Efrain and Cory 6
Author’s Note - Indie was another character I’d developed for that COMPLETELY unrelated project that produced Efrain and Cory. They took one look at him and wouldn’t leave him alone. Of course, he got a little miffed about being used as a plot device, and another character took interest in him, so you’ll see some more of him later.
So, after this, there’s one more chapter, and then you get a peek at what I’ve been dealing with for the last month.
I love feedback, and I love critique. Email me at dayne.mora@gmail.com. This is the first time I’ve written like this - I’ve never made it past the short story point and writing a novella is so weird. I appreciate everyone who emailed me - I’ve read every email at least 3 times! Thanks ~Dayne.
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Chapter 6 - Along Comes Indie
(Indie)
Laurel and Mike have been on my ass for most of the year since Jameson dumped me. It’s getting fucking old.
“You just need to get your dick wet,” Mike says from the driver’s seat.
“The easiest way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” This is from the wise and most sage Laurel riding shotgun.
My best friends tricked me into the car by telling me that we were going to screen a documentary on pornography censorship policies in China. “Tell me again why I have to go to this party?”
“Because you’ll sit at home and be fucking lame if you don’t.”
“And watching a bunch of underage kids get drunk and make out is supposed to be better.”
“Yes,” Mike says flatly. “Yes, it is.”
I’m almost 23 in a town where you’re too old at 21. And I have better things to worry about, including actual academic research on pornography and censorship. Yeah, it was shitty that Jameson left me for some girl he knocked up, but it left me with more time to devote to my graduate work.
“Honey, petulance isn’t a good look for toddlers. It hardly looks any better on a 6-foot-6 grown man.”
I resist telling her that I am not being petulant, mostly because it sounds petulant.
We pull up to Kiley’s an hour after the party was set to start. Mike and Laurel brought some cheap beers and rum to contribute, but everyone looks pretty deep in their cups already. I mix myself a drink from what’s available and lean against the door frame while I try to find the least populated spot to eventually occupy.
The party delivers on what I assumed it would. Straight girls performing for male gaze by pretending to be bi-sexual is a common trope at hetero parties. It’s interesting, in a strictly academic sense, that gay people pretend to be straight while under the influence.
Case in point, in a corner of the living room, two women and two guys are huddled up and sloppily sticking their tongues in each other’s mouths. I don’t recognize the first pair, a twinkish guy with short brown hair spiked in the front and a pretty Hispanic girl. I do know the second, a junior that everyone calls lez-Delia with this kid Cory that I recognize from the anthro course I’m helping my advisor with. Barely legal and barely a freshman, but he comes to class consistently, sits in the front row, and earnestly takes notes. At least, I thought he was taking notes until I saw pages and pages of doodles with some words mixed in. He still aces every test. Which is more than I can say for the rest of the students in that section.
The drunken farce continues for a bit before they separate.
“Completely unarousing.” This is from the twink.
Lez-Delia wipes her face “Yeah, I felt nothing.”
“That’s weird,” says Cory. “I got nothing from that either.” And the Spanish girl (who I later learn is named Marina and attends the junior college nearby) agrees that she was similarly unaffected.
And so they trade. Twink with lez-Delia and Cory with Marina. They make out as if they really are trying to accomplish something. Then, they separate and compare notes.
“Still nothing,” lez-Delia tells them. “No offense, Preston.”
“None taken,” he answers. “It’s not that you ladies are bad or anything.”
“What about you guys?” The Hispanic girl’s cheeks are a little flushed and Cory flashes a grin. Lez-Delia grabs the front of his pants and he jumps.
“BeavReaver has a chub!” She cackles then pats him again. “Man, you’re packing.”
The next round pairs Twink/Preston with Cory and lez-Delia with Marina. Lez-Delia attacks her partner, body pressed against her, hands exploring her backside. The girl looks absolutely helpless in the onslaught. Whatever she got out of kissing Cory is nothing to what lez-Delia is doing to her now.
But, there’s a feel to Cory and Preston’s kissing that I don’t sense in the women. For the latter, this is a beginning, while the former seem to have done this before. Cory holds him by the back of the neck and nips his lower lip. Both mouths part, tongues extending to fold against each other, and their bodies flow in to each other. Preston doesn’t lift his arms to touch him (by contrast, Marina and lez-Delia are all over each other by this point), and only Cory’s hand on his neck holds them together. Yet, their bodies are so glued to each other that it doesn’t matter.
Of all three of the experiments, this one last the longest and all four seem to forget where they are. Then someone in the living room tells them to get a room and they separate, laughing. The outcome of that trial is pretty obvious. There are a few good natured jokes, including some regarding hard-ons, before they move on to other diversions.
And as soon as they think no one is paying attention, the girls slip off to find a room.
I’m too busy noticing the women that I don’t notice the person trying to get by me until his body brushes against mine. I look down as Cory looks up, the both of us slightly pressed together by the door frame. We’re both big enough, and the frame is small enough, that I can tell he’s still erect.
“Hi, Indie.”
“Cory, right?”
“Yup. What brings you here?”
“Well-meaning friends. You?”
“Likeminded people and alcohol.” He looks at my hand. “Oh, what are you drinking? Lemme try.” And he takes it from me and gulps half of it down. I’m too dumbfounded to respond. He begs me to mix one for him. When I mention his age, he insists that he’ll be 19 in November, as if it actually makes a difference. I give up and walk off.
***
(Cory)
Once again, someone gave me alcohol when they shouldn’t have.
Drinking wasn’t very taboo in my family and if I really wanted a drink with dinner, they’d let me have it. I was even allowed a beer and some champagne last New Year’s. As a result, I didn’t see the big deal in drinking at parties and end up spending the whole night nursing one cup.
So, you can blame my parents for me not knowing that not only do I have a low tolerance, I also get extremely horny when I’m wasted.
Kiley was throwing her usual end-of-the-semester house party. Before we went, I pre-gamed at lez-Delia’s with Preston, Marina, and bi-Delia (who may or may not have rode my dick). I rolled up to the party on a two-drink buzz and it went downhill from there. I was already pretty drunk by the time Preston and I decided to play matchmaker for Marina and lez-Delia. Neither has shown an interest in the other, but I kinda ship them a little and Preston is along for the ride because he thinks it would be funny.
I tell the girls that I’m conducting an experiment for my anthropology course and need their assistance.
“Okay, so to make this as scientific as possible,” I say, not sure if all the words are coming out right, “You have to really try to arouse the other person, even if they aren’t in your strike zone.” All three agree to the research conditions and we run through the trial pairings, pausing after each one to compare field notes.
I kissed lez-Delia first. From a technical standpoint, she’s a pro, but I strangely don’t feel anything. Marina isn’t as good as lez-D, but she does more to make me hot and I get a semi-hardon. We saved the same-sex pairing for last, because we’re trying to hook the girls up. I know I’m supposed to be playing Cupid, but my dick really responds to Preston. Part of it is the alcohol, but I still remember what that mouth can do.
And that split. Oh my fucking God, that split.
I’m kinda lost in musings of fit and flexible cheerleaders with cute dicks for a little while, and when I finally remember where I am, Preston is talking with friends and the girls are slipping off to find an empty room.
And that’s when I notice Indie.
Of course, it’s hard to not notice Indie. 6’6”, slim runner’s build, strong nose, chocolate brown eyes, long shaggy hair dyed a brilliant blue, and enough metal in his face and ears to make magnets a dangerous prospect. I know him from the sexuality course I’m taking this term. He’s the previously mentioned hot TA about which I spend an improper amount of time having very improper thoughts.
Right now, he’s holding up the door frame wearing a plain red t-shirt, dark grey Dickies shorts, and canvas Vans. Indie drinks from a plastic cup, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but Kiley’s.
There is only one word my alcohol addled mind can think at this time: WANT. I decide this is the perfect time to get another maintenance drink.
Indie’s attention is focused somewhere else when I walk up, so I squeeze into the doorway with him, instead of asking him to move. I innocently look up as he looks down. Girls dig it when I act confident and aggressive, but I’ve since learned that guys totally go for my little naif routine. His deep bass voice vibrates through me as we exchange small talk and I use his drink as an excuse to flirt. I take it and almost drain the cup before handing it back to him. He gives me a stunned look and walks off.
Mark set.
***
(Indie)
I run into Cory a few more times throughout the house. He’s dancing in the living room, getting another drink from the kitchen, doing shots in the dining room, chatting with friends on the patio out back. No matter where I am, or what I’m doing, the kid is somewhere nearby. Not following me, per se, just there in my general vicinity.
I’ve had a couple drinks more than I intended by this point and have to go to take a piss. On my way back up the hall, I notice one of the bedrooms. The door is ajar and no one seems to be in it. It’s the first room (aside from the bathroom) that isn’t filled with people, so I sneak in and pull the door almost closed.
The room is large enough to fit a queen-sized bed, desk with chair, and the rest of the typical bedroom furniture. There’s even a row of bookshelves and a small loveseat. She has a book called You’re So Sexy When You Aren’t Spreading STDs that looks mildly interesting. I pick it up and flop on the loveseat to read.
A few minutes later, the door creaks open and a head pops in. “So, that’s where you went.” Cory walks in and shuts the door behind him. I’m not sure, but I hear a small click as if he’d locked the door. He walks over and sits on the other side of the loveseat. “God, it’s fucking loud out there. Great idea to hide in here.” Cory kicks off his Chucks and sits with his back against the armrest, one knee drawn up to his chest, his other foot resting on the floor.
For the second time tonight, he plucks something from my hands.
“I was reading that.”
“How is it?” he says, ignoring (or else oblivious to) my tone. “Seemed pretty balanced and non-heteronormative, at least from the reviews I’ve read.” It was startling at first, hearing this muscled up kid suddenly spout informed and articulate assertions, but I’ve had several weeks to get used to it. His words are a little slurred, but the fact that he can get them out at all is a feat. I make a non-committal sound and try to finish my drink before he tries to take it from me again.
We sit in silence for a bit before he starts talking again. “So, there’s a huge party going on, and you’re in here hiding.”
“Yep.”
“You look like you’d rather be at home.”
“Yep.”
“So, why are you here?”
“My best friends tricked me.”
“Oh, really? There has to be a story behind this.” He grins and slouches down a little, his legs getting almost close enough to touch mine.
“Not really. They think I need to get laid, so they dragged me here.”
“What makes them think you need help with that? Can’t have been that long.”
I think for a moment, counting the months in my head. For some reason, I find myself being honest. “My ex and I stopped sleeping together about 3 months before he moved out, and that was last spring,” I say. “So, that would make it almost a year and a half.”
“Fuck,” his face gets a little serious and he sits up. “Still hung up on him?”
“No, I just got really busy.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Or kept yourself busy.”
“You’re perceptive, I’ll give you that.”
“But, damn, that throws a wrench into my plan.” The look he’s making, you’d think I’d just told him he couldn’t have dessert.
“Your plan?”
“Yeah, I was going to seduce you.” I end up spitting out the sip I’d just taken.
“Seduce me?”
“Of course. I spend enough time in class thinking about it, might as well act on it.” The grin creeps back on to his face and I have a hard time not smiling back incredulously. If Jameson hadn’t been my high school sweetheart, if I hadn’t wasted all of undergrad on him, this is the type of guy I’d be chasing after. Always had a weak spot for nerd jocks, which was everything Jameson wasn’t.
“So, you waste that much time thinking about your TA? And here I thought all you did was make crude illustrations.” I know it’s the alcohol talking, but the thought of this kid sitting in the front row of the lecture hall, thinking about getting in my pants, makes the blood rush south, leaving my brain bereft of the resources necessary for sane thought.
“I don’t waste anything,” he purrs, leaning forward. “What is a waste is someone as hot as you spending a year and a half on the shelf.”
“Hot?”
“Very hot.”
I rest my head on the back of the couch and close my eyes. “I should not be doing this.”
“But, you really really want to,” he responds while drawing his fingers down the growing bulge in my shorts.
***
(Cory)
Touching him is a gamble, but it pays off when he bites back a moan. He lifts his head and looks at me. I give him my best butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth-(but-you-will) look.
Indie sits up, looks like he’s about to say something, pauses seeming to think it over, opens his mouth again to speak, then stops himself. Finally, he says “fuck it” and jumps me. His tongue invades my mouth, practiced enough in kissing that the rhythms come naturally to him. I thought the bar in his tongue and the two hoops on either side of his bottom lip were for show, but they add an extra sensation to his kiss. My cock gets painfully hard thinking about how the piercings would feel on my head and shaft.
I stroke my hands down his body, then slip under the hem of his shirt to trace the contours of his stomach and ribs. He breaks the kiss to whip of his t-shirt and I pull off mine. Indie half kneels on the couch and pushes me back against the armrest, his mouth hungrily taking mine again.
Unable to wait, I start unbuttoning his fly and reaching in after his cock. My fingers wrap around his shaft and his breath hitches. Emboldened, I stroke his full length. It feels longer than it did when I was rubbing him through his shorts. Like, substantially longer.
I carefully pull him out. Fuck. Over nine inches and fucking thick. My dick jumps in anticipation.
“You could wreck someone with this,” I giggle nervously.
He nibbles a line across my jaw to my earlobe. “Not someone, you.” His bass voice sends a rumbling wave of shivers from head to toe. Indie rolls one of my nipples between his finger and thumb before sending his hand lower to rub my dick through my cargo shorts. I can already feel precum soaking the front of my trunks. He sucks on my neck, gradually making his way down. His tongue laps at my nipple, hardening it. He holds it between his teeth, tugging slightly, then flicks it rapidly with his tongue. He repeats this on my other nipple, even though I’m already panting hard and on the verge of begging him to wreck my ass now.
“I wonder if my roommate realizes,” he says, his tongue working down my stomach, his hand tugging open my shorts, “that he isn’t the only gay guy on the team.” His mouth works over the lower part and my belly and he grabs the waistband of my trunks between his teeth.
“But, I’m not gay.”
“What’s that?” he asks around a mouthful of my underwear, teeth drawing the band down, exposing my dick.
“I’m bi, not gay.”
Indie freezes.
The band slips out of his mouth and snaps against my exposed head. I moan, the sharp sting registering as both pain and pleasure, and my back arches.
***
(Indie)
Fuck, I’ve fucking fucked up.
Cory – half undressed, flushed, beautiful – writhes under me.
I shouldn’t be here.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
And with him of all people. Fuck.
I sit back up, shove my hand through my hair. “Listen, I’m sorry.” I make up some lame excuse and Cory looks hurt and confused. I feel like I kicked a puppy, but I still grab my clothes and bolt. I walk out of the house, the August heat pressing my anxiety tighter, and wait until I get a few blocks away to call a taxi. I don’t even tell Laurel or Mike what happened.
I fucking flipped. I lost my shit because the guy says he’s bi. How the fuck am I supposed to fucking explain that?