Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. This work contains graphic descriptions of gay (male/male) sex. If it is illegal for you to read about homosexual activities in your current country of residence, please refrain from reading the story, until you grow up or move.


"We are the people our parents warned us about."

-          Jimmy Buffett


I was lying face down and fully clothed on the unmade bed, feeling queasy, and didn't bother to move when the door creaked open, and there were approaching footsteps and the weight of a stare upon me.

I did not give a quarter of a fuck about anything at that point, only made an involuntary moan of protest when the scumbag turned me over. Shouldn't have opened my mouth -- I immediately felt a hot trail of saliva running down from the corner. And the scumbag was watching. I could see him clearly even through the fog, so close his face was. He had grey eyes, like his daddy's, but was blond unlike him. Why the fuck was he blond? He wasn't, on the photo way back then. How old was he there? Ten?

- Why the fuck are you blond? -- I groaned.

- Huh? -- He seemed amused.

- Ngh. -- I gurgled.

He just grinned. What the fuck is so funny? Fucking fucked up sense of humour. And why is he blond while even I am not?

I licked my lips, but the saliva was way further down. Couldn't catch it. Hand too heavy to help.

The scumbag's face dissolved into the mist, but just as I started relaxing again, I felt him tugging at my boot. What the hell does he want? Woah, fucking footwear fetishist fairy came to steal my army memorabilia! Well, nothing I could do, and it didn't bother me enough to actually move. I doubt anything would've. So I stopped feeling one boot, and then another, and then he appeared above me again, so I could register him with my eyes too.

- Fuck off. -- I told him.

- You're not very polite. -- He grinned again, showing pretty white teeth.

So straight and strong and probably sharp. I suddenly felt like breaking them, but I didn't stand a chance against him in a fight, even if I wasn't this drunk. I was still weak since I woke up after the blasted twenty years long cryo-thing, and the bastard looked more athletic than I've ever been.

- It's all your fault. -- I managed, and it wasn't an answer to his remark.

He smiled again, but it was different this time. Through the fog, I thought that it was a soft, pitying kind of smile, and even though I wasn't sure, I felt the rage again. I actually contemplated sitting up and hitting him, but as I twitched, bitter bile rose up my throat and I started choking and coughing and rolled to my side, hands protecting my guts which were spasming in that throwing-up way, but nothing came out. My cheeks burned. Why does he have to see me like this?

-  Fuck off. -- I coughed, and the world spasmed again.

He held me instead, the scumbag, and helped me up despite the protests, and half-carried me through the spinning house to the spinning bathroom, where he let me drop to my weak knees by the toilet. And then he finally left me to my shame, and I hauled myself up to the faucet, drank some disgusting tap water, and then threw up. Magical effect, that. Always works.

He came over again when I was finishing the lame excuse for brushing teeth that I insisted on carrying through. I could see him clearer then, as he was leaning on the doorframe, in that I'm-such-a-jock way that should be illegal. He was wearing a white muscle-shirt that complimented his tan. Why the fuck is he tanned?

- Fuck off. -- I said, spitting out gross bitter menthol toothpaste. I'd never buy something like this myself. Stupid strong tastes liking macho.

- How very imaginative of you. The same phrase twelve times in a row.

- And you've got a gay French accent that one should be ashamed to go out the streets with. What part of "fuck off" don't you understand? -- I plunked the toothbrush onto the counter and staggered bedwards, pushing past him.

He didn't answer that, just followed me down the corridor, keeping a three-step distance. I started feeling guilty about my behaviour again. Drat. The drinking didn't help after all.

I laid on the bed again, carefully this time, in order not to provoke my guts into anything else silly. He sat down beside me, and started undoing my belt. Accessory-fairy, damnit.

- I don't need your help. -- I snapped, icily.

- I know. -- The scumbag said, unperturbed, and went on undressing me, and I was too weak to slap him or otherwise actively resist, so I let him, shivering a little. Then he covered me with a blanket, and got up. I heard the rustling of folding clothes, and footsteps, and the click of the light switch, and then the creak of the door.

Then it was dark and quiet, and I was free to assume embryo-shape under the blankets, and cry, and wonder why didn't he say anything about that hard-on I got when he took my trousers off, cause he could hardly not notice, and worse yet, why didn't he do anything about it.



I opened my eyes to see a blinking green 4:24 on the bedside clock's display, sharp thirst driving me insane. I allowed it to torture me for a bit longer, then decided that it's better to have a drink now than wait for the headache to join in. Getting up then would be bordering the impossible.

So I shuffled to the kitchen. The apartment wasn't spinning any more, but the fog of the alcohol was still present, and through it I got a cold drink, and on the way back to the bedroom, realized that I'm way too awake to go back to sleep. I got a shower instead, and scrubbing away all the filth made me feel so good that I almost forgot all the hard feelings. Almost. And then I plodded to the bedroom yet another time, and more second thoughts struck me as I was looking upon a blinking green 4:47 and my messed up bed. Now I was too clean to go to sleep there, but too tired to change the sheets. "Well," I thought in a typical sudden flash of inspiration of a drunk, "this is my house, and I have another bed in here. What the hell."

The scumbag was lying on the edge of the bed, on his side, facing the wall. That setup made it quite convenient for me to occupy as much of the bed as possible, and steal the blanket while at it. But just as I was smiling victoriously in the dark, snuggling comfortably in a bed warmed by someone else, that someone else took action and I found myself pressed to his hot body, being passionately kissed. I wondered whether he was even asleep in the first place when I got there, but then got distracted, having been pressed to his smooth chest with such strength I had trouble breathing. Why the fuck is he smooth? I didn't ask, just grabbed him by his ridiculous bleached hair and kissed him back.

I did wonder how his mouth would taste, and now I found it to have the sweetness of liquor with a bitter hint of nicotine. He smelled of the menthol and resin bouquet that manufacturers of men's fragrances tend to abuse. There's no denying that I wanted him since I first met him, wanted on a very basic level, being unable to ignore a guy who looked like he played volleyball on a Californian beach all through the two decades I spent gradually atrophying in space. And perhaps my memories of his dad played a part in the attraction, but it was a bad direction for my thoughts to take, so I brushed them aside. In all other aspects, he was irritating at best and outright creepy at worst.  He was also on top of me, strong hands turning my unresisting hazy body around. My cheek was pressed into the pillow, his smooth naked body pressing to my behind. What followed was probably the worst sex I ever had.

The whole thing took about two minutes, which was all the better, since it hurt like hell. Not bothering with any preparation, he simply fixed me in place, trapping my body beneath him, his fingers parting my cheeks, grasping them so hard it hurt, his cock pushing all the way inside in one long motion. I only managed to put up token resistance, tears starting to stream out again, virtually blinding me. This was expected. What was not, is that the struggle turned me on too. I didn't ever think I'd like it rough, and there's certainly nothing to like about the sharp pain of torn tissue, then the continuous hot, tight and painful rubbing, and the way my arm was twisted behind my back. And still, the screwed up thing that I am, I just whimpered in his arms, immensely excited by the way I was taken, noting the details like an uninvolved spectator. The protesting joints of my helpless, strained limbs, the way he impaled me on his cock over and over again. (I later realized that it wasn't as big as it seemed to me at the time of this near-rape. Naturally.) It was hot and painful, bothering me to no end, making me twist under him, unsure whether to get more or to try and escape the harsh pounding. My own cock was rubbing against the sheets, trapped between them and my body, pressed to the bed by our combined weight. Sobs and moans escaped my mouth, his hot breath against my ear feeling too loud and close.

By the time I managed to somehow adjust myself to it in a way that would minimize the pain, the scumbag was already done. He tensed, digging fingers into my flesh, and I could feel him coming into my tortured ass. He collapsed, panting into my nape briefly, then turned us onto our sides, and his hot, calloused hand closed around my throbbing erection, stroking it. It ended up taking me even less time than it took him. A couple of strokes and I actually grabbed him back, hands slipping on his sweaty skin. A third one and I arched my back against him, a pathetically needy little sound escaping my throat as I came in his hand, shuddering.

After all this, the bastard had the nerve to just turn to the other side again, and immediately start snoring. That confirmed my suspicion that he wasn't really asleep before. Indignant, fighting to calm my breath, I wiped more tears - of physical pain this time - and intended to go back to the other bedroom now that I was a mess one more time, in order not to see or hear the scumbag, better if never again. But apparently, I fell asleep before I could. And slept like the righteous do until late morning, not bothered by neither snores nor aches.


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