Jack was holding out for Demarco's climax, but when he felt the quivers begin—a tight clench on himself below—he bit softly into Demarco's shoulder and came.
Demarco felt the tremor of Jack's release and he collapsed further into his stronghold with what felt like a double-orgasm, intense... his entire body electrified as Jack continued stroking from both sides. Hot semen poured from him over Jack's stroking fist, mingling with the water and getting slicker. Jack's shudders were beginning to subside, his thrusts now waning, the final push slower, but of equal intent.
Demarco was muttering gibberish, breathy whispers in the steam, as the locomotive that was Jack began to slacken, cranking to a steady crawl before finally—mercifully—a halt.
They stayed like that for what seemed an eternity... subdued in the heat, the only sound their pants and the patter of water from the single showerhead. Jack's softening member slipped out. He clung to Demarco from behind, squeezing him tight.
"That's the best thing I've ever felt in my life," Jack said.
Demarco nodded. He could not speak.
16
As they were drying off and getting dressed, Jack suggested they get some food in their stomachs. Demarco loaned him a shirt, underwear, and socks—his jeans, they determined, would make it another day. Soon, they were out the door and walking to 17th Street.
Dupont Italian Kitchen—or DIK's—was the destination. Demarco was an avid fan of their weekend brunch and Jack was quite certain that he could eat two-day-old pizza off the sidewalk if they didn't get somewhere—anywhere—soon.
It was Saturday and beautiful, one of those perfect early spring days—sunny, warm, birds singing, and trees beginning to bloom. They dined outside, within the waist-high wrought iron fencing—sharing large helpings of eggs Benedict, french toast and bacon, mimosas, and coffee. As they ate, the sleepy DC neighborhood was awakening around them. More cars were appearing in the streets and men were walking hand-in-hand on the sidewalks.
"It's days like this that I love living here," Demarco said.
"It's intoxicating, for sure."
A handsome bearded man walking an English bulldog stopped long enough for Demarco to pet the dog between the black iron bars.
"Hey, Churchill," Demarco said, slipping the dog a piece of bacon.
"Hey, Demarco," said the man—similar inflection, but with an English accent.
"Churchill... what a great name," said Jack, also reaching for the dog.
"Thank you. And he thanks you too."
"Where have you been, Andrew? It's been a while."
"Provincetown," the man answered—as if it were obvious. "We bounce back and forth."
"Well, it's good to see your face back in the neighborhood," said Demarco. "This is Jack."
"Pleased to meet you, Jack."
"I loved your piece on Adele," Demarco said.
"Thank you.Truly. Aaron says I'm going soft."
"You? Never."
"Well, I'm off." He continued walking with a wave of the hand. "Cheers, gentlemen. It's a gorgeous day."
Demarco waved back.
"Bye guys," said Jack... then to Demarco, "Do I know him?"
"Andrew Mulligan."
Jack's brow furrowed.
"Conservative gay writer and talking head. You've seen him on Stephanopoulos... or Bill Maher."
