Matt gauged the depth of penetration by the atmospheric pressure moving down his shaft. Eventually he reached the limit. His ball sack grazed Jake’s ass.
Instinctively, Matt waited, giving Jake’s body time to adjust.
Matt lowered his upper body until his chest was against Jake’s back.
He found Jake’s hands, clasped them with his own, fingers interlocked. He eased Jake’s arms to an outstretched crucifixion position. Matt’s mouth was near Jake’s left ear.
“Ready, beautiful?” Matt asked softly.
“Yes.”
Matt’s legs were inside Jake’s own. Matt spread his legs, stretching Jake further, gaining, in the process, more real estate to penetrate.
Matt bred Jake, rolling his own hips until his pubis bone ground against Jake’s sacrum, feeling the gorge building, adjusting his stroke to elicit the same Pentecostal mewlings from Jake as Matt had sputtered while impaled by William.
He pumped through his orgasm, his final thrusts delivered like the sharp taps of Morse Code.
He rolled the two of them onto their sides. With his left arm around Jake’s chest, Matt held him close, his cock still buried in Jake’s ass.
Matt hawked up a wad of spit into his right palm. Then he reached around and grasped Jake’s cock.
Jake moaned.
Matt whispered in Jake’s ear. His voice was low, commanding.
“There’s no time to get more lube. No time to milk you for more pre-cum. You’ve got this little wad of spit. That’s it. Now cum for me. Cream my hand. And when you do, I’m going to lick my fingers and swallow every drop. We’ll each have the other’s cum inside us.”
It took only a few strokes before Jake’s entire body stiffened. Rigor mortis of the orgasmic kind.
No wonder, Matt thought, the French called this the “little death.”
Matt cupped his hand to capture the jets of warm cream.
Chapter 9: Birthday Boy
Monday, August 21, 1995
Matt heard caterwauling before he even opened the door to the bathroom. Then he saw it—or rather them. Seth and Mark #1, naked (nekkid in Okie), waiting for shower stalls, singing “Twist and Shout!” Each of them held a shampoo bottle as a makeshift mic, doing their best to channel Ferris Bueller’s famous parade song. Seth sang lead, Mark #1 was his backup.
It was a beautiful moment, exactly what Matt needed.
He was in a funk. Today was his nineteenth birthday, which should be an occasion to celebrate. Instead, his thoughts were of Adam Maxwell, the kid he’d never met, who was also nineteen, also gay, and who was now in a hospital, having nearly succeeded in killing himself.
Seth held out his shampoo bottle-cum-mic, beckoning Matt to join in.
Matt hesitated. He decided to do so in Adam’s honor, one Oklahomo shaking his booty in tribute to another.
Saturday, when Matt and Jake had fucked, all they had known about Adam was that he was no longer a student at MCU. Even William had known little more than that. It was only post-fuck, when Matt and Jake were laughing and horsing around, that the room’s phone had rung insistently. William calling with the story, which was still incomplete. Someone had told the dean that Adam was gay. The dean had confronted Adam and pressured him to drop out of school, the whole “save your family the shame” bit.
A few hours later, Adam had almost died.
Matt sang and showered, dressed, and went to the cafeteria for some coffee.
Ruth, a girl he recognized from his Old Testament Survey class, beckoned him to join her and some friends at their table. Ruth patted the seat next to her as if she had been saving it for him.
He sat, noticing as he did, a perfumed cloud enveloping Ruth, who was also very put-together for a Monday morning. Big hair. Tight top.
Ruth introduced him to her four tablemates, who, after some initial small talk, settled into their prescribed roles as backup singers.
