On Saturday I'm in the liquor store when I get punched in the face. It comes out of nowhere. I'm trying to decide whether to get my regular imported or try something with a label I couldn't read. Then I get socked in the eye. Thank God for those heavy shelves within stumbling distance, or it would have floored me.

Startled enough that I can't think of the most appropriate epithet, I look up to see the last of my neighbor's former girlfriends, or lovers, or whatever they call themselves. This one is a sharp-looking woman, like she was probably holding back when she hit me. The last time I saw her, she was picking her clothes off my floor.

"You're the asshole who stole my boyfriend," the bitch states, breathing through her mouth. "Who the hell does that to a straight guy?"

I don't think she's going to hit me again, so I wave off the store attendant who rushed over. "My dear, I've never stolen anyone's boyfriend, and I don't chase straight guys."

"Oh really?" she says, cocking her hip and taking one of those sassy stances I usually see in bad action movies. "Then why, after he stops calling me, do I see the two of you all close in the Java Jive café on Main?"

Shit. My moment of weakness, when I let him buy me coffee to make up for throwing me against the wall. I don't even like coffee, but after a week I was sick of him saying sorry.

"He shoved me into a wall, then bought coffee to pay for it," I tell the woman. I can tell that surprises her, but she quickly resumes her angry stance.

"I know what I saw," she declares.

I'm intrigued even though my eye is watering like hell and I'm pretty sure that it's starting to swell up. "What exactly did you see?" I ask.

"You were holding hands!" the woman screeches, flapping her arms. She looks like a hungry pterodactyl. "I saw it! You were sitting at a table by the window and you were laughing and holding each other's hands." She points at me with the bottle of vodka in her other hand. "I saw it."

I have to think back to a time when I let him touch me, because I don't like anyone to touch me if we're not fucking or fighting; it's just a waste. The only time he touched me at all that day was when he stole my driver's license and I had to use both my hands to pry it back from him while the asshole laughed uproariously. It wasn't that funny; I was unprepared for the photo at the time.

"Was I smiling?" I ask the woman, struggling to remember.

She gives me one of those looks that tells me she thinks I'm an idiot, but then pauses. "I don't fucking know," she says shortly. "But you were holding hands."

My eye is definitely going to bruise, and this is weird, and possibly the longest conversation that I've ever had with a stranger. If the she-ass hits me again I'll press charges, since now I can find out the bitch is (my neighbor will owe me that information, at least). There are a whole bunch of people staring at us, which is damned uncomfortable.

"Well, sugar cheeks," I suggest sweetly, "maybe you lucked out. He's an ass, and happened to steal my wallet when he bought me coffee. For throwing me into a wall." I shrug and push past her to make my purchase. I just want to leave. "That's some assault right there. Come to think of it, now you might owe me coffee, too."

She whirls and follows me. "So you're saying that you didn't sleep with him?"

I hand the cashier my money. "Honeylips, it's been a long time since I slept alone." It's a lie. I only let him sleep with me the first night he stayed over. He's a cover hog. Rule Number 1 of Everything: Cover hogs get the couch until they move back to their own homes.

The woman's face darkens and uglifies at that comment, which makes me feel good. "You piece of shit. If I-"

"Ma'am," the cashier interrupts, speaking as though this kind of interaction is commonplace, "if you wish to argue with this man, I suggest you do so outside the store if you ever wish to return to this establishment."

That shuts her up long enough for me to leave. The cashier gives me an ice pack with my beer and a coupon.

Unsurprisingly, my neighbor is at my place when I get home. I think he was neglected as a child, since he's such an attention whore. I'm taking back my key.

"I thought you had to work," I greet him.

He's sitting on my couch, his feet propped up on Angus' back. The hairy monster jumps up and comes to lick my face as I shove the beer in the fridge. My neighbor doesn't even look up.

"It's Saturday," he replies.

"Isn't there a TV in your house? Get off me, Angus."

"Yours is better."

"No, it isn't."

"I'm here for sex."

"That makes more sense, but you're not getting any."

He looks over at me with an overdramatic pout. "Aw, why not?" Then he peers a little closer. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Your last pussy, shitwad."

"I've never owned a cat."

I roll the eye that isn't covered by an ice pack. "Hah, hah. You're a real wordsmith. She saw us in the café, and decided I stole you from her, so she punched me."

He's suddenly more interested. "Are you serious? That's fucking awesome. Did you pull her hair and scratch her eyes out?"

"Fuck you."

"In a minute. Right now I want to know more about this fight." He steals my beer and takes a swig. "So she really punched you?"

"No, she just licked me really hard, right on my eye." I take my beer back. "Yes, asshole, she punched me. She seriously thought you were stolen by a diminutive ugly fairyboy."

"By the fairy's soft, bubble ass," he corrects me. "The rest of the fairy could have fucked itself, for all I care."

I give him the finger and take a drink. Shit. "Now I'm going to have a black eye for the company party on Friday," I mutter quietly.

His eyebrows shot towards his hairline. "You go to company parties?"

My neighbor has dog ears. I try to glower at him, but his surprise is so genuine that I start laughing instead. "Under duress, you idiot. My editor makes me go meet potential clients. Sometimes they want to see the person who's going to make them sound good on paper."

"I'm guessing you dislike holidays."

"I hate holiday parties."

My neighbor slaps the back of my head. "Don't be a sourpuss, Sourpuss. Plus, why not go to Christmas, or New Year's, or any other party?"

I hit him back. "I hate bringing presents," I explain. "Plus, I already skipped all the other parties for all the other magazines, and Frank remembered. This one, apparently, is imperative. This won't be so bad because the ugly people will be covered with paint or masks."

"I guess, if you want to be a fucking asshole."

He sits there for a moment and scratches his head right above his ear. He's thinking and I'm not going to like it.

I go ahead and tell him, "You're not coming with me."

That damned hard-to-resist puppy dog look of his appears instantly, even though he knows it's not going to work.

"Why the hell not?" he grouses.

"Don't be such a whiny bitch." I stand up to get another beer. "Because you can't follow instructions."

"That's not...very...It's only kind of..." he trails off at the smirk on my face. "Ah, fuck it. I'm coming anyway."

"See what I mean?"

He narrows his eyes. "How long are you going to hold that ice on your shiner?"

I glare at him as I sit back down with a refreshing, cold bottle of lager, popping the cap off with one hand. "I'm not giving you head right now."

He shrugs and slides off the couch, then unzips my jeans.

"This is very generous of you," I say. "One would almost think you felt bad about getting me beat up by a woman."

He shakes his towhead. "If I give you head now, I get to fuck you later. Rules are rules."

I'm pretty sure that the rate of exchange is a little different than that, but that doesn't stop me from enjoying it. He's almost getting as good as I am.

I do end up letting him fuck me, because he's going to be disappointed when I leave for the godawful soirée without him.

It's raining cats and dogs outside.

The party was moved hastily indoors. God forbid we postpone another Asskiss Championship.

I immediately hate it; there are pumpkins everywhere, and those creepy candy dishes with hands sticking out, and I'm pretty sure that all the tissue ghosts in the doorways are supposed to have a mistletoe effect. I'm not going anywhere near it.

I haven't ever stayed at a party long enough to have a full conversation with anyone. I'm freelance and work from home, so I have no one to see. The only person I know is my editor, and he's usually schmoozing some potential client. It's also awkward because I have a little bit of a shiner still left, like I'm wearing tranny makeup on one eye, and for the first time ever I have a guest with me.

"Lighten up," says my neighbor encouragingly. "Nobody's going to punch you in the face at one of these, I don't think."

"Fuck you," I hiss at him. "Just because you can't keep your dick in your pants, I end up with a black eye. And I didn't even want you here in the first place."

He pats my shoulder in a terrible mimicry of empathy. "Poor little fuckbuddy. I'll leave when I've eaten enough and made out with someone underneath a charming little ghost." He says the last part with an awful British accent.

"If you hook up with anyone here," I warn, poking him hard in the chest, "and it gets associated with me, I'll rip off your dick and shove it up your ass. Don't embarrass me, which includes answering a call if someone else is already talking to you."

He flashes white teeth at me.

I scowl. "I can't believe you're wearing your Bluetooth to a costume party."

"I'm masquerading as a respectable businessman."

"Hey, stranger!" calls my editor. "Good to see you!"

Frank's one of those glad-handing kiss-ass people who thinks everything is "just great" and always has a big phony smile on his face. I don't like him very much, but he's good at his job. Tonight he's wearing a cow suit, complete with udders and a bell.

I introduce my neighbor, just because he's rocking obnoxiously back and forth on his heels like a kid, and staring at me expectantly.

"You're neighbors?" Frank exclaims, shaking his hand enthusiastically. "That's just great. Just great. What do you do?"

My neighbor is all smiles and chatty and personable, like the corn-fed homeboy he is.I use the opportunity to walk away. I'm getting some punch, because it's the kind made with sherbet, and then I will leave. I'm uncomfortable with that overgrown lapdog here, and I hate being the object of attention. Being with him makes me the object of everyone's attention by proxy.

"Hello, gorgeous," says the man across the table.

I don't think he's talking to me, so I move down the line. There are cookies with sprinkles on them.

"Wow," the guy comments, keeping up with me. "That was not the response I expected."

I look up to see the one man with whom I came close to having a relationship. I was Dean's ghostwriter for a period of three years or so; he has a column called "Memoirs of a Constant Traveler," or some other shit like that. He tells people about a quaint little site off the beaten path in Cairo, or the most authentic Irish pub in Port-of-Spain. Dean shouldn't need a ghostwriter for a column, but he can't even speak in complete sentences. It was all under the table but he paid me pretty well.

He's also a jackass, another alpha male type, but consistent. He'd come into town with his material, we'd fuck like monkeys for a month, then he'd leave and I'd get to work. It worked pretty well until he got into the ladyboy look after a stint in Thailand. I hate women's clothing. Dean fucked like an animal, though, and I did kind of have it bad for his dick.

"Hello, Dean," I respond. "Nice costume." It isn't. Vampires are overdone.

He claps me on the shoulder, which almost makes me drop my cup. "Haven't seen you in years!" he says. "How the hell have you been?"

"Okay," I answer. I'm even more uncomfortable now, trying not to glance over at the two men I left talking. I don't need to ask how Dean is; he's the type who thinks everyone wants to know.

"That's awesome," he replies, jovial as Santa Claus. "I've been back in Brazil. Just found an amazing Italian restaurant in Rio. And a gay club to knock your socks off. Free supplies. You know what I mean. Lasagna and nightly orgies. It's the life. You'd love it."

I'd hate it.

Dean continues, oblivious to everything but himself. "What's up with the fucking rain? All week, right? I've been meaning to ask you-my writer is a fuckoff. Can't even capture voice. Straight out of college." He gives me the fisheye. "Care to be back on Team Dean?"

I need someone to interrupt before I make a face, because I can feel my lip curling and my eyebrows drawing together without my consent. "Team Dean." What an ass. I feel a body at my elbow.

"Who's this?" my neighbor asks, reaching across the table to shake Dean's hand.

The urge to sock both the arrogant asses in the face nearly overwhelms me. I'm not sure how these guys indicate possession, but my neighbor is standing way too close. I don't want to get caught in the middle of a pissing contest.

Almost as soon as I have that thought I make the introductions. They're not going to do anything. Sure, Dean is the kind of guy who invites that dick-measuring kind of talk. He's rich because his family was own-a-private-island rich, and has a cool cushy job because of it and a ton of shit he doesn't need. My neighbor does something that earns him way more money than he uses. He may not have a whole lot of shit, but the shit he has is top-end. I'm not counted in that Awesome Stuff I Do and/or Have. Fucking me certainly doesn't rank up with a six-figure salary, speaking four languages or owning a yacht. I won't be mentioned.

"What do you do, Dean?" asks my neighbor.

Dean grins, puffs out his chest and opens his mouth.

I duck out again because I hate small talk, especially when I have food to eat. I'm desperately hoping that my neighbor won't tell Dean that he's my date, or some shit like that. I was dumb enough to let him drive, which means I can't leave until he decides he's ready. I should have seen this coming, but I was in the middle of getting long-dicked when he suggested it. I had a hard time concentrating.

It could have been exciting to stay and watch the subsequent battle of egos. That, however, would lead to a long-ass time at a Halloween party I didn't want to attend in the first place. I find my editor.

Frank does his job and makes sure I meet clients, etcetera, etcetera, and I try to appear less bored than I am. Since my ride is still schmoozing with the higher-ups, I decide to put my coat on and drag him out early. The coatroom is full of rain jackets and umbrellas, so I don't think too much of it when someone steps in behind me. At least, I don't until the person presses himself against my back and wraps his arms around me.

Before I think I say, "I'm not doing this in a fucking coat room. You'll have to wait until later."

"God, I've missed your sharp mouth. Almost as much as your ass," Dean whispers heavily in my ear, and I freeze.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He's lightly grinding himself against me, and though I'll admit it-he still turns me on a little-I still ended it for a reason. It's really hard to remember that reason when he grabs at my crotch.

"Not in the coatroom," I grunt out.

"Why not?" Dean licks my neck. "Your ass is begging for it."

I tell myself that someone will walk in, and soon.

"I'm going to take you home. Hogtie you. Fuck you till you scream," Dean blathers on, licking my ear.

Now I remember. Dean's a jackass.

Grabbing my neighbor's rain jacket, I step away from Dean. "Don't follow me, Dean," I order.

He steps back, as I knew he would. I stride into the banquet hall. My neighbor is talking to Frank, so I just hand him his jacket and head towards the door. He catches up quickly enough; probably just made a golf date with Frank or some crap like that.

"Whoa there, buddy," he laughs. "What got your knickers in a twist?"

I glare at him through evening rain while we walk to the car. "Firstly, only the British call them 'knickers.' Unlock the fucking doors."

"Where's your raincoat?"

"Dammit." I left it when Dean decided to grope me in the coatroom.

He unlocks the doors and slides in. It's fucking cold, and I'm shivering violently. Thank God for heated seats.

"Secondly?" he prompts.

"Nothing."

"Really? You've been especially bitchy ever since that rich pecker showed up."

I fold my arms. "Dean's a shit. I can't believe you stood talking to him for so long."

I hate it when his eyebrows go up like that, just before he's about to make fun of me.

"You?" he asks, clearly trying not to laugh. "You and Dean? You fucked?"

I look out the windshield and watch the wipers squeak across the glass. "I was his ghostwriter for a couple years."

"You did fuck him." He's laughing openly now, but there's a weird tone to it, like it's not really funny. "I thought he was a cocky bastard, and I just met him."

"Yeah. Well." It's not one of the best decisions I've ever made.

"Either his or your options must have been in the negatives."

I turn back to him. "His? Are your options in the negatives, too?"

"Don't be a bitch," my neighbor says coolly, focusing way too hard on turning a corner.

He's right, I am kind of being a girl, but it still bothers me. "I fucked Dean because he was there when I wanted him to be, and gone when I didn't want him anymore."

He nods thoughtfully. "Like a hooker."

"He followed directions."

"Which is why he's a shit now," my neighbor says.

"It's why he lasted for three years."

He shoots me a glance, and says, "If you've had enough, nut up and say it. Don't argue like a chick."

I don't respond. I don't know what the fuck just happened.

He pulls into my driveway, not because he's coming over, but because it's ingrained in him to be the curbside-service kind of guy. No other words are spoken until then. I sit there for a second because it's so fucking wet and cold outside and I'm enjoying my toasty ass. I should call my mother and tell her to knit me a scarf. Dean's faggot ass can knit.

I say thanks for the ride and get out. I don't know why we're being so weird, but I'm uncomfortable.

"Hey," my neighbor says, hopping out of the car. The rain patters off the hood, forcing him to raise his voice.

I turn around. My ass is freezing and I want to get inside. "I'm going to bed," I tell him, hugging myself and bouncing on my toes.

"And I'm going to let Angus out to pee. Then I will have a beer, then brush my teeth and go to bed," he retorts. "Awesome. I just..." He scuffs his foot against the pavement. "I'll stay away from your fucking parties from now on."

Something is twisting in my stomach. Maybe I ate some bad sprinkles.

"Hopefully, so will I."

He nods, mouth tight. "Okay."

"Right."

I go to bed alone.

I don't even know why we don't see each other for two weeks. I really only knock on his door because my hedge trimmer breaks down on Sunday afternoon and I need to borrow his. I don't know why I live in a place where hedges need trimming. I'm ashamed of my suburban adaptation.

A woman opens the door and she's wearing his sweatpants.

I take a step back and almost fall off the porch. I don't know why the hell I'm surprised, or why it makes me so mad.

"I need to borrow the hedge trimmer," I say, pointing to my lawn.

She smiles at me. She's gorgeous, like career Barbie cum Daisy Duke. He's vain enough that she even kind of looks like him. "You're Andy, right?"

AnDREW, bitch. "I live next door."

She holds out a manicured hand. "I'm Phoebe, the older sister. It's nice to meet you. Do you want to come in?"

I shake her hand then fold my arms. When adrenaline rushes end so quickly they give me trembly hands. "I'm just going to grab the trimmer from the garage."

Phoebe nods. "I'll let him know. He's in the shower right now."

I nod and mumble something that I hope is polite.

My neighbor has one of those powerful motherfuckers that are a bitch to carry and eat up gas like candy. I sweat buckets even though the weather isn't terribly hot. It takes me two hours to trim the front and the back, and then I have to go over the front again because it's uneven. I feel like someone or two is watching me, and put on a shirt.

Phoebe comes over later. She uses the back door.

"Nice place," she says. I almost remind her that it's just mirrors her brother's, and then realize that she's joking.

"Beer?"

She sits down in a kitchen chair and rests her calves on the corner of the table. They're definitely related.

"Nah," she responds. "I just want to know if you and my brother are gay."

I boost myself up on the counter. "I'm gay, sure."

She raises her eyebrow at me.

"I can't speak for your brother."

Phoebe shakes her head, amused. "Okay, let me rephrase. I know my brother likes women. At least, enough to sleep with a whole lot of them."

Can't argue with that. No way that kid should be allowed to fuck sans rubber. Ever. I was a little surprised when I didn't catch something that first time we fucked.

"But you being gay doesn't explain why he was so fucking upset that he was in the shower when you 'finally' stopped by." She uses air quotes, but only curls her fingers once. I'm impressed.

I shrug and look out the back window. I'm more conscious of the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

Phoebe sighs. "Okay, I expected as much." I look back at her. "You're not the demonstrative or apologetic type," she says. "Just, ah, this is fucking awkward."

I laugh. "You want me to be nice to him?"

Phoebe cocks her head. "I want you to grow up."

I remain silent.

Phoebe scratches her head around her ponytail. "You're what, thirty or so?"

"Or so."

"Okay," she nods. "Then quit smacking away every relationship that springs up."

"I-"

Holding up her hands, she interrupts, "I don't give a fuck whether you guys are 'together' or not. All that matters is that you have the power to make him completely unhappy, and you're using it."

I don't know why, but I flush.

"You don't have siblings," Phoebe states. I shake my head. "My brother and I are pretty honest with each other. I know he's kind of a slut."

"Okay." I am suddenly grateful for being an only child.

"So believe me when I tell you that you're the first guy he's ever been interested in."

I raise an eyebrow. "Bullshit."

"Seriously. Just because he knows how to fuck someone up the ass doesn't mean he's gay."

"Holy fuck," I say. Ew.

Phoebe waves a hand. "Calm down, we don't go into that much detail when we talk."

"Ugh."

Phoebe looks down at her manicured fingers on the table, then grins. "I hear some bitch wanted to fight you for him."

I point to my face. "Were I the type to wear makeup while mowing the lawn, I'd at least do both eyes."

I'm not sure whether to be upset with her or not. She's like her brother-overly familiar and completely invasive.

"Yeah, my brother was staring at you the whole time." She watches me for a moment, then clasps her hand to her face delightedly. "Oh, god, I made you blush! You're so fucking cute!"

"Get out of my house."

Standing, she stretches her arms over her head and moves to the door. "Well, I leave in the morning for Arizona."

"How nice."

Phoebe gives me a look. "Just a warning, I'm stronger than you. If you break his heart I will kill you. I almost did when I heard him singing Heart in the shower."

I believe her.

"Nice talking to you, Andy." Before I open my mouth she winces. "Oops, sorry. My brother told me you hate being called Andy."

"Your brother calls me Andy."

Phoebe smiles like she's about to say something, but steps down from the porch and waves to me. I wave back.

He's on my front stoop the next morning, pounding on my door. I'm glad I bathed properly and haven't eaten breakfast yet.

"Phoebe just leave?" I ask. There's a taxi turning the corner at the end of the street.

"Let me in."

I step back and exhale through my nose.

"I want an underwear drawer here," he says.

I smile, because it's cute that he's trying to be so domestic, and because it sounds like he'd been talking to his sister. "You have to reorganize my socks to fit."

He steps closer. "I sleep over."

"You've already done that."

"I did that only once after I moved out. I'll do it again, whenever." Another step. "Get out of your damn house and come to mine, for once."

"I'm the one getting fucked," I remind him.

I don't know why it's so embarrassing to be dragged by the hand rather than by the ear, elbow, or shirtfront. The people across the street are washing their cars, and my neighbor waves to them as he drags me across the front lawn and into his house.

There is no time to look around, though I think one of the women must have picked out the pillows on the couch and the curtains, because I'm pretty sure they match. I hear Angus barking, maybe in the garage; I've never gone any farther into the house. The bedroom looks clean, there are vacuum tracks on the carpet that I barely have time to notice before I land on the bed.

"Damn it," I say, rubbing my wrist. "You have an appointment later or something?"

"Shut up," he orders, tugging at my pants. There are blades of cut grass stuck to my feet, and he brushes them off before climbing on top of me. He almost brushes the hair from my eyes, but I drag his shirt over his head. He gives me a funny look.

"Don't be a bitch," I say. "It's only been a couple of weeks."

He gets up again to shuck his shorts. "Thank god," he says, "because I don't feel like waiting for you."

"Asshole," I grumble. "Give me the lube and I'll do it."

He grabs it out of the dresser drawer, a little farther away from the bed than I expected. He puts a condom on, slicks up his cock and caps the tube, tossing it all the fucking way down the hall.

"Motherfucker."

"Open your legs."

"Fuck no!"

He grins and wiggles his lube-shiny fingers. "Spread 'em, bitch."

I don't, so he pries my knees apart and settled his hips between them. He rubs his cock against me; I can feel it slipping over my asshole.

"Relax." He's addressing my neck, the space between my throat and collarbone. He's already shaved this morning. "Loosen up."

I do a little bit, and he slips a finger into me. It's slick and he doesn't wait before finding the second best place a man has on his body.

"Ngh," I grunt.

He rubs his nose against my neck, which isn't something I'd normally let him do, but today it feels okay. "I like those noises you make," he says.

I roll my eyes. "When you talk, it ruins things."

Trailing his tongue from my jaw to my ear, he nips the lobe. "I can feel it when you blush," he replies. He adds another finger, taking his time to massage me open. "I think you get off on words."

"I do not."

He sits up. "You do, and it embarrasses the shit out of you."

I glare at him as he kneels between my legs, my thighs draped over his. "I'm in a fucking vulnerable position here," I remind him, "and having you try to whisper sweet nothings in my ear doesn't help."

The bastard grins and twists his fingers inside so that my body melts from the inside out. "What if they're not nothings?" he asks. "Would you be even more embarrassed?"

"No," I spit out, gripping the sheets.

"Liar," he retorts, smiling. "You're bright red down to here." He twists one of my nipples, but gently so that my back arches a little.

I don't know why he's being so fucking weird. "Motherfucker."

"You are so damn cute," he says.

"Shut up."

"You have the personality of a wet cat."

"That's not cute."

He twists his fingers again, and I'm not sure when he added the third, but if he'd just touch my cock I could come.

"Maybe you don't want it to be cute, but it is."

"Stop it," I nearly beg. I've rarely been so uncomfortable.

"But look at how hard you are," he reasons, dipping his finger into the pool of precum on my stomach. He brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the liquid off.

I have to cover my eyes. "I can't believe you just did that."

"What?" he laughs. "I've eaten your cum often enough."

"Just fuck me and be done with it," I growl.

"Can I be on bottom?"

"No."

Hooking my legs over his elbows, he grumbles, "Fine," but he's still grinning like a damn fool. He leans down and I let him kiss me, a make-out kiss with lots of tongue and him kissing up and down my neck in between. I barely register his cock pressed against my ass before he slides all the way in, down to the hilt.

"Oh my fucking god!" I yell, writhing against the bedsheets.

He sits up, concerned. "Does it hurt?"

Yes and no. "No."

It's not just my insides that feel as though they've been rearranged. The room is spinning; my senses are completely overloaded with trying to adjust to having a cock inside me all at once.

"Has anyone else been able to make it all the way in on the first try?"

"Fuck no, skinny dick," I grit out. "Just that first time we fucked, and I had already had another dick in my ass beforehand."

"Then this is mine," he says, sounding pleased. "And you kind of like it."

I think I really like it. I'm about to say something but then he starts to pull out, so slowly that I can feel every vein, every cell. My breathing is constricted, and his is hot on my neck, and I feel like I'm going to fall apart. He pulls out to just the tip, so that it's just a little bit uncomfortable.

"Ow," he says. I unclench my fingers from around his arms.

I exhale a few times, then smack the back of his head as hard as I can. "Fucking asshole bastard monkeyfucker."

He pins my arms above my head, which is easy for him because he actually uses his gym membership. "That hurt, monkey."

"As did my ass when you stabbed me with your fat prick. Kind of." I try to kick him, but I'm paralyzed from the ass down. "I told you to never fucking do that ever the fuck again, after that fisting bullshit-"

"That was three fingers, not a fist, and not my skinny-fat dick," my neighbor interrupts. He bends his head to mine, kissing the inside of my bicep instead when I snap my teeth. "I'm being gentle, you pussy. And don't lie to me if it hurts."

"You don't have to be all gay about it," I retort, "Just-"

"Gentle," he repeats, and pushes his cock back in.

I can breathe this time, because he's going so slow, inching forward only when I exhale. It's sex, and but it's not any sex that I know.

"What-" I'm about to say 'What are you doing?' because I'm not used to this. He covers my mouth with his hand. When he's sure I'm not going to say anything, slides his hand around to the back of my neck.

"If you keep fighting me," he warns, "I'm not going to be able to do anything about your cock."

My ass is on fire, but it's because he's taking such a leisurely pace that I can actually feel him. I can feel the soothing lubricant, the big vein on the underside, and the flared head rubbing against the sensitive inner walls. He releases my hands, stroking down my arm, side, and then sliding his free hand to my enlivened member. The other hand is still cradling my neck and head, and for some reason I feel very small.

I look at his chin when I talk because he's trying to look at my eyes. "You know, one of the best parts about being gay is that I can find so many guys who don't give a fuck about who they sleep with."

His blond head bends to my neck and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss there. "Look into my eyes-"

"No."

"-and tell me why it's not the same with me."

"Fuck if I know!"

I can't concentrate with his fingers running over my dick and his cock doing that slow, torturous thing in my ass. I press my head into the pillow. He kisses me like he's fucking me, slow, explorative, the long sweeps of his tongue over mine mimicking those of his shaft over my spot.

"Maybe it's because you're such a sensitive bitch," I suggest, catching my breath. "Are you on your period?"

He laughs and catches my lips again. "Don't worry about it. I'm on the pill."

I'd call him an idiot, but he's pulling out again, all slow and shit. Fuck, but it's good. I'm having trouble remembering why I was mad at him in the first place. My world has done that thing where it's only the size of his cock, thick and powerful, sliding smoothly in and out of my wanting ass.

"God, I love you," I say, lost in that world.

He freezes. My world stops. I open my eyes to see him staring at me.

"What?"

I think. Ah, shit. "-r cock," I pretend to finish my sentence. "I love your cock." I wrap my legs around his hips for emphasis. "So get moving."

He does, but bends over me and peppers my face with little kisses. "I love your cock, too," he says, sounding giddy. "I love your cock so much that I stopped putting mine in pussies the last time I got caught."

"Seriously?" My insides are only gooey because I like fucking. That's it.

Kiss. "Mm hm." Another kiss accompanied by increased pace of his hips. "And I felt really bad about your eye."

"Is that so?"

Another kiss, and his hand on my cock and his cock in my ass are making it hard to think.

"Really. And I love your cock so much that I'm taking it and the rest of you to meet my cock's family."

I kick him, but the only way to do that is to hit his ass with my heel, which just drives him further into me. I really do love his cock. "Don't you dare," I warn.

He doesn't respond in words, just wraps an arm around me and pulls me to him. I don't remember if we've ever fucked like this, embracing while his hips jackhammer into me and his free hand squeezes my cock.

Neither of us warns the other when we come. He comes quietly, whispering things into my ear I will never repeat. His back tenses under my hands and his hips jerk. In spite of the extra wave of embarrassment that makes me come, too, in thick ropey bursts that would have hit my chin had his not been in the way. I cling to him, fucking myself on his cock as hard as I can.

As per usual, I get uncomfortable the instant the thrill of orgasm is over. He throws the condom away and grabs baby wipes from that drawer of tricks. I pretend to be passed out when he cleans me up, wiping away my cum with what could be called tenderness, if the word itself weren't so gag-inducing.

Crawling in bed and curling himself around me, my neighbor pulls the comforter over the both of us. I'm hungry and I have shit to get done. I raise my head.

"Don't move," he commands. I put my head back down.

He's tense for a few minutes because he knows I don't have to stay, that I probably won't. I lie still, making a list of everything I need to do at home. And then, only because his bed is really comfortable, I feel myself drifting off to sleep.

"When you wake up I'll make French toast, the fancy kind," he promises. I don't know why he's talking so softly.

"With fucking fresh fruit and whipped cream," I growl.

"Absolutely." His arm tightens around me, which is irritating and possessive. "Your ears are bright pink."

If he's going to be all tender and shit, I'm taking a nap. Dumbass.

 

Wander Wonder

[email protected]

Top


Rate Story Choose rating between 1 (worst) and 10 (best).

Bookmark and Share

blog comments powered by Disqus