Mark knocks on my door, reminding me I'm not alltogether alone. Dammit. I pretend to be sleeping still.
"Rog?" he calls out quietly. I don't say anything and he cracks open the door. I really need to get a lock on that damn thing. Next thing you know Mimi will be sauntering in.
"Rog?" he says again and I groan slightly. I don't want to deal with talking about Mimi and the fact that she's a fuck-up. "ROGER," Mark says loudly and I groan again. "Mark, close the damn door and leave me alone," I finally manage to say and he laughs lightly. "I can always tell when you are feeling better, Rog. You get that asshole attitude back very quickly. Smile for the folks at home, Rog." I'm gonna break that fucking camera if he doesn't leave my room. I swear to every god there is.
But, of course he doesn't leave. Marky wants to capture my breakdown on film. Posterity for the mentally ill. Fun! Ladies and Gentlemen... this is the worst idea he has ever had. I'm really teetering on the edge of madness, but he keeps that god-blessed camera going all the time and I'm going to have to punch him in his regal looking nose.
"Roger, what's going on?" he asks, but I just bury my head deeper in the pillows. I hear the camera whir, telling me he finally shut the damn thing off and I hear him come closer to the bed. He slides down the wall next to the head of the bed and I can feel him staring toward me. Not that he can see me under all the covers.
"Roger... we need to talk. Were you serious? I mean... I know she's using again, but were you serious about wanting to... start again?" I peer out under the pillow. He looks so sad, until he sees me looking at him. Then he breaks out in that famous grin of his and starts his usual cheer-up-Roger banter. He won't ask me again if I was serious, and I can't bring myself to tell him I was. Boy, was I ever.
Mark starts talking about Maureen and her most recent show. She finally got a manager (I guess she called him before I got out of bed the first time to let him know). He gripes for a minute about her selling out before settling back into the patter of what has been going on while I've been sleeping. I've been sleeping for weeks.
I only half listen, you know. I can't bring myself to care about what Benny bought for the new building (He keeps promising we can move in "any day now, any day") or how many times JoAnne's called him about Reenie. Or Reenie's flirting with everything that moves (and a few things that don't!). I'm kind of just staring at the side of his face, blinking and shaking my head every once in a while so he thinks I'm listening. I'm also daydreaming about lacing Mimi's smack with rat poison somehow. I catch a couple of words, "Collins... MIT... money" and I look Mark up and down for a minute, trying to stay focused enough to understand what he's saying.
He looks me dead in the eye. "You really are not doing well, are you Rog?" he says and reaches up to push my hair out of my eyes. His hand lingers on my head for a moment, checking me for fever or just to be there for a second and I feel a sudden stirring in my cock.
I must have a funny look on my face, because he pulls his hand back quickly and looks at me. I don't move. I need to get him out of the room. "Mark? You are right. I'm not doing well. Not at all, actually. can you make me some soup? I think that might help." He smiles for the first time in what seems like forever and hops up to go to the kitchen. "Ten minutes, Rog. I'll be back."
I look at the clock. I hope I can do what I need to do in ten minutes.
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He didn't close the door behind himself and I wonder if I should hop up to close it. Then I figure, fuck it. Well, no. Not fuck the door. My hand will do well enough for that job. And that's exactly what I intend to do.
Why is it that when you think there's a possibility of getting caught jerking off that it makes it that much harder to cum? I mean, usually, I could get the job done in 5 or 6 minutes if I really had to, but knowing that the door is open and that Mark may come in gives me some kind of performance anxiety. I keep glancing at the clock. 7 minutes, 8 minutes, 9... shit. I'm going to have to stop. He's going to be back. 9 minutes 30 seconds. I close my eyes and will myself to just let go or... let go. I can't do it. I can't do either. I hear Mark say "Shit" quietly at the door.
As soon as I hear him, my hand lets loose of my cock, finally. I look up at his back walking away from my bedroom door. "Shit," I say quietly and pull the covers back up over myself, my erection just as hard as it was to start with.
It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't know what I know about my dear friend Marky. Quiet little Marky. Perfect Mark, Wonderful Mark... Mark who hasn't had a date in over two years.
I can't fix this with my current... issue. "MARK," I call, and I hear him walk to the end of the hallway, furthest from my door. "Roger... just... put it away. Finish or whatever you need to do and cover back up. We'll talk later. Sorry. If I had realized you were... you know... I would have waited. Sorry," he says. I decide then. "Mark, come here," I say, quietly.
I don't know why I thought he would. Instead, I hear him go to his room and close the door.
Really really really can't fix this with a raging hard-on and the burning in my balls. Fuck it, he told me to finish. I wrap my hand back around my cock and try to continue about where I left off. It takes me another 4 minutes to cum, but when I do all I can see is Mark's face in my mind. His sad eyes, his beautiful nose, his full lips... Mark. My best friend.
I gather myself together, breathe deeply a few times and head down the hall to Mark's room. I go to knock, but I hear what sounds like a whimper. I pause for a second and it hits me. I've heard this sound so often in the past two years it should almost blend into the background sounds of the apartment, but it somehow doesn't. Instead of knocking, I sit in the hallway and listen. It is a violation that I am sure he would be angry about, but I can't help myself. He's moaning my name.