content warning: blowjobs

Chapter 7: Nocturnal as We Are

The round table is covered in glasses, and I have to move my chair to give more room to the people joining our overcrowded party. Their voices all blur together, barely audible over the music in the club, but I laugh anyway, talking to the people closest to me. Jeff's been shocking everyone with vivid details of a Uruguayan prostitute he spent a night with on his trip down south – "Just for a laugh," he says. "I don't need to pay for sex. I mean, come on! Diane, tell me I'm not fucking sexy!"

I turn my head away, leaving him to his pursuits of sleeping with more female celebrities. I lean over Rachel to talk to Alice, who's drunk as fuck but what more can I expect from the man? Margaux keeps trying to get my attention, her bony hand getting lost on my thigh every few minutes. Rachel can't see it, but she looks like she suspects something, and I try to discreetly push the model's hand away as I smile at her benignly. Crowds have gathered close by to stare at us like we're on display, to try and get past the bouncers of the VIP section, occasionally yelling our names and waving hopefully. Rachel looks like she feels out of place but is intrigued by the situation, Jeff is loving it, and I think it's kind of funny, really. All the attention. How important it is for famous people to underline their fame, come to these clubs and roll around in special treatment.

Alice is touching a lock of Rachel's hair. "How do you keep it so soft?" he wonders, his black, ragged chunks of hair falling to his shoulders.

"You know, raw egg does wonders for your hair," Margaux informs us, but then she gets distracted, looking ahead of herself. "Well, isn't he fine." She smiles to herself devilishly, and I follow her gaze to the entrance of the VIP area. Two guys are talking to one of the bouncers. The bouncer looks our way, and I give him a nod as the unofficial head of our round table. And Margaux is right: he is fine. Finer. The finest. And it's funnier how these models, actresses and singers lose their shine when their artificiality is replaced with something that actually matters. Someone that actually matters.

"Dave!" Jeff laughs out loud to the new arrivals as I decline Margaux's offer and pass the small silver tray of coke lines along to an eager looking Alice. "Kurt!"

The music soars in my ears, and I focus on smoking a cigarette and talking to Alice about Buddhism out of all things, but that's fine, it's all good, we're all famous enough to be philosophers. Jeff's motioning back and forth and talking to Dave and Kurt, who are just visible in my peripheral vision. My skin feels electric, and maybe the music isn't soaring in my ears. Maybe it's just blood.

"Blaine!" Dave calls out over the music, and I jerk and look his way, full of surprise.

"Dave! Hey, man!" I blow out cigarette smoke. Dave looks at the people by the table like he's this close to shitting his pants. I count to three, and then – "Oh. Hey, Kurt."

Kurt nods. "Hey, Blaine. Rachel." He does a cordial hand lift. He's wearing a tight, black t-shirt that leaves a slice of his lower stomach exposed, his blue hip huggers coming so low on his waist that his hipbones are visible. I breathe in deep, my hands dropping to my knees and squeezing tightly. There's nothing dignified in the way that my pants suddenly feel tighter, but I don't need it to be dignified.

He's put effort into it. Tonight. His clothes. His hair. I bet he smells divine.

"Haven't seen you in a while," I tell him, and he looks searching, cocking his enticing hips as his brows furrow.

"Yeah, man! Must've been like –"

"Before Christmas."

"– before Christmas! Yeah. Exactly. You been good?"

I shrug. "Been good."

"Far out," he smiles, and we hold eye contact for a second during which his casual smile fades. He points over his shoulder. "Well, I'm gonna go tackle the trenches around the bar and try to get us some drinks." He turns to his boyfriend. "Dave, the usual?"

Dave seems to snap out of a daze and is quick to nod. "Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

Kurt nods, smiles, our eyes meet again. He averts his gaze. He leaves the VIP section and vanishes back to the dance floor, snaking between people, and his body looks amazing when he moves. When he does anything at all. I seem to be the only one who's aware of it.

Jeff's returned to his Uruguayan whore story, and Rachel shakes her head like she doesn't know what to make of it while I say, "Dave, sit down! Alice, this is the guy directing my documentary! Dave Karofsky, Alice Cooper. You guys talk. About. The importance of makeup in the visual arts." I get up and adjust my jacket a little. "Excuse me for a minute. Need to go to the little boys' room."

I cause a commotion by exiting the fenced off area, people grabbing my arms and calling my name. One of the venue security men tells the clubbers to make way for me and then proceeds to follow me acAnderson the dance floor to make sure I am not disturbed. If clubs want guests like us, they need to make sure we get what we need.

"Thanks, man," I say when I get to the door leading to the toilets, shaking hands with the bouncer and passing him a ten, and he nods, all serious like, and then stays firmly where he is to guard the door as I slip in.

I take in the surroundings: one guy at the urinals, another just passing me on his way back out, and one – the one – by the sinks, pretending to be drying his hands though they don't look wet. I go to the sinks and put my hands under the tap of running water. I watch the reflection of the room as the urinal guy zips himself up and heads to the door without washing his hands. I watch him leave. We watch him leave.

I pull my hands back, shake water off of them. Meet his eyes in the mirror as he puts his hands into his jean pockets and smiles wickedly. "So," he says. "Hi."

"Hey."

He grins deviously, and my guts flare up even as I grin cockily.

Push the door open, step inside, close the door, lock it.

The stall wall bangs loudly when I push Kurt against it, our mouths locked and hungry. His hands are in my hair, his entire body asking me, telling me, practically offering itself. He groans against my mouth, and that should not be allowed, his taste, his too tight clothes and the way he smells and him, him, him. "You should not wear these jeans," I tell him breathlessly between kisses, my hands grabbing his ass through the denim. "Makes me want to fuck you so hard."

He groans against my mouth. "Why d'you think I put them on in the first place?"

Tease.

"You've been thinking about me all fucking day, haven't you?"

"Yes." His voice is gorgeously breathless. I love him wanting me, want him wanting me. He pulls me in for a dirty kiss, but not too hard. We both know where we are, who's out there, how much time we probably have: five minutes with this crowd. Go back and tell the others that getting a drink was impossible, that I got cornered by some overeager fan. Lie a little. Cover up our tracks. We've become good at that.

Practice makes perfect.

He cups the front of my pants roughly, rubbing just right and having me rocking into his hand. I have nothing on him: I've been thinking about him all day, all goddamn day again. I break the kiss and bite on his lower lip hungrily. "Don't make me go back out there with a hard-on," I whisper, my breathing labored, knowing that it's probably too late already and my cock will harden fully regardless of what he does next.

"What if I took care of it?" he returns sultrily.

Maybe he could with that mouth of his, or with his hand or, fuck, fuck, better yet, I could fuck him against the wall, give us both what we need. But then we'd stumble out looking so fucked, and she's here and he's here. And we can't have that. No, that'd be no fun at all.

I reluctantly pull his hand off of my crotch. He lets out a sound of protest. I pant against his cheek, breathing him in. Savoring his scent. Mind racing. Trying to make this work. "It's been four days, Kurt. Four fucking days."

"I know. Fuck, I know," he groans, sounding so gorgeous, music to my ears. He takes in a deep breath. "We could. Now. If you want to?"

"Yeah. God, yeah. Always want to."

His breath gets cut short, and he squeezes my hip tightly. "Me too."

It sounds like a confession if there ever was one.

Our lips meet, the kiss lingering. Cigarettes have mixed with the taste that's just him, and it's intoxicating. "You know what to do?" I ask breathlessly.

"Of course."

"Good." We smile against each other's mouths, and a joy deep within me awakens, something I can't explain or label. "Get to it," I say, pulling away from him and nodding towards the door. He wipes his mouth and stops to listen for a second, makes sure no one's right outside. Before he steps out, he catches me by surprise and lands a kiss on my lips. It's a clumsy fit, my lips squashed against his. It's the most perfect kiss I've ever gotten.

Once he's gone, I try to catch my breath. I straighten my clothes, flatten my hair and count to twenty-five twice before following suit. The toilets are now Kurtless. I check my reflection in the mirror, habitually checking for lipstick stains that Rachel might notice, but screwing men is so much easier than trying to conduct an affair with a woman. I look slightly dazed, but fuck it. I'm dazed. Sold. Done for.

The bouncer is still waiting for me outside. He now escorts me back acAnderson the dance floor. Kurt's at the bar, and he keeps up a neutral expression as he waits to get served.

Jeff is canoodling with Diane, who's probably just amusing him. She's explaining about her new movie that's coming out in a few months, followed by Jeff saying that it will be a flop because no one's going to think someone as beautiful as her would actually date Woody Allen. Rachel's expression brightens up when she sees me, but I don't reclaim my seat. "Listen, babe," I call out to her over the noise. "I just bumped into an old friend from LA, Scotty. I've mentioned Scotty, right?" I then point at my ear. "It's so noisy in here, so we're heading out to catch up!" I back this up by now motioning towards the exit.

She looks perplexed. "Scotty? I don't recall you –"

"Yeah, Scotty. You know Scotty!"

She frowns. "I don't really – But. Yeah. Yeah, sure thing." She smiles and reaches for her purse, and no, no, not what I meant.

"Aw, Rach, it's gonna be a guys only thing." I shrug apologetically, and her smile fades. I know that she doesn't want me to leave her alone here when she doesn't know anyone apart from Jeff, and Jeff is extremely preoccupied with Miss Keaton while Alice is still trying to put moves on Rachel.

"We'll just have to have fun without you!" Margaux laughs from beside my girl, high on coke, and she grabs Rachel's hand enthusiastically.

"I'm sure you will."

Rachel looks affronted. I'd be affected by it if it weren't for what I'm trading her company with.

"Call me tomorrow," I tell her and quickly wave a goodbye, and it's only then that Dave notices me leaving, and his face falls and he looks bummed out that I continue not to socialize with him outside work. I wink at him, tongue in cheek, and he laughs like I'm one crazy fucker.

Kurt enters the VIP area just as I exit it. I don't as much as look at him.

Fifteen minutes and two cigarettes later, Kurt walks out of the club. I'm on the other side of the street, not enjoying the cold, but then it stops to matter. He spots me and cAndersones the street, and there's something to the way he walks that's mesmerizing. "Hey," he says, eyes sparkling. "So where are you right now?"

"Catching up with an imaginary friend. You?"

He lifts a hand to his temple. "Killer headache. Nearly head-splitting."

"Huh." I step closer to him like he is the center of gravity. "These sudden migraines of yours are worrying."

"That's what Dave said," he says with a serious expression though his eyes are still twinkling, competing with stars, and I offer him the rest of what I'm smoking. His cheeks hollow as he takes in a deep drag, and he instantly coughs, blinking and passing the stub back to me. I simply flick it to the ground. He eventually blows the smoke out. "Well, that wasn't a cigarette."

"Nope."

"You're bad company, Anderson."

"Is there any other kind?" I ask, signaling over the taxi that's coming down the street. He's smiling a secretive smile to himself, and I'm pretty sure I'm the secret. "Now come on. It's taking a lot of willpower not to kiss you out here."

"Trust me," he says, eyes lingering on my lips, "I know."

And there it is again. That stupid little somersault in my stomach that only he manages to cause. The rush of something that leaves me weak in the knees.

He gets in the taxi first. I look up and down the street, make sure no one of importance sees us slipping into the night together, and then get in myself.

In the backseat, his hand restlessly travels up my thigh, our fingers lacing and our joined hands moving from me to him, landing on his crotch, rubbing his gorgeous dick through his jeans. Both of us look out of the windows like we're bored to tears when in reality he's getting hard already, our breaths shallow, and I'm so hard for him. We're so fucking desperate that we're trying to touch each other in the taxi.

Dave's got no idea just how much of a crazy fucker I am.

The studio's recently been built in the Lower East Side, a few singles and albums on its belt. It's been booked indefinitely for the recording of the first Blaine Anderson & The Pips album, though Sam showed me a recording schedule he drafted. I think he's worried that if he doesn't hold the reins, then no one will.

He seems to forget the miraculous existence of Lauren. She told the band to come in for noon but for me – the main musician – to come in later. It's closer to five when Rachel and I get to the studio. We enter a small but official lobby with a reception desk and a secure looking door on the left. Lauren is talking to the receptionist, and she is looking good in a tight leather skirt and a frilly white shirt. She spots us instantly.

"Right on time!" she says, though she told me to come in around two. She sounds enthusiastic, and her eyes sparkle like this is as much her album as it is mine. The blonde receptionist looks startled and sorry for existing – Lauren's clearly already enforcing the "Disturb Mr. Anderson only when absolutely necessary" rule. "Rachel," Lauren then says, her tone having just the perfect amount of surprise in it without being downright rude.

"Rachel wanted to check out the studio," I explain before my manager thinks that I'll be bringing my girlfriend to the studio regularly. I have no such plans.

"Ah, I see."

"I wanted to see what my boyfriend's up to," Rachel says, squeezing my hand tighter. What I'm up to, what I'm up to. She gets to see carefully selected sections of my life.

I say, "So. Can we see the place?"

Lauren's way ahead of me, taking us to the heavy metal door that leads us to a wide corridor. She says that only a few have got a key to the studio and hands me mine. "Jeff doesn't have one," she says. "He'd lose his own grandmother if given the chance." She flicks brown hair to the side and adds, "So far, your fans don't know you're here. They will soon. Don't worry, we'll keep security out front to keep the crazy ones out."

"Aren't they all crazy?" I counter. She laughs but doesn't reply.

The studio is at the end of the corridor, consisting of a number of rooms: a live room with separate vocal and percussion booths at the back, a spacious control room with a few couches opposite the mixing console, a cozy looking lounge and a storage room. The contents of our practice space are divided between the storage room and the lounge, which has hard cases behind the two orange couches: guitars, amps, basses and Sam's tenor ukulele have taken up most of the space. The lounge has a table and five chairs next to a small fridge from the 60s. The room looks like an escape from the stress of the studio whenever we need it. There are no windows anywhere. Good. We'll be recording during nights mostly, nocturnal as we are.

Most hard cases have been marked with my initials, a few with 'Canadian Experience' and a few with 'The Warblers', and there's even one with 'N.J.D.', but I push Nick and his absence out of my mind and whatever spoils I might have gained from our divorce. Instead I focus on the few boxes in the far corner with an unfamiliar combination of 'D.K.'

Lauren is quick to clear up the confusion. "All of those are Dave's. He's been given days on which he can come and shoot you guys in the studio."

"Is he here now?" I ask.

"He's somewhere here." She leads us to the control room where Bob and Roy are, both getting up to shake hands with me. I got to pick whichever producer I wanted, and Bob temporarily has moved to New York for me. I wanted him though we've never worked together, but Bob Johnston has experience with a different type of music. I've come from a progressive rock band. Bob's got a handful of Leonard Cohen albums on his CV. This should be beyond interesting. Roy, on the other hand, mixed Her House back in '72 and is one of the rare men I've felt in tune with about music, Nick and Sam aside. Bob's got an assistant or another with him, but the kid doesn't even try to talk to me. The Rule once again enforced. I wave to my band in the recording room through the glass. The Pips all grin excitedly, microphones set out by the different instruments.

"That's a lot of buttons," Rachel laughs, eyeing the mixing console.

"Yes, well, music is more than just something to dance to," Lauren says to Rachel. "Speaking of which." She turns to me, lifting her neatly plucked eyebrows too high. "Heard you met Scotty the other night. How is he these days?"

"Scotty's great. Still a lunatic."

"No change there then," she says, not as naturally as I'd like. She brushes hair behind her ear, maybe wondering if her acting skills are up to the job. They're so-so. "Well," she says. "Should you start recording your comeback album?"

"Yeah."

I pull out an old notebook, a compilation of notes and observations originally scribbled down on napkins and receipts. It's all there, what I want to say on this album. Seb always wanted rock 'n roll, good times, something groovy, something heavy. He didn't care about the words I sang. Sam does. It's not what'd Sam say or think or tell the world, but our partnership is unequal, and he once said that he supposes that even the dark things of the world need to be addressed.

The notebook also has a list of twenty-five songs that I want to record, and I look over it to remind myself of what I'm meant to do. We need to start somewhere, and this is the first album I've ever done where I don't need to compromise or accommodate other people's wishes. The music has lived in my head for months now. All that needs to happen is for the music to come out right.

Rachel starts getting ready to leave for her show after a quick browse about the place, and I kiss her goodbye with thought put into it, a see you later and miss you already. She looks about the studio excitedly. "I know this will be your masterpiece. I can sense it already." She smoothes down my hair, smiling lovingly, and a small sense of pride sparks up in my guts. She just might be right.

As Rachel leaves, Lauren calls out, "Good luck with the show!" She waves with a fake smile, and Rachel looks appalled and vanishes with quick, echoing steps. Thankfully the recording team have joined my band in the live room and aren't present to see my girls bickering.

"Lauren, I've told you to play nice."

"I was –"

"No. You acted like a bitch again."

Lauren smirks. "Well, I tend to be a bitch." I stare her down, and she rolls her eyes. "Maybe I'd be nice if she did more than glare at me." Lauren's undeniably got a point there. "Anyway," she says, professional once more, "the studio's ready, your imaginary friend Scotty exists, and you're full of songs. Looks like we're all set!"

"About that –"

"I don't need to know." She dismissively holds out her palms. "My job is to look out for you. Trust me, I lie for you on a daily basis, anyway." She clears her throat. "Now, that being said, it's a first you've asked me to do something like that and if you feel like your manager should know what's going on..."

"It's not."

"Then that's all I need to know." She smiles, but not well enough to fool me. She wants to know.

I go to the live room to meet the band. A team spirit is instantly palpable, Sam squeezing my shoulder, grinning, while Roderick is starry-eyed. "This studio is incredible!" the former bookstore employee enthuses. "All cutting edge!"

"Ain't it good to be us," Jeff grins.

It takes us forever to settle down, Lauren repeatedly telling Jeff to pack it in and focus. I choose a song at random – Piccadilly Women – as the place to start out of all the songs and all the separate tracks: vocals, drums, guitars, handclaps, bass lines, ukulele intros and then some and then some.

We are trying to find a common tune with Bob's skills and our vision when the door bursts open, and Dave stumbles in, carrying an enormous box.

"Hey. Sorry," he heaves, putting the box down clumsily. "Extra cameras and lights," he explains, catching his breath. He looks excited and tired, and as far as I can tell, absolutely clueless. I don't really think I've got one on him, though I do: I'm fucking his boyfriend. I've never thought much of Dave and still don't. If anything, I think less of him. How can he not notice? Granted, Kurt's an amazing liar and actor, almost to the point of disturbing. But he's done it all his life. Pretended to be people he hasn't been: a good Catholic son, an obedient waiter. But if I were Dave, if I were him, I'd sense it. I'd smell another man's scent on Kurt's soft skin, sense the presence of someone else in his smile. Dave probably thinks it's all him.

Yeah, Dave and what army?

"Looks like you've got your hands full," I tell him as if to a compatriot. He forms no kind of competition anymore, but I want to keep him out of the way. Content.

"Yeah, I do. The van's almost empty now, though."

Jeff, who has been looking at Dave's tired face with some concern, says, "Pobrecito. You need assistants or light people or something, man. I mean, you can't do an entire documentary on your own."

"He's not alone," Lauren objects from where she is leaning against the window between the studio and the control room. "We'll be hiring him a crew now that the proper filming is about to start."

A proper film crew. Dave won't be any less busy because of one; he'll be even more occupied delegating the work load and processing the material coming in. Dave looks slightly chuffed when the talk turns to a proper crew, and why wouldn't he be? Married to his job as he is. Oh, he's professional. He's so fucking professional.

Kurt lied to Dave about the waiting job, about getting fired back in December. Kurt told me that when we were reunited. Confided in me. He told Dave that he left the restaurant, and when he told Dave about it, he had already gotten a job bartending in that semi-sleazy club in Chinatown, a thankfully manageable trip from my place. I don't think Kurt chose the club because of me. He just really wanted to get a job before his boyfriend found out that he was unemployed, but I like to think that maybe he focused his job searching to Lower Manhattan for a reason.

Kurt can't be his real self around Dave. It's not Kurt's fault, but Dave's. Kurt gets to be himself around me, though.

We start getting ready to do a practice run of Piccadilly Women, and Dave prepares to film The Official Start of The Recording of the Currently Unnamed Album. Jeff came up with the easy to remember title and seems pleased with it.

Dave sets up his gear next to me, clearly intent on having as much footage of me as he can. I stand where I am, a guitar hanging around my lean form. Dave's bulkier than me. More muscular. I remain my twig self, but I'm taller than him. It's pretty obvious which physique Kurt prefers.

"So," I say, tuning my guitar two steps down, watching Dave manhandling a heavy looking video camera. "What days are you coming to film us?"

"Depends on how long it takes for you to record the album, but Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday this week and the next."

"Far out."

My mind races. Kurt works during the weekends, but he's definitely free on Tuesdays. That'll work. Next Tuesday, I need to sleep in, forget to show up because I was caught up pondering the mystery of life or some other pseudo-artistic reason and have Kurt come over, fuck him for hours while Dave videos Roderick trying to hit the high hat just right.

"Although I need to be out of here early next Thursday," Dave then says, "so that might be only half a night of shooting."

"You going someplace?"

The Bermuda Triangle, maybe?

"Nah, it's just –" He pauses and smiles sheepishly. "It's our second anniversary with Kurt. He's finishing early at the club so we'll still get to celebrate a little."

"Huh. That's nice." I tune the B-turned-G string. "Congratulations."

"Thanks." He sounds proud, like it's an accomplishment. And it is. Someone like him having managed to hold onto Kurt for two whole years. It's certainly an accomplishment. I only managed it for a few months myself. This time, though, it's different. Being with Kurt always felt good, but I don't remember it having felt this light. Knowing we won't get caught this time. The secret rendezvous are still there but now without my second-guessing. I know what I want.

And Dave might think he's got Kurt, but he doesn't. I do.

Dave's enthusiasm for their anniversary would be ironic if it weren't a little sad. Celebrating something that exists only in his head.

"But, you know, it's not a big a deal," Dave muses. "It's not like a single day measures up your relationship."

"Oh yeah," I nod. "You're right about that."

But all the time Kurt spends in my bed does.

He laughs, his muscles vibrating under his slicked up skin. I press my nails into his lower stomach, hoping to signal him to stop, but he doesn't. I hum in protest, the sound muffled. He says a breathless, "Sorry, fuck, sorry." His hands are tangled in my hair, and I try to breathe through my nose, focus on sucking and not biting, and I slowly, slowly try to get some magic happening right about now, but my tongue feels like a stiff log and the saliva's just making everything messier. I must not gag, don't gag, don't gag again, and he laughs, a spurt of, "Sorry, oh god, I don't mean to –"

I pull back with a wet pop and a silent thank you from my pained jaw. I sit on my knees between his parted legs and glare. "Okay, which bit of this blowjob attempt is funny to you?" I ask demandingly. He keeps laughing, almost gasping for breath. "Fuck you, Kurt. Oh my god, fuck you."

I attempt to leave, but he grabs my wrist. "Aw, come on!" He tugs me closer, but I refuse to move or to look at him, focusing my gaze to the window and the evening sunlight coming in through the venetian blinds of my bedroom. I really don't need to be here, getting laughed at. I could be banging a hundred groupies right about now. "You get an A for effort," he says seductively, now crawling into my lap. He's naked and gorgeous and radiating warmth, once fucked already, and I should've just stuck to that, do what I'm good at and not try to explore completely unfamiliar territory.

I get my cock sucked. Not the other way around.

Except for how I want to do it to him and how I need therapy so badly because this isn't making me want to gag.

Oh. Actually, it is.

"I can't believe it," I sigh, wrapping my arms around his waist and holding him close. I press my forehead against his shoulder. "You know how much I've had my cock sucked? A lot. A hell of a lot."

"Uh huh," he says, nibbling my earlobe, his erection brushing against my stomach, leaving behind a wet trail of my own saliva and hopefully his pre-come, but probably not. He's most likely sporting a sympathy boner rather than a 'Blaine, your mouth feels so good on me' boner. I trace the insides of my mouth with my tongue, a foreign taste all over. He tastes good. His cock tastes good, and I want to get back down there and deepthroat him until he's crying for mercy, or maybe I should just lick his balls a little, see where that gets us. If he only stopped laughing.

"I've had my cock sucked hundreds of times by dozens and dozens of people. And they all just fucking went for it, and some gagged, sure, and it only made me fuck their mouths because I wanted to be a dick about it, but I thought that cock-sucking just came to people naturally. I thought that it was like, like breathing, something you just do."

"Uh huh." He's leaving wet kisses on my neck, and I bury my nose in his hair, breathe him in, feeling the sorrow now wash over me.

"I can't believe I'm not good at this." I feel him laughing silently, the movement vibrating against me, and I growl and push him off of me. He lands back against the mattress with a soft thud but grins up at me devilishly. "See how funny it is when I bite your dick," I snarl.

"Groupies have given you an unrealistic view of sex," he says matter-of-factly, stretching out on the bed, legs spreading and for a split second I see his stretched hole, and my guts tighten with want. "And besides, you're very good at the other stuff." He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I flip him off before eyeing his beautifully erected cock with some longing.

"You know, maybe it's not me. Maybe it's you and your fucking oversized bratwurst. You thought of that?"

"Your cock is bigger than mine, so... no." He sounds fucking self-satisfied right about now. "It's pretty hot you haven't sucked cock before. I mean, I can tell you've now got a lot more experience in fucking men."

"Oh, you can?" I ask skeptically, though yeah. He probably can. I've picked up tricks. Can locate his prostate in record time. Have more positions up my sleeves. "Fucking is one thing, this another. I mean, I'm not going to suck just anyone's cock," I object. Degrade myself for just anyone. It doesn't feel degrading when I do it to him, though. It's him.

"You shouldn't either. I mean, with your incredible cocksucking skills, you might spoil a poor man for life –"

"Fuck. Off."

He laughs again, his gaze dropping from my face. "Maybe I should... give you a demonstration. In which I blow that amazing cock of yours and you groan my name as you shoot come down my throat." His voice has dropped significantly, and then he looks over to the alarm clock on my nightstand. "We've got fifteen minutes before I need to leave for work, and I'd hate to leave you with that boner."

"And what about yours?" I ask, crawling over his body. Our cocks brush together as I lean in, and his breathing hitches deliciously.

His parted lips brush against mine. "I'll touch myself as I blow you."

"Christ," I breathe out, my mind full of images of him jerking off, his mouth full of my cock and him loving it and getting driven insane by it. I kiss him hungrily, craving him even though I've just had him, but he's addictive. He's the only addiction I've ever had that I don't think stems from a deep-seeded desire to self-destruct.

"You taste like me," he groans against my lips that still feel numb from my attempts to suck him off. "Fuck, that's so hot." He kisses me twice as hard like he's trying to trace the taste, and just as I'm fucking melting into it, he flips us over. Our knees knock together, but we fall into place. We always do, like puzzle pieces, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, legs entwined. He breaks the kiss with a knowing grin. "You know what makes a good blowjob?" He leaves a wet kiss on my jaw and begins to travel down my body, his lips moving on me like he wants to devour me.

"Having no gag reflex?" I suggest as he sucks on a nipple. I muffle a groan.

"Practice," he corrects, his hand having slipped down to size up my cock.

"I really doubt that," I say, trying to breathe though my head is spinning – he is touching my cock, his hardened fingertips caressing the flushed skin. His tongue dips into my belly button, and that should not turn me on the way it does. I writhe beneath him a little. Just a little. I try to expatiate upon my point. "Some of the girls who've sucked me off have been blowjob virgins, and they've still managed to get most of my cock in."

"You got more like a third," he grins against my hipbones, butterfly kisses teasing the hell out of me.

"I definitely got half of your dick. At least."

He looks up, pupils blown and lips shiny. "Guess you're not as greedy as me." He takes a hold of the base of my cock and swallows me down in one fucking swift and sinful movement. I groan loudly, hips bucking as I grab his hair. Oh god. His lips stretch around my length, every inch of me disappearing into his hot, velvety mouth like it's nothing, like that's all it takes. I curse and ball up the sheets with my fists. He sucks on my cock, moaning the way he always does when he blows me, greedy little cocksucker. I have no leverage because he has me gasping into the room, pleasure flashing up my spine. So wet, so hot, so good, his tongue, his lips, god, he's fucking amazing at this, and the things he does with his mouth, what he does to me –

He pulls back, his magical mouth vanishing. I reach for him clumsily, trying to push him down from his shoulder. I rasp, "No, no, demonstration not over yet, come on –"

"The real secret," he says, tongue twirling around the head of my cock, and my entire body twitches, "is wanting to please." He pulls back, looking thoughtful. "Which I figure even the most virginal Warblers fan wanted to do when they got down on their knees for you." He leans back in and hungrily kisses the tip of my cock with swollen lips, his tongue licking my slit where I'm leaking. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "You taste like candy," he groans, sounding fucking turned on as pre-come decorates his bottom lip. I laugh in turn because I probably don't. He tasted bitter, acidy, and it made me even harder. I loved his taste. It was one of the – one of the many things. Between back then and now... The tour and the breakup and then nothing, nothing at all, and I had time to think about him during that time, and I was hungover and suffering coke withdrawal on the train to Manchester when it occurred to me that I had never sucked him off, my mouth had never been on his cock and probably now never would be, and it was a shame, I thought. Because now I wondered about his taste and scent, being on my knees, mouth so full of cock that my nose would press to his pubic hair, my saliva sliding over his balls, dirty and gritty and real, nothing being more or less than what it was. Sucking his cock. Another man's cock. Kurt's cock. Having him pull on my hair and fuck my mouth, and I never got to do that or try it out and now never would because he was gone, gone, gone, and I put that on the long fucking list of the things I never got to do with him.

Two years later, out of an English train and into my New York apartment, having him come over before work so that we can fuck, and I finally get to try it. Ticking off this particular one, though... didn't really go as planned. It's nice to know that I amuse him in bed. That's nice. Really.

"I want to please you," I object hazily because he's back to blowing me, his head bobbing up and down as he tortures my cock with that god-given mouth of his. I watch my flushed cock disappear and reappear from between his thick, red lips. He hollows his cheeks, and my eyelids flutter shut as I push into his mouth. Fucking hell. "God, Kurt, just like that. Fuck, don't stop, you're so good at this, you're so – No, no, which bit of not stopping is unclear to you?" I groan in frustration, and he smiles against my shaft, tongue licking lazily.

"I think you want to please the part of your brain that thinks you're a natural sex god."

"Well, I am. I've got two divine powers: ingenious musical talent and god-like sex skills." He scoffs. Scoffs! "Do I need to remind you of last week? I got you off three times, Kurt. Three rounds of making you come and getting you hard again before I finally let go myself, and I can go on and on without coming for fucking hours, I can – Oh, oh, Kurt, fuck, fuckfuck." His mouth is back on me, swallowing me down, and he cups my balls, pulling on them just fucking right. He groans around me, and I know he's jerking himself off with his other hand, and I – "Fuck, I'm gonna come, Kurt, fuck." I grab his hair with both hands, fucking into his mouth as I orgasm suddenly, and he lets me, not gagging, swallowing repeatedly, making everything feel so much more intense. My mind and body explode in pleasure, the orgasm washing over me and rattling me to the bone, and him, god, it's all him, swallowing my come, wanting me, pleasuring me, being here with me.

He pulls back when I finally stop, my cock slipping out of his mouth. Jesus fucking Christ. His swollen lips press against my hipbone where he bites down, groaning feverishly. He jerks, and my inner thighs get hit with his semen. I keep a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing with the little sense I have left, for comradeship, for the celebration of mutual orgasms, for the warm and fuzzy contentment spreading in me.

He rolls over and lands on the messy sheets next to me, breathing hard. "So." He licks his lips slowly, tongue darting out sinfully. "You were saying something about your incredible stamina."

"Like you can brag," I say, trying to clear the haze from my head. "I just didn't want you to be late for work."

"So considerate."

I reach over to touch his soft hair, wanting to pull him close and make out for hours though I know that we can't. "I'm a gentleman, baby."

He laughs. "You're unreal, is what you are."

"Why thank you." I try to sound smug. He looks at me, eyes laughing as he smacks my hand away. He gets out of bed, his cock still half-hard. I don't bother moving or covering up anything. He's gorgeous moving around my room with nothing but slight sweat on his skin...

"Hey. Blaine." A warm hand shakes my shoulder, and I open my eyes, trying to fight off the post-coital slumber I slipped into. He's now fully dressed, leaning over me.

"Stay," I manage. It's our time right now. Dave's working at Will's, Rachel's at practice, whereas him and I, the ones that live for the night time, are free. I'm not needed at the studio just yet, and he's not working during the day, so who knows where we are, who we are spending our time with. We could steal another hour. He could be a bit late.

"Can't," he responds, leaning down to kiss me. "I'll call you."

"Yeah, you better."

He calls me since I live alone, but I'm hardly ever here so arranging dates is annoyingly time consuming. He doesn't want me calling his place since Dave could pick up. I could come up with something work related if that happened, an excuse or another. But he doesn't want that, and I get it, even if I think he's being paranoid about it.

"What about next Thursday?" I ask sleepily.

"I've got stuff to do before work."

"After work."

"Busy. Sorry." He kisses me again, his hand sliding to my chest, resting over my heart. Like he knows. "Soon."

"Will you miss me?"

He smiles against my mouth. "Immensely."

"Good."

I taste him on my lips long after he's gone.