Bad Idea

by Damon Suede

  “Wait-wait. I thought Kurt said terrible plans were—”

  “You’re a writer. A creator.” Silas tried to catch his eye. “You make things up because you have too much imagination to hold inside your body and it spills out.”

  Trip snorted.

  “Kurt is my friend and he’s very razzle-dazzle. He’s also pompous and annoying and lonely as hell. I’d love y’all to meet. I wanted that, but I didn’t think you had any interest. See? Y’gotta lot in common besides me. Don’t you for one second think that I’m hiding anything from you. Open book right here. No secret identities. No masks. Just me.”

  Trip glanced up then, his soft brown eyes almost black. “Idiot.”

  “Never said I was smart.”

  “No. Nothing. Me.” He sniffed. “Jillian has told me for years. And Rina. Unboyfriend, I mean. Doesn’t matter.”

  Silas knew it mattered, so he didn’t blink, but held Trip’s gaze as gently as a baby bird. What are you seeing?

  Trip looked down at the battered couch and the coffee table full of dead scripts and unfinished puzzles. He rubbed his eyes and heaved an exhausted sigh. There were dim circles there that hurt to see. Trip probably hadn’t slept since the last time Silas had stayed over. Three nights ago.

  “I am not trying to lure you into my elaborate Batcave of Hollywood craziness.” Silas jabbed a finger at him. “Or if I am, it’s ’cause I wanna be your strapping sidekick.”

  Trip smiled and sat.

  Silas joined him. “And I reserve the right to be completely fucking wrong about everything.” He knew the word for what he felt, wanted to say something irrevocable, wished for the guts he pretended to have. Except, once he said that word, all hell was bound to break loose. “That demon is your deal, Mr. Spector.”

  “I know.” Trip rocked forward and kissed Silas on the chin and then squarely on his mouth. “I know he is.”

  Silas leaned back against the crumpled arm of the couch, which suddenly seemed like the most comfy spot on the planet. He poked Trip in the tit. “Scratch is not any kinda mistake, even if he is a very, very naughty idea.”

  “Very bad. Needs a spanking.” Trip reached around and gripped Silas’s buttcheek.

  Silas yelped in surprise. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Save me a seat.” He inhaled deeply. His eyelids seemed heavy.

  “Anybody fucks with you, they’re in some deep Alabama shit.” Silas made the words full backwoods trucker. “Idjits gonna end up pregnant in cutoffs, working for my daddy in a bait shop.” Shaaahhhp.

  A snuffle of laughter. Trip muttered “Bubba,” but for all his sarcasm he seemed grateful for the Hee-Haw BS.

  “C’mere.” Silas wrapped his arms around Trip’s lean torso. “I gotcha. I gotcha.” He kissed Trip’s temple and sighed. Just a couple minutes.

  Trip pulled his knees in and went slack. Second by second, minute by minute, Trip’s breathing slowed. He pressed a hand over Silas’s heart and nodded, then nudged his head closer.

  “Hey,” Silas whispered. “You think you can fall asleep?”

  He already had.

  THE day Trip finished, he told no one.

  He’d drawn and inked all twenty-four pages of Scratch, Issue 1 in eleven insane weeks, but instead of cracking a beer or shouting from the rooftop, he walked over to the river and stared at all the water trying to find the sea.

  When he got back, Trip padded into his apartment and dropped his backpack in shock.

  Lights on. Low music. The apartment smelled like roasted eggplant. Silas reclined fully naked on the couch, knees bent so his heels pressed into the cushions. His ass was tipped up, exposing his trench. He pushed back into the cushions as he polished his erection with one hand.

  Trip took a couple of quiet steps closer. He’d forgotten Silas was waiting for him. Trip opened up and let a big grin out.

  The hypnotic humming calm Trip associated with his boyfriend stole over the room and him. Time expanded as he ambled toward Silas, the hands milking languid pleasure out of his stiff joint. He knew exactly what it tasted like, what made Silas holler and hiss, what they both wanted. The warm spicy air hung suspended, like honey drizzled over them.

  Silas didn’t open his eyes. His fingers pushed down under his balls and plunged inside his hole.

  Trip wet his lower lip. His aching dick firmed up with a sluggish throb that matched his pulse.

  Silas tightened his eyes and dug deep at his ass, struggling to reach the right spot. Unashamed, he raised his knees still farther and grunted as he worked to find the right angle. “Mr. Spector.” Silas opened lazy eyelids and licked the corner of his mouth slowly. “Jus’ thinking about you.”

  Trip bit his lip, stupidly, as he watched Silas drive his greasy boner into his fist. The slither of the lube was the only sound he heard other than his own heartbeat whump-pumping in his ears. “Need some help?” His voice came out hoarse.

  Slow blink, slower grin. Silas hunched his hips and crooked his head at Trip’s buckle. “’F’you want.”

  Trip shivered at something happening inside him. He had never encountered such openness or anyone so frank about their appetites. He wanted to match it and worried he couldn’t. He hoped his caution didn’t come off as boring or childish. At the same time, Silas would speak up if he had a problem.

  Silas sped up his stroke. “I can wait, if you want. Or you can watch.” The hand at his hole strained as he twisted his wrist hard. His head dropped back. His cock flushed a rosy tan. “Faugh.”

  Fluttery embarrassment knotted Trip’s insides. He fought the impulse to laugh or hide. The tip of his tongue snuck out to taste his upper lip. Silas used some kind of lotion that snicked and popped as he fucked his hand.

  “I been edgin’ forever, chokin’ my squirrel. I tried to wait.” Silas tensed his toes and angled his hips, spearing himself in a rhythmic grind that splayed his hand against the swell of his ass. His sweaty forearm flexed as his eyes dropped to slits. “C’mere.”

  Trip walked to the edge of the rug. The musky vanilla and markers scent got stronger. He stared down at all that rough hunger that rendered him invincible. He could ask anything, do anything. His heartbeat slowed to dull percussion, and he traced his mouth absently. The buzzing, feverish heat stole over his limbs. He peeled his shirt over his head and let it fall. Without questioning the impulse, he bent his knees and crouched in front of the spread tan thighs. He’s mine.

  Silas jerked faster, and the rosy pouch of his balls jumped, the caramel fuzz around his hole smeared into dark fringe by the lube. The mushroom cap deepened to a dull salmon-brown. “C’mon. C’mon.”

  Trip brushed his right hand over the back of one thick thigh, and Silas flinched.

  “Please.”

  Trip skimmed his hands down the back of Silas’s hoisted legs and stroked the skin.

  “Trip.” The word hissed out in a pained plea.

  He slid a finger beside Silas’s, then pushed into the sucking, greasy heat of his ass.

  “Oh!” Silas tipped his pelvis sharply and smiled. “Yuh.”

  Trip sucked at his lower lip, then put his face a few inches from the perfect pink swirl that swallowed their digits and held them together.

  Silas panted and nodded urgently. “Put that thing in me. Stick me, man. I can’t go much longer.”

  Trip studied his erection trapped behind his trousers as if it belonged to a stranger. They’d gone through all his condoms. “Gotta rubber in your bag?”

  “Naw. Then just jerk it.”

  Trip yanked his buckle free and dragged the zipper and his briefs down. His fleshy length looked dangerous and the skin uncommonly pink.

  “Lemme feel.” Silas stared at the blunt erection. “Fuck. Please, man. Just ride the outside.” He slid his fingers out and gripped his cheeks to expose the hungry knot of muscle flexing there. “Let me feel it.”

  Trip knee-walked forward, then rested the underside of his boner right on the scalding iris.

  “Ugh.�
� Silas stuck out his curled tongue and the tip touched his upper lip.

  Trip ground his hips and humped the hole a couple of inches each way, dragging his shaft over the firm ridge. The lotion had vanished into the tawny flesh, and the rough rub turned his cockhead shiny on the upstroke.

  “Gawd. Agh-umm.” The Alabama croon coming out of Silas made him sound like a ruined farm boy. “Chunka beef, man. So damn fat. Let me feel it right there.”

  Trip spread Silas’s cheeks wide with his sweaty hands and humped the trench. He couldn’t get purchase on the hips. Trip muttered, “Can’stop.” He bumped his crown against the stretched opening, then slid his full hardness along it.

  Silas scooted back into the cushions and drove his hips into Trip’s hands. The lube he’d used had left him impossible to hold.

  Trip leaned over him to stay in contact as he massaged the round haunches. More than once, he managed to slide a finger inside… a quick, slick in-out that forced hisses and hunches out of Silas each time. He reared up, kept one hand at the entrance, and ran the other up Silas from pubes to throat.

  Silas yelped in apparent surprise and suckled at Trip’s tongue lazily. He rubbed their slippery chests together.

  Trip nuzzled at Silas’s upper lip, then his jaw, then his gasping throat, rasping across the soft bronze stubble and leaving a trail of spit. He chewed softly at the muscle, teasing it with his canines till Silas shook and pleaded in that husky rumble.

  “God.” He squirmed and purred under Trip’s stained hands. “Make me.” He craned forward, lifted his chest to meet Trip’s touch. His crack exposed, his eyes fixed and feverish.

  Trip swallowed, hypnotized by the pleasure of dominating someone so manly. No apology, no shame. He pressed one hand over Silas’s scruffy face, crushed the rugged profile into the pillows. The more he pushed, the more Silas sobbed and arched and struggled against him.

  Silas trembled anxiously, and his forehead crinkled. His free hand twitched midair. His busy hand sped up, and he whimpered. “Can’t—”

  The greasy ring went crazy against Trip’s cock, flexing and yielding against the underside. Trip slid his fingers inside the oily heat again and spread the ass-flesh open, rode it with his full stiff length. Mine.

  Silas choked. “Can’t wait. Can’t—Gawd.” He made short, sharp jerks with his hips, and his blunt crest darkened to a dull rosy-brown.

  Trip bent closer. “You got something for me? You saving something?” Two of his fingers slipped over the sweaty cheekbones, and Silas sucked them into his mouth with wet abandon. “Almost.” Trip pulled out and petted Silas, his flushed cheek and the sweaty cowlicks.

  Silas wheezed and twitched. His hole clenched rhythmically against the belly of Trip’s erection. “Shh-huh. H’yeah. Truh—”

  Trip rubbed his palm over the sloppy knob until the frantic stroke of Silas’s rough hand bumped his out of the way.

  Silas bowed off the couch. His torso flexed and his head rolled senseless. Blobs of thick white goo bubbled slowly out of the wide cap and fell to his furred belly in a copious puddle that ran down his ribs.

  Trip laughed and stroked Silas’s broad chest. Silas’s taut lips melted from a silent roar to a huge open smile.

  Part of Trip wanted to race to jerk himself off, but the smarter half of his libido knew Silas would make his waiting worth it.

  Silas panted and relaxed by slow degrees, lowered his hard arms to the couch. His head fell back. He flexed his round butt and clasped Trip’s girth in a damp grip.

  Trip examined his own straining boner and gulped. He lifted a mischievous stare. “Now look what you did.”

  “What we did. Fresh churned nut butter.” Silas dabbled his fingers in the soupy mess on his abdomen and sucked them clean. “Mmth. H’yeah, bubba.”

  “Bubba?” Trip ground against him again. “I thought you didn’t like—”

  “I don’t. But I wasn’t talking about me.” With his warm cummy hand, Silas took hold of Trip’s firm cockhead. “All it means is ‘brother.’ And brother, that was just what I needed.” He twisted his wrist, and the hot slide of his semen made Trip flinch.

  “Got a problem, there?” Silas stroked him with feathery lightness. “What are you needin’?”

  Trip’s cock jumped. “Not sure.”

  “Lemme guess.” Silas slicked his steamy load onto Trip and scoured the top, twisting his palm over the plump apex.

  Trip spasmed and thrashed. “Whoa!”

  “Y’don’t stay still, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” Silas milked the erection languorously. He didn’t stroke it, just gripped Trip’s hog with casual ownership and squeeze-squeeze-squeezed patiently like an external heartbeat.

  Trip’s stiffness swelled so rigidly the veins stood in high relief. “Not fair. Your hand.”

  “Rough.” Silas milked the meat rhythmically with his scarred, spermy palms. “Best lube in the damn world.”

  Trip fought the thought that put in his head. Greasing myself with his load to pound another out of him.

  Silas held him fast, gripping his cock insistently.

  “Wait…. Ungh.” Trip hunched into the delicious fist. Instead of fighting to get free, he leaned and stole Silas’s mouth. He pushed his hand into the calico thatch and held Silas’s lower lip against his to nurse at it, taste the slow honey slip for as long as he could without taking a breath.

  Trip’s orgasm floated up to him like cinders swirling from a bonfire. The scrape of skin and the electrical shimmer within expanded until the scorching jism erupted from him over Silas’s thumb and wrist and ran like hot wax.

  “I… think….” Silas sat back on his heels. His hand glistened with Trip’s seed. “We need to go buy some more condoms or I cannot be held responsible.”

  Trip twitched and relaxed by increments.

  “I almost blew again. When you went.” Silas blinked and wiped his chin. “Boy, do we fit together.” He kneaded his boner gingerly with the sticky hand.

  Trip felt drained, probably for the first time in his life. Not like his balls were empty, but as if someone had scooped his entire body hollow and refilled it with drowsy bliss.

  He’d always thought of sex as something he got away with, but Silas brought all his enthusiasm into the bedroom and had this way of giving him exactly what they both wanted. Trip slid right into the honeyed heat that hummed between them.

  Hand in glove.

  “You okay?”

  Silas coughed and held Trip still with one big paw. “Whoever told you that you were uptight was a fucking moron.”

  Trip took a deep breath of the starchy air, suddenly hungry. Perfect opportunity to show Silas the finished interiors, but Trip left Scratch covered and concealed on his drafted table and he said nothing. Not just yet.

  16

  WHEN faced with a well-meaning firing squad, bring on the showtunes and gore.

  For their first group outing, Silas offered to take Jillian and Rina to a matinee of Evil Dead the Musical. Tiffany had called him with free tickets to give away because she’d built effects for this revival. Between zombies, belting, and demonic possession, he figured any ice would get broken. Silas didn’t see a lot of theater, but this and Toxic Avenger had been a blast.

  Unable to find a taxi, they’d walked uptown in cottony fog that hung so low it blurred the tops of buildings. Silas carried an enormous golf umbrella, but the sky refused to rain.

  “I didn’t get us tickets in the splatter zone.”

  Trip swung around. “The whuh?”

  “Well, there’s bloodshed. A lot. And the first few rows get pretty messy. Hardcore fans fight over those seats. You said the Stones are horror buffs, but it seemed safer further back.”

  Trip made a face and bobbed his head. “Jilly will be annoyed. Rina will be relieved. Max and his dad will probably sneak closer after they kill the lights.”

  The only hesitation Silas had was about Jillian’s son. The show’s carnage was goofy, but Evil Dead got pretty gruesome. Trip had
assured him the Stones did regular slasher marathons and Max tended to fall asleep during them, so Silas went with his gut.

  New World Stages was a large off-Broadway multiplex off Eighth Avenue housing a bunch of smaller theaters. When they arrived, Silas grabbed their tickets at the booth and found out Trip’s friends had already claimed theirs and headed downstairs.

  In the bar area, Trip waved at a foursome who stood at their table: A stocky man with his hand on the knee of a pixieish brunette. A little boy talking with his hands to the group. And from the back, a va-va-voom woman with a bodacious body poured into a violet-brown knit dress.

  Unfamiliar nerves gripped Silas about ten yards from Trip’s closest friends. Don’t screw up.

  As they reached the table, the pixie froze, her hand angled in the red streak in her hair. She opened her mouth and hacked, but no sound came out. Her eyes flashed, blinking rapidly, and she twitched silently and violently.

  The dad didn’t seem to notice, and the other woman fanned herself with a postcard.

  “Umm, guys?” Silas walked toward her.

  Pwamm. She crumpled to the floor as if having a seizure. Her eyes flickered white and she convulsed.

  Silas crossed the fifteen feet rapidly. “Hey!” He squatted beside her and pressed his hands to her heaving ribcage.

  Just as he opened his mouth to call for help, the kid turned to her and said, in a bored little-boy voice, “Mom, don’t be embarrassing.”

  She stopped spasming instantly and flipped her head to Silas, her grin wicked. “At least the floor is clean. That’s a very good sign in the American theater.”

  Joke.

  “You people are strange.” Silas rocked back on his heels.

  Trip leaned over and muttered into his ear. “I warned you.”

  “Hey!” The little boy huffed in irritation.

  Silas offered the fake-dead lady his hand and helped her to her feet.

  “Jillian Stone. Hi, And these fellas are mine.” She put a hand on her husband’s and son’s heads. “Ben and Max.”