Latest gay male story: Mikey and the Chickadee – Chapter 8
by kidboise
I spent the first half of Friday judiciously hungover. Marie, Sloan and I ate sushi for lunch (our first meal of the day) at a place near to her condo in Celadon. The sky had remained solidly overcast throughout the night, trapping in a cradling warmth that now accompanied sunlight as the clouds began to part.
We sat out on the restaurant’s terrace along with several other souls clamoring for a brief glimpse at weather that wouldn’t find its permanence for another couple of months.
“February,” said Marie, “I’m beginning not to hate you so much.”
“Too late,” Sloan said. “March is two days away.”
She bore the expression of someone who had been robbed. “That’s ridiculous. It’s literally not possible.”
“It’s literally the end of February,” he said.
I, too, took unwarranted offense to this revelation. My six week verdict had shrunk surreptitiously to just over one month, a new span of time that felt vastly curtailed.
Sloan sat propped up on his elbows, purple hood pulled up over his head, the top half of his face mostly hidden behind an enormous pair of sunglasses. “Jesus, guys. At least it means summer is one month closer.”
We silently agreed.
I returned to my apartment around three o’clock, peered into the closet and fished Mikey’s note out of a pocket in the lining of my coat. I lay on my bed, opened it once again and studied the drawing. I discovered no palpable details beyond what I’d observed the first time. However I paid special attention to the way the quick pencil lines had fallen to paper, emerging one by one, less though mindfulness than with an effortlessness that saw me feeling, of all things, pacified. I left the paper unfolded and anchored it with a small, smooth stone on top of my dresser.
I estimated the past day to have spit me out sixty dollars poorer-completely unsustainable, although I anticipated no further haphazard spending.
Mikey texted me about an hour later. “Did you know that Yakima is the Palm Springs of Washington?”
“Could you clarify?” I responded.
“It says so on a billboard outside of town. I can’t confirm anything. I’ve never been to the real Palm Springs.”
“I haven’t either,” I texted. “That seems like a strange comparison though. What compelled you to text me about this?”
“Just thought you needed to know. You’re welcome.”
“Oh, excuse me. Thank you.”
He responded with a smiley face.
I did not hear from him again until just after midnight, when he texted to let me know he’d arrived safely at home. “Sorry for texting so late. I stopped in Seattle to see an old friend. I passed your street when I was on the highway. I wish it had been earlier. Maybe we could have hung out. Hope you are well.”
“I’m still up,” I texted. “Glad to hear you are safe at home. I am free to hang out tomorrow if you’re not busy.”
A few minutes later he texted, “That would be awesome. Want to go for a run? I can pick you up if you want.”
We relayed a few more messages back and forth, settling on three o’clock because Mikey had work obligations earlier in the day.
As I prepared for bed I recalled a conversation with my dad that had occurred a few years earlier. I’d returned home for Christmas from my first semester at college, where I had morphed into a kind of fortuitous advocate for open communication (something for which my adolescence had hungered in some ways, and by which was completely satisfied in others). I told him how I knew my being gay was not something we had ever truly discussed. I said that if my sexuality made him uncomfortable, we should talk about it. I remembered him foregoing an immediate response to instead stand and tread in his work boots over creaking slats to the fire, where he added a massive piece of chopped pine to the flames, tending it briefly. Once reseated in his worn cloth recliner he turned to me. “If your sexuality made me uncomfortable I would have told you already. That is my responsibility. But it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. In fact, I resent the idea that a person’s unchangeable qualities would make anyone uncomfortable. That’s just not fair, and I hate it.”
I lay in bed trying to call up the way Mikey had spoken about his own father. Within the context of who I was, he did not sound like a very accepting man. I sensed that Mikey carried a forceful deference to his parents, which, given what had happened, I supposed was all but inevitable. I turned inward. If Mikey had held up a mirror for me to regard myself, I would have seen someone frivolous and fortunate-a person whose experience had been unburdened, easy and painless. I felt a bitter pang of ungratefulness seep into my chest. These were not the quelling thoughts I usually focused on before sleep, and I suspected they were to blame, at least in part, for the unpleasant dreams that followed.
By the time Mikey was due to arrive the next day I felt much better. I had stumbled into a folder on my aging computer which held files containing various poems, snippets and one longer, unfinished project that I’d written over several weeks at school. After inadvertently barring myself for months from accessing this particular interest, my eyes now fell to the words on the screen as if they were not my own. It was a rare and brief opportunity that lent me unencumbered perspective on my writing, to which my reaction was mostly favorable.
Mikey arrived in full running regalia, his hair now cut short of the sides. An easy few inches were also absent from the top.
“My god, your hair,” I said. “Take a look at that.”
“Got it cut before work this morning. It was time. Kicked myself for not doing it before the trip. I looked like a child before.”
“I really like it,” I said, surprised at my own audacity as I reached up and ran my hand over the top. He did look categorically older now. “I didn’t know you would already be changed,” I said. “Let me put some stuff on.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” he said. “Not too cold at all.”
“I know. Can you believe it?” I left the door to the bathroom ajar and asked him about his trip.
“It was really great, actually. This time I left myself a little room to explore. It’s not a bad place down there.”
“I liked your picture. And the Honda did okay?”
“The Honda was a complete sweetheart,” he said. “That’s the kind of driving I enjoy. Out on the open highway. The city commute just isn’t the same.”
“I’m the same way,” I said, emerging from the bathroom.
The levee seemed a natural destination. It was where our first impromptu run had occurred, after all. We descended the steps to where he had parked his car and on the landing between the first and second floors Mikey stopped and looked back at me. I halted behind him. His lips spread into a bashful smile. Within his eyes, chaperoned by forthright, inkwell brows that turned slightly downward at the ends, lived a child incapable of driving for hundreds of miles, negotiating with company reps and accepting whatever other liabilities arose from such a situation.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Sorry. Happy to be back, that’s all.” He turned away and continued down the stairs.
Once underway I asked Mikey more about his trip.
“They put me up in a good hotel,” he said. “They took me around downtown…out to dinner…it was great. Actually, I spent a lot of time walking around on my own. I even took a little time to draw-on a business trip. I mean, fuck. Can’t say I’ve ever done that before.”
“That’s cool,” I said. “What do you think changed?”
He said nothing for a few seconds, then cleared his throat. “I guess I’m just thinking about my experience differently…or something. I’m not exactly sure.”
“No need to question what’s working,” I said.
“Exactly.” He signaled out of the passing lane. “So what did you do with the rest of your week?”
I thought a moment. “Nothing big. Actually, I went out late with friends Thursday night. Skipped work yesterday.”
“Oh, well that sounds big,” he said. “What did you do when you went out?”
“We just got drinks and went dancing. I had a little too much. Well, we all did.”
He smiled. “I’m jealous. Haven’t done that in a while. Did you meet anyone nice?”
“You mean, like, guys? No. I mean I’m sure they were around, but I wasn’t really looking.”
Mikey nodded. “Sorry, that’s kind of a weird question to ask.”
A small, focused arc of light strayed across the dashboard and I followed it with my index finger. “No it’s not,” I told him. “That’s definitely how some people hook up. Can’t say it’s happened for me very often, though.”
“But it’s happened?”
“Well, there was this guy in Germany,” I said. “His group joined ours at a club one night. He made a really good impression on me. Like, even the next day I was thinking, ‘I would bear this man’s children.'”
Mikey laughed and I smiled to myself at how much I’d just sounded like Marie.
“I take it you spent the night with him?” he asked.
“Well, yeah. It’s funny, though. We only fooled around a little. Mostly we just cuddled and talked and stuff. It was…I don’t know. Never mind.”
“It was what?”
I paused for a moment as my thoughts spooled up again. “It was, like, kind of sexy in its own way, I guess. I mean, when we weren’t messing around.” Unexpectedly, telling him this left me feeling awkward.
He moved a hand to the top of the steering wheel. “I think I understand what you mean.”
He asked me to tell him more about traveling in Europe. I had mentioned the trip to him before, but only in passing. Presently I attempted to stick to highlights from our travel schedule and list some of the well-known sites we’d visited, but kept lapsing into small, anecdotal pitfalls, in which I would explain how Marie’s hair once caught fire while we were in Italy, or about that one night in Prague when we’d become too drunk to locate our hostel. These stories seemed to interest Mikey the most anyway.
“I would really like to travel like that,” he said as my rambling waned and we entered a dirt parking lot next to the levee.
I nodded, but didn’t say anything in response until we stepped out onto the path, performing absent stretches. “Is there anything stopping you?” The breeze disagreed slightly with my bare arms and calves, but I knew I would warm up quickly once we started running.
“You mean from traveling?”
I nodded, tugging my left foot up to meet with my upper-thigh and butt before switching to the right.
“Just work,” he said. “Sophie could take care of things while I was gone. But if she went with me…we’d just have to plan ahead, I guess. It’s a worthwhile goal.” Suddenly Mikey turned toward the water. “It’s a cat,” he said, and was gone, stepping down the embankment toward a wall of reeds that grew near the base.
I followed and watched him tempt the siamese house cat out from where it crouched in the tall grass. It approached him with a casual, friendly demeanor, speaking in soft, quick mews. I knelt down next to Mikey and held out my hand. The cat sniffed inquisitively at my fingers, brilliant blue eyes wide and alert. Much of its body was covered in creamy fur, long and light, but the face, spine and tail dissolved into a rich coffee-brown.
“You’re such a sweetie,” Mikey said, running his hand over its back and up its tail. He looked over at me. “Do you like cats much?”
“I think so,” I said. “We had two dogs growing up, but never any cats.”
“We didn’t have any pets,” Mikey said. “Maybe I’ll get one someday.”
I stood and the creature became cautious, circling back into the limits of its grassy resting place. Before long it had disappeared completely into the taller reeds.
“Goodbye,” said Mikey. “Goodbye, my friend.”
We climbed back up the rocky slope and started together down the path.
“Did you write anything when I was away?” he asked.
I threw him a playful smirk. “What do you think?”
“You should seriously get back into it.”
“Actually, this morning I did find my stuff from when I was in school. If you want I’ll send you some of it.”
“I would like that very much,” he said.
We ran in silence for awhile. I was satisfied with the pace, but suspected that Mikey was going easy on me. However, he showed no will to increase his speed. He displayed admirable form, feet dragging minimally across the gravel, arms pumping efficiently at his sides, under apparently little tension.
“Did you ever run cross country?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, slotting his response between quick, easy breaths. “In high school. Did you?”
“Yeah. I wonder if were ever at the same meets.”
“Probably. I’m sure you guys cleaned house, too. Chickadees had a strong team, right?”
“Yeah, at least when I was there. I wasn’t on varsity, though.”
Mikey nodded.
After a few seconds I looked over at him, grinning. “You were, weren’t you? Of course you fucking ran varsity.”
He laughed. “Can I help it that I was fast?”
“You’re a pretty intimidating guy, you know that?”
“Hah.” He gathered together his saliva and spat down toward the water. “That’s all just perception.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked over at me. “You think I don’t find you intimidating?”
“I don’t know,” I said between breaths. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
He didn’t say anything in response and we were silent again for a while. Mikey carried his phone in his right hand. He eventually checked the time and suggested we turn around. “That’ll make it about forty-five minutes. Are you good with that?”
“Sounds great,” I said.
As we neared what I estimated to be about halfway back I started to feel significantly winded, though I was confident that I would finish in fine form. I distracted myself by making conversation. “You don’t usually work on Saturdays, do you?” I asked.
“No, never. Today was just an exception because Sophie and I didn’t want to wait until Monday to regroup. It was just us and our next-in-command guy.”
“Sounds pretty exclusive,” I said.
“Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “Let me tell you, we’re very exclusive. Anyway, it sucks but we might have to meet tomorrow, too. Probably just for an hour or two in the afternoon.”
“I guess it’s different when you’ve been away.”
“Right,” he said. “That’s true.”
We finished the run without incident and cooled down with a short walk around the parking lot. Mikey’s calves bulged from activity, large and lean, peppered with short, course black hairs. I drank endlessly from my water bottle and surveyed my environment with strange vitality as steady, relaxed breathing flowed incrementally back to me.
Today winter cloaked the swelling promise of spring like worn and dirty fabric, seams aching to split open. The air drifting in from the ocean brought with it smells reminiscent of warmer months; sweet and pleasurable scents swept across the water from blossoming plants in the north part of the city. I welcomed even the occasional quivering odor of industry, diesel exhaust or organic decay that picked its way inland from the harbor.
During the ride home Mikey glanced down at my lap and said, “Those shorts don’t leave much to the imagination.”
We remained very warm after the run, and now that we’d connected onto the highway, wind trampled through the wide open car windows. So that we were heard, we spoke to one another with intent.
“I wore them just for you,” I teased. “Glad you noticed.”
Mikey shrunk against the driver door. I looked over and witnessed him adjusting himself through the silky fabric of his basketball shorts.
“You’re getting hard,” I said. “I can tell.”
“No I’m not,” he said quickly. “A little. Damn it. I rubbed one out this morning so I could avoid this exact situation.”
“So did I. Didn’t help much, did it?” I had become completely erect in a span of time I would have previously thought impossible.
“Oh my god. So fucking horny. This is ridiculous.” His voice tumbled earnestly forth, deep and hoarse and his hands fidgeted on the steering wheel.
“Pull over.”
“What?”
“Just pull over,” I repeated. “Now’s our chance. Take the next right. There’s a lot down the road that no one uses. My dad used to park his fishing boat on it.”
“Okay,” he said hastily, slowing the car a bit.
“I want to take care of that for you,” I told him, completely clueless as to what mysterious force had apparently just taken me over. “You just tell me if I’m doing anything you don’t like, okay?”
“Nope, we’re good,” he said, tearing off the highway, tires chirping in brief protest. He gunned the engine down the bleak, empty side road.
“Left here,” I said.
Mikey parked in the abandoned lot under a sulking oak tree and shut off the car. A meadowlark stated its business from a group of shrubs across the asphalt.
“I’ve never done this before,” he said. “Not in public like this. He handled himself a little through his shorts.
“I haven’t either,” I said. I’ll just jerk you, okay?”
He shimmied his shorts and underwear down around his legs and reseated his naked, dark backside against the cloth seat. “I’m still sweaty,” he stated, grinning.
“I don’t care,” I assured him, marveling at his middle section now as his striking presence swayed a little, directly upright and exposed in plain daylight. He looked over at me and muttered shyly, “You can touch it if you want.”
I extended my right hand and leaned over the center console, grasping his sturdiness in a loose fist.
“Fuck,” he said. “It feels so fucking strange. You feeling me like that.”
“It’s okay, though?” I asked.
He immediately nodded, as if to suggest that I would be crazy to stop. I pulled his foreskin downward, exposing the lighter flesh of the head. I then began to stroke him. I started very slowly, asking him once more if he was okay.
“Please don’t stop,” he said.
I increased the speed of motion only minutely, attempting to tug at him in the manner I imagined he would himself. Already he arched his back, his right hand balled into a furious, white-knuckled fist.
Perhaps owing to the run, his voice still emerged with slight rasp, heartbreakingly deep. “You’re doing it,” he said, gasping. “You fucking know how to do that just right-oh.” He lifted his shirt, abdominal muscles delineating themselves as he curled forward. I aimed against his stomach as he began to pulsate and felt rushes of fluid course up through his cock, just under the soft skin of its underside. The thin row of hairs marching down from his navel became drenched in semen as he came. His face and chest flushed slightly and he gritted his teeth.
I offered him time to recover, and after about ten seconds he turned to me and leaned his forehead against my shoulder.
“Thank you,” came his muffled voice. In another few seconds he sat up and looked around, as if he’d forgotten where he was. “Could you grab the towel from the backseat?” He held the damp gray cotton of his shirt away from the mess.
I handed it to him and let him clean himself up. A small amount of his sperm clung to my hand and I felt, with sudden alarm, the overwhelming urge to taste it. Unsure how he might receive this act of indulgence, I contained myself and waited until he was done with the towel.
Now that the moment was over, Mikey seemed eager to return to the highway. He went to start the car, but then stopped and looked at me with intense concern. “What about you? I need to return the favor.”
“Not right now,” I said. “When you’re ready.”
He looked out the windshield, pondering this for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Deal.” Between shifts, as his Honda accelerated back toward the highway, he reached out and shook my knee affectionately. “That was incredible, Chickadee. Thank you.”
“Of course,” I said. I felt grateful for the certainty that he hadn’t done anything outside his comfort zone, and reflected that his decision against touching me in the moment stood as further evidence of the cautious nature of his development.
Ten minutes later he dropped me at my apartment. “I’ll bring a change of clothes with me next time. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
I promised him that I wouldn’t. After he drove off I stood alone on the whitewashed lawn in front of my building for a few minutes. I considered that I could have offered Mikey a change of clothes-we each still had in our possession a pair of the other’s underwear, after all-but realized he would probably have asked if he’d truly felt like sticking around. I questioned distantly whether my boldness had overwhelmed him, but decided not to speculate on something I could not know.
I trudged up to my apartment, showered and began hunting for dinner. I scrolled down through my contacts, among which were several numbers for restaurants offering takeout, then cast my phone onto the empty couch cushion beside me. If Mikey cooked for himself, then damn it, so could I. Within minutes I left for the grocery store, where I picked up some staple items and also chicken breast, broccoli and couscous. After another hour I ate contentedly in front of the television, frankly shocked at my tenacious conduct.
It occurred to me sometime after finishing to text Mikey some of my writing. I sent it in the form of three files, one containing a poem in which I took discernible pride, the other two being the first and second chapters of a longer, novel-like project. “Please do not feel obligated,” I added once they had transmitted.
I did not hear back from him for nearly two hours, as the minute hand on my wall clock plunged to nearly thirty minutes after eight. “I read everything. Loved it all. Probably need to let it soak in for a while. Maybe I’ll go back and read again later.”
“I am flattered,” I wrote. “Please don’t give it too much time or consideration.”
After a few minutes he replied, “I was thinking…do you want to come over tonight? I know it’s kind of late but I can come get you. We could talk about your writing and/or watch a movie. Let me know if you just want to do your own thing, though.”
“I am bored and lonely, to be honest,” I texted. “But I insist on taking the bus. There is one leaving in fifteen minutes. See you soon.” I donned a black hooded jacket, changed into long pants and was out the door, hurling myself down the hill and into the pedestrian tunnel.
Half an hour later I knocked on his door and he opened it just a few inches, peeking playfully through at me. “Come in, come in,” he said, throwing it open. “You never know who could be roaming the halls at this time of night.” He made no indication that I should take him seriously.
I trailed him once again into the heart of his home, where we sat together on the couch. “Your writing,” began Mikey quietly. “It’s like poetry all the time. Even when it’s technically not. And I enjoyed the two chapters but I don’t have much to say about them. I just really want to know what happens to Charlotte after she leaves for the bridge. I want to believe she doesn’t go through with it.”
“I don’t know if she does,” I said. “I don’t think I would know unless I actually wrote it.” My attempt at finishing a novel had stalled out not long after it had begun; the speaker contemplated suicide and my indecision regarding her fate was probably to blame for the whole story’s demise. How should that crucial millisecond of resolution be dispensed? In what capacity would the narrative continue if she went through with it? These questions tumbled around in my head at the time, the answers for which I had not sought with sufficient enthusiasm. The book died with them.
“I can see why it would be hard to pick that back up, without knowing.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s weird. Anyway, I’m glad to hear that you liked what I wrote. I’ve never really had any feedback like that.”
“Who else had read your writing?”
“Nobody,” I said.
“Oh. Sorry, I don’t know why I assumed.” He sat back and looked down at the floor. “Wow.”
“I mean, no one else really knows about it, so, you know.” I guarded my passion for writing with the same uncompromising secrecy that some reserved for a smoking habit or extramarital affair. This mostly unexamined behavior was atypical of me and felt hopelessly peculiar now that I answered for it aloud.
“Thanks for telling me. That’s really cool of you.”
“I don’t know why I’ve never told anybody else,” I said, taking off my jacket and stuffing it down at my side. “It’s not like I think anyone would judge me.”
“It’s okay. I think sometimes it’s hard to know why we do the things we do.”
I smiled at this.
“Well, I have been appeased,” said Mikey, laughing a little. “Want to watch a movie? All I have is whatever’s streaming. I guess I also have some DVDs. Haven’t looked through them in a while, though. Who knows what we might find?”
“Let’s get them out,” I said. “I want to see what kind of movies you like.”
Mikey went over to his bed and dragged two small cardboard boxed out from underneath. I joined him and peered down into them after he’d removed the lids. We sifted together through the contents.
“You have a lot of old movies,” I said. I recognized many of them as being mid-century films, some even older.
“Yeah. They were my mom’s. I watched some of them with her. This was her favorite,” he said, handing me a copy of All About Eve.
I looked it over. “Actually, my mom and I do the same thing. I like this one. Haven’t seen it in a long time. We could watch it if you want to.” I stopped myself. “Shit. Sorry. Would it make you sad to watch it now?”
He took the movie from me and examined it. “Sure, we can watch it. I’ve seen it since she died. It didn’t make me sad.”
Mikey made popcorn for the occasion and after he was finished we settled in on the couch. Throughout the movie we commented periodically on the idiosyncratic elements of the time.
“I love how he just assumes the women are so frail that they should stay in the car while he goes and gets help,” Mikey said about halfway through.
“Look at that massive fur coat she’s wearing,” I said. “They should have sent her.”
Mikey laughed.
After it was over we lay on Mikey’s bed, once again basking in the cool air that tumbled downward from his vent window.
“Really, though,” he was saying. “I can’t shake that urge to romanticize everything about the time. They way they spoke, the clothes…the social etiquette for every situation, and it was followed so carefully, too. ‘Many happy returns of the day’-how come no one says that anymore?”
I turned to him and grinned. “I don’t know.”
“Sorry. I tend to go on about this stuff.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I feel it, too, sometimes. I just don’t think it’s based in anything real. Those days were just…not so different in the way they seem like they were. And they were very different in some other ways that aren’t so good. At least that’s what I think.”
“I think you’re right,” said Mikey.
“Don’t get me wrong. People dressed better. I’m not arguing with you there.”
He looked over at me. “Can you imagine two of the male characters kissing in an old movie like that?”
“No. I can’t. It would have been caught by the censors long before it got anywhere near the audience.”
“Yeah, things have definitely changed for the better,” he said.
“So you like seeing guys kiss?” I teased.
He grinned. “I’m not sure that I have much of a reaction to it.”
I held my tongue for a moment, wondering whether or not to ask. “So I take it you and that guy never kissed.”
“Oh. Definitely not. Yeah, it wasn’t that kind of thing at all.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t see that as something I would ever be into.”
“Alright,” I said. “Yeah, it’s definitely something more tied with emotions and romance and all that.”
He laughed. “And yet I’m fine with a guy touching my dick. It’s confusing, I know.”
“It’s okay. We’re all different.”
Mikey turned onto his side. “Actually, I’m kind of curious about touching yours. Would that be too weird?”
“You mean, right now?”
He nodded, looking suddenly very self-conscious.
I smiled. “Of course not. Go ahead.” I lay on my back, looking down, silently offering him freedom to explore.
At this, he became very excited. “I was feeling so nervous earlier in the car. But now…” With little fuss he undid the button on my pants and tugged the zipper gently downward.
I had already begun to grow, but was not yet fully hard.
Mikey wondered at this through my underwear and asked, “Can I feel it when you’re still soft?”
I moved my pants down around my legs to ease his access. He lay his head back on the pillow next to me and cautiously slipped his hand underneath the elastic band.
As I felt his fingers tremble slightly, brushing over the upper part of my shaft, I exhaled sharply.
“Does that feel good?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
He sat up and worked my underwear down toward where my pants still masked my legs. He then remained there, gaping at my cock for a moment before falling once again to rest at my side. Looking down, he placed his hand on my now thoroughly hardened self.
“Fuck,” I said. “Sorry, couldn’t stay soft for long.”
Mikey rested his chin gently on my shoulder so that his fine stubble just barely grazed my skin. “It feels…fuck. It just feels so great in my hand,” he said. He tightened his grip, prompting me let out the smallest whimper and tilt my head toward him. He looked straight into my eyes, concerned. “That’s okay?”
“If feels amazing, Mikey.”
“I think I want…” he paused. “I want to try to make you come. Do you want to take off your shirt?”
I nodded and did not hesitate to pull it up over my head.
He ran his hand with deliberateness down my chest, fingertips brushing finely over my nipple. He reached my cock and gave it three resounding strokes. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure if I’m doing it right without the foreskin. I want to make sure it feels good for you.”
“Don’t worry. That is exactly the way to do it.”
He grinned and bit his lip. “Okay,” he said, providing a few more tentative jerks.
“Oh, shit. This will not take long,” I warned.
“It’s okay. You’re already lasting longer than I did in the car.”
I laughed.
He began to tow my rigidness upward, then pull it back down, allowing his hand to slip slightly toward the base. He then continued to tug, faster now, and already I could hardly stand it. I felt his measured breaths land close to my ear; I understood that it brought him new and curious satisfaction to provoke this kind of pleasure in me. And most of all, the thick, solid muscles of Mikey’s arm hardened to the task; its dark tones fell starkly against the pale flesh of my chest and stomach.
I exploded, the initial string of myself spanning my upper- and lower-lip, then trailing down my chin. Subsequent bursts fell relentlessly against my neck and then snaked halfway down my chest. Finally my event subsided and I was aware of my right hand, which clenched inside it his other wrist. I let him go brought it up to wipe the come away from my mouth. “Thank you,” I said. “You are really, really good at that.”
Mikey looked extremely pleased. “Fuck. That is a lot of jizz.” He hovered, unabashedly gawking for a few seconds before springing into action. “I washed your underwear from the other day,” he said. “You can use the ones you were wearing to wipe yourself up and put on the ones you left here.”
I removed my underwear and pants completely and did as he suggested. “You’re really looking out for me, aren’t you?” I said, cleaning up the mess.
I heard him laugh quietly with his back to me as he rooted through his dresser drawer. “You’re my guest, Chickadee.” He brought the fresh pair over to me and insisted, once again, on washing the dirty ones.
“I’m glad we have a system going here,” I told him.
Once I was dressed again and Mikey had returned to my side, we talked softly as the sounds of the night crept through his window. He’d turned off the light in the living room so that now only the streetlamp’s glow clambered dimly inside.
Eventually he asked, “Do I have to take you home?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“You could stay if you wanted.”
“Sure. I’ll stay on the couch,” I said.
“You’ll take the bed. What if…I don’t know. Is it okay if we both take the bed?”
“I have no problem with that.”
“Alright,” he said.
Mikey offered me a new toothbrush and after a short time we found ourselves undressing to our underwear and slipping between the covers. The double bed did not feel especially spacious now, a fact that did not bother me. We lay shoulder-to-shoulder, propped up somewhat on our pillows. He had pulled a drawing book from his nightstand and flipped through its pages. Sketches of all manner of bird stood in various, illustrative stages of completion.
“I picked this up the day after we met. I’ve been wanting to practice drawing them for a long time. It was great to finally get to it.”
“It’s really cool, Mikey.”
He closed the book and moved slightly away from me, abandoning his sitting position for something more conducive to sleep. I followed him. He turned his head to look at me. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this.” He paused for a minute to collect his thoughts. “I meet a lot of people because of my job…all these chances to get to know people and maybe connect with someone, you know? Anyway, nobody is like you.” He stopped, heaved an immense yawn toward the ceiling and looked back at me. “What I’m saying is that you’re a really good friend.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You are, too. I hope you know that.”
Mikey smiled back at me.
It was in this way that we came to sleep soundly, no longer alone, but at each other’s side. In my mind, we shared his bed in a capacity unique to us, perfectly different from when I shared with Marie or any other close friend. If I had been asked to articulate this disparity, I would absolutely have failed. But I slept disengaged from worry, and we dreamt tranquilly, inches from one another.
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