What.

The.

Fuck.

Just happened ?

Am I in some alternate reality ?

And who the fuck IS this in my arms, some crazed, degenerate sorcerer ? Casting filthy spells with that evil, alternate tongue ? With the devil's own lips ?

It's all of you contained within a giant steaming cauldron of debauchery– nipples and cock and scars bobbing at the surface, devoured, before being immersed, twitching and gasping, made to hold your breath, but drowned anyway.

And here you are, here you surface, strung out, shivering and stunned, a weary ache settled deep within your lungs, your muscles – ones you didn't know you bloody had - as if you've been dragged, screaming and fighting, backwards through the proverbial hedge.

Sex is supposed to be lovely, no ? A release, they call it. For men, I had thought, it's especially simple – the switch turns on, you come, the switch turns off. You're not supposed to feel, are you, like you've walked into the wicked man's house – the mysterious one you've secretly long been afraid of – making sure to cross to the other side of the street each time you pass - and in an instant, he's got you; helpless, twisted and tangled inside his sorcerer's web.

The irony being, you can free yourself at any moment. You know this – it's easy, even – except ... you don't bloody want to. You've seen the other side, tasted it, now, it's tentacles have crept inside your brain ... and you experience the rather unnerving realization that you've never wanted anything so bad in your life.

But it's not just the sex. You've never felt so close to anyone - just an amazing sense of connectedness. Somebody's stripped you to the primal state, seen what you are, the ugly, nasty depths of you ... and they don't care. They love you just the same.

There it is in my mind, clear as day: the very first moment. Age 9, the both of us. The new boy in class; small for his age, blonde, innocent, answering a maths question - correctly, the teacher smiling at him, and I turn my head to look. No lightning bolt. No mystical flowery vision.

How is it that I couldn't have known, couldn't have looked into that face and seen ?

My brain is slowly reconfiguring ... forming a phrase ... pushing it towards my lips ...

"What do I do now ?"

It starts with a little wrinkle at the bridge of his nose, which forms into a crease, and then his whole face splits wide open into a bright, glowing grin as the laugh busts out of him – the most gorgeous thing you've ever heard - delight, surprise, a touch of raunch, and you wanna marry him right there.

He raises a hand to my cheek and holds it there a moment. The look in his eyes is just incredible. Warmth and honesty and fucking ... adoration. Like I'm some huge, enormous deal. Like he's completely bloody smitten.

"Bask in the afterglow," he answers.

I remove it, bring it to my lips, and kiss his open palm, like he's the pope.

"How come you're so fucking incredible ?" I ask. "How come ?"

He flushes. He grins shyly.

"I'm not."

I take his other hand, to hold it.

"Listen to me, Maxxie. You are the most amazing creature that ever walked this earth. Do you know that ? You make me insane. I don't know who I am, anymore."

He flushes further, and squirms a bit. I've embarrassed him. I can't help myself. The emotions are pooling up inside.

"I love you," I gush, "I love you more than anyone in the entire fucking world. More than anything."

He pulls me close, arms sliding round my back. He turns his face and whispers into my ear.

"Stop it. You're gonna turn me into a pile of goo." He kisses my neck. "I feel exactly the same way."

A breath bursts out of me, a gush, really. Stupid maybe, idiotic, but, I can't fucking help it – I'm completely overcome, a big, jibbering mess, to have even a fraction of my feelings mirrored back.

He holds me and pets my hair a long while ... and it's positively glorious. If I could stop time right now, if I could freeze it ...

It's a bit funny, then, maybe a tad awkward, that in the middle of the all this flowery mush, standing upright like an exclamation point between us ... is his very present erection.

"Maxxie," I whisper, surprised at the tone in my voice – equal parts tenderness, and desire.

Fuck me, I think, as I reach. It's true, then; for the very first time in my life, I positively ache for cock.

He squirms a bit, as I knew he would.

"It's alright," he says. "I'm fine." He tries unsuccessfully to block my hand.

"Let me," I protest. "I don't stop you."

"I'm just ... "

"What ?"

"Not used to it."

"Well get used to it," I say, as I remove his hand, which drops slowly, resignedly back to his side.

.

His eyes travel to my lips, and he leans down. I slip a hand behind his neck, fingers threading into the damp hair as my lids shut in anticipation, and then ... nothing.

I look. At close range, the blue pools loom, seeming to take up half his face.

"Am I not supposed to ?" he asks.

I pull back slightly, so he's more in focus.

"Not supposed to what, Tone ?"

"After what you just did, I mean. Kiss you."

Christ, once again, the innocence. If he only knew the impact it had.

"Oh. No - it's perfectly fine. I rinsed really good." I grin at him. "I'm safe to be kissed," I say, puckering up, and tilting my head towards him.

"So you brought that rinse stuff with you ?"

Wow. Okay. This feels a tiny bit awkward.

"Ya. Y'know, just in case."

His eyes dart between mine.

"So like, you would've maybe done that this weekend, with a guy you met here ?"

Damn, why do I suddenly feel like such a slut ? And why does his gaze have to be so bloody piercing ?

I squirm a bit.

"Possibly. I like to be prepared."

Those blue beams open and shut. He says nothing.

"Does that bother you ?"

His pupils widen.

"No," he says too quickly.

Christ.

I slide my hand down the curve of his neck and lay it on his shoulder.

"You're a shit liar, Tone," I say, half smiling.

He blinks, he looks down.

"Sorry."

"Come on," I say softly, "you knew I was gonna try for a hookup this weekend; we both were. So why does it bother you ?"

He looks up, the picture of stammering sincerity.

"Just … I can't help it, Max. It just – it just makes me feel funny, the thought of you, y'know, with somebody else." He pauses a moment. "I just … I really … I really wanna be your boyfriend."

God

all

friggin

mighty.

Just knock me completely fucking flat, why don't you ? !

Do you think, even in my wildest, nuttiest possible imaginings, my silliest, oh-what-the-hell fantasies, that I would have, could have imagined hearing such words from Tony ? TONY ? !

I slide my hand to his face.

"Oh Tone, you have to know that's all I want too."

He searches my eyes.

"But what if you meet some really hot guy ?" he asks, "You could meet him tomorrow. There's millions of 'em out there."

I drop my hand and shake my head slowly, both in answer to his question, and from frustration.

"We'll have to make a rule, if we're gonna be together."

He squints.

"Huh ? What rule ?"

"That you believe what comes out of my mouth, and that you maybe give me a little credit, please." I take his hand. "Listen to me, yes, I've been popular with the boys, but if this weekend has taught me anything, it's that all that time, I was looking for you."

He smirks.

"Chrissake, Tone, did you not just hear me ? Don't give me that look. Messing around is fun, but it's temporary, that's the thing. Like ... the candy floss we had yesterday – tasty, then in a flash, it's gone. You can't live on it, can you ? Nor would you want to." I smile. "By contrast, you're like a full course, well balanced meal; salad, and veg, and then a nice juicy steak."

He grins.

"A little tough sometimes, yes," I continue, "a bit hard to digest ..."

"Hey !" he shouts, laughing.

"... But I love you to pieces, Tone. You're brilliant, and beautiful and so funny and ... endlessly entertaining and fascinating, not to mention superfuckinghot and you're my best bloody friend- I'd like to see somebody try and compete with all that ... and I'm not interested in anyone else, regardless, period."

I lean up to kiss him on the forehead.

Okay ?"

He grins and nods his head once, quickly.

"Okay."

"So you believe me ?"

"Yes."

"Alright, but just so you know what it feels like, I'll ask you the same question: What if you meet some really hot girl ?"

.

It's weird. I don't understand it ... but I can't seem to escape this very intense feeling – not even feeling, knowledge, way, way deep in my gut, that I'm all through with that side of my life. Staggering to say it, maybe ... but girls feel to me like something Old Tony did.

I was lost, after the accident, obviously, trying to rebuild my life. I was grasping at what I thought I wanted – what people told me I was, but this new guy is me, goddamit, and mine to claim and shape in any frigging way that feels right, thank you.

Okay, to be perfectly honest, it doesn't mean I will never again have an interest in girls – maybe I will at some point – but who cares ? I don't give a shit. It will not invalidate Maxxie, to me – how could it ? It can't. Nothing feels righter to me, absolutely in this entire world, than him - than us. It's just the way it's turned out. I can fight it, I can go with my fears and let that rule me – fear of being a 'poof', and all that lame, weak crap - but what kind of first class arsehole and irretrievable ignoramus would I be to reject the most brilliant, beautiful, once in a millenium fucking miracle meteor, fallen clear out of the sky into my lousy, undeserving lap ? What would be the point of pretending you haven't won the motherfucking lottery when you have ... only better, cuz the lottery doesn't save your life, does it ? Doesn't revive you and befriend you and become your best mate and also give you spectacular, absolutely mind shattering, mind obliterating sex ... does it ?

The lottery doesn't have cock.

"Tits," he offers. "What about tits ?"

I chuckle – if he only knew what I'd just been thinking.

"You know what," I admit, looking him directly in the eye. "I'm not all that bothered."

"But you could meet a girl tomorrow, Tony. You might be very bothered by some stunning, big-titted bimbette."

.

He responds to my question, or is it accusation, by wearing a small, indecipherable smile, looking down and taking in hand my by-now thoroughly wilted cock. Yes, there is nothing quite like a conversation such as this to wither a previously healthy hard-on.

Sigh. How did we get into this again ?

.

It feels small and warm, innocent, enveloped in my wrinkly palm, like a baby bird, just fallen from it's nest of short, dark blonde curls.

You'd never know, would you, by it's present restful state, the threat it can pose, the trouble it can unleash, that a once entirely straight boy could be caused to turn, to fall under it's oddly bewitching spell, perhaps never to go back (nor does he care).

I'm supposed to be repulsed by this, I know. I'm supposed to run screaming at the very thought. So why am I instead, so fucking entranced ? Why am I actually thinking, right this second and with a surge of glee: This is mine. Nobody else's. Why do I raise my eyes to his, give it a firm squeeze, and tell him:

"Girls don't have this."

.

Okay, fuck, I mean ... that one sets me back pretty damn far on my heels – about as final, and staggering a statement, announcement, really, as can be, the significance of which is not lost on a certain rapidly fattening bodily organ.

"So," I tease, "the truth comes out. You only want me for my cock, hmm ?"

He smiles.

"Well, see, it's a funny thing I've just recently discovered. Contrary to my prior beliefs, cock is pretty fucking amazing."

I burst out laughing.

"And," he continues with a wicked, unbearably sexy grin, "it's sorta fun to play with; yours especially." He brings his face close, never interrupting the soft, insistent ministrations below. "In fact I might have a coupla ideas about how to keep it, um, entertained."

Holy fucking shit. Said cock practically leaps into the air over that one.

"Tony," I say, reaching a hand behind his neck to pull him closer, "if you keep talking that way, it'll all be over very soon."

His lips brush mine ... "Well then, I'd better fucking shut up ...", clamp right down ... and we fall headlong into the kiss, which quickly is almost like a fight. I grab his face with both hands and yank at his hair and we bite and suck at the swell of lips, open wide ... and then it's a messy free for all: pulling each other further into the tangle of rough, swiping, possessive tongues and gnashing, clicking teeth ...

.

... And it strikes me, all through it, that it's like a small battle, what we're doing, a tiny war in which neither side can lose, and yet we're each still so desperate to 'win' – to own the other – it's just that one of us has a very significant advantage in hand, so to speak, in the form of a needy and very hungry cock, and it's positively fascinating, the contradiction, the mystery of steely firmness encased in supple, petal-soft flesh, and the abuse it can take, the rapid, corkscrew fist you learn to apply – that he teaches you via desperate pleas and murmurs – up, cupping rapidly over the swelling head, and down again – which you discover goes that much faster if you lather up ... and it's incredible, the sounds you can wring from his throat as you batter and hammer at him, and a part of you is a little afraid of such rough treatment, and yet he's so clearly loving it, he'd kill you if you stopped, and in fact you notice he's leaned back, now, so that it's just a single shoulder blade against the tile, in order so that his hips can swing absolutely free, hurtling and snapping, hard and shameless into your hand, to the point where you can't keep up and so you stop trying, you simply hold your fist still and then position the other just above it, giving him the sensation of a deep, slippery hole, and you imagine as he pumps away that he imagines it's you, that he's pushed his way in maybe before you were ready, and you cry out cuz it hurts, but it's so good, neither of you care – and it's so dirty, these thoughts, so fucking delicious and taboo, and the look on his face and the way his tongue keeps doing that rapid circle of his lips is making you insane, and these words shoot to mind, these phrases, and you never, ever thought you'd be one to do this and you can't possibly let them out and you can't possibly keep them in ...

"You filthy fucking slut," you blurt.

"Gah !" he shouts, chin snapping upward to aid in the exhalation. "Fuck !"

Which you translate to mean: "Yes ! More !"

"Cocksucking little whore."

"Mgghmhh !

And you're so surprised and turned on by the whole scene - by how sexual he is, by the power of harsh language, that your brain is instantly on the hunt for more. You want to truly shock him; completely ruin him for life ...

"Come in my face."

His voice climbs several octaves.

"What ? ! No !"

And you hurl yourself to your knees ...

"Come in my face ! Do it ! Shoot it all over me ! I want you to !"

"Tony !"

And that's it – you grab a hold and you're aiming and jerking and you don't stop as the spurts come flying, you're milking it the whole way – no time or room to get out of their way, even if you'd wanted to, and it's ... one, two, three, four, five, six, seven rapid fire arcs of warm, creamy white, landing everywhere ... eyelid, chin, forehead, nose, shoulder, nipple and neck and some in your hair, even ... and you're a bit in shock; more than a bit – you're shaking and really nervous and freaked ... but you know you must look amazing to him right now, and it makes you weirdly proud that you did it, you fucking well did it - completely lost your mind and just went with it and didn't hardly flinch.

And he's leaning back, against the tile, pink and panting like a racehorse and staring in crazed disbelief ... and I don't know quite what to do. Why does nobody tell you what to do once the bloody stuff is all over you ? Because you just want it off you, truth be told – it's sticky and drippy and ...

Fuck, I absolutely can't fucking believe I did it.

.

I lean for a clean wet towel, shaking like a mad man, run it over him, and pull him up off his bloody knees.

I direct the spray and he shuts his eyes and whatever remaining microscopic remnants of me there are go sliding down his body into the drain.

I'm stunned, still getting my breath back, and can barely form thoughts, let alone coherent phrases.

"Tony," is all I can mumble. My head is so screwed up I'm convinced his face, the one I just spewed all over, is a slightly different shape from before.

He's grinning back at me, ear to ear, so beautifully, with more than a hint of prideful mischief – he knows he's knocked me senseless.

I pull him to me, this magnificent creature, and run a hand up into his hair and he buries his face deep in my neck and I hear a word, or think I do, and it's so profoundly lovely it doesn't register at first and I can't even be sure he said it. I'm messed up enough as it is – I mean, not only did he tell me outright and completely convince me that he really does want to be my boyfriend, not only did he throw at me some stupendously juicy dirty talk (and I can't right now remember if I ever even told him I like that – would I have told him that ? Or what words to use and not use, but I'm thinking I didn't), but then there was everything fucking after that ... I mean, I can't get my head around it. Can't take it in.

So then my brain skips back to the utterance I (think) I just heard, the simple, two syllable word that I probably imagined, but it's not so much the word, although it was/would have been pretty fucking amazing and certainly significant, but how it was seemingly spoken - in a voice just absolutely suffused with tenderness and affection and it's therefore all a bit too wonderful, too sweet, maybe, even for the new Tony, so ya, probably did imagine it ... but it turns out I'm wrong about that ... because he says it - again, the lovely bastard. He plants a quick kiss on my earlobe and inside of a tiny breath I hear it, said simply, no big flourish, like he can't help himself:

"Baby."

And that's it.

Tony just fucking called me baby ... okay ? As in, his baby.

Not even anything terribly uncommon, admittedly, as pet names go, but you see, that doesn't matter. It's a bloody pet name and how can he know, unless I told him but I'm damn well sure I wouldn't have, because it's so corny and old fashioned and embarrassing, that I've positively craved such a thing for fucking ages. A pet name of my own, to be known and called by, maybe only in private, but maybe not, by the man who loves me, the one I'm exclusively involved with, for whom my full name or even "Max" is just too formal and lacking in intimacy ...

And so I'm just standing here, positively melting on the spot, trying like mad to resist the temptation to leap up into Tony's arms and squeal.