I kept your sock. It still smells like you. Your sweat. A few drops of your cum, where you cleaned yourself with it.
I carry it in the inner pocket of my jacket. Whenever I start to stress out, I'll give it a squeeze and think of you. And the stress melts away. I locked myself in the bathroom of the coffee shop where I work. Buried my nose in it, and masturbated to your scent.
The other night while my roommate was out, I slipped the greased handle of a jumbo screwdriver inside of me. I closed my eyes and sniffed your sock. I almost believed you were here with me. Inside of me. Fucking me.
When I wake in the morning with a banging case of wood, I'll slip your sock over my dick. I'll bask in the feeling of it. I know it's touched your dick, and now it's touching mine. In a weird way, we're touching each other all over again.
When I'm done, I fold your sock away and go back to my life. My routine. Classes in the morning, then yoga or racquetball at the rec center. In the afternoons, I work in a coffee shop. Apron, name tag, and a ticket book.
I close my eyes when I want to see you, but sometimes I see you when they're open. Reflections in windows, random glimpses of pedestrians. The other day while stopped at a red light, I saw you in the passenger seat. Watching out the window. Being you.
Whenever you send me a text message, I get a feeling like I just ran up a flight of stairs. Racing heart. Shallow breath. On the rare occasions, when you send me pictures of your dick, I have to stop everything. I find the nearest private place. Handle myself.
Sometimes my phone rings, I answer, and it's you. "Hey..." The long pause is for me to catch my breath. In that moment when I'm quiet, your voice rings all the way through me. And I do my best not to come off all "oh my God". But really, I feel like a middle school girl, waiting to go to the dance.
Some mornings, like this one, all of that horniness melts into despair. The cold reality splashes over me that you're a long drive away from me. No, not on the other side of the world, but far enough that you can't exactly meet me for midnight movies and dinner. It's not just the distance; we're living in two separate realities. You have your own routines. Your job. Your friends. Your life.
Then, I think about your sock. Your text messages. Your voicemails. I think about the greased screwdriver, and I realize that it's just a fantasy. It's been nearly three weeks since we've touched, and all I really have is the idea of you. The feeling. The memory. They're good memories, of course, but that's not enough.
I need to go for now and not think of you for a while. I can hear the sirens in the distance. It's the parade for Martin Luther King Day. Traffic's going to suck.
***
Half past two and I'm chocking on the scent of burnt coffee. The house blend is an Ethiopian roast that smells like crotch—not in a good way.
Casey, my shift leader, volunteered me for cycle counts. Hunched over a step ladder, with my ass on display, I count away.
The bells on the door jingle, but I don't want to lose count. "I'll be with you in a minute."
"It's cool, Ethan. I got it." Casey decides to actually do some work and saunters to the counter. "What can I get for ya?"
"Him." Your voice hits me like opera. The way people know they're listening to Pavarotti from the first note—I know it's you. I know your sound. The way your breath hums through your chest and rattles across your vocal chords. The sound the letter 'm' makes on your lips.
My spine tingles. My mind drifts into the ether. So much more than the inundation of mad fact-points that you can piece together like a murder mystery. It's the immediate pulse of my entire body. It's all of those little triggers inside of me—the sock, the screwdriver, the voicemail—going off at once.
I shudder and gasp for breath at the time. My eyes water. I dab at my cheek with my fingers and pull back tears. "Fuck..." I'm not sure what this is. Am I crying? I've never been the crying type. But then, I've never been here before. At this elevation. At this orbit of human emotion. No one along the way told me that this happens to people—or maybe they used the words but I didn't understand them. Call it love, call it infatuation, call it body intoxication...you can't chart this shit on a bar graph.
"Ethan?" Casey's voice murmurs in the background like Charlie Brown's mom in the Peanut's Comics.
I've been trapped inside my own cave for too long. Apart from you. And now you're this bright glaring light that falls on me. And I'm drunk on lust and joy. Yet terrified as well. This is a new world for me. And in the back of my mind, the fear lingers. People can't live up in the clouds like this forever. Sooner or later, we crash back down.
"Ethan, what's going on?" Casey's tone has moved from curiosity to concern.
I Frankenstein my way down the ladder. Rigid. Awkward. Without looking back. I'm afraid to look at you. Afraid I might become a contestant on the Price Is Right. With my hopping. With my caterwauling. Afraid of coming undone.
I stumble backwards. My butt falls against the edge of the counter. My hand fumbles behind me, feeling blindly for you.
I wait for you to take my hand, but it's not enough. You grab my bicep instead. Pull on me. Then sliding your arms around me, you cup at my chest. Your fingers dig into my sternum.
You pull me back until my shoulders press against the counter. Your face eclipses mine. Your eyes. Your smile. Your lips. You lean down to me. With our lips upside-down to each other, we kiss.
"Shit, Ethan..." Casey yammers at us. "Take a break, take lunch, take something... You can't.... You can't do that in here."
Just so you know, this counts as my announcement. I'm officially out at work now. Possibly fired. It doesn't matter.
You pull me from the counter. My feet falling limply to the floor. Like scarecrow legs, they barely hold me, but it's okay. You hold me up.
I'm barely aware of the chatter of voices in the background. Chairs scooting on tile. Cups knocking against tables. Random comments. "What in the..." "Well shit..." "Look!"
"It's okay, everyone!" Casey calls across the coffee shop. It occurs to me that we're officially making a scene. "It's just a slight... medical emergency." Medical Emergency? Maybe she couldn't think of anything else to say. Maybe she knows my heart is close to exploding. Whatever she says doesn't matter now. You're here. We're together. Finally together.
Tangled up in each other, we move like one animal. A newborn foal that hasn't figured out how to move its legs in tandem. Staggering. Learning one way and then the other. Tripping, stumbling, and then catching ourselves. We move toward the door.
You whisper, "I had to see you."
"I'm glad you did."
The bells jingle again. We pounce against the door and spill out into the biting wind.
***
Pressing
me against the side of your jeep, you kiss me. Wipe my cheek with
your thumb.
Our lips pop loose
from each other, and you rest your forehead against mine. Panting,
"you're... crying."
Unable to spit out much more than a word, "Sorry." I squeeze you in my arms.
You kiss me again and rub the head of my dick through my jeans. "Don't be sorry."
"I'm just... overcome... with this."
You sling open the door of your jeep and we fall against the seat together. "Overcome with what?"
"I..." My voice breaks and I sob a little.
You lift on my legs, pushing onto the seat. You make a shushing sound. "It's okay..."
You climb on top of me and take my face in your hands.
My hand presses into your abs. "I think I'm in love you." I barely get the words out before I lose it all together. My whole my whole body quivers.
You wrap your arms around me. Hold me. Rock me. "It's okay, it's okay... I'm in love with you too." Then, you kiss me again.
"Really?"
Taking your hands from me, you let your jacket slide down your arms. I help you take it the rest of the way off.
"Why do you think I'm here? Like this?"
I turn my head. "I... don't know."
"Ethan, I wanna be your boyfriend."
Somehow that tickles something inside of me. I grin. Let out a laugh.
You look at me intently. "That's funny?"
I think about how we can't even looking at each other without losing our minds. I think of that time in the greenhouse. I think of the sock, the screwdriver, and endless fantasies of you. You're at least a boyfriend to me.
"Of course, Colton." I kiss you on the neck. "I wanna be your boyfriend too."
Though it's colder than a morgue outside, you peel off your shirt, then mine. My chin quivers. You kiss me. I press my hand against the steamy window, as we both cram into the driver's seat. Your hip rocks against the door and our feet knock against the pedals.
You reach
down and bump the button open on my jeans. Knock the zipper down.
I
pull down on the elastic band of my underwear. You grip my cock
like you're about to shift gears with it. "Is there someplace we
can...go?"
I look at you. Your dilated pupils. Your gaped mouth. I press my hand against your chest. Feel your heart pounding. Neither of us can drive very far like this.
"There's an empty warehouse behind the shopping center."
You shrug. "Fuck it, let's go."
All tangled up as we are—with your arms wrapped around me—I have better access to your keys than you do. I plunge my hand deep into your pocket, until I fumble against a metal ring. I inch a little lower, and feel moisture. Your pocket liner is soaked with pre-cum.
You lower your voice. “I'm gonna shoot soon, Ethan. I... can't help it.”
I fish your keys free from your pocket. Slide them into the ignition. Turn them. The ignition whines, coughs, then chugs. Keeps chugging. “Alright. Let's go.”
Colton shifts the Jeep into drive, nudges the gas, and steers toward the rear of the shopping center. We lurch forward and troll across the lot. I knock the button of his jeans open, slip my hand into his underwear, and clench his warm cock.
***
You pull the Jeep through the open bay, and flip on the high-beams. Pigeons scurry out of the way.
“Over there.” I point to a little cove where rusty stairs wind up to the old receiving offices.
“Alright,” you mutter, steering around a burnt-out fire barrel. This is the landing pad of homeless people, drug addicts, and teens who need a place to fuck.
You roll to a stop under the metal stairs. Slide into Park, but leave the engine running. You glance over your shoulder. The back seats are already folded into the floor, so it's flat. “Why don't we climb back there?”
I pump your dick in my hand and kick one shoe off. Then the other. I lean between the seats, and turn until my ass faces you.
You grab hold of the seams of my jeans, so that they slide down as I crawl between the seats. My butt cheeks feel a breath of cold air, then the sting of your hand. You slap them and squeeze a cheek in your hand. “Ah, that fucking ass, man! I dream about your ass.” You squeeze my cheeks together, using both hands.
I shudder and gasp. Finish crawling to the back of the Jeep. Take my jeans the rest of the way off. Dabbing my fingers against my tongue, I moisten them. Reach my hand behind me and slick my crack. “Never been anyone's dream before.” My voice is strained.
You scrunch down in the driver's seat. Pull one shoe off. Then the other. You wriggle out of your jeans. Naked except for socks. “How would you know what people dream? Your ass is fucking amazing!”
Your make me feel desirable—fuck powerful even.
Twisting and squirming, you straddle the console. Your cock makes a thud as it bangs against the parking brake. You straddle across the consul. Your dick knocks against the parking brake. You look like a volcano right before it erupts. Lava oozing down the sides. Even your thigh is slicked with moisture.
“You're so handsome, Colton.”
You crawl forward. Grabbing my legs, you twist me onto my side. “Show me that ass!” You shove my left leg forward, and pull my right leg back, spreading me until I'm in a weird sideways split. My groin muscles stretch and crack, and my cheeks separate. I feel cold air in my hole.
“Oh, I God,” I mutter. Totally impressed that you have such a deep mechanical knowledge of my body. You know how to spread me. How to open me. How to make me do what you want. What we both want.
You slide behind me, breathing across my spine. Your lips press against my neck. Your hand settles on my hip. The head of your cock smacks against my open hole. It's hot enough to melt butter.
You whisper in my ear. “May I come in?”
“You better.”
You poke against my hole. Exploring it. Your arm slips around me. Your hand slides across my stomach and pubic bone. Your fingers curl around my balls. You thrust your hips. Slip inside of me.
“God, you're tight. It's like a vice.”
You thrust again and my whole body feels like it's opening. “Oh, fuck!”
“That good?”
“Wonderful.” It feels like you're practically against my spleen.
“Clamp down on me.” You thrust your hips.
“Ethan...”
Again.
“Ethan...”
Again.
“E...” Your muscles tighten as you lose your load inside of me.
I started writing about Colton and Ethan as a stand-alone Christmas story (I never intended for it to be serial). But this particular pairing gives me a tingly feeling inside; I hope it does for you too. I revisited these characters in “New Year's with Colton”. This story makes the third installment. If you'd like to more of these guys, let me know.