Some of you might remember this story from a few years back. I removed it because it had been plagiarized by another author who attempted to sell it, a decision that now feels rash and foolish. So here it is again. I hope you can all forgive my fit of pique.
(Be advised that this story contains discussions of internalized homophobia, depression, suicide, and related topics. This is a content warning I wish I'd included the last time I published this, and I'd like to apologize to anyone who was harmed or triggered by it before. I've grown up a bit.)
-T
*****
"C'mon," he says, tugging on my arm. I move away from him, annoyed.
"Richie," he says. He's going for the full pout. "Please?"
"No," I whisper, looking around. It's almost closing time, and we're the only ones left in the store. There's a teenaged clerk sitting on a stool behind the register at the front, reading a magazine. She pops her gum every few minutes.
I pick up a pair of slacks, looking in the lining for the tag. I hate this store; they never put the sizes on the price tags where you can see them. I only came here because Gene wanted to come here. To buy some shoes, he'd said.
Liar.
I ignore him some more, putting the pants back on the rack and moving to the novelty T-shirt table. He follows, sulking.
"Fine," he says, picking up a T-shirt. One Night Stand is screened onto the front of it, along with a clip art bedside table. "You're so plain, you know that?"
It's an argument we've had before. I was boring. I was unimaginative.
"It wouldn't kill you to have a little fun, you know. I'm just trying to get you to open up."
I sigh, looking at him. His face is drawn, and I can tell he's exasperated. I hate that look, and he's been wearing it more and more often. Usually at times like these. It's my fault, too, I know; when we met, he was dancing naked on a picnic table at someone's backyard party. I'd thought he was just high, that he'd settle down. But he hasn't, and I guess I should have known that he wouldn't. Most of us are pretty average, but Gene's just one of those people who's crazy rating is more than three standard deviations from the mean.
"I'm not," I say, a little defensive.
"Whatever," he says. He picks up a random pair of board shorts and stomps off to the dressing rooms. I pick up a navy blue hoodie and follow.
He's in the handicapped cubicle, and he's left the door open. He's pulling off his shirt, making sure to stand in the doorway where someone would have the best chance of seeing him, if anyone had been here. I step in with him, closing the door.
"What?" he says.
"Fine," I say. "Asshole."
I'm smiling.
He smiles, too, and moves toward me. He tosses his shirt into the corner. The phone in his pocket thuds against the wall before falling out. It lands on the floor and the back pops off. We ignore it.
I love Gene's chest; it's always so soft-looking. I stare at it as he takes his time getting to me. Both of his nipples are pierced, and he has a tattoo of an eight ball on his hip. I watch it roll as he glides over, and I feel my cock start to swell.
He stops about an inch from my face, lids drooping. He breathes in little puffs, and his hands are fooling around in front of his crotch. I finally look down, and he grins wider.
He's unzipping, and taking his sweet time, too. I can see the outline of him pressing against the faux denim, and when the zipper is all the way down, it pops out, hovering between us. No underwear.
I should have known.
I exhale in a rush, and I can hear my heart in my head. I'm wet now, I can feel it; the front of my underwear is stuck to the end of my cock like toilet paper stuck to just-washed hands. My feet begin to inch away from each other, and Gene steps into the new space, grinding his hips into mine. His cock, now dripping too, rubs against my stomach. I moan.
His grin fades a little, and eyes lose some of their focus. His hips are moving faster, and his wetness is beginning to run down into my pants. My hands, which had been dazed into immobility before now, come to life, and I take hold of his hips, crushing him to me.
"Mmm..." he says. His brow wrinkles in concentration. I growl. He moans again, and his little puffs get shallower. It's another thing I love about him; he never says stupid phrases or makes fake expressions. Everything is real. Always.
His hands shoot to his chest all of a sudden, and his fingers slip into the rings piercing his nipples. He twists them first, then tugs, each one separately. He looks at me, both desperate and purposeful. My hands slide from his hips and move up his back, pulling his chest to me. My mouth finds a nipple, and my tongue plays.
He hisses, and his hips lose their rhythm against me, jerking. His hands tangle in my hair, and he crushes my face into his chest.
"Aaaa...oooh," he says. It was a sound I know well enough.
I pull off him, taking hold of his hips again to push him away. He looks confused for a moment, then steadies, and his grin returns.
He turns away from me, facing the mirror on the wall. His hands settle on his hips before his fingers slip into his belt buckles. He bends over. All the way. And he goes slow.
By the time his ass is free of the jeans, whimpers accompany my breaths. He lets go of the loops after that and the pants fall to the floor. He frees his legs, then spreads them.
"Ah..." I say. I'm hurting by now, and I want to take mine off, too. I don't.
I know the rules.
His fingers trail up the back of his thighs, stopping to squeeze his cheeks. I gasp. He chuckles, but it sounds strained.
They just play a little at first. Moving up and down between his cheeks, then making little circles around his hole. I growl. He chuckles again.
One slips in.
It's one of his favorite things to do. He likes it even better if I watch. I oblige him. It's all about give and take, isn't that what they say?
In goes another. I can't take it. No more.
I open my mouth, but at first only a strangled cough comes out. I take a wheezing breath.
"G-Gene," I say.
He stands quickly, turning around and power-walking toward me. He's ready, too.
He drops to his knees, moaning sporadically, and fumbles with my zipper. He gets it undone on the fifth try, and he yanks down my pants and underwear in one stroke. He lets them rest on my thighs, making a fist around my cock.
"Oh..."
He grins at the sound. He's gentle, because he can feel how close to oblivion I am. His hand moves in short, gentle strokes on my shaft. He ignores the head. My balls start to hurt, and my hips are jerking to the left and to the right, beyond my control. My hands fill themselves with clumps of his hair and yank him forward. He laughs, but I can see his resolve slipping.
His hands reach around to my ass, grabbing and pinching roughly. He always gets rough when it's time to swallow.
He opens his mouth, not nearly wide enough to fit me in, and places the little 'o' at the head of my cock. His tongue darts into the little hole, and my knees buckle, almost striking him. His grip tightens on my ass, and then he swallows me.
"Aaah..." I say, but this time it's more of a croak.
"Hmm...mmm...hmm..."
He's doing the tongue thing, where he traces little patterns on my cock with it. I'm all the way inside his throat - I can feel it tightening and relaxing on my head - and he begins to moan. I can feel the vibration, and I bite my lip, trying to contain myself.
He starts to suck.
