When Everything Is Blue(9)

He’s quiet for a moment and then he goes, “She wanted to blow me.”

I feel my eyebrows crawl to the top of my forehead. Chris has no concept of TMI, at least not with me. “Did you let her?”

“No, but man, she wanted to,” he says again.

I don’t know too many guys who would turn down a blowjob. That’s, like, the thing at our school. Guys are always talking about who gave them a blowjob that weekend and how it rated with the rest. It makes me feel bad for the girls at our school, how meaningless and one-sided the guys make it seem.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I just met her, like, the day before. Felt… empty or something.”

I say nothing, just imagine my best friend with a girl, his fingers all up in her jellyfish, her offering up a blowjob and him turning her down, even though it probably would have been easier to go with it. I’m kind of proud of him. And jealous of her that it was even a possibility he entertained. If Chris wants a blowjob, I’d totally take one for the team, but I’m guessing that’s not what he has in mind.

“You would have let her?” he asks, like he might have done something wrong.

“No, I mean, I don’t know. No one’s ever offered. But, in your situation, I probably would have done the same thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

We’re quiet after that. Chris is so open and honest. It makes me want to give something back, but whenever I think about expressing myself to him, my stomach gets all tied up in knots and my mouth cements shut and my brain screams no, no, noooo.

“Wow,” Chris says.

“What?”

He chuckles.

“What?” I ask again, feeling paranoid that he somehow read my mind.

“I am so hard right now.”

My breath hitches and my head swivels toward him. His eyes are aimed at his crotch, the tent that’s formed in his basketball shorts, the shiny material pitched in the middle like a beacon. I’ve seen his dick before in passing, but not when it was hard. Never on display.

“So hard it, like, hurts,” Chris says and curls his shoulders a little, like the sensation is uncomfortable.

My fingers dig into the fabric of my sleeping bag while my eyes travel to the tip of his tent, where his hard-on strains against the material, down the slope of his shorts to the waistband, the exposed skin, and the narrow trail of hair that leads to the hard lines of his abs.

“Take a look at this,” he says and pulls down the waistband of his shorts so his dick pops up into full view, a little paler than the rest of him but just as hearty. Thick and meaty with a slight curve to it. Even in the dark, I can make out the swollen vein branching along his shaft. The head nods like a small man in a wide-brimmed hat, and a little drop of dew has collected at the tip. My heart races and my throat goes dry as my own cock starts to pitch and froth inside my shorts.

Does he know what he’s doing to me right now?

Instead of putting it away, Chris grabs hold of it and gives it a long leisurely tug, like he knows I’m watching. My eyes are transfixed on the motion of his hand over his cock, so casually confident, and the soft, shushing sound it makes in the quiet tent. When I glance up at him, he’s already looking at me, looking inside me, seeing the jumble of emotions I still haven’t sorted through—desire, friendship, trust, and fear all mixed together in a riot of indecision.

“Feel how hard it is,” he says and slowly moves his hand away.

I lick my lips and question him with my eyes. Is he for real right now? He wants me to touch his dick? Like, with my hand?

Chris nods, so slight I almost miss it in the dark. I don’t know what else to do. He’s the boss in this two-man show. I swallow down my nerves, reach over, and grab hold. All five fingers wrap around his thick cock. It’s alive. Pulsing and warm, so smooth and ready. A real show-off, just like the rest of him. Chris closes his hand over mine and moves it up and down like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He curls inward a little bit, shuts his eyes, and moans, and I don’t need to guess what he wants me to do next.

He slowly moves his hand away and raises his hips off the ground to give me a better angle. I grip him tighter, rolling my hand up and down in a rhythm I’ve used on myself countless times, teasing the head with my thumb. Chris groans and puckers his lips. His eyebrows draw together and he gasps like he’s in pain, but I know he’s not. Sweat droplets collect at his temple, and I focus on his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, nodding at me to keep on.

“Yeah,” he utters from somewhere deep down as my palm rides him. “Oh shit, Theo,” he exclaims, so I pump faster, gliding up and down his shaft while his face contorts into one I’ve never seen before. I jerk him off until he erupts, his warm goo spilling over my knuckles and into his curly light brown pubes. I pull my hand away, staring at it in disbelief. Not knowing what else to do, I wipe it on my shirt. The smell of him is everywhere, his skin and sweat and cum. My shirt is stuck to me from the dampness of my own exertion. My hands are shaking. Mind racing and breathless, I feel like I’m trapped in that swirly all over again.

“Let me do you,” Chris says, sitting up in the tent. He’s tucked his junk back into his shorts and his eyes have a drowsy, dreamy look. His mouth still hangs open, pearly pink lips shining with spit. I know he hasn’t been drinking, so this must mean he really wants to? I lean back on my elbows, and he reaches inside my shorts for my own throbbing junk, tugs at it until it’s at peak mass. It doesn’t take much.