When my wristwatch alarm woke me somehow, a haze covered the world. All my movements were slow and clumsy. Even blinking took seconds. Face held up on palm, my elbow wedged against the mattress. Not looking, I felt around for my phone as my vision doubled and focused over and over. Finally, I found it.
“7:30 AM, 4 Unread Messages, 1 Missed call.”
I opened the messages, all of them from Stanley. “Whr u at”… “u ok?”… “need ride?”… “pls txt”
“Sorry, I’m ok. My dad called and came to pick me up,” I texted.
My first class started at 8:05 AM. So I’d be at least 10 minutes late if I took the bus, and only if it wasn’t running late itself.
“:) good” Stanley texted in response.
“Can I still get a ride?” I asked.
“Ya omw, b thr in 10.”
Fuck! I scrambled, unzipping my backpack and pulling out my new outfit. It was all wrinkled. Fuck! I pulled up my smooth black creaseless slim-fit pants to my hips. My face scrunched, one eye squinted, I pinched and pulled at the crotch, trying to stretch it to afford me a little more room. Then I buttoned up a short-sleeved shirt covered in a pattern of overlapping two-inch blue circles.
As soon as I’d laced up my shoes, I slung my backpack on and headed to the door. My dad had rolled to his back, his arm bent over his eyes, groaning. I heard a muffled yell from inside after I shut it, but I sprinted to the circle K.
Stanley just pulled into the small parking lot when I was moments away. Out of breath, I opened the door and jumped in.
“Jesus, Bret, did you get any sleep last night?” Stanley asked.
I cleared my throat, “Some,” I said.
“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I’m fine,” I said, looking away.
“I was worried about you–again,” Stanley said. “Why can’t you sleep?”
“Well,” I looked back at him. “Night before, I couldn’t get my brain to shut up. Last night, I slept, but not good. Maybe I got too drunk?”
“Could be, I guess,” Stanley said, rubbing my thigh. “Booze helps me sleep,” he looked over at me, grinning. “By the way, I love that outfit. Where did you get it?”
I glanced at him, confused and asked what he meant. He was disappointed; it was a reference to the movie we tried to watch together last night.
I looked at him, stone-faced.
“Wow, you’re grumpy,” Stanley said. “Let’s make sure you sleep well tonight.”
He patted my thigh.
We arrived at school; I ran through my first class door just as the bell rang.
On any day, I struggled to focus during lectures, but today I was out. I slept through most of each of my classes before lunch.
Stanley drove me to a McCafé to get a coffee and a pastry for lunch. I essentially inhaled the dessert, sipped on the hot beverage.
“Feeling any better?” Stanley asked.
“A little, yeah,” I said.
He told me he missed me at practice and hoped I’d feel up to coming.
“Will you be early to practice?” he asked with a huge grin and a wink.
“I want to, but I may not make it through practice if, you know, we, uh,” I tried to explain.
“It’s ok; I know you’ll make it up to me,” Stanley said matter-a-factly.
I attended. The coach cursed at me but was too exhausted to care much. He moved me to a slower lane full of girls. The girls whispered and giggled at the walls when we stopped between intervals. My strokes felt lazy, my body less buoyant in the water, and my movement sluggish.
In between one of his sets, Keith swam flat over the lane lines toward me. He wanted to know if I was ok, or if something was wrong. I assured him I only needed sleep. Then, before swimming back into his lane, he gave me a tight bear hug. My arms, legs, and neck broke out in goosebumps, the hug lasting longer than straight-man custom dictated.
His best friend is gay, though. Perhaps he’s just more comfortable with intimacy than your average jock. I’d expected weirdness and avoidance after the other night; knowingly blowing your load in a guy’s mouth after the same guy made moves on you while you slept was reason enough. Stanley could be why. Keith didn’t want his best friend to know anything had happened. He also couldn’t bully me without his best friend calling him out. I think Keith just wanted to avoid any suspicion. They were both so close; how did they not experiment growing up? Honesty and openness were their thing. Why hide this?
After practice, I held the metal button in with my hands behind my back. The warm water sprayed hard on my neck, spattering on the hard deck around me, and streaming down my back, chest, stomach, and legs. I closed my eyes, jerking back awake when my equilibrium shifted. The other boys’ voices disappeared, then a sting from a hand slapping my ass.
I jumped. Stanley stood beside me, laughing.
“Fuck, man. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Dinner at my place?” he asked.
“I, uh, I don’t know. I need to get some sleep.”
“Come on, Keith and Dan are coming too. I’ll let you sleep. I promise. Plus, Dan is taking Massage Therapy classes. So we’re going to be his models tonight.”
I sighed and followed Dan and him to his black Mercedes, E500 on one side of the rear and 4MATIC on the other shimmered in chrome. I knew little about cars, but his looked very expensive. The last time my family had a car, I think I was eight. We walked or took the bus ever since. Dan reached from the back seat and tuned the radio to “Why Don’t You & I” by Santana.
“I fucking love this song,” Dan said, reciting the words, mostly in tune. Then the station transitioned to Beyoncé’s “Naughty Girl.” Stanley glanced over at me and winked, theatrically mouthing the words at me, bringing a grin to my face for the first time since early that morning. Stanley moved his hand and rested it on my thigh. “Feeling better?” he asked.
I nodded, but I was sluggish still, my eyes stinging.
From the backseat, Dan reached his hand forward, and we exchanged introductions. Then, shoulders resting against both our black leather seats, head leaning over the console, Dan turned to Stanley and asked what was for dinner.
“Um, Pasta, I think. Look at my texts, Bret. He told me earlier.”
Stanley handed me his phone.
I selected the message group from Stanley’s redheaded dad. “He said we’re having, ‘Mushroom and Leek Pasta,'” I squinted at the screen and said, “Is that a typo? What is a ‘Leek’?”
Stanley laughed and said, “You’re so cute. A leek is just a type of onion.”
“Why don’t they just call it an onion then?” I asked.
“Well, silly, it’s because it’s yummier than a regular old onion,” he answered.
Neither onions nor mushrooms were things I liked. The thought brought the taste of Dad’s potato and onion soup to my tongue, so bitter, spicy, and crunchy. The onions were always so strong, my eyes watered.
Dan was the shortest guy of the club swimmers, about an inch or two shorter than me. His hair was black, short, spiked up the middle in a faux hawk. He had a rounded face, brown eyes, and smooth brown skin. He didn’t display the lean musculature that Stanley and Keith did, more weightlifter than swimmer.
“Keith is coming, right?” Dan asked.
“Yes, Dan,” Stanley answered, giving him a look in the rearview mirror.
“Keith is straight, so mind those hands. If he’s gonna do anything with a guy, he’s gonna do it with me,” Stanley said.
I turned to both of them and laughed, but they didn’t. Instead, there was a seriousness in Stanley’s voice. He stared back at Dan, and I coughed.
Dan cleared his throat and, affecting a southern belle twang; he said, “Why, Stanley. I am mortified you’d even suggest such a thing.”
He batted his eyes.
A hard gulp scraped down my throat. Keith probably knew Stanley, his best friend, would want to be the one to experiment with Keith if any were to be had. I wonder if Stanley loves him even more than a friend. A glance at Keith and just a few moments of his time sufficed to understand why.
Keith was right. We must keep the details of that night a secret. I’d never seen Stanley upset or mad, but I was sure it was something I didn’t want.
“Dan, you’re gay?” I asked.
“Whatever would make you say that, dear?” Dan answered, continuing the affectation.
I smiled, big.
“What about you, handsome?” he asked, batting his eyes.
“Uh, I’m, uh,” I said. “Trying to, uh, figure things out, I guess.”
In his normal voice, he said, “Whatever you say, rudder,” exaggerating an eye roll and pushing against my shoulder.
“Rudd–.”
“Dan, stop teasing poor Bret,” Stanley said.
They smiled at one another through the mirror.
Did the team call me rudder behind my back? My throat tightened, and my stomach fluttered. I’ll ask Dan during our massage.
We parked in Stan’s garage and walked to the kitchen.
“Welcome, boys,” Jake called from the kitchen over the sizzle of leeks and mushrooms. “Dinner’ll be ready soon.”
“Ciao, Mijo,” Stanley’s Paolo said, peering over at the line of boys entering the living room, “Ciao Bellos.”
He sat on the couch, legs crossed in dress pants and a pink button-down, the top three unbuttoned.
“Oh, Dan, massages tonight?” Paolo asked, his tone elevating as he finished his question.
“Sì, Papa. Sei eccitato?” Dan asked if he was excited.
“Sì, sì,” Papa answered.
I leaned towards Stanley’s ear and asked if Dan spoke Italian in a whisper. Stanley said he didn’t; he just had a few phrases that he used with Papa.
“And why does he call him Papa?” I asked.
“You can call him Papa if you want,” Stanley said. “He loves that.”
“Does that mean–.”
“It means whatever it needs to mean,” Stanley answered, probably familiar with the line of questioning. “Papa loves to nurture. He’s passionate about it.”
Stanley added, “And to answer your next question, yes, my dads have an open relationship.”
My jaw was low, lips separated. I stared blankly at the wall of young Stanley’s. Paolo was up and about, wine in hand. He hugged Stanley and kissed him on the lips, then Keith on both cheeks, the same for Dan. He hugged me tight and subtly swished his leg against my crotch. My eyes popped. He kissed both my cheeks and asked the group to sit and whether they wanted wine.
Keith indicated he’d pass on the wine, Dan and Stanley opted in.
“Uh, I probably shouldn’t,” I said.
“Perchè no?” Papa asked.
“Uh, does that mean–”
“Why not,” Stanley answered.
I explained that I thought maybe the drinks from last night hadn’t agreed with me. Paolo said something in Italian and recommended I drink just a glass with dinner and no cocktails. I agreed by impulse. Sweat dripped from my armpits and my face searing hot. Papa was making me nervous, and my cock swelled, anticipating him copping another feel. I fanned myself with a hand.
Stanley sat on my right and asked if I was hot. I didn’t answer, but he stood and walked to the thermostat. The walls hummed, and cool air drifted over my skin, and Stanley returned to his seat next to me. Papa placed his half-full glass before the seat to my left.
Wine wasn’t something I’d sampled. My parents needed alcohol. Cheap and strong were best. I didn’t think wine met either of those criteria, so it was never around the house nor offered to me growing up.
Paolo filled the clear glass in front of me halfway with transparent yellow liquid. I took hold of the glass bowl with my hand and studied it close to my face.
Jake served the pasta, leaning over each of us, his lower torso inches from our heads. The scent of his cologne made my skin tingle. Once he’d filled each bowl, he sat opposite Paolo. Elbows above the table, they all joined hands. I looked to my left and right. Papa and Stanley suspended their hands for me to hold. I did, and Paolo closed his eyes, bowing his head, reciting something in Italian perhaps. I couldn’t tell.
“Amen,” Papa finished. The others echoed.
While I was wrapping the noodles around my fork, Stanley’s palm traveled to my thigh. I was sure he was going to notice.
His hand drifted slightly inward, and I felt him trace the fabric that pinned my hard-on to my right leg with a finger. Then he squeezed it. He didn’t look at me, but I saw him smile as he drew a fork of pasta to his lips.
“Mm,” Stanley said with a hint of sensuality. “That’s good.”
Jake smiled with closed lips, bringing his napkin to his mouth. “Glad it turned out,” he said.
“Yes, it’s very good, uh, Jake,” I agreed, slurping my first mouthful.
It was good, to my surprise. So creamy and full of flavor, nothing like what I had at home. Maybe I did like onions, perhaps even mushrooms. They’d just never been prepared like this.
“Wow,” I said. “This is ~very~ good.” My pace increased, my eyes wide.
Dan and Keith agreed.
“That makes me so happy. Thank you,” Jake said, his face revealing some red.
“Pasta water needed a bit more salt, amore mio,” Paolo said, placing a hand on my upper thigh, his pinky maybe a millimeter from my crotch.
Jake agreed with Paolo about the salt.
Papa rubbed the side of his pinky against the front of my pants. The heat trapped under my clothes caused droplets of sweat to form on my face.
I excused myself to the bathroom, and Stanley followed me. When I told him what was wrong, he brought me a fresh thin, white, short-sleeved undershirt and indigo basketball shorts, but to my irritation, no underwear. He told me it’d help keep me cool.
When I returned to the living room, Jake and Paolo gathered our dishes and rinsed them in the kitchen. Keith and Stanley started homework on their laptops while I followed Dan upstairs. First, he asked me if I liked massages. I told him I didn’t know; I’d never had one. Dan gasped, dubious. Then he reassured me that everyone in the house thought he gave good ones, only to think aloud that perhaps any free massage might be good or good enough.
We passed an open bedroom door. Inside, the carpet was stripped to bare concrete, freestanding chrome shelves pushed against the walls, and on each shelf three fish tanks, but no, no fish.
“You ok?” Dan asked.
My clenching muscles locked me in place from toes to brain. Then, lungs paralyzed, eyes glued open, a low buzz evolved to a loud ring in my ears. Inside one terrarium, a creature slithered.
Before I caught up with myself, I was clawing at Stanley’s front door.
“What’s wrong, Bret?” Stanley yelled after me.
The others murmured in confusion and concern.
Finally, when I reached the sidewalk, I stopped fleeing, my breath heavy.
Arms and legs shook wildly; teeth chattered, chest spasmed. I sat on the curb, covering my closed eyes with my hands.
The boys and dads ran out and circled me. A few palms rubbed my shoulders and back.
“Sssssssssnake,” I blubbered through my sobs.
“Mio Dio,” Paolo said. “You hate snakes?”
I confirmed with an exaggerated nod.
I sobbed, drool stretching from my lips.
“It’s ok, Bello,” said Stanley’s Papa, “they can’t get out, and they’re upstairs.”
“Yeah,” the group agreed in chorus.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I said. “Don’t make me go back in there. I can’t do it. I can’t,” I pleaded.
They were quiet for a few seconds, some hands still patting and rubbing me.
“Bret, hey, man, why don’t you come over to my house. No animals or pets there. Except for my sisters and brother, that is,” Keith said, forcing a chuckle.
Keith pulled at the tips of my fingers on my forehead, hands still covering my eyes.
I gazed up at his beautiful face and reassuring demeanor and let him pull my hands from my face.
Keith held my hands with his, walking next to me, a pair of hands stacked on each shoulder. I sniffled and fought a fresh urge to collapse and sob. We climbed the stairs in Keith’s home; I heard footsteps behind us. I twisted my neck to see Stanley following.
Stanley was gentle, rubbing my back, “Sh, it’s ok.”
“Yeah, you’re ok, Bret,” Keith said as he ushered me into his bed, pulling the blankets down.
Keith sat in front of my chest, rubbing my arm. Stanley planted himself behind my butt, moving his palm up and down my thigh. Both tried to calm me. I appeared calmer, but mainly because Keith’s gorgeous body distracted me. Would he let me sleep in his room again? I seriously doubted it.
A good half-hour passed. Keith lay stomach up, his head on another pillow, while Stanley spooned me, his muscular, solid arm wrapped tight across my ribs.
In my ear, “You doing ok, Bret?” Stanley asked.
Keith looked at me, and I nodded, twisting my neck to see Stanley’s face; he gave me a peck on the cheek.
“So, snakes aren’t your favorite; I’m guessing,” Keith said.
I smashed my eyes closed, tensing with both fear and embarrassment.
“Surprising, right?” Stanley said. “I mean, how can you like dick ~and~ be scared of snakes?” They laughed.
Shame hollowed out my chest. It didn’t make sense to me either. The mere sight of one, or vague movement resembling one, sent me into a panic.
“I–I–um, I–hate them,” I said.
They laughed, “That much is clear,” Stanley said. “But why?”
“I–I–,” my voice was weak, tone wavering. “I don’t know, s-s-s-something to do with, uh, um, a movie or hike or trip or something.”
I trembled.
“It’s ok,” Keith said. “You don’t have to explain, don’t think about it.”
“Jake and Papa are asking about you,” Stanley said. “Can I tell them you’re ok?”
I nodded.
Stanley released me and sat up on the bed. He told us he would make a quick trip next door and let them know I was fine, grab a little refreshment, and let Jake and Papa know they should get their massages.
A stab of guilt pierced my chest. I’d ruined everyone’s night, missed out on my first massage. Fuck, I’m such a loser, a worthless, annoying loser.
I rolled onto my back. Keith swung his legs to the side of the bed and sat up as well. “Do you play Halo?” He tugged on a string dangling from a handle connected to a white cylinder on the ceiling.
As he pulled down, a flat white screen unrolled. I looked above the frame of the bed; there hung the projector.
“You’re shitting me. You have a projector in your room?” I said.
Keith smiled, his chin tilting away from me, eyes avoidant, a hint of pink in his smooth, handsome face.
“Yeah, I got it for my birthday,” he said. “Stanley and I play Halo on it.”
I sat up, my nose pressed between my brows. “So, you two just lay on your bed and play games?”
A huff pushed out Keith’s nose, his head tilted, denying the implication.
“So, the two of you, uh, never–,” I asked.
“No,” he answered, starkly louder. “I mean, no,” he said again, less emphatically.
“Well, uh, it probably isn’t uh, my place but, is there a reason, like, why?”
Keith studied my face as if failing to understand the question.
“Well, I’m straight, you know, um, and, uh, that means, that is–,” he trailed off into silence, his eyes evading mine.
He shook his head, jaw misaligned. He sucked his tongue through his teeth with a click and confessed that the other night with me was his first time. A brew of shame, privilege, and fear stirred in my blood.
After a pause, he shook his head again, face dropping downward, “What you did was fucked up man, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“I’m so sorry, Keith. I shouldn’t ha –”
“No, you shouldn’t have, and you shouldn’t do that to anyone,” he added.
Tears started to well, my eyes trembled. I felt so low, so small, full of regret, wishing I could go back in time and stop myself.
“But I liked it,” Keith said, finally squashing the silence.
Still looking away from me, he said, “I wish I could stop, you know, thinking about it.”
I tried to think of something reassuring to say, but what? What wouldn’t seem patronizing or flirtatious?
If I was honest, I wanted Keith to be the one to take me, to take my virginity. Keith wasn’t too big, which is perfect, isn’t it? For your first time? My stomach fluttered, and my cock grew inside my pants.
“Does that make me gay?” Keith asked.
It wasn’t clear if he wanted me to answer, more like internal musings spoken aloud. Words eluded me. I wanted so badly to say something that would help, but my thoughts were blank.
“The idea of, um, sucking another guy’s, uh,” he looked up at the ceiling, perhaps searching for words like I was, “it just doesn’t appeal to me.”
“I don’t think you’re gay,” I said.
He twisted his neck, meeting my eyes for the first time in a while.
“It’s gonna, uh, feel good, right?” I said. “I mean, is there any difference in, uh, a guy’s or, uh, a girl’s mouth?”
“There might be; it felt different,” Keith said.
Keith mumbled something.
“Huh?”
He chuckled; I said, “Yours felt better than my ex’s, and even that was, you know, awesome.”
“Are you even sure you’re gay?” he asked.
“Uh, no. I’m not, uh, sure,” I answered. “I mean, uh, I don’t know. I know that, uh, I liked, uh, you know, what I did, with your, uh.” There was a rush of heat to my face.
“I wish my ex had liked that,” he peered up at the screen. “But she didn’t. So we didn’t do much of anything. A hand job a couple of times, kissing, some over-the-clothes stuff, and a blowjob once.”
“What makes you like it so much?” Keith asked me.
My throat tightened. “Uh, I don’t, uh,” my voice was hoarse and dry.
The door swung open. “Hey guys, sorry it took me so long,” Stanley said.
He carried a bottle of Coconut Malibu Rum. “I had to wait for my dads to be between massages so I could sneak this.”
Triumphant, he smiled, then he looked at us and frowned.
“What were you two talking about?” Keith asked.
“I, uh, we uh,” I tried.
“We were just talking about why he’s never played Halo,” Keith lied. “And it got a little, um, real.”
“Oh, because Bret is poor?” Stanley said.
Keith slapped Stanley’s shoulder.
Heat rushed to my face, my brows dipping over my eyes.
“What the fuck, man, not cool,” Keith said.
“Hey, I’m just kidding; I didn’t, uh, you know, didn’t mean anything by it,” Stanley said.
“Jesus, that weak shit, man,” Keith added.
“Ok, sorry, fuck. I’m sorry,” said Stanley, wanting to appease Keith more than he was remorseful.
There was a silence.
“So shall we play?” Stanley asked.
“Yeah,” Keith answered, grabbing, then throwing him a black controller with various colored buttons on it.
Keith looked back at me. “You wanna try to play?” he asked.
“I uh, I don’t know, I don’t know how to play,” I tried, not wanting to play.
“We’ll teach you,” Stanley offered.
Another controller landed on the bed, bouncing in front of me.
They turned off the lights, and the screen divided unequally.
Stanley joined me on the bed; Keith sat on his desk chair at the foot of the bed.
I was terrible, always killing my character, running in circles, or getting stuck on walls. Then, just as I was getting some semblance of my bearings, Stanley spoke. “Who wants a shot?”
“Me,” Keith said.
Then Stanley looked at me; I nodded.
“To teammates getting tanked,” Stanley said, lifting the tiny glass above his head, then clinking against Keith’s, who mirrored him. Fuck, why did he have to say tank? A shiver ran down my spine, flashes of snakes flickered in my mind.
We all gulped the shot down. The rum was sweet but burned a little, coating my mouth and throat.
I smacked, looking at the empty glass.
“How d’you like it, Bret?” Stanley asked.
“Uh, not bad,” I answered, still staring at the glass.
Stanley lifted the white bottle. “Another?” he asked.
“Yeah. Bret, you should have another one, it’ll relax you. Calm you down,” Keith said.
I extended my arm to Stanley. He filled my glass, then Keith’s, then his.
We all clinked our glasses this time; some spilled on his quilt, another shot down the hatch.
Back to Halo. I could go straight and turn but still never managed to kill anyone or even hit them.
Jeers, laughs, groans, and curses lobbed when one would hit the other.
“Mmm, I’m feelin’ the booze a bit,” Stanley said, licking his lips. “What if whoever dies has to take a shot?” he proposed.
“What?” I gasped. “I’ll be like, uh, face down on the floor in, uh, like five minutes,” I said.
“Is that an argument for or against?” Stanley asked, looking me up and down with a sly grin.
Keith interjected, “You can take a shot if you want when one of us does.”
“So, we’re starting?” Stanley asked.
“Get ready to be murdered,” Keith answered, confident.
Stanley died twice at Keith’s character’s hand. For the second one, Stanley asked me to take a shot with him. I did. There was some kind of limit or threshold on kills, 10, I think. That seemed like a lot of shots to me.
After another four shots, Keith struggled to get more kills.
Stanley had at least as many but lit up Keith’s character over and over.
“Fuck man, I can’t drink anymore,” Keith said.
“Me either,” I agreed.
“Fine,” Stanley said, killing Keith again. “Just take something off when you die then.”
“What?” Keith responded, defiant. “No,” he said.
“Then you have to take a shot,” Stanley said, equally defiant.
“I’m not gonna ta–”
Stanley interrupted Keith’s protest. “I know you sleep nude, Keith. Just start getting ready for bed with each time I murder your ass,” said Stanley.
Keith was quiet, perhaps considering.
My cock hardened.
Over to Stanley, I rotated to see if he noticed the pipe down my pant leg. It was dark, and he gave no indication he had.
An explosion from the screen, “Take it off, you whore,” Stanley bellowed at Keith.
A knock at the door. “Boys, keep it down in there. Your sisters and brother are going to bed.
“Sorry, Mrs. Dobson,” Stanley answered the woman behind the door.
“Don’t stay up too late,” the woman added.
“We won’t,” Keith and Stanley responded in unison.
“Here,” Keith said, spinning a sock over his head then letting it drop to the carpet.
“What? A sock? That’s it?” Stanley said as another explosion sounded from the screen.
“Woooooop!” Keith cheered.
Stanley whipped off his shirt. “See, that’s how I roll.” He threw it at Keith, that wrapped around his head. Keith tore it off.
Defiant, Keith removed his other sock when his character died again.
Another kill, “Fuck,” Keith said, removing his shirt.
“That’s right, take it off, baby,” Stanley jeered, sticking out his tongue.
After the next, Keith stood and removed his shorts.
Stanley whistled.
“Shut up, man,” Keith hissed. “My mom is gonna kick you out.”
Stanley chuckled.
Keith’s character flew through the air on-screen, marking the end of their match.
“Victory!” Stanley stretched his arms straight up.
“Ok, it’s getting late, guys, and I’m drunk,” Keith retreated to the bed, covering the pouch of his briefs.
He gestured for me to scoot over, then he lifted the sheets and discarded his underwear onto the floor.
“As if we’ve never seen it,” Stanley said.
“I just need to get to sleep,” Keith said.
“Me too,” I agreed, stretching into a yawn.
It wasn’t clear when, but my eyes popped open later, and they both slept on each side of me, Keith right, Stanley, left.
Again, Keith had kicked off his sheets, the moonlight exposing his athletic body and hard-on.
Without thinking, I patted Stanley’s bare stomach. He snorted awake. “What?” he said, then noticed exactly what.
“Did you pull his covers off?” Stanley said, accusing.
“No,” I insisted.
I reached over and squeezed Stanley’s semi-hard cock through his underwear.
“Hey, hey, we can’t,” he protested.
“Sh, he looks deep in sleep, just, uh, keep quiet,” I started to pet his cock with my palm.
“I, uh, wanna, uh, practice,” I said, a smile stretching across my face.
Into his briefs, my hand plunged. I pulled out his swelling cock.
With my elbows, I lifted, bending at my hips, my face positioning over his meaty shaft.
From the base, I manipulate his cock to my mouth.
Stanley gasped as I forced his shaft deep down my throat.
The bed starts to rock as my head rides him.
“Oh, my god, Bret, fuck,” Stanley whispers, repressing his impulse to be loud.
I pushed my hips off the mattress and swung them slowly and pivoting from knee to knee over Stanley’s leg keeping his cock in my mouth. Between his legs, I pulled down his pants and underwear one side at a time. He lifted his hips, helping.
My palm grips his sack. I swallow him, opening my throat wide until my lips press against his pelvis.
He twitches and writhes, sucking air through his teeth. I bet he’s close.
I pulled off his shaft and noticed him staring at Keith’s exposed sleeping body.
“Have you ever, uh, touched it?” I asked, whispering.
“What, no.” Stanley hissed as quietly as he could.
“So, you never, uh, like wondered–”
“Of course I have,” he hissed again, looking back over Keith’s sleeping form.
“I just–I just–never asked him, the opportunity never–,” Stanley trailed off, the gears in his head spinning.
Stanley pulled his pants back up and reached toward Keith, but to my surprise, he shook him.
“Keith,” he whispered loudly.
Keith jumped with a gasp. “Who? What? What’s happening.” he said.
His face turned to mine, me in between Stanley’s legs.
“Sh, you kicked off your covers, man. I promise we didn’t do that,” Stanley said.
“Oh, uh, um, it’s ok,” Keith said, pulling the covers back over his hips.
“I’m drunk, and we’re drunk, and we’re messing around next to you; I don’t know, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”
“Hey, Stan,” Keith cleared his throat, “I know you’ve always really been protective of, uh, our friendship and stuff.”
“Yeah, man, you’re my best friend; I don’t want anything about that to change,” Stanley said.
They both looked at each other, becoming visibly more anxious as the length of silence grew.
“I’m just happy for you, ya know?” Keith said.
“Well, thanks, man, you’ve always been cool with things. Supportive, and shit, ya know?” Stanley trailed off.
Keith cleared his throat again, “Yeah, I guess, you know man, maybe I feel like a little jealous–not of like you and Bret, or you and any–but um, like, jealous you’re like way better at being gay than I am at being straight or like more successful at it or whatever.”
Stanley squinted but gave a slight nod.
“I don’t know, I guess, I like, feel left ou–or like wish I could like, ya know, be closer. But, like, it’s hard to explain. You’re like my best friend, and I love you, and I’d do anything for you, ya know, but like I’m straight and like you’ve always been so respectful, but I think what I’m saying is, why didn’t we ever, ya know, like try anything?”
Keith glanced up once, then dropped his eyes to the bed.
No breath, no movement. Stanley stared at Keith, his mouth slightly open.
Stanley tried to talk, but his voice cracked his words horse, “Keith, I love you too,” he swallowed and took a breath, standing on a cliff’s edge, deciding to jump or not into an obscured below. “Is it too late?”
Keith met Stanley’s eyes again, “I hope not,” he said in a low, quiet voice.
My heart drummed in my chest, and I didn’t understand what was happening. Should I leave? Did they need to be alone?
Stanley reached across the bed and pinched the sheet Keith had covered himself with, and drew it off and exposing him again.
“Are you sure you’re not going to regret this tomorrow, Keith?”
“I’m not sure about anything lately, but I trust you. If I’m going to try, I want it to be, you know, with you uh, um, yeah.” Keith said.
I interrupted, “Hey, guys, um, I’m thinking, uh, I should probably, uh, go.”
They looked at me then at each other.
“Stay, Bret,” Stanley said.
“Yeah, stay. If,” he coughed, “I, um, chicken out, like help Stan, you know?”
Stanley hopped off the bed after he tucked his cock deeper into his pants. Then, around the foot of the bed, he walked. Our eyes followed him.
When he reached Keith’s side of the bed, he kneeled next to him.
“We can stop whenever you want,” Stanley said. “Lay down.”
Keith trembled, his eyes wide at the ceiling, then smashed shut, then popped open again.
The situation was odd; I didn’t know how to read it. Is Keith putting on a show? Was he trying to squash the chance that Stanley would find out about me, us? And if he did, would it minimize how much it would matter, if at all? Was he really questioning? Did I spur that? Would either of them be interested in me if Keith wanted more?
Stanley placed a palm on Keith’s stomach, “You ok?”
Keith nodded his head, his eyes toggling between tight shut and wide open.
Down past his navel, Stanley slides slowly down towards Keith’s junk. His cock was so hard, the head and most of the shaft hovered above his body. When the bridge between Stanley’s thumb and fingers touched the top of the base of his shaft, he gasped with erratic breaths.
He covered his mouth; eyes smashed closed.
“You ok?” Stanley asked.
He nodded, a hand clinging over his mouth.
Next, he made a fist around Keith’s shaft.
A squeal burst from beneath his hand, Keith’s eyes popped open, then snapped shut again.
The stroking started very slow, almost imperceptible.
A moan vibrated from Keith’s throat.
Stanley checked again, “Are you sure you’re ok, Keith? We can stop. I won’t be upset or anything.”
Keith removed his hand from his mouth but kept his eyes closed, “I’m ok.”
“You want me to keep doing this, or do you want more?”
He opened his eyes again, looked at his cock in Stanley’s hand, then Stanley’s face, then mine, “Um.” Eyes snapped closed again, “Keep, uh, ya, keep going, more.”
To his feet, Stanley rose and planted his knees one at a time between Keith’s legs.
Keith’s breath altered, in through the nose, then through rounded, puckered lips, a whoosh.
Mouth wide, Stanley pulled Keith’s balls into his mouth. Keith winced and moaned, his hand returning over his mouth.
My cock throbbed and pinched inside my pants. I unzipped them and pulled it out, and started to pump with my hand.
Stanley licked and sucked on Keith’s sack while gently stroking the shaft.
“You o–,”
“Mm-hm, keep going,” Keith assured, his voice breathy.
Balls released, Stanley suspended his face over Keith’s engorged purple head, a puddle of pre-cum spreading blow the tip of his cock.
I licked my lips and stroked my cock faster, my breath laboring.
Mouth wide again, he descended until his friend’s shaft disappeared, his nose touching Keith’s stomach, then he closed his lips.
Keith jolted and yelled under his palm, eyes clamped.
Between Stanley’s legs, I pushed my head and shoulders through then flipped to my back. When he felt me, Stanley spread his legs wider. From Keith’s cock, his mouth separated, but he continued to pump it with a hand. Then he stood on his knees, looking down at me and helping me tug his pants low. Stanley’s cock jumped out of his underwear and flung a cold string of pre-cum on my face. I took it by both hands and drew it close to my face while Stanley bent to savor Keith in his mouth again.
From side to side and up and down, Stanley twisted his mouth around the shaft. From below, I sucked and licked Stanley’s pulsing dick. The sweat of his muscular hairy body permeated the air, his cock so generous with pre-cum, so thick, smooth, and meaty. I devoured him without minding the saliva running down both my cheeks.
More, I wanted more of him in me, down my throat. The position would not allow it. With one hand, I stroked Stanley, milked him, and with the other, I caressed, tugged, and stretched his sack against his balls.
Stanley began to hum notes, each higher than the other. His taint spasmed. I rubbed it. His cock spat streams of cum over and over onto my tongue. I swallowed, choked, then swallowed again.
“Mm-mmm,” I said, pressing the knuckle of my thumb from the bottom of his urethra to his hole, drinking every drop.
“Oh, my god, Stan, I’m gonna cum,” Keith said, hissing, trying to stay quiet but not succeeding.
“Mmhm, Mmhm, Mmhm, Mmhm, Mmhm,” Stanley signaled, he wanted to swallow.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, oh, shit, fuck,” Keith’s stomach flexed, lifting his whole upper body, and just as suddenly, he collapsed flat on the bed, letting out a sigh.
“Fucking hell, Stan,” Keith swallowed, wheezing. “That’s not fucking fair.”
“What isn’t?” Stanley asked.
“How fucking mind-shattering that was,” Keith answered.
Stanley let out a low, sinister chuckle at first, then they both laughed.
I hadn’t come yet. Did they even remember I was there?
They both looked over at me like they’d heard my thought.
Stanley asked me to come to the bed, and he laid down on his back, his head tilting back off the edge. He opened wide.
I stepped toward his face, aiming my cock down his throat. The warmth of his breath wafted over my cock head. I licked my lips and swallowed, entering his mouth.
Keith, still bare, climbed to the foot of the bed and studied us.
When I reached the back of the throat, Stanley closed his lips around me. I pushed deeper and deeper. Half of my shaft penetrated his eager wet mouth. I thought of Keith’s cum still fresh in him, coating every surface my dick touched. Fresh blood pumped into my cock, tightening the skin and the fit down Stanley. He moaned, Keith gaped. Deeper, I nudged into Stanley. I asked him if he was ok, he made a thumbs up. On each side of his face, I wrapped my hands, gaining leverage against his throat, boring deeper. Both Keith and I gaped. I had but two inches yet, without a prompt, Keith gave another thumbs up. With all my strength, I forced my cock all the way in, breathing quickly. His throat was so tight and warm around me. I felt his tongue lapping at the base and around my short, light brown pubes. I came right then, squirts of cum sprayed deep into Stanley under the heavy pressure of my throat. My entire body flexed and moved with each pulse of my orgasm. Finally, I’d gone balls deep, and it was even better than I’d imagined.
I slipped out of Stanley. He swallowed and wiped his cheeks with the backs of his hands.
“Shit, man,” Keith gasped. “How did you do that? How did you take that whole thing? Shit! Fucking sword swallower. Bret, like, what does it feel like, having such a, uh, big, uh.”
“Well, uh, it was like amazing,” I said. “I’ve never done that before, uh, like gone all the way.”
“Fuck, I feel like overwhelmed and uh, a bit intimidated,” Keith said. “Like, I can’t imagine what it felt like for either of you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Keith,” Stanley said. “How do you feel?”
“I, um, I’m not sure. Uh, I feel weak, uh, a little scared, but excited. My heart is beating so fast right now,” Keith answered.
“I just want you to feel ok. What do you need?” Stanley asked.
“Shit, I don’t know. A do-over for the last four years,” Keith laughed. Stanley and I smiled.
Suddenly, Keith went quiet, his eyes wondering. “You guys, like, won’t tell anyone, right?”
“Of course not,” Stanley said, and I nodded, looking at Keith, then Stanley, then Keith again.
“What you, uh, did, Stanley, that fucking blew my mind, but I, uh, don’t know what it means, you know?” Keith said, trying to explain.
“It just means you like getting head,” Stanley smiled, approaching Keith and giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “And just so you’re clear, I think I loved it just as much as you did.”
“Nah, not possible, man,” Keith protested.
We all laughed.
I gathered my clothes and put them back on.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Keith asked.
“Well, I don’t know, uh, if you’d like to, uh, talk things out with Stan–”
“If you can, can you both stay? I want some rest and don’t want to be alone right now. Does that make sense?”
Stanley clapped his shoulder and nodded at his friend.
All three of us climbed onto Keith’s king-sized bed and spooned.
“I gotta say, guys,” Keith said. “I’m loving this Stanley sandwich.”
The bed jiggled with our laughs.