Ate the raspberry tarts with their hands. Ended with sticky, red goo smeared on their fingers.
Licked and suckled each other’s digits clean.
Played grab-ass while tidying the kitchen and loading the dishwasher. (Matt grabbed. Adam dodged.)
Then, just before the clock struck the half hour, Matt drank one last bit of wine, held it in his mouth, and pulled Adam into a kiss. Passed some wine to Adam, who accepted the gift.
He scooped Adam into his arms and carried him bridal-style up the stairs. Adam’s briar patch grazed his forearm. Adam’s downy legs swayed. His arms clung to Matt’s neck.
Matt laid Adam on the bed. Bent down and untied Adam’s shoes, eased them off his feet.
Ditto for the socks.
Massaged the balls of Adam’s feet, causing his monkey toes tospread and curl.
Grainy, silvered moonlight filled the upstairs room, illuminating the pale, freckled boy sprawled on his back, arms akimbo, legs slightly spread; eyes both aflutter and fearful of his pending deflowering; mouth half open, panting to be kissed, but also pleading for deliverance.
Deliverance from what?
The desire that caused the rapid rise and fall of his chest? The desire that drove him to writhe as if possessed? Same desire that could only be exorcised by pounding a penis inside him until it perforated his soul?
Matt, kneeling at the foot of the bed, assessed his boyfriend’s agony. Knew the cure was his own seeping cock but delayed its ministration. He, too, panted as if his life force were ebbing away, inexorably drawn to the shrouded, pagan grove that was the briar patch.
He gripped Adam’s hairy thighs, spread them further apart, ignoring the soggy pouch of the underwear constraining Adam’s cock, focused instead on the tangle near his taint.
Matt lowered his mouth to the grassy knoll. Buried his nose in the sweat-slickened lair. Licked it with his tongue, slurping thirstily. Worshipping.
His nostrils filled with heady musk. He tasted acrid, salty distillates of testosterone and piss. He dove deeper into the crevasse, prising Adam’s cheeks apart, a pig snorting for truffles.
Adam squirmed and squealed. Protested—too much and yet insincerely all at once, straining his hole towards Matt’s flicking tongue.
And then there was the hole in all its pinkish glory, a tiny, puckered thing quivering and shivering, winking almost, as Matt paused in wonderment, conqueror and supplicant simultaneously.
He teased its ridges, kissed them reverently. He rolled his tongue into a tube shape, breached the perimeter, and probed.
Adam gasped. Moaned.
Matt met his eyes, smiled. Stretched the hole with his hands and rimmed it with his tongue.
“Please,” Adam begged. “Take off your clothes. Fuck me already.”
Matt stood. Remembered William’s advice that sex is a performance art.
Slowly peeled off his shirt, flexed his pecs as he did so. Unzipped his jeans and slid them—methodically—down his muscular thighs.
He stood there in his boxer briefs, his cock tenting the fabric, fogging it with pre-cum.
He sank onto the mattress beside Adam. Leaned in for a kiss.
For the second time that night, Adam turned his head, offered his cheek instead. “Sorry. I know where your mouth has been.”
“Bradley’s right, you know,” Matt whispered. “I am hiding something.”
Adam rolled to face him, laid a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “You can tell me anything.”
“Do you promise that no matter how ugly it is you won’t run away in disgust?”
Adam nodded.
