Fifty First Times: A New Adult Anthology

by J. Lynn

  “I know, but I kind of dragged you into this whole mess.”

  I shrugged. “It hasn’t been a total waste of time. At least I know the kind of gay man I don’t want to be when I’m in my forties.”

  “What kind of gay man is that?”

  “The kind that bathes in Axe body spray,” I said.

  Allen laughed. “It’s nice to see you in good spirits. You always seem so gloomy.”

  “Do I?”

  “You never want to leave the house, dude.”

  “I like to dance.”

  He glared at me. “Like once a year, and only when your friend Molly is around.”

  “So I like to stay in. I enjoy reading. That’s not a crime.”

  “I envy you. I’ve never told you that, but it’s true. I can’t stand to be at my own apartment. My own thoughts are suffocating. Even when I leave the house, I still can’t get away from myself. Why do you think I’m always drinking?”

  “Are you serious?”

  Allen nodded. “If I stayed in as much as you do, I would go crazy. I need to always be on the move, like a shark.” Then, under his breath, he added, “Like a drunk shark.”

  It had never occurred to me that he might consider his own drinking problematic. It’s not as if we were alcoholics. We were just doing what you do when you’re twenty-one. The ambient light lit up Allen’s face, highlighting his perfect cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. It was ridiculous to think that anyone who looked like this could have any problems.

  “You’ve been drinking tonight, but you don’t seem drunk now,” I said, trying to reassure him. I was in the unfamiliar position of comforting Allen, whose self-esteem never seemed to flag. Now he was crumbling before me.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I was holding back. It takes enormous willpower to not get tanked.”

  “Why hold back? I thought we were staying with Justine after the party. You said she lives close by, right?”

  “I’ve been thinking we might just head home.”

  That didn’t sound like a bad idea. If we were lucky, we could get back to Iowa before the sun came up, meaning I could get a few hours of shut-eye before my study group at one. “If you were thinking of leaving early, I’m always happy to be the designated driver. You know that.”

  “You’re too good to me,” he said. “Why is that?”

  “We’re friends,” I said quickly.

  Allen was silent. I sensed some tension brewing just below the surface of our conversation. We’d gotten too deep, too fast. I’d been worried about seeing him naked at the orgy; instead, I wound up seeing him more naked than I’d ever expected.

  “Bunga bunga,” I said.

  Allen shot me a sideways glance.

  “Berlusconi used to throw these parties—”

  “Who?”

  “The Italian prime minister,” I said. “He threw these wild orgies that he called bunga bunga parties. I don’t know anything about them. The thought of politicians having sex grosses me out.”

  “You’d make a shit intern.”

  “Duh. So anyway, I don’t even know what the phrase means. I just like the sound of it. Bunga bunga.”

  “Bunga bunga,” Allen repeated. “That’s the punch line to a joke my dad told me when I was a kid.”

  “Was it funny?”

  “I laughed. But then again, I was in junior high.”

  “You still remember it?” I asked.

  “Like it was yesterday,” he said, staring off into the distant past. “It starts off with two English explorers getting captured by an African tribe—”

  “This isn’t racist, is it?”

  “It’s a dad joke,” Allen said, shrugging. “Anyway, the chief tells them they’re guilty of trespassing. They have a choice: bunga bunga or death. The explorers have no idea what bunga bunga is, but they figure it can’t be worse than death. The first explorer says he’ll take bunga bunga. The chief nods, and a tribesman tears the prisoner’s pants off and starts fucking him in the ass. The rest of the men in the tribe line up for their turn—”

  “Wait, how old were you when your dad told this to you?”

  “Like eleven,” Allen said. “Anyway, once the tribesmen are finished gangbanging the first explorer, the chief turns to the second one. Again, he gives him a choice: bunga bunga—or death. ‘Death,’ the prisoner says. ‘Give me death!’ The chief nods. ‘Okay. Death it is,’ he says. ‘But first—bunga bunga!’ ”

  Everything about the joke was wrong, wrong, wrong. Something about the way he told it made me grin nonetheless.

  Allen wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked tense. His eyes were tightly shut, as if he was trying to hold back tears. “You okay?”

  He exhaled a heavy breath and looked at me. His eyes were dry. “Sorry. Just thinking about my dad. I wish I remembered something about him besides his dumb jokes.”

  “The joke wasn’t that dumb.”

  “You didn’t laugh,” he said.

  “I guess I found the joke a little sad.”

  “What’s sad?”

  “Well, these two English explorers had to go all the way to Africa to find out what butt sex was.”

  “Maybe sometimes you have to leave everything you know behind to find what it is you really want,” Allen said, placing a hand on my thigh. His touch was electric. Now it was my turn to close my eyes. I didn’t want to jinx the moment by talking about it or even looking at Allen—if I’d mistaken his innocent touch for something more . . .

  I felt his hand touch mine, and then his breath was on my neck.

  I hadn’t mistaken anything.

  This was happening.

  The short hairs on his face scratched my own and his lips brushed mine. I latched on to him, kissing deeply, hungrily, as if we’d just invented French kissing. Finally, he pulled away.

  I opened my eyes. “What are you doing?”

  “Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”

  “Just a minute ago, you were about to cry.”

  “I’ve never cried in my life,” Allen said. He grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me on top of him. He flung my top hat across the room. “You have that condom?”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled it out. Only it wasn’t a condom as I’d thought. It was one of the studded rubber cock rings. “This isn’t going to work,” I said, shoving it back in my pocket.

  “This was supposed to be an orgy. We can find a real condom somewhere,” Allen said, his voice heavy and breathless. “But before we go any further, there’s something you need to know about me.”

  “What is it?” My mind raced with possibilities. I thought I knew everything about my friend, but he could have been holding out on me. I have hep C. I have HIV. I have three balls.

  “I don’t know how to say this . . .”

  “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay.”

  He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m pretty sure my dick is bigger than yours.”

  “You’re an idiot,” I said, unzipping his tuxedo pants. I could see the outline of his manhood through his boxer briefs. I slipped my fingers through his fly, brushing against his cock at first and then gripping it. I couldn’t make a fist or even wrap my fingers around it. He wasn’t kidding—his dick was bigger than mine.

  He wiggled out of his pants, and I peeled his boxer briefs down. “So I guess you really are the big man on campus,” I said, eyeing him.

  “Who called me that?”

  “I did. In my head at least, when I saw you in class that first day.”

  Allen laughed. “What class was that? I don’t even remember. Creative writing?”

  “English lit,” I said, massaging his cock. A low grunt of pleasure sounded from his throat.

  “How do you remember stuff like that?”

  I shrugged. “The same way you remember your dad’s jokes. Some things stick with you. Like this moment . . . I’m never going to forget.”

  He smiled. “I won’t either.”<
br />
  As I went down on him, I tried not to overanalyze his promise. Was he just trying to do me a favor by finally giving in to my pleading eyes? I didn’t know if this was the start of something new between us—or if this was just Allen needing someone to take care of him for the night. We would talk about it later, on the trip back. For now, I would love him as best as I could. If all we had was this moment, I would make it last. Before death, there would be bunga bunga.

  About the Author

  ANDREW SHAFFER is the Goodreads Choice Awards–nominated author of Fifty Shames of Earl Grey, as well as the nonfiction titles Literary Rogues and Great Philosophers Who Failed at Love. He is a former reviewer of romance, erotica, and women’s fiction for RT Book Reviews magazine. His Web site is www.literaryrogue.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  With the Lights On

  ALESSANDRA THOMAS

  I’D ONLY COME close to having a panic attack during sex once.

  Morning sunlight streamed into Tal’s bedroom through the huge window, lighting up the all-white bedding. I lay naked beneath a gauzy, thin sheet on a mahogany-framed cloud, with the lips of an angel pressed to the spot just beneath my ear. I lazily rolled my head back into the pillow, stretching my neck out as a larger canvas for his handiwork.

  And oh my Lord, was he handy at kissing.

  Tiny points of electricity sparked across my skin wherever his lips, and a second later, his hands touched. There were no bony edges here—he was all hard muscle and I was more than happy to be all healthy, grabbable curve. That was something I’d finally learned to love about myself, even after Mom talked about it like it was a popularity death sentence. I’d done a lot of work since what happened last year, but now I was finally feeling good.

  His hand glided over my stomach and rested on my hip, his thumb sitting at my waist and pressing in. The feeling crashed over me all at once—his hand was made to fit there.

  Tal’s shoulders dipped below the sheet as he kissed down my neck, let his tongue dip into the curve between my collarbones. Along the way, he murmured sweet things—how he’d never get tired of the way I taste, how he couldn’t get enough of me, how we should never leave this room—along with my name, Anna, with such smooth devotion that it took my breath away. He told me how he’d do anything I asked him to, inside the bedroom and out.

  I knew he meant every word. That’s what was bothering me.

  After just two weeks of dating, which was at first shy but quickly turned serious, I thought I was falling in love with him. I’d never felt quite that close to that particular feeling before. My heart galloped recklessly along the path, forming the words on my tongue, and just before they tumbled out, I stopped, and realized I was staring over a cliff.

  Tal pulled me toward him, and when he did, the sheet fluttered away from my body and got crushed between our bodies. The reflected sunlight streamed through the window and made a halo around my now bare golden-brown skin. My eyes flared as I realized just how naked I was in the bright light. The whole scene would have been perfect if it wasn’t inevitably headed for disaster.

  My heart rate escalated from galloping to racing, and I couldn’t rein in my breaths. Tal should have noticed, but he didn’t, because his tongue was about to reach my nipple, one of his favorite spots—and mine, when I wasn’t on the brink of a panic attack. I could feel very clearly from the hot pressure against my stomach that he was thinking with the wrong head to figure out that, at that particular moment, I was about to lose my shit.

  Suddenly, the sunlight stopped glowing and started to burn.

  Sweat broke out across my forehead, and I felt one, then two stomach rolls form as I twisted away. I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs, and it was just all too much.

  I tried to sit up, but the sheet was wrapped around my leg and my arm was lodged under Tal’s side pinning me to the bed. My brain screamed, Stop! You have to stop! But I couldn’t get a single sound out of my mouth. Tal’s face had started to twist in confusion and shock, but it was too late.

  By then, I couldn’t breathe at all. Everything dimmed, then went black around me . . .

  IT PROBABLY SAID something about Tal that right before the second time we’d slept together, I’d passed out with a panic attack. I still didn’t know if he knew the real reason behind my momentary lapse of consciousness that morning, but I’d explained it as low blood sugar. By the time he’d brought a bagel and a glass of orange juice, I’d pulled myself together enough to tug a camisole over my head, engage in a damn hot make-out session, and eventually give him the blow job of his life.

  Ah, memories.

  I closed my eyes, trying to breathe deeply and focus. This wasn’t that morning, and I was not about to have a panic attack. Not after how far Tal and I had come.

  Still, it was always the mornings in bed that made that particular one come rushing back, and this one was no different—except that Tal wasn’t here this time to make me feel covered and safe. I’d dozed off after some particularly athletic sex in the wee hours of the morning, and fallen asleep with the sheets tangled up beneath me, leaving me completely uncovered in the flooding morning sun.

  I’d never woken up here without still being tangled up with Tal, snuggled in his bed. I knew that when I slept alone in my own bed, I tossed and turned and threw the sheets, my PJs tangled up with all the layers of bedding and blankets. It was different to feel the twist of sheets against bare skin. Something I wasn’t sure I liked.

  My eye traveled up my body, and I smiled—my skin really did glow. I’d always loved the color, a perfect blend of warm brown from my mom and peachy pink from my dad. I didn’t even hate my curves like I used to—I’d learned to appreciate the swinging heaviness of my breasts against my ribs—more to fill up a sexy bra with. Beautiful bras were one of Tal’s favorite things. Thanks to my strict lights-out policy, a lacy bra and panties were the closest he ever got to seeing me fully naked.

  But then my gaze fell on my arm, stretched out across the space where Tal would normally be lying. As soon as it caught the tip of the light pink scar clawing its way across my inside forearm, I squeezed my eyes shut.

  And my vision filled with the face of the last guy on the planet I should have been thinking of at that moment—the guy responsible for those scars.

  Asshole.

  I swallowed hard.

  A loud click at the bedroom door sent my hand grabbing at the sheet. I yanked it up over my boobs, my heart racing again. Tal nudged the door open with a wooden breakfast tray, bearing homemade waffles and orange juice. As happy as I was to see the food, I fought to smile and look normal. I couldn’t believe he almost saw me in all my daylight morning glory.

  Maybe I was getting a little too comfortable with him.

  Tal approached the bed, wearing just his blue cotton pajama bottoms and his thick-rimmed glasses, holding the tray steady against his flat stomach. I couldn’t tell which looked more delicious—those waffles or what was framing them. It took all my self-control not to lick my lips.

  There was no doubt I was in serious lust with Tal—I practically drooled every time I saw him. I even liked hanging out with him—we were on a finishing-each-other’s-sentences and can-sit-in-silence-together comfort level. But love? That was taking a little longer. Somehow we hadn’t gotten around to saying that word yet—the four-letter word all my friends wanted their boyfriends to say.

  The crazy thing was that as incredibly hot as Tal was, the sex was just . . . missing something. This boy naked was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, and him naked and on top of me felt even better. The sex was fun, and sometimes I even came—hard. But there was something intangible that I wanted to be there, to make that one last little piece of connection click into place, to make it really explode. I just didn’t know what that was.

  Maybe being able to say those three little words would make all the difference.

  Tal set
the tray down and handed me a glass of orange juice, which forced me to sit up and take it. “Don’t spill,” I said. “Gloria will kill you.”

  “Nah,” he said, flashing that dimple that melted me every time. “Gloria loves bleaching my sheets.”

  Gloria was Tal’s housekeeper. Yeah—housekeeper. Having a dad who was a partner at one of LA’s biggest law firms and a mom who used her phenom computer skills to make a fortune in the dotcom gold rush mean that his parents not only bought him a condo for his three-year stay at USC law school, but also hired a housekeeper to go with it.

  Tal eased onto the bed on the other side of the tray to face me. I watched his forearms flex as he cut a big bite of the waffle and lifted it up under a cupped hand to catch any dripping syrup. He brought it to my mouth and reflex made it drop open. His lips mimicked mine as they closed around the fork, and the taste was so rich and delicious that I closed my eyes when I tasted it.

  Tal watched me, his eyes lit up with quiet affection.

  “Talcott Carroll,” I said, finally taking my first deep breath, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to keep me in your bed all morning.”

  He took a bite of his own, chewing slowly before answering with a wicked smile. “Obviously that’s exactly what’s going on here. Are you going to protest? It’s Sunday morning, and you have something to celebrate.” His olive-green eyes smiled into mine, and I melted.

  I bent toward him for a kiss, my hand clutching the sheet over my breasts. This was not going to work out too well for eating. I let my lips linger against his before murmuring, “Toss me a shirt?” Tal gave me a soft smile, then eased out of bed to grab what he knew was my favorite—a worn heather-gray shirt with “Wellington Lacrosse” emblazoned across the front. As I pulled it over my head, my heart jumped at the exquisite soreness between my legs. Yeah, last night was pretty good—it involved my legs straight up in the air at one point, and me straddling his lap at another. I distinctly remembered some very sexy growls coming from both of us. I wouldn’t have minded another round.