pretty good idea." My nimble fingers tear through the top of the envelope. I shake it upside down, waiting for the Liberty Air tickets to fall at my feet. They never materialize. It's just paper. My breath gets caught in my chest and I feel everything settle back into place, my face practically dropping to the floor. I can't look back at him, too embarrassed by my own stupidity for assuming things I should never assume. Somehow I knew I'd fuck it all up.
"Look at me." I refuse. He pulls my chin in his direction. I look everywhere else but him, so he weaves his face around until he finally catches my eye. "What have you always told me you wanted? What did you want most tonight?"
I kick wrecking balls around my brain trying to pummel and pillage my way through every conversation we've ever had. He's so sincere, so fully here with me in this moment that my brain silences itself and some other part of me expels my answer out of me from nowhere. "You."
He reaches out for the scattered paper and puts it in my left hand, holding on for dear life to the right hand. "Here I am." I look down slowly, not sure I can really see through the blurry vision that threatens my eyes.
I read a bunch of legalese that I don't really understand, but I see his name and my name and it all looks very official and I must look as confused as he feels terrified.
"It's the Deed to this place. It's half yours. I had Melanie draw it up."
If I weren't already sitting on the floor, I would have fell on it. My mind is a total blank slate. I think I've reached some new serene plateau that totally transcends anything I could possibly feel if I were still on earth. What I feel... is a little dizzy. "Why, would you..." I can't even complete the thought. I'm not sure I'm even having a thought.
"Now you can't just... walk out."
I wait for a punchline, for something to pop out of the shadows and tell me this is a joke. All I get is a seriously beautifully sincere face waiting for me to approve.
I don't know what to say, so instead I say nothing. It's not often that I'm speechless, and this seems to make him nervous because he continues without taking a breath. "You made this place some kind of home. You know it's yours just as much as it's mine."
I feel like I might want to cry, but I won't, because I won't put him in that position, not after everything that he's done for me. I owe him that much. That seems funny somehow, owing him some kind of stoicism. But it's what he expects of me. He expects me to be strong enough to withstand and I have this overwhelming feeling that I will make myself a fortress and offer him shelter if that's what's necessary to forever keep this steady. I can't offer him much at the moment. I never really could. But I can offer him one thing.
"Would it be okay with you if I told you I loved you?" I do everything but shed actual tears, because I won't drown him in that flood.
"I know." I barely hear his response. He smiles a small smile.
I don't wait for him to respond in kind anymore. I don't have to.
"Would a hug be pushing it?" I move closer to him, wrapping my arm around his neck, not waiting for that response either. He pulls my chest to him, his fingers digging into some vital organ or other in my back. He squeezes my hand between our bodies, and I rub circles on the back of his neck. His weak spot. There's nothing weak about him. "You are so busted. Mr. I-don't-believe-in-birthdays."
The sound of his laughter spreads some kind of relief through all of my limbs and I feel free.
"Now I'll never be rid of you," he teases me.
"Nope." I pull my head back to lean on his forehead and look at him right in the eye. "Does this mean I've moved up from tolerated to maybe you might even like me a little?"
"Finish your toe-job and I'll let you know." It all comes back to the cock.
"Eat me first." I smile the broadest smile I've ever felt in my life and lean back for the piece of cake sitting on the coffee table. He doesn't let go of my hand.
"What are you going to do when I gain thirty pounds because you insist on feeding me right before bed?"
"There'll just be more of you to love," I snicker.
"Nice save," he nods his head with approval.
I spear the cake with the fork and break off the biggest piece I can manage without it toppling off of my unsteady, shaking hand. I didn't even realize I was shivering. "Open wide," I shovel the fork in his mouth. Half the cake makes it in, the other half almost drops out. I catch it from falling on his chest with my mouth, consuming the confection of his lip with my tongue.
I don't have to hear love to feel love. I don't have to speak a language I don't understand to hear what I already know to be true. I just have to listen.
What I can't hear, I feel around for.
I feel his breath caught in my mouth, waiting to be returned to him and I... exhale.
The End