Victor J. Banis

by Deadly Nightshade

  He thought of what Tom had told him—it wasn’t getting killed, it was the willingness that made you a hero.

  “Crap, I’m no hero,” he told himself. But Tom was his partner, he couldn’t just not look after him. And Tom had rescued him, hadn’t he, when those gay bashers had jumped them? He didn’t want Tom to think he was completely without balls. Tom might be a Neanderthal, but he was his Neanderthal. He wanted Tom to like him. To respect him, at least.

  His courage on tiptoe, he went through a curtained doorway into a narrow, dimly lit hall. One of the doors was marked Boyfriends. He flung it open. “Tom?” he said. A short, flabby looking guy at one of the urinals looked around at him.

  “You sure you don’t want Dick?” he said, leering.

  Stanley let the door swing shut, went back to the one marked Girlfriends and shoved that door gingerly ajar. Several garishly made up faces turned in his direction.

  “Is there someone named Tom in here?” he asked.

  “Try Mary,” someone said and they all laughed.

  Stanley looked back toward the bar, and the opposite direction. A red light shined over an exit door, with a warning sign: “Emergency exit only, alarm sounds when opened.”

  Not that way, then? Maybe I missed him in the bar…

  § § § § §

  Hard, metallic. A gun, for sure.

  “What the hell,” Tom started to say, when the door they’d come through flew open.

  “Tom?” a voice called.

  “Stanley?” Tom was startled, confused, his head still spinning.

  “It was you,” Stanley said, stepping into the alley. “I thought…”

  There was a clatter of high heels on concrete. The redhead was gone, running fast down the alley. Tom stared after her stupidly, watched the metallic gold dress disappear around a corner.

  “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Stanley said, arching an eyebrow.

  “I think you did,” Tom said. “Lucky for me. She had a gun. I think she was planning to shoot me.”

  § § § § §

  Stanley ran after her, trying to get his gun out of his pocket as he ran. He was trying with his right hand, though, and that one still didn’t function too well. He looked down at his pocket, tripped, and fell on his bad arm with a yowl of pain. By the time he scrambled to his feet, the gun finally free, the redhead was gone.

  Stanley followed her to the street, but there was no sign of her, and too many places she could have ducked into within seconds. Plus, Tom had looked like he was in serious danger of passing out. He went back to where Tom was now sitting on the pavement, and got him to his feet, and to the car.

  § § § § §

  “Do you honestly think that was our perp?” Tom asked when they were driving down Polk Street.

  “Duh. Don’t you even remember the sketches? Dead ringer.”

  “She had red hair. Short red hair.”

  “Jesus, do you really think all those fake women in that club were wearing their own hair? You’ve never heard of wigs?”

  “Listen, what do I know about that shit? You’re the fag. I’m just a homicide cop.”

  “A homicide cop who got himself fucked up, on ropies most likely, and almost got killed before the fag came along. How did she get the stuff in your drink, anyway?”

  “She spilled my first one, and brought me another. Thank God, I didn’t drink it all. I’m still woozy from it. Think, if I’d polished it off.” Stanley pulled to the curb, turned the lights off, and the motor. “Where are we?”

  “My place.” When Tom gave him a dubious look, Stanley said, “Look, you’re in no condition to be left on your own. You can still hardly walk. Come on, you can sleep it off here.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Give it a rest. Come on.”

  They got Tom out of the car, and up the steps to the front door. It was evident that he was in no condition to take care of himself. He leaned heavily against Stanley, one arm draped around Stanley’s shoulders. He was, in fact, more messed up than Stanley would have expected.

  So, what do I know about stuff like that, he asked himself. Two martinis and he was on top of the bar—three, he was on top of the bartender. The important thing was, Tom needed someone to take care of him. It was a job Stanley didn’t altogether dislike, either.

  Inside, Stanley left Tom by the front door while he went around turning on lights. He disappeared into the bathroom, emerged a moment later. “Come on, lover, in here.”

  “Where’s this?”

  “See that big, flat thing over there with the blankets on it? That’s a bed. Which makes this the bedroom.

  See how it all fits together. It’s like one of those Agatha Christie mysteries.”

  “Just one bedroom?” Tom asked, but he let himself be steered through the open doorway.

  “You’re a big guy, but you’re not that big,” Stanley said. “I think there’s room enough in here for both of us, if we move around carefully. Take your clothes off.”

  “Oh, man, you pick now to put the moves on me? I couldn’t fight off a butterfly. I’m as weak as a kitten.”

  “Sweetie, you don’t look like a kitten, you look like something the cat coughed up. Listen, do you hear anything?”

  “What?”

  “Like, water running? Like, say, someone was drawing a bath? Come on, you’ll feel a lot better, I promise you. A nice hot bath and then Stanley’s going to give you a good massage, and you’ll feel like new. Off with them now, time to bare all.”

  He actually got Tom’s clothes off of him, but not before Tom had insisted on a bath towel to wrap around himself before the boxers slipped to the floor at his feet. He stepped out of them, holding the corners of the towel tightly clenched in his fist.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “If you’re going to soak in a bath, the best place would be the bathroom,” Stanley said with a put-upon sigh. “In here, come on, and stop acting like a frightened virgin, why don’t you?”

  “I am a virgin. As far as you’re concerned.” He squinted at the bathtub, the old fashioned claw-foot kind, while Stanley leaned down to turn off the water. “What’s that shit?”

  “Bubbles. It’s a bubble bath.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, I can’t take a bubble bath. What’ll people think? If anybody found out I was taking bubble baths…”

  “Well, why don’t you climb into the tub and I’ll go fight off the paparazzi, okay?”

  They got him in the tub, Stanley carefully avoiding looking where he wasn’t supposed to when the towel finally fell by the wayside—well, okay, a couple of quick peeks, but he was pretty sure Tom hadn’t caught him at it.

  Tom sank down among the bubbles, leaned back, sighed. Stanley was right, it was great. He felt himself drifting and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Stanley was handing him a steaming cup. Tom gave it a suspicious look.

  “What’s in this?”

  “Spanish fly.”

  “If you fucking think…”

  “It’s Celestial Seasons Sleepy Time tea, for Christ’s sake. It’ll help you to relax. You’ve just been drugged and almost killed. I think the best prescription at this point is a good night’s sleep. This is part of the plan.”

  “Hmph,” Tom said, but he took the cup and inhaled the aroma before taking a cautious sip “You’ll pardon me wondering what else you’ve got planned. You being the way you are.”

  “Listen, I turn my back on you for five minutes and you get yourself picked up by a guy. And, may I mention, when I came out of that club back there, you were getting ready to kiss him,” Stanley said in an aggrieved voice. “I don’t know why you’re being so pissy with me.”

  “He looked like a girl,” Tom said stubbornly.

  “Well, I could too, I suppose, if I put my mind to it, but I don’t have time to put on a goddamn dress just at the moment. You’ll have to take me the way I am.”

  “I hope when you say ‘take me’ it’s only a figure of speech.”<
br />
  “Wash,” Stanley said, throwing a washcloth at him. “And make sure your crotch is clean. There’s nothing I dislike more than smelly balls in my face.”

  “They aren’t going to be in your face. I don’t even like your face.”

  “Fine, then. If you don’t like my face, fuck it. See if I care.”

  Tom glowered at him, and waited until Stanley had left the bathroom before he began to scrub himself.

  He did take pains, however, with his crotch.

  Not out of consideration for Stanley’s suggestion. It was purely a matter of hygiene. It was important for a guy to keep himself clean down there. Otherwise, you got jock itch.

  § § § § §

  Not until the water had grown cool did he finally climb out of the tub, watching the door carefully, expecting Stanley to pop back in at the opportune moment, but he didn’t. Stanley had hung a huge bath sheet over the towel bar—pink.

  You might know, Tom thought with a grimace. He wrapped it about himself, feeling oddly let down—not disappointed exactly, but surprised. You’d have thought Stanley would be making an effort, at least.

  Maybe he really does think I’m ugly, he thought. He paused to look at himself in the mirror and decided that wasn’t it. Couldn’t be.

  He went back to the bedroom. Stanley was standing at the window, staring out. He turned when he heard Tom come in. Tom held tighter to the bath sheet.

  “Feel better?” Stanley asked.

  “Lots. I’m still pretty woozy, though. That must have been some powerful shit she slipped me.”

  Stanley gave him a funny look. “Must have been,” he said.

  There was a long, awkward silence. “So, now what?” Tom asked.

  “So, now, you go beddie bye,” Stanley said.

  Tom looked at the one bed, the covers turned invitingly down. “Uh, where will you sleep?” he asked.

  “Oh, I just hang myself upside down in the closet, like an old bat. Go on, bed.” He pointed.

  Tom sat down gingerly on the side of the bed, gave it a testing bounce, looked at Stanley, swung his feet up onto the covers, leaned against the headboard.

  “Turn out the lights,” he said.

  “Stretch out,” Stanley said. “Face down.”

  “Face down?” Stanley nodded. “What’ve you got on your mind?”

  “I’m going to give you a massage, okay? I told you about it earlier. Go on now, turn over.”

  Tom grunted, but he turned obediently onto his stomach, carefully adjusting the towel so that it covered his backside.

  Stanley clambered onto the bed, straddling him. He started with Tom’s neck, kneading the muscles there, and then the shoulders. Tom grunted appreciatively a couple of times.

  “Feels good,” he murmured into the pillow. “You know what you’re doing.”

  “You’re not the first guy I’ve worked on,” Stanley said.

  “I’ll bet not.”

  “Shut up,” Stanley said, and jabbed hard at his ribs. Tom gave a surprised woof, and went silent.

  Stanley’s right arm had begun to hurt but he gritted his teeth and worked his way down the broad back, took his time getting to Tom’s waist, rubbing firmly, using his fingers and his whole hands, ignoring the pain in the right one. He was on a mission. He wasn’t going to let a little pain deter him.

  Finally, he took hold of the towel and tugged it out of his way. For a moment, Tom resisted; then, like he’d made up his mind about something, he lifted himself slightly off the mattress, and the towel was tossed aside. Stanley began working the muscles of Tom’s butt.

  After a moment, Tom raised his head and looked back over his shoulder. “Hey, what are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m taking your temperature.”

  “It feels like a…”

  “Christ, I’m rimming you, okay? Relax, why don’t you? You’re supposed to go to sleep.”

  “Not with a tongue up my asshole.”

  “Good point.” Reluctantly, Stanley stopped tonguing and went back to massaging. He made note of the fact, however, that King Kong had been on the alert. You couldn’t hide that friendly giant from somebody rimming your butthole. Not when the big ape was showing his muscles. People complained all the time about guys thinking with their dicks. Personally, he thought things would be a lot better all around if Tom let his decide things for him. Apparently Kong knew what was what.

  Somewhere between the thigh rub and his hamstring muscles, Tom really did fall asleep. Stanley stood up, looked at the physical pulchritude on display. Had to be the prettiest butt he’d ever seen. He thought about going back to the rimming and decided that was almost certain to wake up the sleeping giant. Both of them.

  With a sigh, he pulled the sheet up over Tom, got the pillow from the other side of the bed, and turned out the light. He curled up in the big overstuffed chair in the corner.

  § § § § §

  Which was where he was when he woke up, feeling stiff all over, and opened an eye, to find Tom half sitting up in bed, watching him.

  “You’ve been there the whole night, there in that chair?” Tom asked, looking doubtful.

  “Except when I had my way with you. Oh, and I clipped off one of your balls for my jewel box.”

  Tom laughed weakly, but Stanley saw that, under the cover, his hands went automatically to his crotch, checking.

  “You feeling better?” Stanley asked aloud.

  Tom paused a moment to take inventory. “Yes,” he said finally. “I am, actually. Only, I have to piss.”

  “I think I’d rather you do that in the bathroom, at least on our first date. You need help?”

  Tom shot him a wry glance. “I can manage,” he said.

  He did. It took him a couple of minutes to get to a sitting position, and swing his feet to the floor. He covered his crotch with a corner of the blanket and gave Stanley a meaningful look.

  “Oh, sure,” Stanley said. He got up and walked into the kitchen. He heard bare feet pad across the hall, into the bathroom. The seat came up with a thump, following by a noisy, long pee, and a flush.

  § § § § §

  Tom took longer than he needed, standing at the toilet, shaking the drops off his dick. Peeing, he’d thought about what Stanley had done the night before—rimming him, he called it. He’d never had that done before. It had felt, not nice, exactly, kind of weird, actually. Too weird to know if he’d really liked it or not.

  When he thought about it, though, it felt better remembering it than it had when Stanley was doing it. His butthole kind of tingled at the memory, and his dick, long since shaken dry by this time, kind of raised its head, like it had been asleep and was starting to wake up.

  Someone, a woman he’d been with a long time ago, had told him, “Letting things happen is a good way to bone up on living.” At the time, she’d been boning up on his boner—trying to convince him, while she was sucking it, that it was okay for him to let fly with a load. He hadn’t—not with anybody. It felt good, having the knob polished, but to shoot his load he needed to get down to business.

  Her point, though, was one he’d remembered more than once. If you let something just happen, it wasn’t your responsibility. You didn’t do it.

  He flushed the toilet again, just for good measure. In case Stanley was listening. And gave his dick another good shake. He thought of what Stanley had called it—King Kong—and grinned.

  The beast was definitely awake now.

  § § § § §

  Stanley gave Tom time to get back into bed before he returned to the bedroom—and he tried not to notice the enormous tent in the middle of the bed. It was impossible to ignore, though.

  “I guess you are feeling better,” he said.

  Tom followed his gaze. “Looks like it,” he said, sounding surprisingly shy for a man who was used to being in charge.

  “Probably somebody should do something about that.” Stanley nodded toward the towering display.

  “Maybe it’ll go down
on its own.”

  “Or, maybe not,” Stanley said.

  “Yeah. Or, maybe not.”

  “Does it usually? Go down on its own?”

  “Not usually, no,” Tom said, looking everywhere around the room but at Stanley.

  “Thing is,” Stanley said, “there’s nobody here but the two of us. If someone was going to do something about it, I mean.”

  “I think I’m too weak to jack off,” Tom said, his eyes still averted. He coughed experimentally. “I’m pretty sure I am.”

  “Well, then…”

  Surprisingly, though, Stanley found himself struggling with his horniness. There, obviously on offer, was the object of the desire that had kept him awake most of the night in his chair. He had only to go to the bed, to help himself to it, and…

  And then what? That was the big question. What would the aftermath be? He’d had experience—what gay man hadn’t—with men like this, essentially straight, but gay-tinged enough, and more to the point, horny enough at the moment, to give in to the urge. It was often an enjoyable experience—while it was happening.

  Afterward, though, could be an entirely different matter.

  There was almost always, in these men, not just that little touch of homosexual—call it curiosity, perhaps, more than desire—but anger as well, at discovering this possibility in themselves, an anger that often got transferred from suckee to sucker.

  Even if Tom did not get really angry afterward, he might feel resentment, and how was that going to influence their working relationship in the future? They were partnered in a homicide investigation. How could this not get in the way?

  For that matter, Stanley wondered what resentment he himself might feel. Through no effort of his own, he was being placed in the role of seducer. It was he who must, from this point on, be the aggressive one, take charge of the situation. Whatever happened next, it would forever be “his fault.” He did it.

  It was like that surprise birthday party friends had thrown for him some years ago. There he had been, pretending first ignorance and then delight, hiding his embarrassment, actually squealing with pleasure as each beribboned package was presented to him by friends smugly thrilled at their cleverness, while he felt an utter fool all the while.