When Irish Eyes Are Sparkling

by Tom Collins

  Finally, we were called to help the police with a handful of intoxicated and dehydrated gents at a picnic area. One drunk took a swing at me and, when he landed on his ass, detailed several ways in which I could fuck myself. I grinned and remarked on what a lovely day it was in the park.

  When we were in the rig and on our way back to the barn, Gabe finally spoke up.

  “God help us. He’s in love.”

  “Maybe,” I remarked.

  “With my loony nephew of all people!” Gabe rolled his eyes and turned us round a corner. “Christ on a Cracker. Talk about chalk and cheese! I don’t get it, Sutton. You’ve got your feet solidly on the ground. What the devil are you doing with a space case like Liam?”

  “You don’t want to know,” I smirked, “I mean, you really, really don’t want to know.”

  Gabe snorted with surprised laughter. “I suppose I don’t.” A pause, then he added, “He’s been on top of things…at the pub, I mean. I stopped in and he seems to be all there. He sings and dances and annoys his aunt, but he doesn’t make mistakes like he did before. He gets everything right.”

  “Good to hear it,” I said.

  He glanced side-wise at me. “Just don’t start calling me Uncle.”

  “No, sir. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Much as I wanted to see Liam, I knew he needed a respite from me, even if he didn’t think he needed it. I called to tell him we were both on mandatory stand down, and he should sleep in his own bed tonight. I’d be by for him Thursday evening, however, and could he get his mother’s car?

  He could, as it turned out, and that night, Fourth of July, we met after his shift and drove to a secluded spot I knew up among the hiking trails.

  “I thought you were new to the city,” he said, as I led him to a grassy glade with humming crickets and fluttering moths. “How d’you know about this spot?”

  “I was brought here on a date once,” I hedged. Truth was, this part of the parklands was a prime cruising area and, on a visit to the city a year ago, a gent who’d caught my eye had led me to this spot, remarking that it wasn’t as well known as others.

  It was private and offered Liam and I a good view of the fireworks shot up from a concert area.

  I laid him out naked on the soft grass while muted John Philip Sousa marches played in the background. I took my time returning the favor he’d done me a couple nights before, exploring every inch of his long body. I delighted in his hairy legs, wetting down his thighs with my tongue. When he started to moan and squirm, I skipped up to his navel, and circled that. I bit and chewed on his nipples while my fingers, laced into his, held back his hands. I inhaled the warm masculine smell at his throat, kissed that wonderful Adam’s apple, nuzzled into his pits, and listened to his near choking, “Oh, wow,” as he blinked up at fireworks blossoming overhead.

  Back down at his long, wonderful cock, I took him down, and he came into my mouth as soft explosions reached our ears.

  “Fireworks and orgasms. How cliché,” he laughed afterwards, as we made our way back to his car, arms around each other. We didn’t go straight home but stopped back at his apartment, as he wanted to show me something.

  “My roomies are all out,” he said, flicking on the light and giving me a first look at where he lived. The place was cluttered, but not nearly so awful as some shared apartments I’d been in. There was band equipment in the living room and piles of DVDs and computer games around the television. Liam’s paintings hung on almost every wall: Woodland sprites, ghostly pirates, a genie at a Sultans palace, mermaids and griffins, as well as fantastic scenes of Tolkien style dwarves and elves.

  “Most of the big paintings I store at my parent’s place,” he said, leading the way down a short hall. We passed by a duel sink bathroom three-quarters full of female paraphernalia: make-up, hair dyes, lotions, pink razors and wildly patterned stockings hung out to dry. I remembered Liam saying that Jill, the waitress, was one of the roommates. Sure enough, the next room we passed by had a stuffed spider on the twin bed, a scattering of bras and skirts, rock magazines, and a large photograph on the wall of Liam and Jill. They were embracing on a stage before a drum set. Jill’s hair was longer in the picture and streaked with orange hues.

  I paused, blinking at the photo. It was playful, but also sensual. Like they were lovers. I tended to forget Liam was bisexual, truly bisexual, not just a man saying he was to hide that he was gay. He was that rare sort who loved people, not genders, and, clearly, he had loved—likely still did love—Jill.

  Jealously pinched me, and I wondered yet again if there was anything still between them.

  “Behold!” Liam had led me to his room. It was a chaotic muddle of art supplies, sketches, toys, clothes and piles of dog-eared books. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be pencils and paint brushes in soup cans.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he said shyly, “Here we are. Like it?”

  He was waving to the easel against one wall supporting a nice-sized painting in progress. The pencil sketch was evident in places, the painted sections lacking in detail, but it was clearly a barbarian, longhaired, helmeted, his nether regions barely covered by ragged furs. He was swinging a huge broad sword at a demonic dragon. I liked how filled with energy it was. The barbarian seemed even more fierce and chaotic than the dragon, muscles taunt with violence.

  Then I got a closer look.

  The barbarian was me.

  I went cold inside. “Why—” I heard myself saying as Liam came up to stand beside me. “Why am I a barbarian?”

  He must have heard something in my tone, as he glanced uncertainly at me. “You’ve got the sexy build of a barbarian, all that upper body strength,” he reached out a hand to stoke across my back, “That luscious six-pack.” He snuck a hand under my tee, and I shivered.

  We dropped off his mother’s car and took the subway back to my place. Once in bed, however, I found my mind stuck on the painting as I lay listening to his relaxed breath in the dark. He’s seen past my mask, I thought, anxiously. He knows, even if he’s not quite aware of it, what I’m really like. What I’d really like to do to him.

  Which was selfishly take him and use him no matter his wants or needs. I squirmed in shame at the thought.

  July waxed and waned, and I forgot about the painting. My days at work were punctuated by free time lying back on the lounge’s couch, chatting on the phone with Liam about stupid things like the toys we had when we were kids and the bands we loved as teens. And my time off was filled with enjoying a lot of things I’d missed and thought I’d never know. Like riding along bike paths and sharing baseball games. Liam wasn’t just my lover; he was the best friend I never had. We spent every night that we could together, as well as every morning.

  “My roommates are pretending they don’t remember who I am,” Liam joked, after one rare night where we slept apart.

  One thing I learned very quickly was that Liam’s nickname was no joke. He really was a space oddity. He’d detour off a path to follow the playing of a street musician or forget what kind of hot dog he was ordering as a dragonfly caught his eye. More than once I had to nab him as he blithely stepped into the crosswalk on a red light. He forgot to eat, or ate whatever junk food was on hand when he finally couldn’t hold off the hunger.

  I imagine some would have found him trying, but he gave the control freak in me a worthwhile mission, and I was grateful for that. Major Tom was not going to be lost on my watch. I dragged him with me to the gym to exercise regularly, made sure he ate and ate healthy, I even kept his sketch pad in a certain spot, his colored pencils in order so he always could find them when he needed them.

  I liked being his anchor, but I worried that he’d tire of it. My first lover had been my English teacher at the community college, an older man named Tim who turned out to be far too much like my dad. Almost as impulsive as Liam, this man had been the sort to head out to do what he pleased when he pleased for as long as he pleased. He’d been amused, at first, with my attemp
ts to regulate our lives, then annoyed. He’d dumped me for being too controlling.

  I worried that Liam might do the same. For now, he seemed to trust me. He even brought over his laptop and had me read over query letters to publishers about book cover jobs. He asked for anatomy help on his art, and we discussed bone structure and musculature for hours on end. He even wanted my opinion on which pieces of art to feature on his website. His faith in my judgment was daunting.

  On one of our precious Tuesdays together he took me to an arts and crafts fair to meet his Aunt Katie and her fair-haired, Irish husband Sean. Their strawberry-blond daughter, Oona—almost three years old—gazed at me the whole time, with her gray-green eyes. Aunt Katie was great, funny, artistic, and warm. She had a booth selling her landscape photographs, which were terrific, but she also had a section dedicated to Liam’s artwork as well. Dragons and griffins, knights in shining armor: why hadn’t he seen me as a knight in shining armor?

  “Best take ever, boyo,” Katie said at the end of the day and handed Liam nearly five hundred dollars. Seems she’d sold some of his paintings. Liam grinned like a loon at the windfall and his eyes glowed.

  “Yes! Steak dinner on me, Funsucker,” he said and kissed me right there, complete with tongue. I didn’t want to dim his elation, and besides, it was very stimulating.

  I was learning how to relax a little in public, and how to have fun with Liam. As we tucked into our thick T-bones later on, I jokingly remarked. “Your Uncle Sean’s pretty hot. I could go for someone like that. Especially the accent.”

  His brows rose with mischief. “Like th’ Cork brogue d’ye?” he responded in the exact same dialect. “Well, I thin’ we can accommodate ye there.”

  Sure enough, my over-eager dick twitched as if Liam were playing an Irish flute. God, I loved his voice. “Stop that—” I half-laughed. But he kept it up all night. I’d forgotten that Gram and Granda O’Shaughnessy had come direct from the Emerald Isles and—like the rest of his family—Liam could speak with a brogue as easily as his American dialect.

  Maybe it was the accent, or the combination of accent, red meat and the feeling I’d gotten this afternoon when Katie had handed Liam that money for his art. The feeling that his success was mine as well. Whatever it was, my libido went into overdrive. I barely got him home before I was ripping off his clothes.

  “Whoa!” I heard him cry in surprise. In half a minute he was naked and I was dropping my pants. I growled as I shoved him onto the bed, my vision gone predatory. Next thing I knew, I was atop him, sucking the tender flesh his Adam’s apple, pinching his hard little nipples so that he writhed and squirmed under me. I trailed on down through his silky forest of chest hair, tonguing his navel, making his hips buck as I slurped down his treasure trail into the thick nest of pubic hair.

  I loved that he was hairy down there. I got his long legs up, bending him nearly double. Pushing his knees up against his chest, I rooted on down under his tightening balls. His cock was already at rigid attention, drizzling precum all over his belly.

  I tasted everything. The sweaty hair between his thighs, the delicious length of his precum slicked dick, his musky ass. I nibbled and licked and sucked until his hands were clawing at the bed and he was weeping out his moans of desire.

  The precum had pooled on his belly. I swept two fingers through it. The monster in me smiled a nasty smile and pressed those slick fingers against his pucker. I could feel it flutter and pulse with desire. He let out a groan of need, and in my fingers went, into that hot, smooth, waiting tunnel.

  I found the soft, walnut sized lump of tissue and tortured it. Leaning in over him, gazing down at his face as he gasped. He struggled and squirmed and I kept him there. His cock hemorrhaged precum, and I pulled out my fingers with a pop to scoop up more.

  I slicked his copious precum over my dick, adding it to mine.

  Then I got his legs over my shoulders. I glided three fingers in, stretching him until he was arching his ass up begging for it. Liam had had more practice over the weeks in ass play, both giving and receiving, but I’d kept rigid control over myself and eased into him slowly.

  This time, my brain was not in command. My raging lust was, and it didn’t want to think or feel. It wanted to devour Liam whole.

  In I went. Fast and deep into that hot glorious tunnel. I heard him hiss in pain, even cry out. Too late and besides, the monster didn’t give a shit. I pounded away, dragging back and shoving in at a speed that I wanted. He clutched at the bed in agony, which, from the sound of his “Oh, wow!” turned to pleasure as I bumped back and forth over his prostrate.

  My cock head sent back flickers and sparks into my belly and groin.

  I felt his anus squeezing and squeezing, sending shocks of delight through me. I loved the way my balls bumped his tight ass and leaned in further to drip my sweat on him. I ground my pelvis against his long, stiff cock and its nest of pubic hair, even as I bent and sucked at his nipples. I wanted him to keep moving under me, like prey fighting to escape.

  I’d lost it. Completely lost it, and whether Liam knew it or not he was face to face with the monster in all its raging selfish need. There was nothing, at that moment, he could have said or done to stop me from doing anything I liked to him. Yet something strange happened. Usually when the monster is blazing I’m either fucking someone who is totally submissive, or someone who is equally on fire and we’re leaving bruises and bites on each other.

  Liam wasn’t giving me either of those. He was neither passive nor fighting me, rather, he was enfolding me. His arms came around, his body pressed close, and he moved as if we were dancing. It was as if he’d lowered the white-hot rock inside of me into deep water. As I made him boil and steam, he, in turn, cooled my temperature.

  The monster relaxed; it paid attention to what he was doing. It obeyed his movements, because it knew that in doing so, the pleasure would be heightened for us both.

  I came first, crying out and jerking. He had his hand on his dripping dick and a few strokes later he shot his load, gluing us together.

  Slumping in exhaustion, I pulled out and rolled onto the bed. My breath was coming in gasps, my mind was blissfully empty and my world was spinning. I lay there, letting it spin, warm pleasure still rolling through me.

  “Wow,” I heard him breath. He was huffing. Glancing over I saw the shimmer of sweat on his expanding ribs. “That was…intense.”

  I wasn’t able to say anything yet, so I nodded.

  He shifted and winced. “I think I’m going to be sore tomorrow,” he laughed a little, but he sounded shaken. Really shaken.

  Oh, God. I stiffened. Oh fuck! What the hell had I done?

  Liam wasn’t some back alley cruiser looking to get fucked. He’d been having sexual experiences with a man all of three weeks and bet your ass he’d never done anything like that with the college girls he’d dated.

  Ah, Christ. No. I hadn’t—I didn’t mean to—

  To be a dick. A selfish, thoughtless, asshole. A barbarian.

  I gazed at him stricken to my soul. I couldn’t even begin to think of a way to apologize.

  “Hey,” he said, voice wobbling, “I’m fine and it was my fault anyway. I should have relaxed. I tensed up, but it only hurt for a little, then it was…off the hook, as always. I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

  It was his magnanimous way of telling me he forgave me, and I nodded thanks for it. I half expected him to leave or move away, and was surprised and grateful when he snuggled in against me. As if I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  The mask was well and truly off now, and I had no idea how I was going to face him, or myself, in the morning.

  Chapter Eight

  *Liam*

  I woke the morning after Oliver’s birthday dinner to find him long gone, as usual. I wondered why he never woke me to say good-bye. Rolling out of bed to go relieve myself, I felt a sudden, sharp ache in my ass. It took me a second to remember the night before, and after that, you couldn’t’
ve wiped the silly smile from my face with sandpaper. I moved gingerly for a while. When I noticed Oliver’s apartment key square in the middle of my neatly folded clothes, my silly smile became a smug simper I was glad no one was present to witness. I put it on my key ring right then.

  I went home to change into fresh work clothes. Erin wasn’t home. He’d been working double shifts lately. I suspected he was saving up for something big, like a panel van for the band’s equipment. Bren and Jill were home though and both looked up from the TV when I came through the door. Jillian took one look at me, gasped, and sat up from her prone position on Brendan’s lap. Bren leaned to see the TV around her.

  “He did it,” she whispered to him, never taking her eyes off me and deliberately blocking his view of the screen.

  “Did what, Jillybean?”

  “Iiiiiiiiii-t!” She practically spit the “T” she put so much emphasis on it.

  He turned to me, twigging to her meaning at last. “Seriously?” I colored and turned to go to my room, but I couldn’t hide the witless smile I wore. “Oh, shit! He did!”

  They scrambled after me and I didn’t make it half way to my room before Bren caught me, literally, and turned me to face them.

  “Bro, he finally kicked your back door in?”

  Jill admonished, “Of course, he did. There might as well be a neon sign over his head, for Christ’s sake.”

  I nodded in reply, feeling strangely shy around Jill, and yet, stranger still, I felt a new kinship with her. She and I now had something in common that Brendan and I didn’t. We both knew what it meant to not just submit to a man’s lust, but accept and encompass it within ourselves. I felt closer to her than I expected I ever would.

  “Well?!” Bren demanded. I knew he wanted me to describe every sensation, like I’d been doing with everything else, but he was going to be disappointed this time.