The sprawled toe trap disguised as a throw rug must've been a recent present from Ma Murphy or a sister. Halfway to the bathroom, and Tim went flying when his socked feet connected to the starchy underside of the fuzzy beast.
Tim braced himself against the wall, left hand thumping plaster spots in a row; the wooden thud of a dresser; the coolness of a large picture frame; and finally, finally, the thing he was too woozy to remember the proper name of, long and twisting against his palm as the slats opened.
The toilet was miles away. Christ how he needed to piss.
More steps and hitting the fan switch instead of the bathroom light, but his bladder was blessedly freed. Red and white and black dots formed in his slitted eyes as he managed not to crash into the towel rack.
*FUCK, did I put the seat up? Yes.*
The tinny drenching of the inner toilet bowl blended with the drippy thuds diving onto linoleum, a duet so fascinating that the large damp spots on his jeans were an afterthought. And after he thought about why he had the bathroom skills of a 7-year old, the jeans came off, dipped under the cool, soothing (as long as you don't drink it) city tap water and tossed in Sean's towel hamper. 2 points, heavy denim fucking up his slam dunk.
He barely remembered how he'd gotten to Sean's apartment, or when he'd gotten there. Lots of drinking, lots of ringing and collapsing on a doorbell, lots of Murph fumbling with his clothes and touching him all over before the couch arm brushed against his neck, pillow intercepting skin and fabric. Hazy memories of a blonde slapping him after he'd gawked too long at her backbreaking tits. Or maybe that was last week.
Tim rubbed the skin above his collar, now adjusted to the eerie beauty of the filtered, natural lighting.
//"Tim, that ain't new, it's been there half a year."
"Really? Since I make enough to Supersize once a week, that means you make even less. But that rug is ugly as hell."
"It's from my mother."
"Ugly in a good way. It's ugly in a good way and...fuck." //
Shitty memory; Alzheimer's lurked around the corner. At least this wasn't as bad as the time he went to bed with Tyra Banks and woke up with Aunt Esther.
Tim propped himself against the dresser, legs balmed by a breeze; last remnants of a buzz numbing and heightening various outside influences. He felt way too fucking wired to go back to sleep.
Shafts of night's light hit the bed in sections, the white sheet a translucent beacon in the dark room. Each of Sean's tosses and turns showcased another feature. A mostly flat stomach, expanding upward into perfectly symmetrical and furred pecs; biceps and triceps gliding over the pillow; a beefy thigh; layers of hair so thick they seemed to go beneath his skin, seemed to represent what made him what he'd always been: a protective, patient Papa Bear, never wavering, never condemning.
Did he just say, "Tony", in his sleep?
Center of his back gouged against a round wooden knob, Tim heard a loud guffaw at that thought, confused when he felt the breath on his hands. Papa Bear didn't have wet dreams. Sean wasn't a fucking forest creature, or a god, or a saint. He wasn't even a best friend, because most of the best friends never stuck around. Sign their yearbook and never see them until the 20-year reunion, guts the size of Texas and a cheerleader to match.
The difference between Sean and everyone else in Tim's life was Sean's common sense. Tim did his best with a few women, one he'd even married, one or two he'd even loved, but nothing he did was ever good enough. They always left, always quit. Part of it was his fault, probably most of it with Diane, but she never gave him the chance to redeem himself. Sean...Sean knew how hard Tim tried, and that *was* good enough. Sean wouldn't run to Paris, fucking Ryan O'Reily, or a divorce attorney with dollar signs embedded in his dimpled cheeks.
Bad memories perched on his chest like bad Chinese food, Tim stepped forward, closer to the warmth and farther away from the box of regretful introspection that never failed to club him over the head a hell of a lot more painfully than a hangover could.
Another shift and Sean's ass was in the air, wrapped around an invisible torso, amazingly firm for a man their age, jutting out subtly, aware of it's appeal and not having to flaunt, snug and persuasive in uniform pants, belt balanced oh-so-comfortably on top of the round cheeks that he, mostly hetero as he was, sometimes wanted to squeeze until his hands became pincher claws.
Sean flipped onto his back, sweat beads from his forehead slick against his palm, that untamed forest of a chest glistening and matted, doused palm now rubbing in circular motions above sticky cotton boxers.
Yet another tiny step forward, tiny step after tiny step until Tim's knees bumped the mattress.
So many fucking memories, of the first time they met at Attica, of when he finally caught that open longing directed at the back of his head and backside. He'd invited Sean over for drinks, knowing their close working relationship couldn't tolerate puppy love, planning to let him down easy, instead letting a beer become five, a hand on his shoulder becoming a hand on his crotch, a bulldog of a man overtaking him, buttons and boxers surrendering to husky breaths and practiced, smooth, gently dominating paws.
Every time they fucked, the feelings of awe were buried a few feet below, never immune to sudden unearthing. Sean's awe that this pussy hound was letting another man's tongue in his mouth, another man's stronger body control and guide every movement; Tim's awe that the voices he'd expected in his head had shut up, screaming no guilt or shame, nothing demanding he stop that big, thick, queer meat throbbing deep inside him, brief pain replaced by pleasure he'd never imagined, all-encompassing bliss that a rare feminine finger up the ass had never hinted at.
Tim swallowed, ears distracted by the low grunts hoarse and wet in the other man's wide throat, stinging eyes locked on the huge bulge waging war against a grey prison, shaft imprint tight enough to see veins, very top furiously red and pointed toward his navel.
Impulsively, he yanked the underwear to mid-thigh, a sickly arousing plop at freed flesh meeting flesh.
Tim sucked in a shallow breath, studying. A half-hard penis, impaling and smearing the left thigh, hints of the head swathed in wrinkly foreskin. That masculine pungency, the smell of anticipated sex, body odor, and raw athleticism.
Tim had never made it a practice to study the male organ; not even his own. Cocks were frizzy, fuzzy, ugly to look at, but the world revolved around them. Murphy's was longer than he'd ever remembered, he'd taken that up his ass? *No wonder I have to get drunk first.*
He wanted to do this...he'd never remember tomorrow, and booze was the perfect excuse if he did.
Crouching, he licked his lips, fingernail tracing, then scratching a jagged path between the brown sac caging two testicles, large balls which dangled loose and low. A rasped, guttural moan echoed from above.
Breathing in stronger than he intended, Tim licked his lips, tongue gliding along the longest, strongest vein before he could change his mind. Jagged rafting along a purple river that produced impossibly, ridiculously loud bellows from a waking Murphy.
His own cock, smeared from bathing in endless strings of pre-come, snarled against the front of his goopy boxers in retaliation for the lack of attention.
Tim's shirt climbed over his head, a second's respite from the writhing a few feet away.
Meaty fingers reached into his own fly, freeing his very, very happy cock. His knees almost buckled at that familiar glove.
"I told you to stay there."
Big fingers traced over the crumpled roadmap of his body, sliding the pasted underwear off at superhuman speed, squeezing balls, twisting nipples, pushing every tested button.
Tim kissed down his hairy belly, flicked in his navel briefly, nose in curly short hairs. An astounding attack of guts prompted him to take that alien foreskin in his mouth, sucking, finally biting with a taste of teeth. The head finally appeared, candy bar from the wrapper, and Tim nipped at that as well.
More grunts, possibly even whimpering, Tim was too far in a daze of cock and confusion to notice. An inch, maybe three, slid into his throat, head hitting the back of his throat. A tender but determined hand gripped his scalp, taking him lower and lower, certainly not more than halfway.
A flash of dizziness as the room spun, thumb or forefinger dipped in his piss slit and the other hand busy on his ass. Tongue circling and circling his hardon, a carousel of a blow job, before the wetness dashed past his balls and straight between his cheeks.
Only half of Sean, with another inch swallowed, fitted in his throat, Tim's flat nails squeezing against meaty legs. Meaty...heh...going by porno movies the girls who'd never given head before *always* deep-throated...oh fuck he was going to laugh, like *he* was a virgin in a skin fli...
The chuckle vibrated inside his mouth, and he couldn't stop, not until he heard a last manly scream, felt teeth sinking into his ass, and swallowed as much of he could of the salty, never-ending supply of semen. Sean gently pulled his head off the volcanic erection.
Blasts finally subsided, Tim laid his head against a thigh, suddenly tired. The equally lazy licking, smoothing over of the bites branded into him didn't help.
He knew Sean loved him. The thought of pretending, settling into a life with someone who understood the struggle, who soothed away the bad days with a bad joke and a deep throat, had crossed his mind enough times.
But every time he lied, he or those around him paid the price. He still regretted lying for Diane. He'd always regret lying about Adebisi's final days. Lies were a personal violation, a breach of honor and decency. They created rifts no one could heal. To tell Sean his feelings were requited, to lead him on only to see that horrible, fucking hurt on his face the first time he found some bimbo to spend a few hours inside, that was more cruel than drunken fucks could ever be.
He hoped the semi-sober, giving sex told Sean that a part of him did love the burly hack, the hero with a heart way too big to love an asshole like Tim McManus. He heard both of their breaths slowing, sleep returning.
Tim craned his spent neck toward the window. Moonlight bathed over their nude, strewn bodies, a casual arm or a stray foot shone into focus as the rest of their forms remained in the darkness. To the moonlight, they weren't just fuck buddies. They were joined, equals, lovers; at least for this night.
Tomorrow was waiting; the blessed amnesia.
Before he gave in, Tim asked the question he hoped he'd get out over his slightly torn upper lip, the question he had to have the answer to.
A sleepy, drowsy brogue responded.
He kissed the kneecap in front of him, swallowing the last drops from his mouth before asking.