When he was back on firm ground he pulled out and sat up, tugging Carver along so he could more easily jerk him off. They sat there breathing heavily, half in each other’s laps with their legs intertwined, both watching Scott’s hand move up and down Carver’s shining erection.
Carver was flushed in the cheeks and lips in a striking, lovely way, and Scott couldn’t help mumbling compliments as he worked. Carver smiled in response, poking his tongue out between his teeth a little, looking at Scott with great affection. His face wasn’t only brightened by sex, Scott knew, because he hadn’t looked like this last night. What was in him now was the truth, he was maddened and altered and sanctified by the truth.
Once Carver had come into Scott’s hand — and once Scott had used the other hand to dig around in his half-open duffel bag for a towel to wipe them both down with — they lay panting on the navy blue fitted sheet, too hot and wired to cuddle or sleep. After a few minutes Carver sat up and started to trace Scott’s body with his hands; it took Scott a moment to realize he was examining his tattoos.
“What does this mean,” he said with the unthinking boldness of a little kid, pointing at the ouroboros around Scott’s left bicep.
“Fair warning, some of these answers are going to disappoint you,” Scott said.
“Why? Did you get it for a girl?”
“No, I got it ‘cause it looked cool on the flash sheet.” Scott indicated the knife on his left forearm. “Looked cool on the flash sheet.” He pointed to the poppy flower on his right forearm. “Looked pretty on the flash sheet.”
Carver touched the anchor on his right bicep.
“Second one I got, after this one,” Scott said, tapping the avenging angel on his thigh, which was in need of a touch-up. “Got it a week after I moved to L.A. I liked the idea of getting one of the classics. It was either that or MOM in a heart.”
“But my mom said you barely see your mom.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of why I went for the anchor.”
Carver laughed and touched the scorpion on his hip.
“Thought it would look cool,” Scott said. “And I always liked the scorpion and the frog story.”
“What, you relate to the scorpion?”
He laughed. “No, man, the frog. The scorpion just looks cooler.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Carver pointed below his collarbone, and Scott tilted his head to see which one he was indicating. “That’s a line fromWaiting For Godot.”
“You read it?”
“I saw it off-Broadway back in like, ‘06, and I actually didn’t like it then, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I bought a copy and read it and liked it.”
“You were in New York in ‘06?” Carver said, his gaze intent.
“Briefly,” Scott said. “I caught some work as a session artist.”
“Where were you living then?”
“I’d just left L.A. for Phoenix.”
“Phoenix? Arizona?”
“It’s a good place for like, day labor under the table, and there was cool stuff going on there musically at the time, I swear,” Scott said. “There still is, it’s a good scene. I was just never, like — I don’t know.”
“Never what?” Carver said.
“Ah, nothing. I feel like this shit bores you.”
Carver rolled his eyes and ran a hand up and down his thigh. “Just talk. I’ll let you know if you start boring me.”
“Alright, alright. Uh, I don’t know.” Scott was a little embarrassed, and embarrassed about being embarrassed. Most people — especially people he’d just had sex with — were happy to hang on his every word about hisart, but with Carver it was different. His art was the reason he’d left for California. There was more pressure to justify, to reason it all out. “I spent a lot of time around the hardcore, punk, metal scenes, but that wasn’t me. I —” He broke off with an ambivalent noise.
“Too loud?” Carver said, with a knowing look.
