by Неизвестный
Jason straddled the chair in front of his desk and watched his roommate. "I told you, my dick hurts." Now in the silence of the examination room, he whispers the words again, "My dick hurts." Only it's not just his dick, it's all the way inside of him, and if it's something contagious, Matt has to have it, too. Chris already said he felt a little funny, didn't he?
Last night, though, Matt tried his best to be reassuring. "It's just a urinary tract infection or something," he said, though he didn't sound too convincing. "Jeez, Jason. You act like it's the clap or herpes or AIDS. If you're that worried about it, be more careful of where you stick it next time." With a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes, he asked, "Where's that thing been, anyway?"
"In you," Jason muttered. From where he stretched out on Matt's bed, flipping through a comic, Chris laughed. "And you," he added. "Laugh it up. You probably have it, too."
"I use condoms," Chris replied. He turned the page of his comic book and didn't seem too upset about Jason's problem. "When's the last time we got it on, anyway?"
"Sunday," Jason reminded him, indignant. "I use condoms, too." Thing of it is, he's careful. Moreso than some guys he knows. And look what happens. To him, of all people. Should he be more cautious? More reserved?
Look at Grey.
True, but the man is older than he is, much older. Chances are he's here for something else entirely, colitis or prostate cancer or gallstones. He has one boy, one. He doesn't fuck around, Jason's quite sure of it -- Wesley looks like he'd snap at anyone who looked twice as his old fag. Hell, he almost told Jason off. There's no way he'd let anyone else in that relationship. Absently Jason strokes his belly through the thick sweatshirt he wears and thinks of those two getting it on. He sees Wesley's thin body, nothing but bones wrapped in pale skin, how easily Grey would envelop him with those stocky arms, how warm and safe he would feel in such an embrace. Jason wonders if that would be enough to keep him from wanting other boys, different arms. One man, waking to the same face, tasting the same lips, feeling the same thickness fill him during sex. Each time identical to the one before, all the moves similar, the motions of love replayed like a favorite scene, fuck pause rewind, fuck pause rewind. Wouldn't it get old? Wouldn't it get too familiar, until the guy wasn't a lover but a deeper part of him, family almost, brother or uncle or father and how could that continue to be fresh and attractive to a kid like Wesley? How could he get it up time and again for the same man?
Jason can't imagine it, doesn't want to. Once, last year, Matt's little brother came up for the weekend. The boy was twelve and because Matt swore to his mom that he wouldn't let him get into trouble, they stayed in the dorms. Three whole days, Friday through Sunday, Jason and Matt and Chris and a gangly pre-teen named Ronnie whose idea of fun was sitting for hours in front of the computer. The only time they managed to do anything was when Jason snuck off to Chris's room for a quick blowjob or finger fuck. Three days. Three. By the second night, he couldn't even get excited when Chris pulled off his pants. How would he ever live the rest of his life with one guy, the same one, when he got bored so easily after one weekend?
He doesn't know. He doesn't care. If that's what Wesley wants, more power to the kid. Let him have his old man -- Jason will find one of his own to do this weekend, if he can keep from passing out when he comes, and he'll fuck him on the spot, no dragging him back to the dorm, no kicking him out of bed at the crack of dawn. He's like a child in a candy store, standing with hands pressed against the display case as his mother tells him he can have anything he wants, anything at all. He tells himself he likes it that way.
But here, now, alone, he imagines gnarled hands on tender flesh, young fingers entwined in gray hair, not just sex or fucking but love, intuitive, intimate, forever. Forever.
He's twenty. The word has no meaning for him. His hands clench in his jeans right above the ache in his belly and he closes his eyes. When he tries to clear his mind, he keeps seeing Grey's parted lips as Wesley rubs beneath his jacket. If he didn't hurt, he'd ask them for a few minutes in the bathroom.
At least, he thinks he would.
THE END
Copyright © 2006 by J. M. Snyder
Please do not copy or reprint without permission.
Author: [email protected]
Website: http://jmsnyder.net