Bobby Green

by Amy Lane

  “C’mon, Bobby, don’t make me beg.” Because he needed it. Needed the pounding and the pain. Needed it all.

  “Never,” Bobby whispered, and he pulled back and slammed forward, so big Reg saw stars behind his eyes.

  “Keep going,” Reg ordered. “’Cause that—that’s fucking beautiful.”

  Oh God. Yes. Yes. Beautiful. That tremendous, beautiful cock inside Reg’s body, until there was no room for anything but the stars and the shaking, the hot and the cold, and his helpless screams into the palm of his hand as his own cock flopped brutally against his stomach and shot stream after stream of white against his chest.

  Bobby fell forward, trembling. Reg expected him to pull out then and stroke himself off. That’s what they did in the vids—you were taught that. People wanted to see dicks spew stuff—it was magic. But Bobby was rutting inside him, grunting, eyes closed, lush lower lip bitten in concentration. He hit Reg’s button, and again, and again, until Reg cried out and convulsed, this second orgasm taking him by surprise, the nerve endings still raw and sensitive from the last one.

  Reg contracted hard around Bobby’s cock, and Bobby gave a soft “Ah… ah… ah God, yes…” before coming.

  Reg groaned.

  He could feel it.

  Bobby’s come. Hot and pulsing, inside him.

  He’d never felt that. It always spattered his ass, or his chest, or his open mouth and his face. Even his hookups came on him like porn stars.

  But Bobby didn’t.

  Bobby filled him, warm and sticky, until he finally collapsed, breathless, still mostly dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and tee, on top of Reg’s chest.

  Reg squeezed against him, still huge and only slightly softened, wondering… oh God. Yes. He was still magical there.

  “Stay,” Reg asked breathlessly. “As long as you can.”

  “Okay.” Bobby kissed his forehead then, and his cheek, down his jaw, along his neck. Reg wrapped his legs around Bobby’s hips and drove his heels into Bobby’s ass, his own dick growing hard again. Reg kneaded Bobby’s biceps as Bobby pushed himself up, and then began thumbing his nipples, pinching softly, and then a little harder when Bobby threw his head back and groaned.

  “One more time.”

  “Yes,” Reg panted. He didn’t even care if he came. He just didn’t want Bobby’s cock to leave his ass, because he hadn’t known it, but he’d been empty until now, hollow, needing something in his body, in his life, that he’d never thought to crave.

  But Bobby didn’t fuck in small measures. Bobby pulled that monster back, far, and shoved it in until Reg could taste it in the back of his throat. Again, again, again, harder, slicker, lubed by the come sliding out of Reg’s ass, coating his cheeks and the backs of his thighs.

  The thought of that—so dirty. Reg, who’d been fucking on a porn set for a decade, felt the wicked thrill of something filthy and sexual, right down in the pit of his stomach.

  Bobby rubbed Reg’s balls with his abdomen as he thrust, and Reg had to come. He reached between them, grabbed his own cock with one hand while he kept the other on Bobby’s nipples, and he squeezed with one and played with the other.

  “I want to kiss you everywhere,” Bobby chanted. “I want to suck your nipples, and finger your ass, and see your face when you come. I want your jizz in the back of my throat. I want to taste it and swallow it, and lick your balls until you scream. I want all of you, Reg. Every bit. Now come for me. Come for me!”

  And like his dirty words weren’t enough, his voice, commanding, demanding, did it. Reg gasped, almost afraid when his gut clenched and his groin clenched and he turned himself inside out one more time for this kid who had just cared for him and loved him and fucked him so sweet he might never fuck again without remembering this moment here.

  He didn’t want to ever forget.

  “Geeeaaawwwd!”

  Oh, it was exactly as painful and as awesome as he feared, that last orgasm. Everything ached, especially his asshole, as Bobby drove in for the final time and shuddered. Reg’s ass milked him, squeezed the last bit out of him, and Bobby collapsed again, this time sweating and shaking so hard Reg would have gotten him a blanket, but neither of them could move.

  “Reg—”

  “Don’t move.”

  “’Kay.”

  Reg wondered then—had his sister heard? Usually his hookups in his room were necessarily quiet, but this time….

  He couldn’t regret it. Even if he went upstairs to check on her and she screamed mean words at him—she’d just have to get used to it was all. He wasn’t giving this up for random silent Johnnies hookups in his room.

  “Reg—”

  “Don’t move,” he said automatically. His ass was dripping come on the couch, but he didn’t care. He’d wash it off.

  “Not moving. That was amazing.”

  “God, yes.”

  “I mean… I’ve never done that with someone I cared about before. Not like I care about you.”

  Reg’s eyes burned, and he couldn’t figure out why. He wasn’t sad. He was, in fact, gloriously happy, in a way he couldn’t ever remember being.

  “Me too. What does that mean?”

  Bobby gave a little laugh. “It means I’m gay. I hope that’s okay.”

  Reg wrapped his arms tighter around Bobby’s waist. “Why is that special?” he asked, but mostly himself. “Why is it special if I’m gay or bi and not straight, just having sex? It is. I just don’t—”

  Bobby stopped his maundering with a kiss. When he pulled back, he looked soberly into Reg’s eyes. “It means we care about each other the way you keep thinking you’ll care about a girl someday, Reg. I planned like that too. I may have sex with guys and like it, or get a blowjob from a guy and like it—but I have to fall in love with a girl and marry her, because that’s how you grow up and be happy.”

  Reg sucked in a breath, dislodging Bobby from his ass, but that was okay, because this was important. “Yes!” he said. “Yes—that’s it! That’s what I thought—but… but Trina tried to tell me—”

  “That’s how we feel about each other,” Bobby went on—maybe because he had to. Because he had it in his chest, and he needed Reg to hear it, now that they were close and Reg might never have sex with anyone else and know what sex was for. “We feel like we’re the future together. I want to plan with you. I want to make my life fit you. I want us to be family. I even want you to meet my mom. This idea that we can fuck around with any guy we want but our hearts will one day belong to a girl—that’s not us. I mean, some of the guys at Johnnies may leave the set and go home to girlfriends, and that’s okay. But that’s not me. And I’m really….”

  He bit his lip, and Reg realized—truly realized—that he wasn’t nineteen yet. He turned nineteen in May. Reg was almost thirty.

  “It’s not me either,” Reg said, trying to pull his weight. “I… until, maybe… until maybe you kissed me at the car, I thought it was. But… but I don’t want you to go nowhere. I want… I want you to stay. I don’t imagine a girl anymore, home when I get home, making me happy. I imagine you.”

  Bobby kissed him again, short, tender, and then slid to the side.

  “We should clean up,” he suggested unwillingly, but Reg knew what he meant.

  “You take the shower first—I’ll clean the couch.”

  Bobby pushed off the couch and offered his hand up. “Deal.”

  But once Reg was standing, he felt compelled to pull Bobby down for a kiss. “That—I’ve fucked a lot, Bobby. All over the place. That there on my couch, with you. That was my best time.”

  Bobby grinned tiredly. “Mine too.”

  “Do you need to have more sex to figure out if it’s still your best time?” Reg knew he asked that wrong, but it was just now hitting him—he was older. By a lot.

  “No,” Bobby said, voice gentle. “I know my best time when I have it. Let’s clean up and watch some TV, and I’ll go through your books and see if there are any that didn’t get thrown awa
y that I might still be able to replace.”

  Suddenly Reg felt a wholly childish moment of glee. “You’d do that?”

  Bobby looked at him, brows drawn together. “Of course. I wanted to read those books too. I thought we could go through the bag together.”

  Oh. Of all the…. Reg ducked his chin and blushed. “That sounds like a real good idea,” he said softly. “I like that idea.” He swallowed. “Do you think I should bring V a book when I check on her?”

  Bobby grimaced. “She needs to be nice to them,” he decided. “If she wrecks one, we’re going to have to make her earn it back.”

  “Like with taking her pill without fighting?” Reg asked hopefully. “And not throwing stuff when she’s mad?”

  “Yeah. That’s good.” Bobby seemed to brighten. “Here—let me hit the shower. Operation ‘Buy V’s Love with Books’ is about to commence.”

  V WAS asleep after Reg got out of the shower. He left her a book with a soggy cover, since he and Bobby were going to have to replace it anyway. He figured they could have the book talk when she woke up.

  He paused for a moment at her doorway, looking down at his sister for an honest minute.

  She was lying on her side, the hand with the padded cuff tucked under the pillow, her head on top, and her spill of graying mousy hair covering her eyes.

  She was getting old.

  The thought shocked him a little, because he didn’t feel old, but then he was pretty much fucking around and getting paid, same as he had been when he was nineteen.

  But his hair was thinning on top—he’d let it grow out some, but he could see his hairline going back a little. He was going to have to cut it short or shave it, pretend he’d never had thick curly hair, if he wanted to stay on film.

  But you could still see the down-to-fuck nineteen-year-old he had been in his eyes. Could you still see Reg’s savior, his beloved older sister, in the face of the sleeping giant?

  He closed his eyes and remembered her as a kid, and when he opened them and looked at her, he could see that person in her again—the girl who had protected him and showed him how to cook when their mom was gone. He saw the girl who’d taught him how to read and who used to buy him cookies and who used to use coat hangers and tinfoil to find cartoons on their old tube TV.

  He saw the sister he loved.

  How often did he see that person these days?

  He had to ask himself that. He had to. Because Bobby, not once, had said, “I want to be your guy, but you got that crazy sister.” He’d gotten to Reg’s house—to a disaster area—and had buckled down to help clean up. No bitching or moaning, just practical to the bone, that was Bob—Vern. That was Vern Roberts.

  Reg knew his real name, and that made him proud.

  But Vern or Bobby, that boy had stepped up, and Reg realized that asking him to step up to V’s mess was a lot to ask. Today he did it without question. Could he do it tomorrow? The next day?

  Five years from now?

  And it wasn’t fair of Reg to expect it of him. Reg knew that. And Reg knew that if Bobby walked away because he got tired of sleeping with one eye open all the time, that would be on Reg’s head, for keeping a promise he’d made when he’d been still in high school, to a woman who wasn’t the same today as she’d been back then.

  And Reg might lose him—the one person who’d ever offered to stay.

  Dammit, that wasn’t fair either!

  Reg’s breath was coming faster in his chest, and he wondered what was wrong with him, that he’d be crying now. Today. How was it that he had such a wonderful thing happen in his life, but he felt like he could cry for hours?

  He must have heard Bobby’s tread on the stairs, because his hand on Reg’s shoulder wasn’t shocking.

  “Whatya see?” Bobby asked quietly, near his ear.

  Reg turned and shut the door. “My sister,” he said simply. “She’s not a monster, but she’s not easy to deal with either.”

  “No,” Bobby said, pulling Reg close so their bodies touched. “Not easy.” He still smelled fresh from the shower, and his chest stretched the hell out of Reg’s old T-shirt, the same way his cock threatened to hang out of his old basketball shorts. The results were sexy as hell, but for once, Reg’d had his fill of sex and needed to do some talking.

  “But she’s part of my life,” Reg said, like maybe Bobby hadn’t figured this out in all the time he’d spent at Reg’s house, not being a boyfriend, just being a friend.

  “I know it.”

  “You’ll get tired of it quick,” Reg told him, wanting to be honest.

  “But not tired of you.” Bobby kissed his forehead, and Reg remembered when his sister used to do that for him. It was a sweet thing—a thing that didn’t ask anything from a person, just gave all the reassurance possible.

  “Good.” Reg rested his head against Bobby’s chest.

  “Ready for some TV now?” Bobby’s arms tightened around his shoulders.

  “God yes. And some dessert—we bought cookies.”

  “Yeah.”

  The rest of the night was about as perfect as it could get. They lay on the couch, feet in each other’s laps, desultorily rubbing because they both agreed that felt nice. They ate cookies and milk and watched a movie with lots of explosions and very little dialog, and then, when Reg started nodding off, Bobby grabbed his hand and pulled him to bed.

  It was not a new experience, sleeping in bed with a man—or even with Bobby, for that matter. Reg kept waiting for that moment when he woke up with Bobby’s hand on his stomach or his hip or his back, that long, rangy body pressed up against Reg’s, and realized that he’d done something irrevocable.

  It didn’t happen.

  Instead they murmured to each other quietly as they fell asleep, talking about the TV show, about their plans for tomorrow—Bobby had to go back to his apartment and get new clothes—and when their next shoot was.

  Reg closed his eyes midsentence, talking about how he was glad Scott wasn’t on the schedule anymore because the guy would fuck your ear hole if he thought it would get a better shot, and fell asleep.

  Sometime in the night he got up to pee and paused in the light from the bathroom to see if it really was Bobby, after so many months without.

  He slept on his stomach, his head turned toward Reg’s empty pillow, arm flung out like he was trying to possess Reg even in sleep.

  Reg remembered the times Ethan had stayed over, with his craving for touch, and he remembered rubbing Ethan’s back—literally, for hours—but Ethan had never tried to claim him like that. Dex had stayed here a time or two, but Dex had that sweet way of disengaging. Reg had learned a lot from him, actually, about how to sleep with someone without giving them the impression it meant anything. Lance tended to fold over him, but protectively, like Reg was a child. Trey slept in his own corner, arms folded, as solitary as a baseball in a case.

  In his mind he flipped through the incredibly long list of guys who had slept here, in Reg’s bed, for fun, for company, to make sure Reg didn’t have to be alone, and not once did he remember a guy who just possessed Reg, sure and honest.

  Bobby’s eyes fluttered open, and he squinted against the light. “Come back to bed,” he ordered. “That light is skewering my eyeballs like a shish kebab.”

  Reg laughed softly. “That’s gross, Bobby.”

  The man in his bed grunted. “What are you looking at?”

  “You. You’re just… beautiful.” It wasn’t a manly word. Straight men didn’t call other men beautiful. Reg had certainly never thought of a man that way, in spite of all the guys he’d fucked.

  But then, maybe Reg had never been straight; maybe Bobby was right. The thing inside him that could let him picture having Bobby in his bed every night forever—that wasn’t a straight-guy thing, not even a straight guy who fucked other guys for convenience.

  Bobby blinked those big brown-green eyes at him. “That’s sweet, Reg. Why’s it sound like you’re afraid to say it?”

&nb
sp; “You said you were gay.” Reg shrugged. “And I’m probably bi. And it just hit me. I think you’re beautiful. I want you in my bed. That’s… that’s real. I’m not going to get hit by a bolt of lightning that says I’m different or you’re different or my life has changed. That thing in me, it’s always been there.” He shrugged, feeling this in his gut. “I was just too piss-stupid to know it.”

  “Come here.” Bobby held out his hand. Reg turned off the light behind him and moved forward, trusting himself in the dark until he felt Bobby’s fingers close around his palm. He tugged a little, and Reg tumbled into bed, eyes searching for Bobby until his vision adjusted, and he found himself lying with his head on Bobby’s shoulder while Bobby regarded him soberly from just inches away.

  “Hi,” Reg said, smiling a little and touching Bobby’s face with his fingertips.

  “You’re not stupid,” Bobby said. That was sweet—the kid meant it.

  “IQ of eighty-three,” Reg said. He’d made Lance give him that test. He’d heard the word “retarded” whispered about him often enough. He had to know. It was almost like the word “bi”—he had to know the words that defined him so he knew what he had to work with.

  “That don’t mean nothing,” Bobby said, his shoulder moving under Reg’s ear as he shrugged. “That means you were afraid through school, so you didn’t pay that much attention. It means your mother was losing her shit, and you didn’t get enough to eat, and that hurts your brain. It means nobody sat down with you and read, the way my mother did with me. It means you were eighteen and making big fucking decisions about your sister, with no one to help you, and you didn’t have time to study all the shit that makes you look smart on paper.”

  “It means I can’t think for shit,” Reg said bluntly. “Don’t make me more than I am, Bobby. I… I… if fucking wasn’t a thing you could get paid for, I wouldn’t have no fuckin’ teeth. I broke this one here”—he pinched an incisor in the front of his mouth—“when I tripped on my own damned stairs because I was twenty-two and drunk. John had just gotten dental insurance, right? But I hadn’t signed up for it—because dumb—so John and Dex, they forged the fuckin’ papers so I could go in and get a crown. Smart people don’t do that shit, Bobby. Just….” His chest ached saying this. “Just don’t think more of me than I am.”