Isaac chuckles. “Yes, skin. Okay, up on the counter.”
Pete obeys mutely, trying to hop up next to the sink but almost sliding off and onto the floor when his slick hands slip on the countertop.
Isaac catches him, or tries to, which is all sorts of hot until it’s a mess of lost balance and slipperiness everywhere.
Eventually Pete gets seated on the counter with Isaac standing between his knees. It makes this disaster of an evening seems like the best plan he’s ever had.
“Why tonight of all nights to get creative with the lube?” Isaac mutters, tearing off a paper towel and grabbing Pete’s wrist to keep him still so he can get at the worst of the mess. While the concept was sound, not being able to get a firm grip on anything is not going to get that ring off.
“Timing seemed right,” Pete says with a shrug.
“Yeah?” Isaac glances up at him through the dark corkscrew curls now tumbling into his face. “Oh my god, what did you even do? This stuff is congealing.”
“I don’t have work tomorrow, and you don’t have Jess this weekend?” He says. It both does, and does not, answer the question.
“Oh. Oh really,” Isaac grins, catching on.
Pete really wants to kiss him, and he would if he were sure he could manage to lean forward without falling off the counter or getting more stuff all over both of them.
“Mmmm.” It had been an awesome plan. Until the ring hadn’t come off.
“The olive oil was your first mistake,” Isaac informs him. “Shoulda used Windex”
“Really?” Pete says, wrinkling his nose.
“Yeah. It’s slipperier. And like, clean and doesn’t get every-where?”
“How do you even know that? Please tell me your ring got stuck too.”
“Nope. I mean I took it off all the time for camping and shit.”
“What’d you do with it?” Pete asks curiously as Isaac finishes wiping off the mess and goes back to the cupboard looking for his cleaning supplies.
“The day the divorce was finalized I hiked up Rattlesnake Ledge. And I chucked it off the top.”
“You did not.”
“I completely did.”
“It’s your wedding ring!”
“Was. And Chad is a fucking asshole. It probably hit someone.”
Pete cracks up. He’s met Isaac’s ex-husband once, at one of Jessica’s school concerts. And while he’s willing to respect any human being Isaac was married to that long and had a child with, Chad is totally a fucking asshole.
The Windex doesn’t actually help matters, which Isaac takes as a personal affront. Pete’s hand is likely too swollen at this point for anything to work, but now he’s invested, and a valiant attempt is still required.
“Okay, so just to be clear and I don’t need to mean anything by this, where are you on the dinner, drinks, sex stuff, if we can’t get this thing off?” Isaac asks, focusing on the ring, even though he’s pretty sure it’s not going anywhere.
“He died three years ago,” Pete points out.
“Yeah, and you’re still wearing his ring.”
“It seemed weird not to take it off.”
“Well, it’s gotten pretty weird trying to take it off,” Isaac says.
This is the sort of dumb situation that makes him feel like he should give in to Pete’s agency’s suggestion that he have a blog to personalize the brand. Among other things, he’d be able to enjoy maximum public humiliation.
“Are you annoyed?” Pete asks.
Isaac shakes his head. “Only at the universe. Just like yesterday.”
Pete gives him a weak smile.
“So shitty comedies and booze until we cry or…” It’s not meant to be a lead-in, it’s just hard to normalize what’s an explicitly abnormal situation, and he has no idea what it’s legitimate to expect.
“Or you could kiss me.”
“Okay, are you…”
“I’m not a child and I’m not drunk, and dear god, we’ve kissed before,” Pete says.
“So this would be the wrong time to point out that you are now covered in olive oil, lube and Windex!”
“Unless that’s working for you?”
Isaac laughs disbelievingly.
Pete reaches out a hand and, completely not caring what he gets in anyone’s hair, grabs the back of Isaac’s head and drags him into the kiss.
Isaac has to go up on his toes to make it work, which he does before it occurs to him to protest the mess, and by then it’s way too late.
Pete grins at him as he deliberately drags his fingers through Isaac’s hair.
Isaac reaches up and catches his wrist, bringing it around to hold between them.
Pete folds their fingers together, and Isaac stares down at his hand and the wedding ring gleaming on it. Pete’s worried he’s going to ask again if it’s okay or if he’s sure and now that he is, it just seems so tedious. But Isaac only looks up at him and presses a kiss to Pete’s knuckles.
It’s terribly sweet and completely scary. It’s been a long time since he’s been with anyone, and in a way he’s almost glad the ring is stuck so he doesn’t have to do it alone.
When the moment snaps, they reach for each other’s face simultaneously. Pete leans forward on the counter precariously until Isaac shoves him back roughly against the wall, almost banging his head on the corner of a cabinet in the process.
The kiss that ensues is messy and overeager, more teeth than anything else. It’s hard to complain when the whole purpose of waiting has been—other than avoiding getting their crazy all over each other—to see if eventually they would get to the place where they just couldn’t wait anymore.
Apparently, that place looks like Isaac grinding the heel of his hand against the bulge in Pete’s jeans while he pulls back to watch him moan.
“Do you give a shit if we do this here?” Isaac asks, elbows down on the counter now so that he’s eye-level with Pete’s cock.
Pete shakes his head and throws up his hands a little helplessly. If he doesn’t give a shit about the ring, or the state in which he answered the door, he certainly doesn’t give a shit about christening the kitchen counters in his sad little widower apartment where he’s never fucked anyone.
“Oh thank god,” Isaac says, mostly to himself, as he eases Pete’s zipper down.
His cock is thick and heavy in his hands. When he peers up at Pete through his eyelashes and sees him looking back at him in wonderment, it seems ridiculous to have yet another conversation about safety. There are plenty of ways they can hurt each other. Disease, in light of their individual messes after the ends of their marriages, doesn’t seem likely.
Still he waits too long, because Pete eventually tips his head to the side and breathes, “Go on then.”
Maybe it’s because it’s been months since his one disastrous post-divorce hookup, but Pete’s dick is perfect in his mouth. A little too thick and not too long, and he can get down to the root with just enough of the suggestion of choking to make it really hot.
Pete curses above him. Isaac remembers that it’s really hard to smirk with a dick in his mouth, which definitely counts as a good problem to have.
He kneads at Pete’s thighs, pushing them as far apart as they’ll go in the too-tight jeans. He doesn’t want to stop to deal with their clothes, and is grateful when Pete gets both his hands in his hair and makes it clear he’s not going anywhere.
Isaac does manage to snake a hand up under Pete’s shirt to the flat of his belly. The hair there is short and scratchy, clearly growing in from being waxed. Pete’s such an ad man, it’s ridiculous. It’s a completely different type of vain from that of the guys who work in his shop who define their attractiveness by how likely their hobbies are to get them killed.
Pete’s muscles jump. Isaac runs a finger lightly up his side to see if he really is ticklish and is rewarded with a squirm that’s a clear yes, and a sharp tug to his hair that’s a bit of a scold.
“Just suck,” Pete says.
Isaac slaps his hands to Pete’s thighs and pulls off.
“No,” he says, because he likes a challenge and hopes Pete does too.
Pete just whines and grabs for his own cock.
“Fuck that’s hot,” Isaac says, and he’s tempted just to let it end like this, right here, with Pete jerking off into his face while sprawled awkwardly on the kitchen counter.
Pete stares at him and reaches for the buttons on his shirt. He means to undo them one by one, all sex and confidence, but his hands are clumsy with pleasure and the mishaps with the ring have in no way improved his dexterity. The porn movie moment in his head doesn’t quite translate to reality.
“Come on,” Isaac says, impatient then, grabbing his hips and tugging him toward the edge of the counter. “Show me your bedroom.”
***
It takes forever to get there between the kissing and the groping and the being hard, and Pete not bothering to get his pants all the way on or all the way off. But the journey is a lot more fun and a lot less fraught for the trouble.
The room is neat and tidy, hunter green and cream, with a cozy seaside inn sort of vibe. Isaac can’t help but glance at the bedside table to see if there’s a framed picture of the dead husband. There isn’t, and he wonders if it’s in a drawer. They’ve talked about it a lot, and it’s not a shadow he’s uncomfortable with, but there’s probably a difference between the abstraction of it, and the day-to-day reality of Pete’s life.
“You can study the room later,” Pete says, giving up on his shirt buttons and just yanking the thing over his head. “And even root through my medicine cabinet—”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were, and if you want to see a picture of Walter all you have to do is ask, but I would like us to fuck first, because this has been hard won and stupid and we’re here, and I don’t think you know how fragile that is, man-who-throws-his-weddingring-off-a-fucking-mountain.”
“Chad’s really an ass.”
“And you still get to miss him,” Pete says, finally shucking off the rest of his clothes. He pulls back the blankets on the bed and tumbles in.
Isaac doesn’t want to argue, so he shrugs almost bashfully as he thumbs the button on his jeans.
Once they’re pressed skin to skin all the reasons this has always been a bad idea—from the dead husband to the messy divorce and the teen daughter, and with the bonus complication of their professional relationship—seem irrelevant.
It’s like the first breath of clean air after fire or water, and it feels so good just to revel in it, that at first they have no real purpose beyond touch. Pete is happy to drag his bottom lip over every inch of Isaac’s body he can get to while Isaac twists under the attention. Eventually, a few mumbled what do you wants and some very distracted answers later, they manage to get it together.
There’s lube—and no anticipated dead husband picture—in the bedside drawer, and Isaac is glad to use it for its intended purpose as he shoves Pete’s knee up and presses two fingers into him. Pete stares at him wide-eyed, one hand pressed over his mouth, the other working his cock, and Isaac can’t look away.
Isaac’ll get his cock inside Pete, eventually, maybe even in the morning, but for now, this is more than enough as he grinds against Pete’s leg and urges him on.
He even bats the hand away from Pete’s mouth.
“I want to hear you,” he says, but Pete puts it back, over and over again, until Isaac pins him down with his free hand. Pete arches into it in a way that’s a completely delightful tell.
“We’re going to have so much fun together,” Isaac purrs.
Pete laughs. “Already are.”
It’s Isaac who comes first, amid a litany of how slick and hot and tight Pete feels around his fingers, and how good it feels to hold him down and on the edge of almost. His cock pulses against Pete’s side as he comes, and after everything this night has been it almost doesn’t seem messy enough.
Pete agrees and mumbles something nearly incoherent about how Isaac has to come all over him next time, before he finally finishes, spurting over his own fingers, with a laugh. Isaac is barely able to ease his fingers out of Pete before they collapse on top of each other and find sleep.
***
In the morning, Isaac wakes up to Pete fidgeting with his wedding ring. It’s no longer on his finger; instead, Pete is tossing it gently from palm to palm, staring at it like he’s never quite seen it before.
“It came off?” Isaac’s voice is still rough with sleep and brain not much better.
“Yeah.”
“How’d you do it?”
Pete shrugs. “Woke up, tugged. Came off. Guess I needed to get laid.”
“Is it weird?” Isaac asks, because less specific is less awful.
“I don’t know,” he says with a little bit of wonderment. “I suppose I’ll freak out eventually. Not right now though.”
“Why not now?” Isaac asks, perhaps too fondly. He really likes Pete, maybe more than he should on the traditionally tooeasily-misleading morning after. But Pete is sweet and brittle and strange.
“I’m surrounded by good things,” Pete says. “Why freak out when they’re not gone?”
FUNNY PAPER
Craig Cotter
Robert was taking a history class, and reading about Hitler. Soon after the class started he began texting me Hitler quotes.
I’d set my phone to play the first notes of “Midnight Rambler” for his texts. I decided to text KJ: Baby
He hit back immediately: Hey
Play?
Yeah OK u come here.
Text address
KJ lived in an apartment in Culver City adjoining Marina Del Rey not far from the ocean. Three 1950s aqua-green two-story buildings in a C shape, with a courtyard in the middle with grass, jade plants, palm trees—the usual L.A. fare. The top-floor apartments were bowed-out at an angle. All the apartments had floor-to-ceiling windows in their living rooms.
I walked up the stairs that were flat slabs of concrete and stones set into metal frames and knocked on 2A.
He answered the door in jeans, white ankle socks and a T. It was eighty-one degrees and I’d traded in my jeans for baggy cotton shorts. I saw a pile of shoes on a mat beside the door and kicked my flip-flops there and walked in.
“What you want to drink?” KJ asked, as I followed him into the kitchen. His hair never seemed to be combed or in any particular pattern. It looked both slept on and made up. It seemed to be cut at many different angles that provided for many different types of hairstyles. Some draped over his ears, some onto his shoulders, some stood up on end—all shiny black. I wondered if it was soft or held in place with mousse or gel.
“Evian looks good,” I said.
He handed me a plastic bottle. “You know it’s got a huge carbon footprint,” he said, smiling. “Shipped from France in a petroleum bottle.”
“Why you have it?” I was looking into his big brown eyes.
“Noticed you had a bottle the last time we got Thai,” he said.
I followed him into his bedroom, which contained a queen bed and nightstands on each side. Each had a silver bendable metal lamp on it. He set his drink (looked like vodka and cranberry again) on one of the nightstands; I put my water on the other. We sat cross-legged in front of each other.
“So…you’re a billionaire,” he said with a smile. I could smell marijuana coming through the window from the alley outside and hear teenagers laughing, then silent; then laughing, then silent.
“So…you heard.”
“Everyone heard, bro.” Now the talk from the alley was deep and serious but I still couldn’t make out a word—just a dull rumble. Birds chirped high, stoned teenagers mumbled low. Car noises in the background as just about everywhere in L.A. “You wanna fuck me?”
I like direct talk about sex. I like not playing around. I like to know what guys want, and for them to ask me what I like. But something felt funny with KJ. I felt embarrassed being sexua
lly direct with him and wasn’t sure what this was about. Though earlier I’d texted him not to wear deodorant.
I tried to get into my usual flow of being honest but was having trouble with what to say. “All things, Bach things,” a voice seemed to say from the alley.
“I’ve never fucked anyone yet,” I told him. “Have you?”
“No.”
“A girl?”
“No.”
“It always seems weird to think about,” I said. “Like when I watch porn, or watch a guy fucking me, he’s like really into it. Like he really wants to do that thrusting. I kinda don’t get that feeling. It seems weird.”
“Yeah,” he said, and he started to rub my knee.
“Have you ever been fucked?” I asked him.
“No. I haven’t done much yet.”
“You wanna fuck me?”
“No. Seems weird to me too.”
“Wanna rub each other’s feet?” I asked.
He nodded yes and I went back into his living room. I put a pillow on one side of the couch, and then another one on his side. I lay down on my back with my head propped up against a pillow, and told him to lie on the other side. Our legs crossed and my feet were on his chest, and his were near my face with his knees bent. We wiggled to get into a comfortable position, and I took one of his long feet in both my hands and started rubbing each toe. One of his hands held my left ankle, and with his other large hand he started to run long strokes up the sole of my foot.
I could feel his cock through his jeans, and my cock immediately got hard the first time his leg brushed it.
“I can’t afford to be shoot hairy everyone,” a voice from the alley said. “Mickey said I help you,” and then another guy laughed.
“Take off your shirt,” I told KJ, and he pulled it off. I’d switch between looking at him and closing my eyes while massaging his feet.
I got in that strange relaxed state where you’re hard but you don’t want to do anything sexual—you don’t need to.
Best Gay Romance 2015 Page 10