by Willa Okati
"He's not closeted,” Clay protested. “The officers he works with know about us."
"Mm-hmm. So, did they send out Christmas cards addressed to both of you?"
"They don't send cards. Their wives do, or maybe their girlfriends."
"Chauvinist. What about the female cops?"
"They'd rather chew tinfoil."
"Okay, dead end.” Tracy seemed to have philosophically accepted her fate and was determined to winkle out as much gossip as possible before the manager ordered them to clean out their lockers. “Let's assume the coppers all know and they're amazingly tolerant. But you're saying his family doesn't know."
"Possibly."
"That's one foot still back among the clothes hangers, Clay.” Tracy lifted her palms. “You've been together for how long, now? Since the summer?"
Clay knew he'd drifted into the goofiest smile ever. He still remembered that warm summer night in the back yard, listening to the sound of the surf, his lips wrapped around Seth's cock, giving the man his first gay blow job ever. The immediate aftermath hadn't been great, but they'd both made up for that in the months afterward. “Right about that long, yeah."
What? He wasn't so much of a girl as to tell Tracy he marked first-kiss anniversaries.
"And he hasn't told his family yet."
"Maybe,” Clay hedged.
He didn't fool his co-host. Tracy took Clay's big, square-knuckled hand in her small, delicate one and compressed his fingers. “So what are you going to do about it?"
Clay opened his mouth for a rejoinder, but nothing came out until he heaved a sigh and admitted, “I don't know."
"Back on air in five ... four ... three...” a PA droned.
Clay hurried to put his headset back on. “Looks like we're not fired yet."
"Wait until after the holidays.” Tracy winked at him. “Welcome back to the morning show with Clay and Tracy, still here and still taking calls. Good morning, sir. Do you have a holiday horror story for us?"
If he doesn't, I do, Clay thought gloomily. He picked up the discarded pen and drew circles around Seth's name.
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Seth narrowly examined the small pile of gifts he'd managed to buy on the sly when coming home from work in the mornings. He had to admit they didn't look like much. Mostly jokey stuff like a tin of “Bacon Mints", which the uninterested clerk had sworn were actually edible, plus a gift certificate to the music store in the beach mall and a pair of wraparound sunglasses.
His big gift, a high-class silver wristwatch, had gone all wrong. A week ago, UPS had sworn the parcel would reach him by the following Monday. Four days later, too late to order anything else, a package had arrived—with the wrong contents. Not a watch at all, but a ring.
A big, solid silver ring.
Seth had stared at the ring in equal parts fascination and alarm before shutting the box quickly and hiding it away. Nevertheless, he couldn't stop fidgeting and wondering vaguely about omens and portents and great big neon signs handed down from above.
He'd chewed out the company representative and they'd promised to send a replacement as soon as possible, the overnight shipping free of charge.
"It'll get here on time,” he stubbornly insisted, muttering out loud to himself, not believing a single word he said. “And Clay will love it. He'll probably kick my ass for spending that much, but he'll love it. He damn well better love it."
That took care of that, huh?
Next order of business: wrapping the various and sundry stocking stuffer type gifts intended for Clay's enjoyment. Although if he actually ate a bacon mint, Seth wasn't kissing him for hours.
Seth picked up the tube of good, masculine, plain dark green paper and unrolled it with a dramatic flourish, imagining the paper scrolling out smooth and flat, a perfect length that merely needed shaping with the scissors before obediently encasing each package in turn.
It didn't exactly turn out that way. The paper refused to unfurl. Puzzled, Seth examined the roll, flipping it over until he saw a strip of Scotch tape holding the end closed. No big deal. He'd peel it off and get on with the masterful art of present wrapping.
So what if he'd never done it before? How hard could it be? Seth picked at the tape with his fingernail, confident in his ability to get that sucker right out of the way.
He got it out of the way, all right, along with a ragged chunk of green paper that still had the tape attached to it as well as his finger. “The fuck?” Seth muttered, glaring at the offending object. He shook his hand to flick off the tape.
The tape went absolutely nowhere, leaving him fanning the air with a three-inch section of gift wrap.
"You think you're smart, huh?” Seth pinned the paper down and peeled the tape off. Now it stripped away without a hitch, sure. He crinkled the scrap into a small ball and tossed it over his shoulder. “We'll see who gets the last laugh.” He gave the roll of gift wrap a snap, expecting, this time, the flourishing display.
Unfortunately, he realized, he'd grabbed the loose end of the paper, which obliged by unrolling the rest of the paper clean off the cardboard tube.
Seth stared down at the curling green gift wrap and counted to ten. He didn't feel any less irritated by the time he'd finished, as he'd mentally measured the length of the paper as he counted and realized that he'd gotten the one-yard roll instead of the ten-yard roll.
"Fine,” he gritted out. He'd hit Wal-Mart later. He'd brave the harried mothers in search of Barbie and Tonka. Not. A. Problem.
Maybe the roll of ribbon would behave. Skinny and corrugated and shiny, it came with instructions on the box for making it curl into tight spirals. Seth remembered getting presents festooned in the stuff and being fascinated. Who knew it was as simple as cutting the right length and drawing a scissor blade along it?
The plastic wrap on the ribbon stripped away with ease. Knowing what to look for this time, Seth located the scrap of tape holding the ribbon length in place. He picked it off easy as pie and slapped the sticky bit on his hip. He even unfurled a length that looked good to him and wielded the scissors to cut it free.
The scissors choked. Seth scowled and tried again to close the blades. Wasn't happening.
He raised them to eye level and peered at the metal. What the heck were they coated in? Rust?
A slithery sound drew his attention. Seth gaped in horror as what looked like fifty thousand yards of ribbon flew off the spool. He hadn't let go of the end, still caught between the corroded scissors.
The empty ribbon spool hit the wall, followed closely by the empty wrapping paper tube and nearly followed by the scissors. Seth congratulated himself on his self-control as he walked to the wastepaper basket and deposited them carefully inside.
He eyeballed the pile of increasingly tacky-looking gifts and wondered how hard Clay would laugh at him if he just bought a stocking at Wal-Mart instead. That could be kind of cool, actually. He could get some of that glitter glue, too, and write Clay's name over the white cuff part, and dear God, when had he turned into a thirteen-year-old girl?
What might have been a Very Bad Thing was averted by the sound of an instant message going ping! on his laptop, which he'd left open on the desk across the room. Although tempted to ignore it, Seth obeyed old habit and checked to see who wanted to talk to him.
He sighed in thanks and sat on the computer stool, fingers flying over the keyboard.
BeachCopRock: Clay, man. Am I ever glad to see you.
DJClay: Something wrong?
Seth hesitated before replying.
BeachCopRock: Not exactly. What's up?
DJClay: Guess who's gotten the whole next week off work?
BeachCopRock: You're shitting me. Seriously?
DJClay: I don't go back until New Year's, and if I get out of bed for anything except to pee, to eat, or take a shower, I'll be very much surprised.
BeachCopRock: Wow. That much sex?
It was easier to type than to say, for some reason. Inspired and
spying a possible boost out of his sour displeasure at the gift-wrapping process, Seth took it to the next level.
BeachCopRock: I can get down with sexing you up twenty-four/seven. Mmm, you've got me hard just thinking about it.
DJClay: Oh, really?
BeachCopRock: Would I lie to you?
Clay didn't answer right away. Seth figured he was getting up the nerve to try dirty-talking on the radio station's computer and put the free time to good use by undoing the drawstring on his sweatpants, wriggling them down and releasing his cock. No lie; the mere thought of Clay's devout attention to his hard-on made Seth throb in anticipation.
He thumbed the swelling head of his dick, imagining it was Clay's tongue, and shivered happily as he waited for Clay's response.
DJClay: Can this wait?
Okay, not what he'd expected. Maybe Clay just needed a little incentive. Seth wielded his free magic fingers.
BeachCopRock: I'm gripping my cock right now. Hard I can get, Clay, and you get me that way. All eight inches in the palm of my hand.
DJClay: This isn't a good time, Seth.
BeachCopRock: Screw that. We're making a good time. Know what I'm thinking about right now? Me on my back, you between my knees, sucking my dick. I'm hearing you make those amazing slurpy noises like you can't fit it all in. I'm fucking your mouth and you're taking it all in, fisting your own dick because you're so horny you can't wait.
DJClay: Seth! Not. Now.
Seth growled and tipped his head back. He started pumping his fist over his cock, because damned if he was wasting a perfectly good erection over whatever Clay's problem was.
BeachCopRock: Why not?
DJClay: Seth ... I'm off for the next week because they're deciding whether or not to fire me and they don't want me on the air until they've made up their minds.
Seth's erection deflated. He gaped. Huh? Clay was the best DJ ever. Even his bosses said as much.
BeachCopRock: What happened?
DJClay: Um. Nothing.
BeachCopRock: Bullshit, “nothing". What did you do?
DJClay: Oh, that's nice. You assume I did something? Way to go with the show of faith there.
BeachCopRock: That's not how I meant it.
DJClay: Yeah, whatever. Look, Tracy and I are going for a drink. I'll be home later.
BeachCopRock: What? No way. Come home now.
Ding! The instant messenger box informed Seth that Clay had terminated the session. Seth groaned and removed his hand from his now completely deflated cock.
What the hell would go wrong next?
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"I'm not doing that again in a hurry,” Seth muttered, thumping four heavy plastic grocery bags on the kitchen counter. He rubbed the welts on his fingers where the handles had dug into the flesh from the weight of their contents. “Jesus, I think I'm scarred for life."
"In the flesh or in the soul?"
Seth yelped, although he'd never admit it, and corkscrewed around to face Clay. Angry orders never, ever to sneak up on him again died on Seth's lips when he got a good look at his lover boy.
"You look like hell,” he said frankly.
"Gee, thanks. I love you, too.” Clay kicked out one of the folding chairs they'd never gotten around to replacing at their refurbished office desk slash kitchen “table” and sat down heavily, dropping his head to rest on his arm. “Pour me a drink?"
"I don't know. How many have you had already?” Clay stank like an un-air-conditioned distillery on an August afternoon. Seth was tempted to light a match and see if he could make a fireball.
Then he realized that Clay might not appreciate that at the moment, so he discarded the notion.
"I lost count somewhere around ... six?” Clay rolled his forehead on his forearm, tousled hair spreading out in a crazy starburst around his noggin. “I'm this close to fired and depression is a legitima ... lega ... booze is medi-cin-al. Pour me a shot of Johnnie Walker."
Seth bit his lip. “We're out."
"Huh? I bought the bottle new last Tuesday."
"I sort of tried to use it to make fruitcake."
Clay sat up, boggling. “You what, now?"
"Fruitcake. Shut up.” Seth turned away and got busy unpacking the groceries he'd managed to outsmart assorted hausfrauen for. “It didn't turn out that bad."
"Liar.” Clay sniffed the air. “So that's what the smell is. Flame-roasted flour."
"Shut up.” Charred flour and the scorch marks in the microwave, which he'd almost exploded by trying to melt a stick of butter without remembering to take the foil wrapper off first, but Clay didn't need to know about that.
"It came out of the oven like a brick, didn't it?"
"Clay..."
"An alcoholic paving stone. Am I right?” Seth could hear the smirk in Clay's voice. Drunk or not, he was starting to piss Seth off. Tying one on only gave you so much leeway. “So what did you do with the wreckage?"
"You'll find it later, when you least expect it.” Yeah, the fruitcake had turned out just as badly as Clay had described. Seth had wrapped the charred loaf in a newspaper and thrown it out, but be damned if, after this, he wasn't going after his cake and crumbling it up to seed among the tangled mess in Clay's sock drawer.
"I love you, Seth, but you can't cook.” Clay stood. “Not a problem. Neither can I."
Seth feigned indifference despite his injured indignation. He was trying, after all, and Clay needed to give him a break. It wasn't like he was used to this kind of crap. They'd gotten along fine with microwaved burritos and TV dinners before hooking up as a couple and suddenly needing to do ... couple-type things.
Clay snuggled up behind Seth, tucking his chin in the crook of Seth's shoulder. Up close and personal, Seth could identify Clay's souse of choice as cranberry vodka. He snorted and tried to buck Clay off, but with less irritation than he would have employed moments before. “Go to bed. I'll leave some aspirin and water out for you."
"It's early.” Undeterred, Clay kissed the side of Seth's throat. His lips tickled, sending a sure and certain shiver through Seth that zinged from his neck down to his toes and back again, helpfully stopping both ways to wave hi to his cock and balls.
Seth inhaled sharply at the sudden rush of arousal, and remembered the instant messenger sex they hadn't had earlier.
As always, Clay read him like a book printed on Plexiglas. He cozied closer, molding his groin to Seth's ass. Looked like he hadn't had enough to drink that it had hurt his libido, because either Clay had a festive candy cane in his pocket or he was pretty damn happy to see Seth.
"Stop it,” Seth griped, not really meaning the protest. “You're drunk, you're pissed about work, and I've got cooking to take care of."
"Seth, baby, give it up before you torch the kitchen.” Clay caught Seth's earlobe between his teeth and tugged. “We'll grab some food from Boston Market and set it up real nice with candles and everything."
Seth knew he was pouting, damn it, but come on. He'd wanted this first Christmas together to be as close to one-hundred-percent as possible. It was kind of like a sign for the future, right? If this went off without a hitch, then they were meant to be doing holidays together.
"I've got something you can eat.” Clay licked the shell of Seth's ear. One of his big hands trailed down Seth's sweater to tug open his jeans zipper. “Hot and fresh and ooh, look, you've got one, too. Want to finish what we'd started before we were so rudely interrupted?"
"Keep talking,” Seth allowed, covering Clay's hand with his own and guiding it as Clay got a good, hard grip on his swelling cock. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Holy Moses, he'd never get used to how amazing another man's hand felt on his dick. Wasn't like he'd been with any other men, but the stories he'd heard were right—only another man really got how to grab a cock exactly the way a guy liked.
"I think I'm up to the dirty kind of talk now.” Clay rocked his hips, pushing his erection hard against Seth's ass. He shoved Seth's jeans down, gettin
g a harder grip on Seth's already aching cock. “Want to get on your knees for me?” he purred, hot breath burning Seth's skin. “I'd kill to feel your lips on this.” He pushed forward, his hard-on, still encased in denim, rasping the tender skin of Seth's ass cheeks.
Seth bit back a girlie whimper and squeezed Clay's wrist. “Yeah,” he replied, breathless. “Can I?"
"You never, ever have to ask.” Clay thumbed the head of Seth's erection. “Cock slut."
Clay probably realized five seconds later that he'd just killed the mood like a speeding bullet, or the comprehension might have come earlier with Seth's elbow jab to his stomach.
"What did I do?” Clay gasped, exhaling Stoli fumes as he bent double.
"Go sleep it off.” Seth didn't look back, heading outdoors. The store-bought eggnog could go sour on the warm kitchen counter for all he cared.
Clay followed Seth outside. He looked like a lost, sorrowful puppy, which almost did away with Seth's anger.
Almost.
"Was it what I called you?” Clay tried to worm in for a snuggle. “Seth, man, it's a term of endearment, and you can't tell me you haven't heard a lot worse from your PD buddies."
Seth shrugged irritably. He wished he had a cigarette. “That's not the point."
"Then what is?” Clay succeeded in hugging Seth with one arm. “And I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
"Whatever.” Seth leaned his head against the cool outer wall of their house. Almost absently, he stroked Clay's messy hair. “Go back inside and make some coffee."
"Tell me why you're really upset, and I'll consider it."
Seth started to speak, then stopped. How much like a walking ovary would he sound if he spilled out all his worries? What kind of man was he, anyway, to fret about stuff like disapproving Great Aunt Eugenia and fruitcake and frigging curly ribbon?
Maybe not the kind of man he'd hoped he'd be. Maybe not the kind of man who was really right for Clay.
"I'm not upset,” he lied. “Honest."
Clay huffed and head-butted Seth's shoulder.
Well, Seth hadn't really expected Clay to believe him.
So where did he go from there?
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