Legal stuff: You ain't old enough, don't read it. You ain't mature enough, still don't read it. You lookin' for a quick wank, look elsewhere. There WILL be sex in this story, and it WILL be graphic, but it'll come with time, so bear with me.
Given to Nifty for archive; if anyone else wants to post this somewhere, ask first thanks. Email is mymouthtrain@gmail.com.
Wish I'd Taken Pictures | 01
I'm not gay. I've had girlfriends. I sort of have one right now. This story, however, isn't about her. It's about Andrew.
Black hair so dark that when the sunlight hits it, it highlights blue. He must have to dye it a dozen times a month or something to keep it that way. I know it's dye despite never seeing his hair any other color, because on the days he's feeling lazy and doesn't shave before work there is always a bit of light brown shadow on his face; not black, brown. His hair drapes down to his shoulder blades when it's not pulled back into a smart ponytail, thick and straight. I think at one time he had bangs, because his hair is slightly layered, but they must have grown out long ago.
His eyes are brown, but I only know that because once we'd bumped into one another and he palmed my chest, flush against me like a female would do, up on his tiptoes as he looked up into my eyes in surprise, a laugh catching in his throat. He's shorter than I am, probably by about half a foot or so, but he is by no means short. Which, by means of deduction, means I am tall. Really tall. But we haven't gotten to me yet. If we had my way, we never would but what can I do. Anyway, I'd say he was somewhere around five-foot-nine or so. I can't say for sure, but comparing his height to my own six-foot-three, that sounds about right.
He listens to the public radio station in his car on his way to and from work; I know because if there is a particular song on that he likes, he blasts it as he peels out of the parking lot. At work he's mild-mannered; he kind of has to be, considering we're both servers at a trendy restaurant in midtown; but I know there's a sadistic streak in him somewhere. I've seen it often enough when a customer or two has pissed him off. I wouldn't suggest eating the fries he's given you after you've sent him back for a fresher order twice or more; just a friendly bit of advice.
We aren't all that close, enough of acquaintances at work to not completely ignore each other if we saw one another in public, but that never really happens so I don't actually have anything to judge that on. He seems comfortable around me, though, if we happen to go on our lunch break at the same time and wind up at the local Speedy's eating microwave breakfast burritos together. One time, when he had a bit of red sauce on the side of his mouth and the moon was particularly bright out as we sat thigh-to-thigh next to each other on the curb outside the back of the restaurant, he laughed thickly (he had a mouthful of egg, cheese, and spicy sausage) and said he hadn't been on a more romantic date in a very long time. That particular comment had confused me, though I guess I understood it considering I had bought him his food after he'd admitted to leaving his wallet at home that day. I had laughed anyway, however, and he gave me a giant, toothy smile that showcased his slightly crooked canines. They looked like fangs when he smiled. For some reason, I really liked that when I noticed it.
His name is Andrew; he likes to call me Bri, though my real name is actually Brian. He once told me I could call him Drew if I wanted, but I always called him by his Christian name; it was a compulsion beaten into me by my mother that I couldn't ever seem to shake, even when I really wanted to. So he was Andrew and I was merely Bri.
Pale skin, freckles that brushed across his nose and cheeks, and a lopsided smile that seemed to come easy enough to him despite his gothic outward appearance. He was nice and talkative to his coworkers, and easily joined in on the light workplace teasing that went on. He was always courteous to the females, however, and never joined in on the nightly discussions of who was hotter, who was more fuckable that the guys generally tended to get involved in. I was never sure if it was due to respect or just plain lack of interest. I suspected both. I think I remember him once mentioning something about a girlfriend.
He did, however, talk often about experiments.
He and his best friend, Casey he said his name was, used to often experiment. "Because we never believed curiosity killed the cat," he'd say with a grin. Homemade rockets, splicing sports together to make all new ones, making a band, androgyny, bisexuality. They tried anything either of them could think of. "He kisses like crap, though," he'd say with a wrinkled up nose, too cute in a Bewitched sort of way. "If that's how all dudes kiss, never mind, yanno?"
Yeah, it even surprised me when I didn't find any of what he told me disgusting. I told myself I was just getting used to his more than blunt way of talking about things. I mean, this was the kid who once described Carmen Electra as "caramel warmed over until it's really sticky, like cum." I still don't know how that describes a woman, and a very beautiful woman at that, but that was just how he was.
And where he was currently, was the back seat of my car, a bloodstained rag in one hand, a tire iron in the other. He was applying pressure to the gash on my temple. I never knew a human head could bleed so much.
His car hadn't wanted to turn over in the restaurant parking lot. It was well after midnight on a Saturday night, and he had been preparing to hoof it through perhaps some of worst neighborhoods in the city. I promptly told him to stuff it, that I didn't want to hear about his murder on the morning news and to get in the damn car. Halfway to his shitty apartment, my back passenger tire blew, and we were in the midst of changing it when his grip on the tire iron slipped. My luck, I was bent over, trying to verbally assist the guy who had never changed a tire before but was dog-damned determined to do it when I was suddenly flat on my back, dazed and with blood gushing out of me. I still have no idea how he accomplished hitting me in the head with something that was previously about knee-level with me, but whatever. I was more concerned about the amount of blood I was currently losing.
"Shit. Shit, shit, man, shit!" Still applying pressure to stopper the flow, Andrew dropped the tire iron with a clatter and suddenly plunged a hand into my pants pocket. If my reflexes were better, he would have never made it, but the blood loss made me sort of slow. I had just enough time to wonder what the hell he was doing and mutter something that was a close cousin to, "Hey!" when he pulled my cell out of my pocket and flipped it open. Emergency was dialed and the phone lifted to his ear. His instructions and description of what had happened was concise and brief. He was, if nothing else, efficient under pressure.
An awkward ambulance ride and two hours later, an off duty EMS worker was dropping Andrew and I back off at my car. The girl even helped Andrew put the spare on with a courteous, nonflirtatious smile and a wave as she drove off. Andrew had my keys and, under firm orders from the doc who'd overseen my stitches, was driving me home. All I had to do was give directions. Somehow, as bleary as I was, I managed okay, and now here we are.
He had untucked and unbuttoned his shirt as we came in, and I couldn't stop glancing at the way the starchy white fabric framed his off-white chest. It was lovely, and because of it when he said, not asked, that he was staying over for the night, I didn't object one bit.
My apartment isn't anything to write home to your mother about, but it was all mine and for that, I was proud. Just the simple fact that I didn't live under my parents' roof anymore made me pretty damn happy, so the fact that I hadn't actually purchased any of the furniture within it was merely a minor affair for me. My couch was once my sister's, and my entertainment center focused around a TV cart and an end table smushed together, but still, it was mine and it was home. I liked it, anyway.
As my bed consisted of only a twin mattress set thrown on the floor (the frame squeaked too much and seemed as if it would break apart if I so much as looked at it wrong, so it was thrown away three days after moving in), I grabbed a set of sheets and blankets and made a comfy little nest for Andrew on my couch. Hey, it was a comfy couch. He gave me a large smile and a salute as I closed my bedroom door and tucked myself in. I tried not to think too much about him being just feet away in my living room, wearing I have no idea what but hoping it was minimal, and turned on my side to sleep.
Three hours later, in that space of time after dawn where the entire world was completely silent, I hadn't slept a wink, and I was standing at the threshold to my bedroom, watching him lying there, asleep. One arm was flung over his eyes, shielding them from the gray light filtering through the windows, the other hung off the couch and draped on the floor. His chest, bare, moved slowly, deeply, and I knew somehow that he was in the deep recesses of REM sleep. Occasionally, his lips would twitch, as if he was smiling at something in his dreams.
His clothes lay in a rumpled pile on the floor at his feet, and I automatically walked over and picked them up. It was a habit of mine, being the neat freak I was. I immediately began folding his shirt, which smelled like the restaurant, and set it on an ugly green chair next to the couch. The shirt smelled ugly, like the restaurant, only more stale. The pants, on the other hand, were completely different. As I began folding them, at first not paying them any more attention than I had his starchy white work shirt, I noticed a faint smell, not exactly pleasing, but not altogether hideous either. I raised them up to my nose, sniffing first just the pocket. It hit me right then; the pants smelled like Andrew, his natural scent. That thought sent a jolt through me, straight to my groin. I was suddenly in love with the way another guy smelled. Me, who didn't even like perfume or aftershave, or really anything besides soap. I liked the musky, indescribable smell of another man. Randomly, the scent reminded me of cloves.
At first, I don't think it really dawned on me what exactly I was doing, and I ended up burying my face in his pants, inhaling deeply. Intoxicating, and completely unlike anything else. After I heard Andrew shift on the couch, however, reality set back in with a crash, bang, boom, and I pulled my face away abruptly. I could feel the heat radiating from it at the prospect of being caught.
Andrew hadn't awoken, though, much to my relief, but merely moved in his sleep. I quickly finished folding his pants and placed them on top of his shirt before I got any other ideas in my head. One scare was enough that morning, I decided. I retreated quickly to my bedroom and fell back into my own bed. Luckily, sleep overtook me relatively swiftly. I dreamt of what would happen when I woke up.
|to be continued|