This accommodation I feared, and the fear that welled inside me whenever I recollected on his touch, this soft speech that drove around and about like intersecting bridges in my head—intoxicating and freeing in some of the most belligerent and hostile of ways.
I felt hopeless, as though I should simply succumb to his hands and let my life fall victim to this accommodation.
Occasionally I reminisce on his humor. His olive skin and American smile. The way he bit his lip to sustain a laugh, or clench his teeth and turn his head.
I almost couldn't understand his dark--yet sensible in his own right--demeanor. The way his hair moved when the rest of his body stayed still. How his hands did--gently graze up the whole of my body, he did with words. Around my hips and up the small of my back. The way he lifted a single finger just to send goosebumps shooting down the back of my neck.
It was him, this beautifully masculine stranger that completely swept me off my feet.
I swear, thinking back on it, I bewilder myself with some of my hopeless, nonsensical words; asking him these sweet, seemingly innocent questions that I would twist and contort in my own gross little ways to make dirty--
"Do you prefer showers over baths?" Now I can imagine us showering together
"Do you workout a lot?" I can expect something beautiful under those shorts, then.
The more stale the time, the more exciting his appearance.
One night, an especially lonely time; a late December spent completely alone in my one bed/bath apartment, I had been offered a night out with him and his then girlfriend. It was innocent, and so beautifully so.
He had since come clean about the thoughts he had on men in the basis of sex, so our relationship had fluctuated.
I called him, lying upside down on my balcony--facing left of the Beaverton transit center, to the right of me the rest of the world.
He had this magnificent way of words, and this gross under-simplification for his stumbling, which I adored and his girlfriend considered his doctor's word for it--"ADD" seemed a constant in his medical history, though whatever I experienced in his reckless trains of thought seemed more poetic than anything medical.
He whispered to me through the phone like some intimate mouth-to-mouth connection, and I ran a loose thread running across the balcony rug between my fingers.
I understood, I mean, the near contempt in his vocality when he reminisced about these small anecdotes, driving him through life as though he were a machine. It was something in his breathing, the softest sound of his lips curving upward, the way his speech tightened itself, his tongue clasped lightly between perfectly white teeth.
"I have time to spare, I'm not wasting my life talking to you".
"I have my whole life to spare," and I would love to spend it with you
In between these feverish dream-like states, I understood the reason he was whispering was to keep quiet from his girlfriend, sleeping peacefully beside him.
"Michael, sometimes I wish I lived as a translucent being."
"Well, you are very pale."
"That's-" I heard the soft curve of his lips and the rustling of blankets.
"I mean—imagine what my life would sound like, drifting away like paper"
I shook my head and rolled over so that I could drop my phone through the iron bars and into the street below if I wanted to.
"Do you feel happiness, constantly?"
"I feel content in most—a lot of what I do. We live in a world where we must settle for contentness."
I imagined walking across some sort of cloud-made bridge and into his bedroom, like a heavenly portal.
"I wish you were here." He said it so suddenly. I didn't see it as having been planned.
"What?" I sat up.
"I wish you came when I called you earlier, we really missed you."
"Well—I would've had to contort myself to be with you and Joey."
"Me and Joey."
I recognized the growing desert in his throat. When his mom was a teenager and he was a baby, she used to refer to him as "him and Joey", in some sort of representation for his constant mind changes. Joey and an entirely different entity. Joey and himself.
I heard him move, and first figured he might have woken his girlfriend.
"I might just get to bed."
The incredulous irony.
"Joseph, I'm sorry."
"I'm joking—come by, and come through the back door."
I breathed out and stood up on the balcony, barefoot, frozen-foot. I cradled myself and pulled open the sliding door to get back inside.
"I wish I had the posture to keep staying up in bed talking to you—you know my tangled spine."
"I'm coming." I tugged on the edge of my coffee table in attempt to move it.
I shoved the phone in my pocket and my foot into an old pair of boots, despite wearing shorts with every outfit.
I couldn't decide for myself how to deal with situations like Joey's. I was completely star struck, to be honest--whenever I payed attention to the things he did or didn't do, my heart raced and every atom in my system crashed into each other. And yet, when I put it into words--for him or myself, I stumbled over them like he always does.
And, although I find it sweet and charming when it's his soft, non-rhotic midwestern dialect, it was broken and too noticeable in my dead eyes and drowned out my already character-lacking sensibility with nervous, spastic-sounding, rhythmic notes.
Joey was tall, taller than me. I'd known him for years. I must have been in middle school when my parents introduced me. He was a family friend for a while, and then his mother lost contact after his coming out--yet this attempt to distort our connection only made it stronger.
He was always very touchy around me, and other boys and girls my age.
When I was fourteen, he invited me and one of his friends from school over for a sleepover with breakfast as a given. At the time, I didn't have any friends from school, so I was eager--in a very nervous or angsty way--to see him.
He woke me up in the middle of the night by putting an old cassette tape in his parent's Panasonic, wheeled in from their room on his dad's computer desk. I sat up in bed after seeing the clip load--half a woman's face, lower half covered by a—large—dick. I shoved Joey, and he smiled at me.
"You ever watch stuff like this?"
I looked down, his hand gently grazing against my thigh.
I looked at his friend--dead asleep and lying on his stomach with a heavy blanket covering his neck and below his shoulders.
"Why would I be scared?"
Joey looked at the tv again, before finally turning and looking me in the eye.
The room was dark, his eyes were darker, and my heart was moving at the speed of sound. Joey leaned in. I didn't move at first, but he gently placed his soft fingers under the brink of my chin, pulling me towards him ever-so-slightly.
He smelled like his mother's faded perfume and the Cajun we'd had for dinner. The takeout box was still on his nightstand. The aroma was thicker through his open mouth, dark pink lips.
"Close your eyes," his voice was so small, the little curvature upward in his tone from his life spent in Oklahoma made my heart flutter. I was afraid I might leak drool on him a bit, but his mouth grazed mine in the softest sting I've ever felt, like every particle in my body waking up from a coma, and he bumped foreheads with me--our noses swiping together like fighting ships on the coast. His pillow lips shoved into mine.
I couldn't hold back--wrapping my arm around his back, and pulling his shirt up to the back of his neck. He hesitated slightly, but then moved his hand around to my jaw, where he was able to pull his lips away, yet only to touch mine with his thumb and slowly open his eyes. We were so close, I could feel our breaths intertwining.
His lips turned upward in a smile against the edge of my mouth, and this soft, warm breeze floated off his nostrils to caress me.
I turned my head slightly so that I landed on his shoulder in a hug. The television was on silent, and his friend was still asleep. I moved my hand slowly down his bare spine. He was so slender then, I could feel every little bump and indent under his skin-- wrapped around him like cellophane.
He kissed the side of my face covered by hair and swept fingers under my shirt, just below my armpit.
His voice taunted, his hands moved across my body like a boat on water. The hair on my neck stood up.
Although I dislike the sexual and, in most cases, romanticizing of moments like this, We were innocent; having fun with each other as though there were no secrets to be had and kept, no noises to have been drowned out in fear of his parents discovering our endeavors. But, in his house that night--so close and warm with each other's bodies, I couldn't help but feel that this was some sort of sexual awakening.
I layed by him afterward, and he layed his head on my chest, his wrists on either sides of himself.
I couldn't sleep that night. I turned the television off and removed the cassette tape, figuring it would be better for his mother to find it under his bed and assume the worst--in this case, the best.
I got to Joey's house in the dark and turned my headlights off behind their little two-story. I stared at his back porch and my heart pounded. I could feel my eyes burning through their lids that covered them.
He wanted to talk. He wanted to talk with me. We were going to talk and eat the leftovers he had made with his girlfriend. She is asleep.
I ran a hand through my hair. I was about to walk into a dark room and hear him whispering to me. We'd go into the kitchen and talk about his life, he'd ask about my life, and I'd answer him very quietly.
I got out of the car and locked the doors. The ground was cold and the last streetlamp--several feet from his back porch--was out.
I silenced my knocking on his front door. I wanted to peer through his window and watch him walk to the door and answer it. I wanted to catch him without pants, then watch as he rushed to his room to change.
"Hey," he held out his hand, but it was dark outside--darker still in the house. He turned the handshake into a motion, to which I smiled and stepped inside.
"Mika still asleep?"
He then turned on a light in the back of the kitchen, and I sat at the dining table.
"It's bedtime for me, right about now."
He nodded and put the kettle down, coming over to sit right next to me.
"What do you think would happen if I stepped out of my comfort zone,"
"What?" I paused at his forwardness and leaned against the back of the chair.
"I'm talking purely experimentally here,"
I looked at him, with the dim light in the distance I could only make out the outline of his lips, and the shadows around his eyes and nose. He was smiling, that sweet, animated smile.
"To be honest, I just wanted to get you over here."
I nodded, a bit shaken.
"Can I show you something?"
He walked over to the back of the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and waved me over.
"This is something I found a few weeks back--painted by my mom."
I looked through the dark, and he turned on a light inside of the dark cabinet. There was a portrait of him on his mother's lap, holding a book with a black spine and red front. I recognized him immediately, the resemblance was uncanny.
"You think so?"
I nodded. He pointed to the title at the bottom of the frame, and moved his hand across mine, then gently squeezed my arm.
I looked at him, he looked at me, and then I looked slowly back at the portrait and read the little golden letters that I made out just barely through years of dust.
"Joey and Joey"
I smiled and he nodded.
"Not sure how long ago she painted it. Guess it's been here for decades."
He suddenly turned off the light inside the cabinet, closed the cabinet, and we were back to blackness. He walked over to the fridge.
"We made these weird biscuits—Mika likes matcha powder, not really my thing."
I walked over, and looked at his face in the drowning refrigerator light. He didn't look at me.
"Try one," he finally beckoned, and caught me staring at him. I didn't turn away.
"It's very sweet," he didn't seem to care. He brought out this plastic Tupperware container with Saran Wrap over the top and set it on the island.
I went to open it, and he stared me dead in the face as I did so.
I could see the veins in his arms--his right arm, when it came up to the side of the cupboard, so close to mine.
I took one out of the container and held it up to my mouth, gently breathing in the green powder to my nose.
I watched him as he watched me, our eyes fixated on eachother, then he moved down to watching my mouth.
I took a bite, chewing slowly, and licking my lips. There was something extremely intimate with having him watch me, watching my every movement, and when I lifted my right hand to wipe bits off my chin and cheek, his hand came up instead to take it away.
"It is very sweet," I spoke in a soft tone.
I swallowed and watched him move closer over to me. I bet, if he kept inching so close to me, he could feel my heartbeat, the race of my breathing--everything that made me so nervous to be around him.
He licked powder from my lips off his thumb, and I must have blushed red because he smiled at me, gently pushing the box away to get closer.
My mouth was hung in a sort of gape, and he moved his hand over mine, set idle on the cupboard.
I felt so close to him. He moved so lightly over my forearm with his index finger in such a sensual manner, it sent goosebumps down my arm. My hair stood straight.
"Joey," I whispered. He looked up at me slowly.
He smiled gently, and turned his index finger movements into a light grasp that fell over the back of my hand. His other hand came up, just under the sleeve of my shirt, over my bicep, his thumb on my shoulder, and his mouth shockingly close to mine. I stared him down, moving my eyes over his face as though we were sorting eachother out. His thumb kept moving over my shoulder, then he moved his other hand back up my arm, bending it, and pressing me against himself.
The kiss--I felt it linger far longer than I had anticipated. My hands traveled quickly up his back, one dragging his shirt upward, the other slowly inching to the back of his neck.
He smelled like his girlfriend's shampoo--in an instance of realization that some factors of people do not change, he slowly pulled back and began kissing my neck. I sighed, feeling his tongue against my adam's apple, hand tugging at the collar of my T-shirt, and his other hand making its way down my stomach, my breathing fluctuated.
I smiled and bit my lip, mimicking his hand movements over his body, and then through his soft hair.
He lifted my shirt, which peeled off my back--which stuck hastily from the rain outside, and kissed around my bellybutton. He left tracks of warmth up and down my happy trail.
His hands at both sides of me, spiraling little circles with his thumbs up and down my hips and stomach.
He licked, and moved his tongue fascinatingly well up and down the waistband of my underwear, pulling down on my shorts, and I watched my drawstring get pulled farther and farther, taunting me and making me breathing harder and harder, making my ribs bellow, and my stomach shake as his lips covered every inch of my torso.
He finally pulled my shorts down, kissing around my now throbbing bulge, and licking across my thighs. His hand slowly moved up to my chest and flicked my right nipple on its way up. I gently licked the tip of his index and middle finger before sticking them into my mouth and sucking--they were everything I've ever wanted.
He looked up at me with those dreamy brown eyes and pressed his cheek against my dick. I smiled and gently bit at his index finger, which he retracted and pushed into my mouth, then circling around my lower lip before pushing it in again.
He cupped my balls and I let out a loudly dramatic sigh, suddenly worried his girlfriend would wake up, I moved a hand gently over his face, through his hair to expose his forehead, and he looked back up at me, before smiling and yanking my boxers down.
I felt his hands, both of them, tickle up my thighs, making me shake before coming in over either sides of my dick, just at the base.
He looked up at me sweetly before licking my tip and making me shudder. He then took the head into his mouth and slowly panned down until he was a little more than halfway, then choked like he was about to vomit. I pressed my thumb into his chin and he slowly pulled off, before laughing softly and wiping his tears. I pulled him up to me and kissed him, sneaking my tongue between his lips. I precame like a bitch, and he had some just coating the inside of his bottom lip.
After he went down on me again, I had to pull him off me over and over in threat of cumming, he laughed and trailed his mouth around my thighs and up my back. I shuddered when his fingers trailed down my ass, right at my hole.
Meanwhile, his mouth was still racing its way around my shoulders, armpits, and the back of my neck.
"Joey," I whined when I heard him spit on his finger to push it slowly into my ass.
"Hmm?" He hummed provocatively.
There was something very erotic about hearing his voice in such a sexual manner, something laced with instinct and drenched in sex.
I whimpered when I felt his tongue--graced by God--travel down my back and flip over again and again against my hole.
I bit my lip and looked behind me, as far as I could bend, but I only saw the top of his head. I played with his hair, grabbing at it, and pushing him farther down. I saw him look up at me with squinting, happy eyes and I wiggled my ass over his mouth.
"How are your lips so fucking soft," I moaned after spinning my head back around, and over his now harsh grasp of hands on my thighs.
My dick twitched whenever he stuck his tongue further down my hole.
He finally came up, trailing his tongue along the front of my left thigh, and then back up my cock and stomach, I wrapped my hand around his wrist and he kissed me, but only for a second before pulling away and putting his hand over my mouth.
He gently nipped at my earlobe and I breathed out quickly through my nose.
"You don't want to wake her up, do you?"
I vigorously shook my head, then felt his lips come back around and down to the brink of my neck, where he only lightly bit--it drove me wild, sending me into a slight whimper and making him put a hand back over my mouth. He got back down on his knees to my dick, slowly licking around my balls, and only deepthroating after looking up at me first, to make sure I wouldn't cum down his throat.
After a few minutes, he came up from behind me and pulled me into himself, breathing into my ear something about lube, and then pulling away, only for a second though, to get a small bottle from a drawer in the cabinet he had shown me the painting in. I laughed to myself for a sec without turning around, and then felt his lips turn upward against the back of my neck.
"You ready?" That damned accent, my cock twitched at the sound.
"Sir?" I felt his hands travel down to my dick and his lips plant against my shoulder blade.
"Say it again," he stroked my dick with one hand, the other hand he used to rub lube on my hole and his dick, which was sliding up and down the crack of my ass.
He kissed my back, and then down to the middle, where he finally decided to push himself inside my hole.
It hurt a bit--pressure and stinging, so I let out a little whimper, loud enough to warrant him sticking his fingers in my mouth.
"Joey," I moaned softly through his hand, head turned with our cheeks pressing together.
"Hmm, does that feel good?"
I nodded and he pulled the fingers out, moving them down my neck, grasping lightly right above my collar bones.
He kept pushing in, and then slowly pulling out. I looked down, trying to stay quiet, and saw a small puddle of lube by our feet.
"You're really tight, aren't you,"
I nodded like hell and he kissed the back of my neck.
"Joey, if you keep——doing that, you're gonna make me-" he covered my mouth and loosened his grip on my cock, slowly mowing over the head before letting it drop entirely, then moved his hand up my stomach and to my mouth, where he stuck his finger in and made me suck the precum off.
"You're gonna what?" He taunted me, and I grinded my ass into his dick, making him exhibit a series of groans into my shoulder, and grab onto my hair, pulling my head back and making it easier for him to moan into my neck, now so close to my ear.
I grabbed onto his thigh with one hand and pulled him into me. Soon enough he grabbed me and pushed me into the wall, or rather, against the door leading to his garage. He then proceeded to drive himself into me, covering my mouth with his hand as to not let me make anymore noise as he already was so noisy. With his thighs hitting against my ass, my dick shoved against the door, I felt the rush of orgasm coming on. His hand cradled my neck, pulling me into him. My dick--still pushed semi-painfully against the door, he grabbed, twisting upward, and jerked until he felt my hand grab harshly against his thigh.
"You gonna cum for me?" I quickly nodded, and he bit my shoulder, making me shudder and cum quickly and all over the door, dripping down my thighs and legs.
It was very intense, I'd been fucked before, but nothing as close and intimate as this.
He finally let go of my cock when he felt it pulse a couple times, then my body jolted back into him.
"Fucking Christ," he finally wallowed close enough to my ear to where I could hear the shaking and desperation in his voice.
He attempted to pull out of me, but I felt him move and immediately pushed his ass against the wall by shoving him into the same door I came on. He responded by whining, grabbing onto my hips and shooting his load deep into my hole.
"You good?" I wiped the sweat off his forehead, after pulling myself off him and we could see face-to-face.
He smiled and shook his head, which was totally red.
"It's been a while," he finally spoke, and then kissed my cheek with a hand on my shoulder, before walking into the bathroom down the hall and out of the kitchen.
I pulled on my boxers under loose shorts.
I guess, the accommodation, if this is what I was having to live with, wouldn't be that bad.