14
Jessie
“What’llitbe,boys?”asks my dad. He’s just put the stack of pizza boxes down on the coffee table in the media room. I’ve already been subjected to the fucked-up-ness that was the pizza party conga.
I wait for Luke to say, “Get The Party Started,” but he doesn’t. He gives me a small smile and says, “You Shook Me All Night Long.”
Rachel is so surprised her mouth drops open briefly. “ACDC?Nice one, Lu!”
My dad and Rachel waste no time getting into it. Before Brian Johnson even gets started on the vocals, they’re moving. It’s appalling. Bone-chillingly bad. Worse than it’s been in the past, and that’s saying something. Best I can tell, what they’re doing is a horrifying bastardization of the tango. Luke is doing his usual high intensity aerobics, or whatever you’d call it. He punches the air in time with the music with one hand, and bites down on his bottom lip with the extreme concentration his performance demands of him.
I feel like I felt at the beach yesterday, only this time I’m aware of it as it happens, and this time I can’t stop the smile. I can’t even come close. Something big and out of control starts to bubble in my chest. I fight it but I’m powerless against it. Short, sharp bursts of laughter erupt out of me. I clamp my mouth shut but that doesn’t help. All it does is change a helpless giggle into a dry snort that bursts out of my nose.
Luke feels my eyes on him and stops moving. His smile freezes and vanishes like steam that’s been wiped off a mirror. He casts a quick look at our parents. He finds them totally oblivious of us. He looks at me again, sweet and soft one second, and the next he’s not. His eyes blaze and he arches his head back. Slowly. Deliberately. He watches me through hooded lids, running one hand down his chest drawing my gaze down his body to his hips. He starts moving again, but not like I’ve seen him moving before. Not like I’ve seen anyone moving before. He rolls his hips. A slow, controlled circle that looks like sex. Exactly like sex. Like slow sex. The kind of sex that lasts all night and changes your life and alters aspects of your personality permanently. The kind of sex I want to have but haven’t had yet. It’s so sensual it feels like the oxygen has been snatched from my lungs and viciously snuffed out.
It’s quick. The whole thing only lasts for a few seconds. Four or five seconds at most, then he’s back to aerobics. The difference is this time, he’s the one laughing and I’m standing in the middle of the room with our parents a few feet away, fuzzy-headed and sporting an uncomfortably hard cock.
I barely taste my pizza. I can’t tell when I’ve chewed enough to try swallowing. The movie is agony. It’s long and painfully boring. I couldn’t outline the plot if my life depended on it. Luke has crammed himself between Rachel and I, the same as he did the first time and every time we’ve watched a movie together since then. His thigh is pressed firmly against mine and his meaty shoulder digs into mine. The only thing I can smell or taste or think of is him.
I sit stock still, fighting the urge to put my hand on his leg and slide my fingers roughly between his thighs. I don’t do it, though. I stay still and think of the way his lips felt on mine last night. Fleshy and soft. So soft. I think of his dick, pressed against my belly, then pulsing in my hand. My thoughts consume me. They make me feel crazy. When we get to a loud scene in the movie, I lean over and whisper, “Can we go back to our place,please?”into his ear. He shows no sign of having heard me, but a few minutes later he puts his hand under the blanket, resting it in his lap well within my reach. I wait as long as I can and then I bury mine too. He remains perfectly still, and I move as slowly and stealthily as it’s possible for a man to move. I slide my hand under his, palm up, lacing our fingers together and squeeze hard. He squeezes back harder.
The sight of the credits rolling is such a welcome sight it makes me believe in God, and the goodness of people, and the fact that maybe, just maybe, this shit show called life really does have some meaning.
“It’s still early, how about a board game?” suggests my dad.
“Uh, I don’t really think board games are Jessie’s thing, Greg,” says Luke.
“Yeah, nah, thanks, Dad. I’d rather make out with a blue-ringed octopus.”
Luke chatters as we walk out to the guest house together. “Damn, how long was that movie? Thought it would never end.” I try, but I’m not able to rouse a flicker of irritation. “Were you hard the whole time?”
I don’t answer, but I do lengthen my strides.
“I was,” he says softly. “I still am. And Jessie, I know you were too. I could feel it.”
“You couldn’t feel it. You weren’t touching me like that.”
“That’s not how I feel things around you.”
That gives me pause. This is turning into a little more talk about feelings than I’d like, so I sigh and keep walking. He seems to sense it because he changes the topic.
“When we get inside, can I blow you?”
The problem with Luke is that he looks so fucking sweet and acts even sweeter, so when he says things like this, it makes me feel like my brain’s had a factory reset. I grunt something in response. It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. I lengthen my stride again. Not enough that I’m running. That would be sad. A brisk trot, that’s how I’d describe it.
The second we close the door he has his hands on my waist band. He pulls down on my jeans without loosening the button. I have to help him, the second the button and zipper are open, he has my jeans and my boxer briefs around my ankles and he’s on his knees.
“Jesus!” I exclaim.
He raises an unapologetic shoulder. “Waited so long.” He presses his face up against me, breathing me in. “Can’t wait any more.”
I’d love to say that what follows is a perfect, mind-blowing blow job. It isn’t. He has no idea what he’s doing and it shows. He takes me by the root and holds me in his hand, swallowing as much of me as he can. He manages the head and that’s about it. He uses teeth when he pulls back the first few times and when he starts sucking, he sucks a little too hard. I flinch, even though I don’t mean to. My personal feelings about blow job etiquette have always centered around the strong belief that it’s a privilege to have your dick in someone’s mouth and you should act accordingly grateful.
“Sorry!” He looks up at me, nervousness and disappointment written across his face.
I don’t want to see him looking like that. I don’t like it for him. I shuffle over, pants still round my ankles and sit on the arm of the sofa. “C’mere.”
He follows on his hands and knees. He looks so fucking hot on his knees, a big part of me wants to forget all about the blow job and get stuck in behind him.
