I saw stars. They looked like glowing worms burning twisty patterns in the stucco ceiling. When was the last time I came that hard? Fuck.
The sound of Jam gagging jolted me awake more effectively than the orgasm itself. I was also pulling his hair kind of hard and I don’t think it was to pull him off me, if you know what I mean. He somehow soldiered through the moment of choking and successfully swallowed. I let go of him and he let go of me at the same time. His head popped up with a grin and he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
I blinked because the part of my brain that controlled talking wasn’t online yet.
“See, I told you,” Jam said to Flip. “Best way to have bus sex.” We weren’t in a bus so this must’ve been a reference to some conversation they’d been having while I was asleep? “No muss, no fuss.”
Flip laughed. “Barely. You almost made a bigger mess. I warned you he’d go off like a geyser.”
“No kidding.” Jam slapped me on the thigh.
I managed to get a word in edgewise. That word was: “Why?”
“Didn’t seem fair you were the only one not getting off,” Flip said with a yawn.
“Oh…” My groggy brain still wasn’t firing on all cylinders. What was the appropriate thing to say here? Thank you? Or, what the fuck made you think that was a good idea? Or both?
“Especially what with the way you were moaning,” Jam said with a snicker.
“But,” I managed. “But…”
Jam sat up, frowning, apparently sensing that I had some objection. “Don’t tell me that was too gay for you.”
“No, but.” But what? Nothing was making sense other than the fact that there was a total lack of tension from my neck downward.
“I mean, if it’s not too gay for me, how could it be too gay for the actual gay guy?” Jam climbed off the bed and stretched. His torso was long and rangy, kind of like Colin’s. He was wearing surf shorts and nothing else. He picked at his teeth with his thumbnail. “You guys got any floss?”
“In the bathroom,” Flip said, jerking his thumb in that direction.
Jam went to floss. I pulled the covers over myself as I rolled onto my side. “Um. Your idea or his?”
“Two beers ago I might’ve been able to answer that question,” Flip said. “You okay? You look concerned.”
“I make it a general policy not to have sex with anyone without discussing it with them first.” That came out quite reasonable sounding, I thought.
Apparently Jam could hear us perfectly well. “You count that as sex?”
He snorted. “Hell no.”
“That’d be gay,” Flip said without any apparent irony except for a little snort at the end.
I could almost see how that made sense from a heterosexual point of view–probably the closest I ever came to seeing anything from a heterosexual point of view, really. Flip had once described straight guys giving blow jobs in his frat house as no big deal. It hit home that he was telling the truth. This was no bigger a deal to them than any other tour prank.
Wait, did I tell you about the toothbrush prank? I might’ve decided to skip it because it’s kind of gross when you think about it. Over the years I’ve seen it pulled more than once. This is the prank where you steal a guy’s toothbrush from his toiletry kit, shove it up your ass, take a photo of it, and then put it back where you found it. And then a week or so later you tape the photo to the bus door.
I’d say getting a surprise blow job was better than that.
I felt at that point I had a choice to either accept that they meant me no real harm and treat it like nothing, in which case it would become nothing, or I could turn it into an issue that we could argue about all night and make all three of us into stress puppies for the foreseeable future. That hardly seemed worth it.
But then I figured out how to explain it so it made sense that “the gay guy” objected to the gayest thing of all, even if the two straight dudes didn’t. “Okay, sure, thanks,” I said. “But next time, now that you know how I feel about it, remember my policy, all right?”
“Sure,” they both chirped.
“Because, you know, I’m taken.”
Jam stuck his head out of the bathroom, a piece of green dental floss hanging from his mouth, which hung open. “Oh shit, you mean there’s someone at home you promised your dick to?”
“Call me a crazy romantic, but yeah.”
I could see the logic clicking into place in Jam’s head as his eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Man. Hadn’t thought of that.” He ducked back into the bathroom and I heard the water run for a bit. Then he emerged sans floss. “My girl doesn’t care if the guys in the band touch my dick, only if other girls do. Hadn’t occurred to me you as an actual gay might have issues.”
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. An actual gay. Like I was some exotic bird or fish. A rare sighting of an actual gay in his natural habitat. “You let the guys in your band touch your dick?”
“Well, I mean not usually, but special circumstances and all.”
“Special circumstances?” I asked.
“None of us have got laid since you got sick,” Flip explained.
“Ah.” My conclusion was that I was not the only one who got stupid if I went too long without getting off. “Well, ask next time, okay?”
“Except there won’t be a next time because I’m not, like, a homewrecker, okay?” Jam said indignantly.
There was no way I could explain why, when he said that, I started to laugh hysterically. Partly because I suck at explanations. (Hell, here we are twenty five years later and I still can’t really explain it.) You know, it wasn’t like I could even start to explain the whole history with me and Ziggy and him. But mainly I couldn’t explain because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t talk. I could barely breathe.
I wrote a song called “Homewrecker” on the bus later, because the word had stuck in my head. Some people who don’t listen very hard probably think it’s a song about cheating or adultery. It isn’t, though. It’s about alcoholism.
(P.S. Folks who enjoy my gay erotica/BDSM writing, The Prince’s Boy is being reissued in a collected volume. Pre-orders for the ebook are now live and the new cover art can be seen here: http://blog.ceciliatan.com/archives/2949 -ctan)