These events occurred somewhere in a place I've been. A place where time passes dreamily. A place where our heart's desires are fulfilled. Where every yearning heart is held and kept and lifted up in loving embrace. Please play safe and be kind to yourselves and to one-another.
Our community always felt like a small town. In truth, it is a semi-rural enclave on the outskirts of a large northern city. But it is one of those places that people don't seem to move away from. Or they do, but only for a while, and then they're back again. Our parents and grandparents came here and put down roots -- and boy, what roots! Most of the people in this story still live in the same houses, these grand old cozy big homes that once rang out with the shouts of their parents' voices as children. Grandma's cooking smells are still there, in the walls somewhere, if your nose is keen enough.
Anyway, a few years have passed -- not a lot -- and some of us have moved away. But the place just keeps drawing us back. Some to raise a family, some to heal. And I still see these people in the course of a day and often we have a moment to stop, perhaps to touch, and to look each other in the face and smile, remembering how we were.
"In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure," Brand smirked, leaning toward me, "the mask in front of you will drop automatically and everybody will start farting like crazy."
"Of course. The pressure drops and all the gas starts expanding in your guts and there isn't shit you can do.... well... I mean, you know," he shrugged, smiling.
"Yeah, If you are traveling with a child, shovel your own shorts first, then place the shovel..."
The last two weeks had been a whirl of preparations. Brand'd had to skip his Ham test and we were both still a little sore from the shots. He had it worse than me: they nailed him in both arms. At least most of my shots were still current from Argentina. There was an outbreak of Dengue Fever in the Caribbean, so we had both had to have that one, but it wasn't as bad as the Yellow Fever shot I'd had to get when I was eleven. Man! My arm was like a board for a couple of weeks, with that one. Luckily, Brand didn't have to get that, for some reason, but he did have to get all the rest, so he wasn't doing too much BMX for those last 2 weeks, I'll tell you. In fact, he wasn't doing too much biking at all, since it hurt too much to turn the handlebars suddenly.
The night before we left, we were sitting in my room, just curled up together. Brand looked at me, all deep and soulful, and said, "Derek?"
"Thank you for loving me."
For some reason that made me so sad, suddenly. I found tears running down my face. "That's not something to thank me for, Brand. It's not a favor. I just do. I couldn't stop if I wanted to."
He just looked at me with a deep look of trust and cradled me, while the storm passed. Eventually, it did. "Sorry," I said.
"I'm not. I wake up every morning -- when it's not with you, Dare -- and there's a moment when I reach for the pain and it's not there anymore. And -- this is before I'm awake enough to have words -- and there's this second where I feel this comfort and I wonder why. And then I remember that you love me. And sometimes I cry, Derek: maybe it's contagious. And -- this is weird -- sometimes I get goose bumps. This one time they almost hurt. Like a million tiny hard-ons, " he said, smirking and wrestling me a little. "So I guess what I really mean is, 'Thank you for changing my life, baby'." And this time he was the one with the tears, and I was the one holding him. Geez, what a mushy bunch we'd become, in our old age.
Anyway, the hop to Chicago was short, noisy and bumpy. Then we got on this flight and the stewardess gave us this look like "I'm wise to you two jokers. I'll have my eye on you."
"Man, fuck her," I thought, "What a crone: shoulda been a nun."
Brand hadn't flown much, before, so when I offered to take the middle seat and give him the window, it made him really happy -- which really made it completely worth it -- and he almost kissed me right in the aisle. We had a smirk and a chuckle on that one. The fart thing happened and then the plane took off all smooth and steep and powerful. And noisy: our seats were back on the right, by the two side engines. I was so pleased for Brand that the takeoff was spectacularly fast and steep. The thrust just smooshed us back into our seats. On the climb-out, the front of the cabin must have been almost 20 feet higher than we were. Being 'way in the back, you could really see the tilt plainly.
Eventually we reached 38,000 feet, leveled off and the clouds closed in below. There was nothing outside but the glare, so we pulled the shade part way down and settled in to listen to the headsets and read. After an hour or two, I saw Brand over there asleep, so I went to take a piss and brought back a couple of blankets and three or four of those little pillows.
Since the flight was only three quarters full, we had an empty aisle seat next to us. I put the arm rests up and covered Brand. He woke up for an instant and saw the blankets and the pillows and the empty seat between us and sort of fell over with his head in my lap and conked out again. The old biddy came by and saw me looking down at him and absently playing with his hair.
"Brothers?" she asked, when I looked up.
I shook my head: "Best friends."
She looked at Brand and then back at me and -- wonder of wonders -- she broke into this big warm smile. "If there's anything I can get you..."
"Some hot tea?"
"I have regular tea -- Tetley's -- or herbal."
"Regular's fine, ma'am. Thank you. And a packet of honey, if you have one."
She cocked her head for a second and then nodded -- like: "Maybe this one isn't a juvenile delinquent, after all" -- and went off. I looked around to make sure nobody was looking and bent down to kiss his hair.
Looking at his face, at his perfect ear, at his fine, straight nose, at the familiar lines of his face, I was struck by what a wonderful friend he was to me. Such a fair and loyal person. So very bright and yet, such a big heart. It didn't seem to fill me with sadness anymore, but it did fill my heart to overflowing. It was at times like this that I wished I could sing or play an instrument or something: some means of bringing it out. I had skating, but you don't just take a deep breath and burst into skating, you know? Not on a plane, anyhow.
I'm not sure where it came from, but I was humming that old Jim Croce thing about, "I just had to say I love you in a song," when the stewardess came back with my tea and another smile. I just felt so lucky to be loved and trusted by him. Sometimes these feelings are more real to me than my life, itself. I don't know how to explain it, but the enormous reality of my love for Brand makes it difficult to believe in the finality of death, somehow. It just can't end something so... I don't know... so ultra-real. I refuse to believe that it can have that power. Weird, I know, but deeply comforting.
I was thinking this when Brand's eyes flickered open for a moment and he got a little smile and they closed again. After a moment he sort of hummed and asked, "How long have I been out?"
"Oh, hours and hours. In fact, we overshot San Juan and we're going to Brazil."
"Ummm... the girl from Ipana," he said, "Bucky Beaver..." and started to drift off again.
"Who the fuck is Bucky Beaver?"
"Beaver with a flat top," he murmured, and began to snore gently. Later on, I found out it was some ancient commercial they'd seen in his Media class.
I looked at him. He looked at me.
"Fuck, Brand! That smells like chicken," I laughed, waving it away.
He smirked. Leaning toward me: "So do you. I'm... 'hungry'."
Well, they had just picked up our lunch plates, so there could only be one thing that he was 'hungry' for. Me, too. I had been drinking Coke all day, and it all seemed to go to inflame my dick. I was ready to erupt on the spot -- with a little help. I had this urge to crawl onto him. I needed to nuzzle him, to smell his skin, to mouth the little hairs along his hairline. I needed to kiss him long and slow and tender and suck with him hard and fast. I needed to feel him, have him take me, give myself to him. Bad. Real bad. I discovered that my mouth was hanging open and I was panting a little.
"Maybe we could... ummh," I grunted in frustration, reaching over to cup him. He made this sound that was half groan and half whine and reached down to press my hand against his thrusting. I gave him a gentle squeeze and felt the sharp pulse of his frustrated lust. I looked up to kiss him and caught myself just in time. Besides, his eyes were glazed and his mouth was half open. I squeezed him again, making his eyelids droop. His cheeks were flushed. Arrgh!
Well, after the meal we weren't exactly cold, but I got the blanket and covered us. Brand threw a couple of the little pillows under the covers to disguise our arms, and we lay there, pretending to have fallen half asleep. I'm sure that, to the outside world, we looked like a couple of rosy-cheeked young teens. Hello-o! That's called a sex flush!
Brand slid his hand slowly along my thigh, inching toward my raging bulge, making me whimper. Thank God for the engine noise: since there were so few passengers, most of them had asked to move forward, where it was quieter. The seats across were all empty. There was just the lady two rows in front of us, with her sleeping baby. His hand tickled me deep inside, inflaming me.
The hand got closer, closer. Oh, God, the torture! I thought I'd die by the time his hand finally slid home to take me in. The sensation was exquisite torment, until the first squeeze. The thrill was bone-deep, running up my spine and giving me burning, burning goose bumps and bouncing back down to make my hole pulse and feel hungry. He waited a second and squeezed again, making me pulse and shake. Make my hole flutter. The trembling got worse, as he squeezed fast and light, then slow and firm, pleasuring me, torturing me, making me more and more helpless, making my eyes close, making my world shrink down to just his hand and my need and his scent and the rising pitch of my lust. Suddenly, it was upon me like a warm, heavy blanket of water, pressing on me. Taking me. My mouth watered. Even my hole wanted him.
The itch built and built and blossomed and burned. He felt me going and grabbed all of me in his big hand and squeezed rhythmically as I went over; as I held my breath and screamed inside and let go, coming so hard, it almost had a texture -- a rough, ripsaw snarl of ecstasy so strong it kind of hurt. Hurt good. Hurt long. Cleaned my clock to the depths of me. Picked me up and shook me helplessly and let me down slowly, slowly, slowly. It was one of the most intense orgasms of my life. But somehow it left me hungry for more. For Brand. For his lips. For the smell of him, for his body and for his heart. For Brand.
I was left gasping like a fish thrown amongst the rocks.
"Come here," I growled, standing up.
Brand followed me the three steps to the lavatory. Checking to make sure there was nobody watching, I pulled him in after me. I sat on the seat and locked the door. Brand's need was plain to see, as I unzipped him and unwrapped him and took him between my lips. As I ran my lips upon his tender urgency, as I sucked him harder and faster, as he became harder and bigger. As the head became impossibly needy and huge and he trembled and shot with a yelp and a whimper of hard, hard, tender release. As he pulsed and pulsed and moaned. As he drew me up to kiss me and murmur, "I love you, Derek. God that was good! But I'm still so horny."