A gay story: Rory and Sebastian Ch. 09 –Most of the stories told in the ‘Rory and Sebastian’ series are told from Sebastian Carson’s point-of-view, rather than Rory’s. The only story that’s been told from Rory Masterton’s POV so far is chapter 5. Originally, this story was also supposed to be from Sebastian’s POV but I found it worked better told from Rory’s. I hope you enjoy it. As before, both characters are above the age of 18 at the time this story takes place —
A harsh winter wind blew through the town streets and Caroline squealed slightly as we rounded a corner. Virginia tutted and I pulled my arms in closer around myself. Everywhere around us were tacky Christmas decorations, apart from one slightly beautiful window display of the Nativity in the old-style men’s suits shop. It looked at least a hundred years old. My grandfather bought his suits from that store.
‘I hate this kind of weather,’ sighed Virginia. ‘It’s so annoying.’
‘I prefer the cold to heat,’ I opined. ‘I look better in winter clothes, plus people sweat less.’
‘The cold’s bad, but it’s really the wind that’s awful,’ Caroline snapped, ‘Your hair can survive the cold. There’s nothing it can do about looking good in the middle of a hurricane.’
I was glad Sebastian wasn’t with us as she said this, but I could feel his eye-rolling in my soul. In Caroline’s defence, whilst we obviously weren’t in the middle of a hurricane, it was really windy and her hair did look pretty awful. That was mean of me to notice it. But she’d brought it up and it did. It looked someone had back-combed a troll doll and then electro-shocked it. Virginia’s still looked fine though, but then she’d used enough hairspray to puncture a new hole in the ozone layer, so that was probably why.
‘It’s so annoying that Judith isn’t here with us,’ Caroline continued. ‘Do you really think she’s actually that hungover, guys? Or is she just lying?’
‘Yes,’ I said, in Judith’s defence. ‘I mean, come on, Caroline. You saw how bad she was last night. She drank a vineyard’s worth of wine. She’s probably receiving the last rites, as we speak.’
Virginia laughed. ‘Did Sebastian pick you up?’
‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I think I made a slight fool of myself, though.’
‘How?’
‘I was very … I asked him to have sex with me.’
The two girls stopped dead in the streets, right next to the jewellery store Virginia had wanted to go into all morning. ‘WHEN were you going to tell us about all this?’ she asked; mouth agog. ‘We’ve been together for what, like, an hour, Rory?’
‘We didn’t!’ I exclaimed. ‘But we’re having “the talk” about it this afternoon.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ Caroline asked, still in piqued shock I hadn’t revealed this the moment we met to shop this morning.
‘He said I was drunk and he didn’t want to take advantage of me.’
Virginia abandoned her shock and opened the door to the store. ‘He must really, really love you, Rory.’
*
A few hours later, I was upstairs in my bedroom, working on some homework for Religious Studies class. It was already dark outside, even though it was only about five o’clock. I sat leafing through my Philosophy textbook, trying to find some quotes to answer the question that they’d set us for the last paper due in for the term. Or semester, as Sebastian insisted upon calling it, despite having attended school in England for years.
‘For 35 marks, outline your knowledge and understanding of one philosophical argument in favour of the existence of God or the divine.’ The joys of being an A-Level student, I guess.
I was concentrating, hard, on the words in front of me as I drew out a plan and mind-map about the ontological argument that God existed. My brain hurt trying to get my head around it, but then that was the point of it. I was writing out a quote from Saint Anselm of Canterbury — we lived in Kent, so it’s always good to keep the teacher happy by quoting a local — and writing notes in the margin of my notepaper when I heard Sebastian’s American twang from over my shoulder. ‘An a priori argument,’ he quoted, ‘i.e. seeks to prove that God exists by starting the argument from the POV that it’s already been proven.’
‘Who let you in?’ I asked, dryly.
‘Your mom. If it was your dad, we’d be meeting downstairs. Is this for R.S?’ he asked. ‘Man! And I thought Physics was hard.’
He leaned against my desk and looked at me. ‘A priori argument?’
‘It’s called the ontological argument,’ I explained. ‘It’s a kind of religious argument or a philosophical one that approaches the issue of proving the existence of God differently from all the others.’
‘How?’
‘Most arguments start off by trying to prove that God does exist. Which basically means they start off by assuming either that gods don’t exist or that it’s unproven.’
‘Like in most science experiments,’ Sebastian interjected. ‘You start off assuming you don’t know the answer yet?’
‘Right. Except the ontological argument starts off by saying that God does exist and seeks to take the argument from there. Basically, God or gods exist because they exist. Because if they didn’t exist, we’d never have come up with the concept of them existing in the first place. Make sense?’
‘Not really,’ he smiled.
‘It’s not supposed to,’ I shrugged. ‘The mysteries of the universe, and all that. Have you started the History yet?’
‘Finished it,’ he smirked.
‘I can only imagine what kind of left-wing nonsense you rattled off,’ I teased.
‘You’re not dating Stalin, baby.’
The question had been on why the Russian Revolution happened and it was a running joke between us that I was right-wing; he was left-wing. ‘Oh, come on, Sebastian. The question was about the downfall of a monarchy and like most Americans, you’re incapable of taking monarchies seriously, because your culture has reduced them to nothing more than a point of ridicule, in order to make it axiomatic that the system of government you created in 1776 was good, perfect and the summit of logic.’
‘It was quite a bit better than Tsarist Russia, Rory.’
‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘There’s something pretty messed up about a country that starts off with declarations about the inviolable nature of equality, whilst ten per cent of its population lived in racially-based slavery. Or which still talks about it today, whilst denying fifteen per cent of its population the right to be legally married.’
‘Pissed I didn’t slip my dick into you last night?’ he rejoined. I glanced up at him, in a faux-unimpressed way and he leant down and gave me a belated ‘hello’ kiss on the lips. ‘That’ll come, Rory. And my paper for History is incredible. So fuck you.’
‘I was only teasing you,’ I reasoned. I stood up and wrapped my arms around his waist. ‘I’m actually so pro-American that it’s frankly ridiculous.’
‘That’s because my penis is American. And because it’s fucking awesome.’
‘Your penis or America?’
‘Both.’
‘Well, they’ve both been the source of comfort to desperate huddled masses in days gone-by.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Well…’
‘Alright, fuck this,’ he sighed. It wasn’t an aggressive sigh; more of a ‘we’ve joked around a little, but we’re done now’ sigh. I knew it well. He nudged me over to the chair he liked to sit on, next to the coffee table.
‘I really was teasing about the America thing,’ I said, kissing his neck. ‘You know that, right?’
‘Yes, obviously. Rory, I’m not pissed off. I just got bored of the conversation. So — last night.’
‘Yes. Last night.’ I swallowed and felt momentarily hot. Not in the good way. Clammy, in fact, might have been a far more accurate word to describe the feeling. I had no idea why. At least, not precisely. It wasn’t as if Sebastian seemed in any way judgmental or condescending about last night. But I was dimly aware that my request last night was about to propel our relationship onto the next level. The irrevocable level of full physical intimacy. One which it would be impossible to ever retreat from and one which was also inextricably caught up in physicality and appearance. It would require being totally naked and, furthermore, any failure to be “good” in bed would automatically be something that would weaken the relationship. Despite how compatible he and I were, thus far, there was a niggling fear, lurking in the back of my mind, that when full sex happened, I might not perform well and that it would therefore in fact inflict the first crack on our relationship. As ever, I was, over-thinking things and second-guessing myself. But in order to gain distance and composure, I stood up off his knee and walked over to the sofa on the other side of the coffee table. I sat upright and looked at him; as if we were in some kind of Barbara Walters interview. Or a business meeting. He regarded my move quizzically.
‘Really?’ he asked. In reference to me moving away from him.
‘Yes,’ I answered. Firmly and slightly primly. ‘It’ll help discuss things more rationally.’
‘I’m not sure that’s really the way these things are supposed to be discussed, but okay. Do you still want to talk about this, Rory?’
I could see hesitation etched in every line of his beautiful face. And I was also perceptive enough to see a repressed, cleverly hidden, kind of fear. He was afraid I would say “no.” That I would renege on what I had said to him last night in the car. I nodded an affirmative; telling him that “yes,” I did still want to talk about this. I think I realised in that moment that in fact a crack would be inflicted on our relationship if he thought I was the kind of boyfriend to say one thing when drunk, then another when sober. As if there was a Janus-like quality of two personalities; one with alcohol and the other without. I wasn’t like that and I didn’t want him to think that.
‘Yes,’ I said, quietly. To re-iterate my nod. ‘I want to talk about it. I meant what I said last night. I’m just a little nervous.’
‘Don’t be,’ he said. His shoulders sagged slightly; he had breathed out. He was relieved by what I’d say. ‘Don’t be nervous, Rory.’
I nodded and looked down. ‘I won’t be. I’m not.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘I’m not nervous of you.’
‘Good. Of what, then?’
‘The pain, I suppose. They say it hurts the first time.’
‘Are you sure that’s all?’
My head snapped up. His eyes had that shrewd and perceptive look in them. No point in trying to deny what he already knew. ‘I don’t want to fuck-up,’ I confessed. ‘I don’t want to disappoint you.’
He cocked his head to one side and a sad look glazed over his face. ‘Baby.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
He got up and crossed over to sit next to me. He smelled incredible and the fitted navy sweater sat beautifully on him. It clung to the muscles on his arm. I felt my reserves ebb looking at them and at his slightly clasped hands, the fingers of which were tracing in and out of one another.
‘Listen, I’ve been thinking about this and, well, how would you feel about a little role reversal for the first time?’
I looked at him blankly. I wasn’t sure what he meant and I assumed this was the kind of conversation where one should avoid the grey areas of confusion, wherever possible.
‘What?’ I asked. I’d said it slightly too loudly and the correct word, after all, was “pardon.” ‘Pardon?’ I corrected myself. He noticed the correction; noticed the obsessive manners, even in a situation like this. And he smiled.
‘Would you prefer it if I took it up the ass the first time we have sex, Rory?’
Well. That certainly cleared up the grey area.
‘I … uh…’
‘Look, I’ve taken it before…’
‘Who from?’ I snapped. A trifle too harshly, I’ll admit.
Sebastian waved his right hand in the air. Dismissing the question as irrelevant. The logical side of my brain forced me to concede that, right now, it was irrelevant; despite being surprised by the revelation. ‘I’m saying, Rory, that if you’re worried about the pain, I’m more than happy to have you fuck me.’
I paused for a moment, as I mentally considered, and imagined, sliding myself into his ass. I had to admit that the idea did make me tingle. But I followed my instinct and shook my head. ‘No. No, Sebastian. That’s so … I mean, that’s just so incredibly sweet of you and lovely and loving and I appreciate it so, so, so much. But I don’t want that. Not for our first time. For our first time, I want you to be on top. I want you to …’
‘To?’
‘Own me,’ I finished, quietly. How mortifying.
He grinned and kissed me. ‘So filthy,’ he whispered. ‘You want me to own you?’ Another kiss. ‘You want to be my property, Rory?’ I nodded. Another kiss. His tongue slipped into my mouth and I lay back on the sofa. My legs parted and he slid in between them, on top of me, and we kept making out. I grew hard and so did he. We started grinding against each other. It was bliss and torture, all at once. An exquisite kind of annoyance.
‘When?’ he asked, breathily.
‘Which of us has a free house first?’
‘My parents are taking my little sister up to London to see a show on Saturday. They’re going to stay in a hotel. I could ask Evan to give us the house for the night?’
‘Would he mind?’
‘Not if I tell him what it’s for,’ Sebastian answered, matter-of-factly.
I sat up slightly. ‘You’d tell him?’
‘Of course. He’s my brother. You think I haven’t already told him that we’ve been fooling around together?’ (I cannot imagine that my face was a pretty picture when I heard that.) ‘Relax, Rory,’ he smirked, trailing a pacifying kiss along my neck. ‘It’s Evan. I’ve left the house when he’s brought back girlfriends to fuck all night.’
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘That boner between your legs tells a different story.’ He thrust against me, tauntingly. ‘Friday night, then?’
I nodded. ‘Friday night. I love you.’
‘I love you too. So fucking much, Rory.’
*
On Wednesday, Sebastian injured himself in a friendly rugby match against Saint Thomas á Becket’s — a Roman Catholic all-boys’ school about ten miles from ours. Since we were Catholic, it had been my family’s second choice if I hadn’t gotten in to Saint Edmund’s. My Protestant grandmother was deeply, deeply relieved when Saint Edmund’s pulled through for us.
Irony of ironies, Sebastian injured his ankle in that game. A body part which had come to occupy a curiously erogenous place in our in-jokes, due to the fact that it was the first thing he and I had ever flirted over. He sat on the sofa in his front room, with a packet of ice solicitously placed over it by his mother. I let him rest the ankle of my lap, even though the ice was starting to drip through onto already-faded jeans.
I didn’t like being in this room, since I knew, or believed, from the school’s rumour-mill that it was here that Sebastian and Joshua had slept together. On the same day he and I had started flirting with one another. Every time I was in here, I tried to guess where it had been and unwelcome mental images of the two of them locked together in mutually-delirious sexual ecstasy bounced through my mind’s eye. I didn’t initially think Sebastian ever noticed and he was currently grousing about the fact that it had been his own team-mate, Dominic, who had accidentally trodden on his fairly inflamed ankle.
‘Well, I guess that means Saturday night’s off?’ I joked; careful to keep my voice low, in case his parents overheard.
‘What?’
‘You’re not going to be able to perform with your ankle ruined, are you?’
He got the joke and laughed. ‘Oh. Got it. Oh, don’t you worry, Rory. If I lost half my fucking leg, Saturday would still be happening.’ I smiled and he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Dude, you have no idea how fucking horny I’ve been thinking about it. I’m rubbing out like three or four times a day.’
‘Did you just call me “dude?”‘
‘Shut up. Seriously. You’ve no idea what you do to me. I’m nursing a semi right now.’
‘That’s nice to know – dude.’
‘Fuck you.’
I smiled and stroked just above where his ankle hurt. ‘I’m sorry Dominic stepped on you.’
‘Yeah. You and me both. Idiot.’
‘Did he apologise?’
‘You don’t really apologise in rugby, Rory.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you … eh, are you looking forward to Saturday, too?’
‘Did you just stammer? Are you nervous?’
‘No!’
I gazed at him; taunting him slightly, but smiling.
‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘Yes, I am. But, in my defence…’
‘In your defence? Why are you nervous? You’ve done it a lot more than I have.’
‘Never with someone I love.’
That stopped my teasing. I nodded and let the conversation drop. A few seconds later I said, ‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes — I am still looking forward to it.’
At that, Sebastian’s big brother, Evan, walked in. He was a lot like Sebastian, only slightly thinner, two years older and he sometimes wore glasses. He was wearing them now. Evan had graduated from Saint Edmund’s and gone off to study Law at a university in London. Which, according to Sebastian, he didn’t love too much but was very, very good at. Like Sebastian, there was a little bit of a frat-star vibe to Evan; the glasses temporarily covered it, though.
‘Not interrupting, am I?’
‘Fuck off, Evan,’ Sebastian said, good-naturedly.
‘Have you seen my wallet?’
‘I think it was in the kitchen. Next to Mom’s magazines.’
‘Got it. Cheers, buddy. I’m driving into town; do you guys need anything?’
I shook my head politely. ‘I’d kill for some Pepsi,’ Sebastian said.
‘I’ll get a couple of bottles. You guys still need the house on Saturday?’
‘Yeah.’
The two of them exchanged looks and I felt myself blush. Evan tried valiantly to hide a smile, but it didn’t quite work. God — they really did tell each other everything. Right before he left, Evan turned in the doorway and said, ‘By the way, Mom and Jenny are coming with me. And Dad’s over at the Kirks’. So if the doorbell goes in the next half-hour, make sure you get it.’
‘Rory’ll get it,’ Sebastian declared, pointing to his ankle. Needless to say, I knew that Evan wasn’t giving us a heads-up for the sake of the doorbell. Sebastian had his dick out of his sweats and in my hand within five seconds of the door shutting behind them. ‘I cannot wait for Saturday!’ he groaned.
*
On Friday night, I suffered the mother of all neurotic breakdowns. It was an internalised, unmistakeable, unstoppable vortex that was tripped off at about eight o’clock that evening when I went for my shower. My bathroom, which led off from my bedroom, had both a shower and a bath in it. That night, when I was about to step into the shower as a force of habit, I decided against it and to go for the more thorough option of a bath. As I slipped into the searing hot waters — too hot, actually; why hadn’t I waited before getting in? — I felt myself sitting upon the edge of a metaphorical precipice. I began to notice, or imagine, or worry about, tiny patches of hair on my body. The hair that descended from my belly button to my pubis was definitely a weird kind of pattern. Perhaps it was too coarse? I began to obsess that my ass might be hairy. Or certainly unattractive. And after all, wasn’t that the key zone for tomorrow night? I had a weird certainty that my nipples might be slightly too large. That the emergent chest hair I sported was unsightly. Should I shave it? But then, wouldn’t there be bristle? And that was surely even worse. Furthermore, wouldn’t Sebastian notice that I looked different? How many times had he seen me topless, though? Once. No, twice. For a prolonged period of time. Either way — it was enough. Enough to notice if I changed anything. Plus, there was no guarantee that if I did change something it wouldn’t somehow result in making my appearance worse. Even less desirable. Home improvements only become embarrassments when people realise you had to do them and that they didn’t quite work.
By the time I’d dried myself off, shaved (my face only) and begun to put on some moisturiser (I have weird skin around my elbows; I think it’s too hard), I settled into a quiet, irrepressible hysteria. I even began rattling off a rosary. A full one, which takes forever, and which was something I hadn’t done in years. The thought vaguely crossed my mind that praying that I wouldn’t be too hideous for my gay boyfriend to have sex with me mightn’t be what the beads were intended for. It might even be blasphemous. But I’d never believed that God had a problem with gay people, so I didn’t dwell on it too much. Plus, as they say: once a Catholic, always a Catholic.
Sebastian texted a few times that evening. Mostly inane chatter, which ordinarily I loved. But my responses must have been too cursory or, with his eagle-eyed attention to detail, he’d somehow sensed that something wasn’t right. At half-eleven, he called my mobile.
‘What’s wrong?’ He asked, by way of greeting.
‘Nothing,’ I said. Even to myself, I sounded unconvincing. I heard Sebastian sigh. It was a patient sigh, a knowing sigh, but a sigh nonetheless.
‘Rory. Tomorrow is going to go fine. Better than fine. We love each other. You’re beautiful. My ankle’s recovered. And I cannot wait. Please, please, please do not freak out about this.’
The only thing I hated more than freaking out was being the guy who everyone knew was freaking out. Alright — not everyone. Just the person who felt like everyone. ‘Okay,’ I said, quietly. I could hear how sad I sounded. ‘Sorry.’
‘Baby,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t do this. You want me to come over?’
‘Dad would freak,’ I said. ‘But thank you. I’m not freaking out, though. I’m just… Nervous.’
‘If I thought it was because of having sex and that you weren’t ready, I’d say we should wait. But it’s not, Rory, is it?’
I shook my head and then remembered the fundamental point of a telephone and spoke instead, ‘No,’ I admitted.
‘This time tomorrow night, I’ll probably be inside you and it’ll be wonderful and I’ll be so happy. And I hope you will too.’
‘You’re being so sensitive. And sweet tonight. And very, very patient.’
‘Don’t freak out,’ he repeated. ‘Please, don’t. We’ve done everything else, like a hundred times. THIS is going to go fine. And if it doesn’t, if for some reason something goes wrong, it will have nothing to do with you. Or the way you think you look. Rory, I just shot the biggest load against my shower wall thinking about you. About every bit of you. Your face, your eyes, your smile, your body, your ass, your cock, your legs. Every single fucking bit of you turns me on. I’ve stopped jerking-off to the image of anyone but you and me. What more do you want to hear from me? C’mon, baby. Seriously — allow yourself to enjoy this. You’re about to lose your virginity in a way most people would kill to have as their memory. To someone you love and who loves you. Fuck knows – it’ll be better than my first time. Or most of the people’s we know.’
When Sebastian turned the full avalanche of his emotional intensity — his emotional honesty — on you, it was utterly impossible to resist it. You just had to let it crash over you and accept it for what it was. Even if you didn’t always agree with him, you knew, or hoped, that no-one could sound so sincere and simply be saying it to make you feel better. I believed — I believe — that he said what he said because he meant it. Even if I found myself subpar, I knew he, for some strange reason, found me attractive and I therefore just had to accept that. And enjoy it, as best I could. I loved him so very, very much.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered. ‘I love you.’
‘Tell me you’re excited about tomorrow,’ he demanded. ‘Please, Rory?’
‘I am,’ I answered. Far more clearly and confidently. ‘I am, Sebastian.’
He sounded relieved, buoyant; a little cocky. ‘Good! I want to give you a night you’ll never forget.’
‘Ditto.’
*
I arrived at his house the next evening, just after 7:30. It had started to rain and it pounded on the ground and windows in icy torrents. I could not get over how cold it was, even for December. I was wearing a black sweater and jeans. I was trying to go for casual, without overdressed, without being unattractive. Making it look nonchalant had been almost as difficult as holding my nerve in the shower and not texting Sebastian afterwards to say that I couldn’t come tonight. He swung open the door and smiled confidently. In fact, it was more bravado. You could tell that he was slightly nervous, too, which was unexpected in him but weirdly comforting. He was wearing a rugby shirt and jeans. He wasn’t wearing any cologne or aftershave and I could smell cooking from the kitchen. The house, as ever, was immaculately tidy but I could hear the crackle of the fire from the lounge. A different room — a more formal room — to their front room; where he’d last had sex with Joshua back in September. I checked a smile — so he HAD noticed how much I hated that room? I was touched by the effort he’d gone to and smiled as he kissed me hello.
‘You look great,’ he said. And swallowed. We were both nervous; at first, there was an awkwardness in our interactions with each other that night. ‘I made dinner? Eh, if you wanna…’
‘Great,’ I smiled. ‘It smells wonderful.’
‘So do you.’ He hesitated momentarily, before we talked into the kitchen. There were two candles on the table. Little ones, that he’d obviously found last minute. I smiled again and kissed him. The nerves dissipated, if only for a second.
Over dinner, I struggled to eat anything. It wasn’t that it didn’t taste good. It did. It was that I always found myself feeling sluggish and unattractive when I’d eaten anything and tonight those were two adjectives that I was fairly keen to avoid being applied to me. The lack of food, coupled with a glass of wine, made me feel strangely alert. There was a lightness and a sense of heightened elasticity to my entire body. I felt keenly aware of everything around me. I was tingling slightly as Sebastian chatted about school, horse riding, rugby, a new book he was reading. I managed to pay attention, but only just. He ate everything and didn’t ask why I wasn’t. When my fingers began beating nervously on the table, he reached out and took my hand. It was the only sign he gave of acknowledging my nervousness that evening. Later, as he finished his dinner, I took a second glass of wine. I figured it was permissible to take the edge off what was to come.
‘Do you want to …’ he paused; hesitated and searched for the end of the sentence. ‘Maybe, uhm, watch a movie or something? Before.’
To Sebastian’s credit, he not once suggested backing-out. He held his nerve. I’ve often wondered what I would have done if I’d been with someone with less self-confidence than Sebastian; with someone who had less tenacity in holding their ground. Part of me thinks that I’d have pulled myself together and pressed ahead with the plan, anyway, but another part knows that it was Sebastian, guiding everything along, that made all the difference.
I accepted the offer of the movie mutely. It was a delaying tactic, designed to give us both — and me, specifically — slightly more time. More time for what? It wasn’t as if I would magically discover some untapped inner source of serenity in the two hours it would take to watch a movie. Then again, if I’d eschewed Sebastian’s offer and demanded to get on with things, it would have meant making the experience of losing my virginity roughly comparable to participating in a bungee jump for the first time. Best to ‘get it over with’ as soon as possible. Almost certainly not the kind of message I wanted to send to the man I was in love with. So I agreed to watch the movie and crossed with him into the lounge. He took my hand as we walked.
Sebastian initially suggested the new ‘Brideshead Revisited’ movie, as a very sweet gesture to the fact that it was my favourite book. I demurred though. Firstly because I didn’t think I could handle two Sebastians in the room at one time and secondly because as portraits of gay love go, ‘Brideshead Revisited’ is probably about as depressing as a Truman Capote biopic. He then suggested ‘Interview with the Vampire,’ ‘Marie Antoinette’ or ‘All Good Things.’
‘What is wrong with you?’ I finally laughed. ‘Are you trying to set the mood by picking the most depressing movies known to man?’
He laughed. ‘Fuck. I don’t know why I suggested any of those. To be fair Rory, ‘Marie Antoinette’ doesn’t have the revolution in it.’
‘Yeah, and ‘All Good Things’ doesn’t have the actual kidnapping and murder in it. But in both cases, shit goes down, Sebastian.’
The laughter broke the tension and he pulled me in towards him. We kissed and I felt the relief in his body. When we separated, he nuzzled his head into my neck and kissed it, very softly. That was the moment where we should have abandoned the DVD idea, but we didn’t. When the kissing stopped, Sebastian turned on one of the ‘Harry Potter’ movies, which he is secretly obsessed with, and we sat down on the sofa. I lay down on top of him, as he watched the movie and I watched the fire in the grate.
I could feel Sebastian’s semi through his jeans and after a few moments, I steadied myself and decided to get on with it. I was eighteen, I was in love and this was the perfect situation. Nothing, least of myself, could be allowed to stand in my way. I trailed my hand up, under his sweater, and began caressing his stomach. The hard smoothness of his six-pack never ceased to make me quiver slightly. I was in awe of it; of him. Of the raw physical fitness that seemed so utterly effortless to him. I traced my fingers along the contours of his abdomen and I felt him stir slightly. I kissed my way up his neck and his mouth was waiting for me when I reached it. He didn’t break contact when he used the remote to turn off the TV. The room was enveloped in a silence, broken only by the sound of us making out and the crackle and hiss from the fireplace.
His tongue played along mine. He was a fantastic kisser and I was suddenly drunk on him. When genuine love collides with physical attraction, as well as total infatuation, it creates one hell of a momentum. My whole body was aware of him; everything was about Sebastian. I was lost in him, completely, and so entirely obsessed by him that as he rolled me over and lay on top of me, my own body issues, my own incessant, irritating, annoying neuroses, vanished. It was like they had been stunned into temporary silence by Sebastian. Right now, all that mattered was following where Sebastian led. It was what I had wanted — what I had confessed to him in the car, when drunk — that I wanted, in some perverse and probably slightly regressive way — to be owned by him. To be dominated by him. To be Sebastian’s property.
It was my first initiation into realising that what I might have found slightly abhorrent, and certainly very annoying, in everyday life, was something that I was quite willing, even eager, to accept sexually.
I was hard almost instantly, but Sebastian’s erection seemed to have taken on a new level of firmness. I could feel it throbbing inside his denim and I knew that it had to hurt, being encased like that. I reached down and unbuckled his belt, undid his buttons and pulled his penis out into the air — all in a matter of seconds. I felt him smile, teasingly, in the kiss. He broke off, ‘Slut,’ he whispered. He repaid the favour and trailed down to my crotch, before pulling my jeans and underwear of entirely. He tossed them indifferently onto the lounge floor, as he took my balls in his mouth. I arched my back in arousal and in one, slick, fluid motion, Sebastian separated his mouth from the balls and took my entire dick in his mouth. I nearly lost it there and then. I heard him choke slightly, and the sound turned me on, but he soon took his head off and began to slowly fellate me. Only going back to the deep-throat occasionally. My hand gripped his hair.
‘Sebastian, stop,’ I said, hoarsely. ‘Please. You have to stop.’
He looked up at me, with his hand still wrapped around the base of my cock, where he’d been jerking it mid-blow job.
‘I’m not stopping, Rory.’
‘No, I mean — you have to stop that. Otherwise, I’m going to cum.’
‘Oh,’ he laughed. ‘Gotcha.’
He leapt up and kissed me deeply on the mouth. ‘Take your top off,’ he ordered, pulling his own up and over his head. He stood up and began to remove the rest of his jeans, underwear and socks. Removing them entirely. ‘Now, Rory.’
I stopped and stammered for a second. Without sounding unduly arrogant, I am not stupid. I was therefore aware that at some point during the process of losing my virginity, I would presumably be getting naked. I had, however, hoped for the semi-darkness of Sebastian’s room — not the firelight-bathed glow of the lounge. The request to strip completely brought me back down to earth with a metaphorical thud and I was instantly very aware of myself again. I was aware of the cerebral tick-toc again.
I kept stammering as Sebastian kicked off his jeans and fluffed his cock slightly. Seeing my pause, he swooped down and yanked the top up and over my head. I struggled, instinctively, but he was stronger and faster than me. It was off and hurled into the corner of the lounge before I could speak.
‘Sebastian!’
He rolled his eyes and hauled me to my feet. He kissed me hard and his hand trailed down to my ass. I could feel my pre-cum and his, mixed with his spit, rubbing together. The cerebral began to die away again. I was flushed and breathless when we separated.
‘Let’s fuck,’ he winked.
He took me by the hand, out of the lounge and up to his room. He pushed me onto his bed and climbed on top of me. There was no hesitation, no nerves, no stalling. Nothing. He was efficient and captivatingly dominant. He knew what he was doing and he knew he was in charge. He was getting rougher. I liked that. He could feel how I was responding to it. He planted an enormous hickie on the lower base of my neck. I thought of the one he’d left on Joshua Peterly in September, but then I resolutely pushed that extremely unwelcome image out of my head. Hickies must be something he did when especially turned on.
‘Rory, I’m sorry,’ he said, pulling out of the kiss. ‘I have to have you. Like, now.’
It was thrilling and intoxicating to be wanted this much. To be wanted so clearly and so urgently. That sounds shallow and desperate on my part; maybe it’s both. But it is a wonderful feeling to feel like someone wants you like this.
I felt nerves. Of course I did. But I wanted him, too, and I was dazzled by him. Completely subsumed by his agenda and quite happy, even thrilled, to let him take control. I nodded at his request and he flicked my legs up into the air. He dived into my crack and began tonguing my asshole. It felt sordid, sloppy, urgent and magnificent. I gasped and then groaned. He didn’t emerge from down there for what felt like five to ten minutes; maybe it was less, maybe longer. But as he tongued further and further inside, I could feel my hole expanding, relaxing and allowing his tongue to enter me. I was writhing, gasping and cursing like a shameless bitch in heat. I was demented with lust and I liked it. Loved it, even.
The only real genuine panic I felt that night was when he spat on his finger and slipped it into me for the first time. It was the first proper entry; if that makes any sense? And it did hurt. But I breathed slowly — careful not to breathe too deeply or too loudly, in case he thought I was upset and should stop. His eyes were on me constantly as he fingered me, eventually adding a second finger. I could see he was trying to gauge when, or if, he should stop, so I looked away from him as the second finger went in. I didn’t want him to see any pain or distress in my eyes. There was some, but not enough for me to want him to stop.
I looked back at him once I’d grown accustomed to the intrusion. He was kneeling between my open legs. I could see the contour of his muscles, the firm line of his jaw, the throbbing erection, the tousled blond hair.
‘Fuck me, Sebastian,’ I whispered. ‘Now. Do it now.’
He nodded and reached over to his bedside cabinet, extracting a container of lubricant and a condom.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No. Not that.’
‘Not what?’ he asked.
‘The condom. I don’t want it.’
‘But…’
‘No. Please, no.’
He nodded again and set it to one side. He then doused his fingers in lube and returned them to inside my asshole. I hissed, only this time with a kind of anticipatory desire, rather than fear. He then coated his dick with a liberal amount. Probably more than he needed to. But given the size of it, I wasn’t complaining about the precaution.
He held my legs in his hands and looked down at me. There was a long, pregnant pause. ‘I love you,’ he said. As the head of his penis touched my asshole. I nodded in response. I was afraid if I spoke my voice would crack.
He breached me and it took every ounce of self-control not to yelp. No porno, erotic story or conversation about sex had ever prepped me for how awkward it is to lose one’s virginity. Sebastian was, is, big and he had to ease himself in bit, by bit. I often wondered, although he’d never say it, if it hurt him, too, in a way. I could see him focus as he slid in.
‘You’re so tight.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. He laughed.
After a few moments and awkward manoeuvres, he was inside me and he began to move slowly. Deliberately. I pulled him down by his neck and kissed him. For the first five or so minutes of it, he kept his eyes locked on mine. My legs fell down to rest on his ass cheeks, as he slid in and out of me. My hand ran up and down his torso. He dribbled lube onto my cock and began jerking it. Bizarrely though, I was almost disinterested in my own gratification. In anything to do with myself. It was all about him. It was all I cared about. Him.
Towards the end, Sebastian began to pick up pace. A more feral, domineering side of him came out. The rugby guy, if you like. The jock. As he reached orgasm, he began slamming into me far more aggressively. Another hickie was planted; this time on my chest. He leant back, up onto his knees and put my legs in the air, holding them in a vice like grip. He grunted and I could see sweat glistening all over his body. Then, he buried himself completely in me — balls-deep — and emptied himself. He flopped forward and kissed me, invading my mouth with his tongue, as the last of the cum spurted into me. There was so much of it. It scalded slightly. I loved it.
For a moment, he lay on top of me. A heavy, comfortingly oppressive presence. He slowly withdrew and I felt empty and stretched as his semen leaked from me. He propped himself up on his elbows and covered me with kisses, all over the top half of my body. He didn’t speak. The kisses were lovely.
‘Well, I’m not a virgin anymore,’ I thought. ‘I’m his.’
I felt a single tear spill down my cheek. It was a happy tear, but I don’t think Sebastian saw it. I was just very, very happy.