Chapter 57
Because I’m tattoo-less, Damien uses a black marker to draw an intricate design that swirls from one hip bone to the other and spans the space between my navel and dick. He hovers above me, the narrow marker ticklish on my skin, his hair like feathers where it brushes along my thighs. I lie back and stare at the ceiling while he works, trying not to breathe, but every now and then a giggle escapes my lips, and I have to sit up to check on his progress. He looks so serious, frowning at the lines he’s inking onto my skin. “This is permanent?” I ask him.
“It’ll come off eventually,” he replies, distracted. His face is just inches above my crotch, and my dick keeps trying to stand up beneath his chin. He holds it down with one hand, which only makes it more eager for his touch. At one point, it brushes his cheek and he kisses it, an absent gesture that makes me laugh. I think I love him. Has it really only been three weeks? It feels like forever. The marker dances across my stomach as he draws and my skin flutters at the touch. “Brandon,” he warns.
In the same warning tone of voice, I say, “Damien.” He gives me a cautionary look, which only makes me sputter with stifled laughter. Then, getting serious, I ask, “Can we do this again?”
He blows across my belly. “Soon as the ink dries.”
“I don’t mean now,” I tell him. At the questioning look he gives me, I explain, “We can have sex again, I’m not saying that. But I meant can we do this whole thing all over again? Like next weekend, or something?” His stare unnerves me, I can’t read behind it, I have no clue what he’s thinking. What if this is it for him? What if we go back to an online relationship that slowly unravels until we drift apart? What if—”What do you think?” I want to know. “I mean, about hooking up again—”
A sly grin pulls at his mouth and lights up his eyes. “Next weekend sounds good to me,” he says. Then, recapping the marker, he sits up on the bed and stretches his legs toward my head. I grab one of his feet, then thread my fingers through his toes. Lying on his side, he rubs at my balls and asks, “Ever done a sixty-nine?”
In response, I slide down to take his uncut length into my mouth again.
THE ENDDevilish Good Time
I’m leaning against the wall out of the flow of traffic and thinking this party’s a bust when I see Bobby Montague through the crowd. He’s my height but muscular, on the crew team, and probably the sexiest guy I’ve seen on campus since I enrolled at Rutgers two years ago. There’s something golden about him, an aura that makes him seem perfect, and seeing him reminds me that I’m not. It’s the weekend before Halloween but no one comes to these fraternity keg parties in costume and I sure as hell didn’t dress up. The whole thing just isn’t my scene. I take a swig of lukewarm beer from the bottle in my hand and give myself two more minutes before I head back to the dorm and my essay on Blade Runnerthat’s due Monday.
And then Bobby backs into me.
It’s accidental, I think, but I slosh beer down the front of my shirt and I’m sure he felt my budding erection through both our jeans. With a damp napkin, he wipes at my shirt, all smiles. “Hey man! I’m so sorry. Didn’t see you there—”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. It’s the most I’ve ever said to a guy as hot as Bobby, and I’m sure I’ll lie awake for hours tonight, kicking myself for not adding something more. I love you, perhaps, or fuck me. I’m not picky.
So it surprises me when Bobby glances at my face and does a double take. Guys like me don’t usually get that second look. “Weren’t you in Fuchs’s film class last semester?” he asks. The fact is that I’m in everyfilm class because it’s my major, and Fuchs is head of the department. But yeah, I took an intro course last term and Bobby sat three rows over, two seats up. I spent most of the lectures staring at the back of his short blonde hair. Searching for my name, he tries, “Is it Jake?”
“Jacob,” I correct. I barely weigh one twenty and look five years younger than I really am, thanks to the mop of unruly black curls that cover the top of my head. I don’t look like a Jake. Because he’s smiling at me and because I can’t think of anything else to say, I try, “You’re Bobby.”
He nods, still smiling, and I wonder if he’s drunk. The intense way he’s staring at me makes me want to do something, a card trick or maybe a handstand, something to break that smile into laughter and keep him amused. This close, he’s intoxicating. The strong scent of Obsession emanates from him like pheromones, and I shift from one foot to the next feeling awkward and gawkish. He makes me horny, have I said this? Whenever someone passes us by, he steps closer to me, pressing his arm against mine and nudging my knee with his, until my dick is hard and aching in my jeans. Revised game plan—forget the essay and jerk off tonight. The mere fact that Bobby remembered my name, or some derivative thereof, is good for a few wet dreams, at least.