Bleu Balls

by Tara Lain

  Sitting there for a couple of minutes, swinging his legs like a little kid, he wished he’d brought his phone with him. Or a magazine. But if he hopped down to get it and the doctor walked in—shit, was he really having this mental discussion?

  Robin slid one foot to the floor. A tap on the door signaled Dr. Brown’s arrival, and Robin snatched his leg back like it had been burned. Some rule said all doctors had to walk into exam rooms reading charts. Hell, they must feel awkward coming face-to-body-part with a patient in a paper dress too.

  Whoa. No way to get ready for the impact of the doc’s pure magnetism. Like virility and gentleness, carnality and caring all rolled into one mighty fine package.

  Dr. Brown looked up. “These numbers look good. We’ll have your blood and urine tests back in a few days for a more complete picture.”

  Robin breathed in slowly. Sound normal. “Glad to hear it.”

  He sat in a chair opposite Robin, who was still feeling pretty juvenile, bare legs swinging like Tom Sawyer on a dock. Brown said, “So how have you been feeling?”

  Robin shrugged. “Good.”

  “No fatigue? Digestive problems, shortness of breath?”

  “Nope.”

  “How often do you have sex?”

  Weirdly, he felt his neck heat a little. “Uh, fairly often.”

  “Once a week? More?”

  “Yeah, a few times a week.”

  “Regular partner?”

  “Not really.”

  Brown looked up from his notes he was making on a tablet. “Men without regular partners generally have less sex.”

  Robin shrugged. “I go to a lot of clubs.”

  “You use protection?”

  “Always.”

  “Excellent. I notice in your records that you’re tested frequently.”

  “Dr. Brown—uh, your father suggested it. Seemed logical to me.”

  “Good. Do you have anal sex as well as oral?”

  “Uh, yes, but I always top.”

  Brown gazed at him for one second too long. Robin might not have noticed if he hadn’t been looking so hard for a reaction. Maybe I imagined it.

  “So lie back.”

  Here goes. Robin let his head fall to the hard little pillow as the paper under him crinkled and the paper over him slipped and slid. He grabbed for it.

  “Awful stuff, isn’t it?” Brown chuckled. “Oh for the days when we had ugly pink cloth gowns that gaped over our asses.”

  Robin barked a laugh. “Yeah. Can’t you suggest silk lounge pants?”

  “Sounds tempting.”

  Oh man, he’d like to believe that voice was flirtatious. Get over yourself. Bobby’s the one with the crush.

  Brown applied a cool stethoscope to Robin’s chest, moved it to his stomach, then lower to his abdomen. Robin shifted a little from the tingles. Hooking the stethoscope around his neck, Brown thumped in a few places, producing a drumlike sound that vibrated right to Robin’s balls.

  He produced a lookie-loo device from a table and peered into Robin’s nose and eyes, then turned his head and looked in his ears.

  Efficiently, in one smooth move, he set down the instrument, raised the paper cover, and had his hands on Robin’s balls before he could say holy shit!

  “Holy shit! Warn a guy.”

  Brown smiled as his gloved fingers manipulated Robin’s balls delicately, but oh so thoroughly. “It’s usually best not to warn a guy so you don’t tense up.”

  Maybe Robin wouldn’t tense, but nobody told his dick. The thing started accepting messages from its two companions about nice feelings from sexy fingers. No, not now. Down, boy.

  Brown moved his hand to the top of Robin’s thigh and—oh crap—closed it around Robin’s cock.

  “Uh, Doc.”

  “Do you have any problems with discharge?” He carefully inspected the head of Robin’s dick, then moved the thing side to side to examine the base.

  “Uh, no.” If you don’t count the cum that’s about to discharge in your face if you keep this up.

  He raised the cock and looked under it.

  Well, shit. By now the poor thing thought it was about to get a full hand job and was stretching into participation. “Uh, Doc.”

  “No problem. Perfectly normal.”

  “Yeah, well, he thinks he’s getting some action in the alley outside a gay club.”

  Brown just chuckled, but he did release the cock, now more than half-mast. “Let’s check the other end.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Yep. Up against the wall and spread ’em.”

  Robin had to smile. Brown helped Robin hop off the table and turned him around to face it as Robin clutched the paper to his rapidly deflating front. “Just bend over the table and relax. I’ll do the rest.”

  “Said the spider to the fly.” But he turned, bent, and sighed loudly.

  “I know it’s a classic, but I have to say it. Turn your head and cough.”

  By the time Robin got his head to the side, one of Brown’s hands pressed down on the small of his back and the other insinuated a finger into his ass. Sweet crap, it would be so much better if that didn’t feel so fucking good. He dropped his head against the exam table.

  Maybe he didn’t remember right that old Dr. Brown had been in and out of his butthole in seconds. Young Dr. Brown seemed to have established residency, and that was A-OK with Robin. Brown’s finger touched his prostate. Robin sucked wind and maybe, just maybe that finger massaged a tiny fraction of a second longer than needed. Then—gone.

  The sound of latex being stripped woke Robin from his reverie, and he stood. With an awkward twist, he pulled the paper around him to cover his throbbing ass. Question was, how fast could he get home to jerk off?

  “You can get dressed.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

  “I’m really glad you kept the appointment. I’ve checked you thoroughly and everything seems good to go. My nurse will call you when your lab results come in, and I may want to see you to go over them.”

  “Okay.” Did I just say that? Must still be hypnotized by the feel of his finger in my ass. Wonder if patients become addicted to prostate exams?

  “Good to see you, Robin.” His voice was hot chocolate poured over ice cream.

  “I’ll, uh, just wait for Bobby out in the waiting room.”

  “Good, I’ll tell him.” He smiled. “I like the hair. But I liked it dark too.” He cocked his head. “What’s your favorite gay club?”

  Robin’s heart slammed against his chest so hard it should have broken his ribs. “Uh, we live in Laguna Beach, and we don’t leave it much. There’s still a small club, kind of private, that caters mostly to gay men. It’s called the Rose.”

  “I’ll have to look for it.”

  “Yeah, good. Good.” Do not smile like a loon.

  Brown’s eyes held his, and then he left the room, leaving Robin to struggle alone with the octopus of paper gowns—and a cock that refused to give up hope.

  When Robin finally made it to the lobby, Bobby was long gone, and the nurses busied themselves behind the counter. Robin sat on the couch and picked up a magazine, but everything reminded him of Micah Brown. A picture of strawberries conjured his lips, a cup of café latte could have been the skin on his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled in an ad for a citrine necklace. Robin flipped the magazine over. Hell, I have to stop reading Women’s Day. But the article title on the cover stopped him: “Twenty-five Great Uses for Cucumbers.” A photo of a huge, shiny vegetable dominated the page. Other stuff was on there too, but Robin couldn’t look away. What would Micah’s cucumber look like? Full and tapered or narrow with a flared head? He was a big man, but in Robin’s considerable experience, that didn’t mean his cock would be. Still, more likely than not, that penis would match the man—and if he didn’t stop thinking, he was toast. He threw the magazine on the coffee table. Just breathe. />
  His cock throbbed. Think about something else. Right, like how Brown’s finger felt in my ass? Shit! He grabbed the magazine, held it in front of his crotch, and stood. “Excuse me, can I use the men’s room?”

  The nurse looked up. “Oh, you can go through the door into the back offices and go to your right. It’s on the right-hand side.”

  “Isn’t there one in the hall outside? Uh, I don’t want to bother anyone.”

  “No. You’re no bother.” She smiled and went back to work.

  Hell. His erection exceeded half-mast. Still holding the pornographic vegetable publication, he rushed through the inner sanctum door, turned right, and found the restroom he’d used earlier. Open. Thank God. He pushed inside, and a fan automatically went on with the light. It was one of those big open bathrooms that made you feel too far from the door to protect yourself. Paper cups stood on the back of the toilet, and a list of instructions for taking a urine sample were pasted to the wall above it. He pushed the lock and then stared at it. No way to test if it was really locked. Shit, don’t care. He dropped the magazine, rushed to the toilet, ripped down his jeans, grabbed his cock—now standing at attention waiting for instructions—and started to pump. No lube. No problem. Anything felt too good to believe. Oh man, those hands on my balls, that finger in my ass. It was obscene that a prostate checkup excited him more than any sex he’d had in recent memory. But his prostate wasn’t dumb.

  His hands flew over his dick as his brain conjured image after image of Dr. Micah Brown substituting his cock for his finger and hammering Robin’s ass. Weirdly, halfway through, Micah’s short curls morphed into longer hair and his warm eyes turned cool and limpid. Shit! Paolo Lind. But his hand kept jerking and pumping like he couldn’t get enough.

  “Oh. Oh God!” He had to wrap his palm around the head of his penis to keep from decorating the wall with his semen. Spurt after hot spurt filled his hands and squished out between his fingers. He fell back against the wall because otherwise he might wind up in the toilet. Just try to breathe.

  Voices in the hall. A gentle tap on the door.

  He sucked wind. “Be out in a minute.”

  Oh man. Still breathing hard, he pushed away from his back support and stumbled to the sink, turned on the water, and let it run over his sticky hands as he rested his elbows on the porcelain rim. What the fuck were you thinking?

  Micah asked about my favorite club.

  He’s gay. He was just inquisitive.

  What if he’s interested?

  Fuck it, Bobby’s got a crush on him. You’d never do anything to hurt Bobby.

  But maybe he’s not set on Micah Brown. Bobby likes lots of guys.

  Fuck! If you’re so crazy for Micah Brown, where the hell did Paolo Lind come from?

  He stood, wiped his now relaxed penis with a wet towel, dried his hands, and tucked in.

  Do I look debauched and insane? He stared at the mirror. Yeah, well, what’s new about that?

  Crossing quickly, he pulled open the door and stomped out, barely acknowledging the elderly man practically salsa dancing in the hall. When he walked back into the lobby, Bobby sat there flipping through a copy of Vogue.

  “Thought you fell in. Did you know that pink is the new black?” He held up the magazine.

  “No, I missed that significant detail of human survival.”

  Bobby grinned and stood. “Byyyye, ladies. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Olivia looked up over the counter. “Oh dear, that leaves me soooo much leeway.”

  Bobby grinned all the way down in the elevator but said nothing because they had about seven people crowded in with them. When they finally got to the Prius, Bobby walked to the passenger side.

  Robin looked at him sideways. “My turn at the wheel, I gather?”

  “Of course. You love driving home.” He sighed elaborately. “And I just want to sit here and dream.” He slid into the passenger seat, belted himself in, and leaned his head back against the seat.

  Robin’s belly gave a little lurch. If he didn’t ask, was there a chance in hell Bobby would keep his dreaming to himself?

  Uh, no.

  “Oh, I may never recover.”

  “Why? Did you learn you have a dread disease?” Okay, too much of a snarl.

  “Don’t be snarky. Just because you hate going to the doctor doesn’t mean I have to. Oh my God, when he stuck his finger in my ass, I thought I’d pass out!” He fanned himself with his hand.

  Robin frowned but kept quiet.

  “I mean, seriously, doesn’t it make it better to have those gentle, gorgeous hands feeling you up than some impersonal doctor?”

  More quiet.

  “Ro-bin!” It was two long syllables, which meant he was in trouble.

  “Bob-by!”

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “I went, I got my damned exam like you wanted me to. You don’t need me to comment when you’re conducting a monologue, so don’t push your luck.”

  He stared at his hands. “Okay. Sorry.”

  Robin drove in silence for a while. Shit. “It was a perfectly good exam.”

  “Oh yes!” The floodgates burst. “And he smiled at me, and guess what?”

  “What?”

  “He asked about the club we go to in Laguna. I guess you must have told him about the Rose, and he wanted to know where it is.” Bobby pressed his hands against his chest. “Do you think he’ll come there to find me? Oh God, Robin, I want to go to the Rose tonight!”

  The words flowed out on Robin’s long breath. “That’s great, Bobby, just great, but the Rose isn’t open on Monday.”

  “Oh right. I forgot what day it is.” He snuggled into the seat happily and closed his eyes.

  Robin turned left on PCH and glanced at the waves rolling in on Main Beach. And I need to forget I ever heard of Micah Brown and give up fantasy jerkoffs to Mediterranean salads. He sucked in a small breath.

  Bobby murmured, “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Just remembered something I need to do for the festival.”

  “Umm.” Bobby seemed to drift back to sleep.

  Robin swallowed. He’d just remembered that he’d dreamed of Micah Brown’s cucumber in his ass and the feel of his finger.

  Robin never bottomed.

  Chapter Eight

  MICAH BROWN pulled up in front of that oh-so-familiar house in Santa Ana. The big front lawns, arching trees over the streets, and beautiful old houses meant home to him. Outside of this upscale residential enclave, however, Floral Park was an oddity in this otherwise very eclectic and somewhat depressed city. His dad had scrambled out of the projects and fought for every step up he achieved, with this house and neighborhood as his reward. One of Micah’s brothers and his sister lived in the area too. Micah loved it, but he’d never live there. Way too “American Dream” for him.

  He walked up the long path to the arched front doorway and pushed into the entry with its polished wood floors and bouquet of flowers on a center table. Oh yeah, deep breath. Ham, some kind of greens, and cornbread. That meant Aunt LaShawnda was here, because his mom couldn’t cook for shit. Save the life of a dying child? You bet. Prepare mac and cheese? No way. “Anybody home?”

  “In here, dear.” His mom’s voice came from the living room.

  He walked through the arch into the big traditional room with its comfy furniture and polished dark wood. His dad, starting to show a little age at seventy, sat in his favorite easy chair, while his mom perched on the footstool like she’d probably jump up and help in the kitchen at any moment. Of course everyone knew, including her, that most of the family didn’t want her in the kitchen since she could literally burn boiling water. Tessa Brown, his dad’s second wife after his first passed away from cancer many years before, was Mom to Micah and his sister Xaviera and stepmom to his two half brothers, Jeremy and Shawn. His dad had met her when she was a resident in pediatrics at the hospital where he worked, a profession she still practiced
with blinding dedication. Nobody expected her to make a sandwich.

  She bounced up and hugged him. “How’s my baby?”

  “I’m great.”

  She stepped back and looked at him closely. “I agree. Go grab a drink and come on in.”

  He walked into the big old-style dining room where they kept liquor bottles on a sideboard and wine in ice buckets. He poured a glass of chardonnay and then stuck his head into the kitchen. His mom had tried to get the family to agree to knock down some walls in favor of open concept a couple of times, but everyone else, except Micah, clung to the old compartmentalized floor plan. She didn’t fight, since she never spent that much time in the kitchen anyway.

  Now, his aunt stirred a pot on the stovetop, and his sister and oldest brother both puttered around, plating salads and carrying them to the table.

  “Hi. Can I help?”

  “Hi, Mic!” Xaviera walked over carrying a plate in both hands, reached up, and kissed his cheek. “Nope. We’re close to done. Go enjoy your wine for a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.” He looked up. “Hi, Jeremy.”

  “Hi.” Jeremy, who at six foot four was the only member of the family taller than Micah, also shared the uneasiest relationship with him. Partly a result of the dissociation brought on by the nearly ten years between them, but sad to say, mostly homophobia. “How you doin’?”

  “Good, thanks. You? How are the kids?”

  Jeremy smiled, though he looked down into the salad bowl. “They’re good. Getting big. We left them with a sitter tonight.”

  “Oh. Sorry to miss seeing them.”

  “Yeah. You’ll have to see them soon.” Everyone in the room knew that Jeremy hadn’t brought his kids because he didn’t want them around Micah. No one said it.

  Micah slapped the doorframe and let the door swing closed as he walked back to the living room. Jeremy always made him a little sad, even after all these years. He’d been a great big brother when Micah was little.

  Deep breath.

  In the living room, he sat on the floor as he had since he’d been old enough to sit.