When Everything Is Blue(10)

“I guess it’s true what they say about tall guys,” he remarks, and I have to hide my smile. Yeah, my junk’s pretty big.

I watch him work me over, still struck dumb with disbelief and unable to process that this is really happening. Chris handles me with such ease, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. His tongue edges out the corner of his mouth and curls on the side as he jerks me off with a look of deep concentration on his face. No one has ever touched me like this before, and even though it’s Chris, my best friend, my straight best friend, it feels natural and right and sofuckingawesome.

The sensation builds until I’m bucking my hips in rhythm with his hand. A ragged growl erupts from my throat as seismic tremors roll through me in quick succession. My mind explodes, my body convulses, and my dick shoots out stars like the Milky Way. I don’t even see where my spunk lands. Maybe the next galaxy over.

“Damn, Theo,” Chris says and leans back, chuckling. “Been saving up for that, huh?”

“Ha,” I utter, a little disoriented, a little delirious, clawing my way back into this new reality where my best friend touches my junk. Is Chris gay? My heart still pounds in my throat and a thin sheen of sweat covers my body and upper lip. I clench my teeth because I’m afraid to say anything that will break the spell. Chris lays back and spreads his arms, ruffles my hair, and generally takes up way more than his fair share of the tent. I listen to his breathing and wait for him to say something. Anything. Any day now. I count his breaths until at last, I risk a glance over and see that he’s already fallen asleep.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to settle my nerves, then adjust my boys, who are still reeling in shock. I drag my hand across my shirt to find Chris’s cum trail has dried into a thin crust, proving I didn’t just dream it. Finally I roll over onto my stomach with the smell of him soaking into my pores, wondering what the hell just happened.

This changes everything.





Nope


I DON’T wake up to breakfast in bed. Not even the smells of coffee and bacon.

I wake up alone. And there’s a chill in the air. It sends a shiver through me and gives me a strange sense of unease.

The sun is just starting to bleed through the trees when I crawl out of the tent. I take the opportunity to change out of my jismed shirt into a clean long-sleeve that used to belong to Chris. I actually love wearing his old clothes, mainly because they remind me of something we did together while he wore them. I take a leak in the bushes, then poke at the coals of our fire with a stick. I consider restarting it, even though it’s Chris’s domain, when he finally shows up with a beach towel thrown over his shoulder, clean clothes, and wet hair. He usually never showers on our beach trips, says the ocean is all he needs.

I haven’t rehearsed what I’ll say to him. I’m trusting him to know what to do, since he initiated things last night. I study him as he comes closer, searching for some indication of where we stand. He looks a little nervous, embarrassed even, and keeps glancing away. I clear my throat while my guts do a Riverdance. His smile seems way too forced, like I could peel it right off his face. I’m balanced on the balls of my feet in anticipation when Chris finally opens his mouth and says, “I’m thinking donuts.”

I run a hand through my hair and stare at my bare feet, which have been getting a lot of attention lately. He’s thinking donuts. How am I supposed to answer that?

“Yeah, okay.”

That settles it, I guess. We pack up the tent, and I notice the shirt he was wearing last night has disappeared. It seems along with it went any memory of what happened. Is it possible he was so tired he forgot? I couldn’t forget it if I tried. And I don’t want to. It was pretty awesome, I thought. Getting each other off like that? Way better than flying solo. Who knew a hand job could feel so good? And the fact that I care for him—right up there with my mother and sister—makes it all the more meaningful. But maybe he’s ashamed of it, or of us.

We finish loading our camping equipment into the back of his car. I’m trying to think of a smooth way to bring it up when Chris turns to me and says, “Last night was crazy, right?”

He says it like we’d both gotten wasted and hit on each other’s moms or something. Neither of us was drunk, and it didn’t seem that crazy to me, more like, I don’t know, amazing? But maybe he’s worried it will screw up our friendship, which would suck royally. Or it was just a one-off for him. He’s clearly uncomfortable about it, so there’s nothing I can do but go along.

“Yeah, crazy,” I echo.

“I was just messing around. You know that, right?”

Messing around is guy speak for it meant nothing. I’ve seen countless guys tell girls that same thing when they come calling Monday morning after a party over the weekend.

He must regret it, which makes me regret it as well.

“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, then make my way blindly to the front seat, wishing I could sit in the back instead, because all I want is to curl up into a ball and teleport to literally anywhere else.

At Monster Hole we surf on opposite sides of the swells. Chris keeps his distance on the beach too. Maybe he’s scared my dick might jump out of my pants and into his hand. He also makes sure to double his quota of flirting with the babes, proving to me or maybe himself his überheterosexuality.

Nothing says screw you like having a bunch of hot chicks draped all over you like Mardi Gras beads.