In short, after an hour or so, we …
1) Awaken in a tangled, sticky mess, having each hurtled quickly off to much needed dreamland following my orgasm …
2) Shower, separately, to avoid temptation, each agreeing, (one of us more reluctantly than the other,) that this is best, otherwise, the entire Brighton trip will be blown. ("So to speak," snorts Tony. "You could also say the whole weekend will be fucked.") …
3) And then, at long last, yes it's true ... actually manage to leave the hotel room …
"Wow", I laugh as we hit the exit doors. "Fresh air. I'd forgotten there was such a thing."
"Fresh air, shmesh air, who gives a toss ?"
"Don't be a tit. Look," I say, making a sweeping gesture with my hand, "it's a gorgeous day here by the sea on our vacation weekend."
"Ya, whatever. Just make sure you don't walk ahead of me at any point today, 'kay? I don't wanna see your gorgeous arse, even the outline of your gorgeous arse, until it's naked and poke-able."
"Poke-able ! I like that ! Like X-rated Pokemon."
He groans.
"Tony. Stop it. Think about all the shit you wanted to do here ! It's only 2 o'clock – we've got the whole rest of the day."
"Ya, ya, okay," he says with a dismissive wave.
"So … ?"
"Alright. Let's hit your weird, gay shop first, then maybe the plaster place."
"It's not weird. Perverted maybe; not weird."
"Uh huh."
"Okay, and after, the Royal Pavilion, and I have to get to the dance supply shop."
"Okay. I wanna hit the boardwalk at some point. I think it's open late, so no rush. And more rides. And a movie. And trinkets, we need trinkets, and post cards and shit. I wanna send Effy a particularly stupidarse post card."
"See," I grin. "There's plenty to do besides fucking."
"Please," he says, holding up his hand, "no mentions of the F-word."
I laugh.
"Okay. Well, I need some fridge magnets for mum, and of course, we gotta hit the beach again before sundown."
"Ya, like well before – I'd like to get some semblance of a tan, if we actually aren't going to spend the entire time in the room."
I peruse him a moment.
"Do you know, I actually really love your look exactly as it is ? You just totally rock pale, Tone; you sort of own it."
"You're the one who went on about looking healthy and vitamin D and all that !"
"Well ... I don't know what it is." I look, I grin. "You're unique. The normal rules don't seem to apply."
He snorts.
"Fucking right. Tell me it didn't take you all this time to figure that out."
As we make our way down the sidewalk, right away Tony's holding my hand. Shall I say that again ? The beautiful, willful bastard, in full view of the world, is shamelessly holding my hand. This despite, or more likely, because of my warnings about it.
"I'm not gonna say not to, and it's not like I haven't done it in the past, but you have to understand that there's a risk involved – simple fact. And you're not required to do it."
"Required ? I know I'm not required. I want to, poofboy."
"And I want to, too. It's just that-"
"-If we're tight enough to fuck, we're tight enough to bloody well hold hands."
"Yes, Tony, but-"
"-I know, Max. We've been over this. You've been my best friend for a year now. I've heard all the stories. But I frankly don't give a fuck what people think-"
"-Nor do I, tosser, but that's not what it's about, is it ? So don't try and paint me as a pussy, okay ? I'm just saying, like it or not, there's sometimes a balance to be struck, so we don't end up strapped to a fence in the middle of a field, somewhere."
"Ya, I understand; I get it. You decide, then. I'm just a blushing newbie full of … what do they call it ?"
"Shit ?"
"Funny. No, full of … what is that phrase ? 'Piss and vinegar', or 'spunk' as my dad says – not realizing, of course, nor am I about to tell him, that 'spunk' has other meanings, these days."
"Which his son is learning about first hand, this weekend."
We burst out laughing.
"Anyway, ya," he continues, "Your call. You're the one whose walked in gay shoes all this time; not me."
I look down.
"My shoes are not gay." I stop and turn my ankle slightly. "I'd say they're bisexual, at a minimum. Perhaps metrosexual."
We walk on.
"Is that what I am ?" he deadpans.
"What," I laugh, "metrosexual ? It's just a stupid term. There's really no such thing-"
"-No. Bi."
Wow. Okay.
"Oh. Um, well," I stumble. "That's like, y'know, a big question, Tone." I look at him. "Don't know if I really have the answer. This is obviously new for me too, this situation."
"So you've never been with anybody bi ?"
"Well, I don't know, for absolute certain. The main guys I've been with – aside from a couple of straight boys who wanked me off - certainly seemed to be gay, as in no history with women, that I was aware of, but most of them, I have no idea what they did after me. Truthfully, sometimes people our age are still figuring themselves out, trying things on for size, before they make a final decision, or whatever, and then of course there are people that genuinely swing both ways, for good."
We walk on in silence. It's a bit uncomfortable.
"What do you think ?" I finally ask.
More walking. More silence. He's so deep in thought, he's focusing intently on the sidewalk, as if we were the only ones on it.
"Dunno," he shrugs. "The one thing I do know is, I'm in love with you – there's no getting around that - and you're a bloke, so that's gotta mean something, right ? More significantly, we've had sex – butt sex; not just fucking around with our toes in the water, right ? I mean, you fucking came in my face," he stops and says, as if I'd forgotten, exactly at the moment a tour group begins walking by, several members of whom whip their heads to the side as he insists, before I can stop him, and slaps his own thigh to emphasize: "You fucking came in my face, Maxxie. How amazing is that ? Like, real deal; creamy, sticky splooge all over me," he says, fluttering his fingers down said face as mine turns twelve shades of burgundy, leaving me to twice cough out loud and force a non-threatening smile, "and, it hasn't exactly driven me away, has it ? In fact, it's drawn me in even more. I can't wait to try out more perversions with you."
By the time we begin moving up the sidewalk again, I'm so thoroughly mortified I can only squeak out a response in a tiny voice.
"Right."
"'Right' ?" he cries. "Is that all you can say; 'right' ? Come on, Maxxie. Does it make me a homo, or bi or what ?"
"Tony, fuck's sake, what is wrong with you ? Do you have to run it up a bloody flagpole ?"
He stops dead. He looks at me, then behind us at the departing tourists as if he's just noticed them for the first time. He looks back, giggling.
"Sorry. Sorta got carried away."
.
He half smiles.
"No shit. Well, at least they all know without any doubt that I came in your face."
We burst out laughing.
"Stupid shit," he says, taking my hand, grinning.
"Sorry. It's just, for some reason, this feels important, to me, figuring out what the fuck it is that I now am."
"I know, Tone. I fully understand."
I'm silent for a bit, thinking and looking off, and hit with a sudden wave of unexpected sadness.
"'S'weird, isn't it ? Ironic, like. I spent all that time in a coma, months trapped inside my own body not knowing who I was, only to come to and not know who anyone else was, up to and including my own parents … which was just, fuck, unbelievable, still makes me queasy to think about it, and here I am a year later, mostly healed, right ? At least, that's what they tell me, yet I'm back to square one, like a tiny baby, still trying to figure out who the hell I am."
His face softens.
"I know Tone; I'm sorry."
He leans and holds me.
"You've been through so much, the last year. And now here's another big thing that's cropped up." He kisses the side of my neck and release me again. "But … no matter how you ultimately label yourself, main point is, you've crossed a humongous hurdle this weekend- the final hurdle, just in getting yourself back sexually." He reaches and touches my cheek. "Will I come off like a tosser if I say I'm incredibly proud of you ?"
I look at him, incredulous.
"You did that, Max. You brought it about. Not me. If it wasn't for you-"
He shakes his head determinedly.
"-I was just the conduit, Tone. You had to be brave and face something really scary, something that had become debilitating, even, and open yourself up, for it to happen. I really believe that's true. You had to look it in the eye and say yes."
"No. That's total psychobabble bollocks. It was you."
He gives me the loveliest gentle smile.
"This is a pretty fascinating argument. Maybe we'll have to agree to disagree. Bottom line, I just want you to know, no matter the outcome, I'll be there with you the whole way, Tone, I promise - so long as you want me there. I'll even go away if you want me to, if that helps you to adjust, or process things, or whatever."
He squeezes my hand a final time before dropping it.
"I just want you to be okay."
Goddamn. Goddamn. The water has shot straight to my eyes and is hanging there, threatening. Because. That he can do this. Unabashedly, that Maxxie Oliver can look you dead in the eye and say the most beautiful and extraordinary things; things that slow burn, that pass through you and come out the other side and you're different. A gift that he's given, freely, of his heart, his big fucking endlessly generous heart. Can you say selfless ? And fucking so beautiful it's like poetry ?
Can there be a purer definition of love?
And so what am I supposed to do with this face beaming at me ? Bursting at the seams with so much sweetness and good will you want to die of shame over all the sarcastic, flippant shit piled up inside you. I feel both two feet tall, and high as the bloody moon, because somehow, somewhere, inexplicably, I am something in Maxxie's eyes – almost no matter what that is, the very fact that Maxxie feels it's so, makes it true.
I grab his hand between both of mine, squeezing it as I struggle for words.
"Can we just like, run away together ?"
He smiles.
"That's what this weekend represents, Tone – we've run away."
"No. I mean, for real. Move someplace and get a place and make a life together. Can we do that ? Tell me we can."
.
You truly never know which Tony you will get these days, one second to the next, the bloke who embraces deepest irony and sarcasm, who bellows out loud in public about the most intimate details of your sex life, who will unknowingly singe your ears with the nastiest imaginable smut in the midst of losing himself in your body … and then the one before you now, the picture of sweet, boyish sincerity and vulnerability ... and it sort of hurts down to your toes, how beautiful it is, how emotional and needy are his eyes, and I just want to throw my arms round him and shield him from the world, protect him from all the hurt he's ever felt.
"Of course we can, Tone; of course. At some point, if we want."
"Sorry," he blurts, impatiently brushing the wetness from his eyes. "I sound like a tosser. I know we can't do anything now; how would we pay the bloody rent ? It's just … I can't help it. I love you so much, it makes my heart hurt."
I laugh, and we reach and hold each other and it's a bit overwhelming, this silent, intensive exchange of energy, this formation of what feels like a lifelong, insoluble bond ... and with that thought, I can't hold back the tears, and so here we stand, Tony and I, making a spectacle of ourselves, crying and sniffling and giggling and shushing each other.
"Okay," he finally pulls back, each of us brushing the wetness from our eyes. "Enough of this pansy arse shit, for fuck's sake. It's time we went off into the world like men."
"Right," I laugh, nodding. "Now hold my hand as we skip down the sidewalk."
"Yup. On our way to the tutu shop."
"Dance supply shop !" I shriek, as we head off. "They do have tutus but they also have jock straps and even knee pads !"
"Hot. Make sure you pick up a pair," he grins, "May need 'em later."
Half way more down the sidewalk he begins shouting and pointing.
"Hey ! Check it out !"
I look. Diagonally across the road is a movie theater, not the one we were intending to hit later on– a place I've never heard of that must be brand new ... on the marquee of which, in huge letters, is a phrase Tony cannot resist.
"X-Men ! Fucking X-Men is playing ! How cool is that ? ! Like two weeks early !"
I pull on his hand.
"Straightboy movie, Tone. Who cares ? We have too much to do."
"Huh ? No, I have to see this ! Come on, let's at least check what time it's playing."
I sigh in exasperation and follow along behind him as we approach.
"2:15 !" Tony shrieks, peering into the window, "It's just about to start !" I groan out loud. He turns to me, clasping his hands together in front of him, prayer-style. "Come on, baby, pleeease ? I've been waiting my whole life for this !"
When I hesitate, he knows he's got me, and wastes no time in firmly grabbing my hand and yanking me pointedly along behind him, 'You are my wife/Goodbye city life' – style.
Inside, excited like a little kid, (which of course I find completely adorable even though I'm pretending to be mad at him), he buys an extra large popcorn and before I can stop him, soaks it in several long squirts of horrid fake "butter".
"Thanks, Tone, now I won't be able to have any."
"Hm ? You don't put butter on popcorn ?"
"My dad used to work at a theater, remember ? That isn't 'butter', the last thing it is is 'butter'. It comes out of an oil can for fuck's sake – it's 100% industrial strength oily, greasy, saturated fat, salted and tarted up."
"Uh huh," he says flatly. "Your point being ?"
"I don't eat that shit. I haven't spent the past five years toning my body to perfection in order to put fake, fatty chemical rubbish into it. "
"Watching your girly figure, are you ?"
"Fucking right," I pout.
He grins cheekily ..."Why don't you leave that to me ?" … tucks me under his arm, slides it round my waist … and it's instant bliss, this feeling, total warmth and gushiness, where our two bodies meet. Tony is seven inches taller than me, and in what I'll see as both happy metaphor and good omen, we do fit together perfectly.
"I'll buy some for you, then; won't put any butter on it, 'kay ?" he says, but I'm in such a romantic dither, I can't respond.
He looks at me quizzically.
"Is that okay, Max ?"
The word, when I can finally find breath to push it to my lips, is whisper-soft, fluttery, and weak.
"ya."
.
It's all very strange, this public affection business. Yesterday at this time, Maxxie and I were best mates. Ya, I was in love with him, but he didn't know it and I sure as hell wasn't going to tell him. I mean, how stupid would that have been ? I was determined to make it go away, to send it out on an ice floe, never to be heard from again.
Today ... today, however ... (many dozen light years from yesterday) … I'm holding the bloody lad's hand, in full view of the world, and loving it. It feels fresh and rebellious and 'fuck you' and cool. Also warm, lovely and squishy-good.
I grab our popcorns and Maxxie buys us a drink to share and we turn for the theatre door. At the last second he spies some sort of freebie movie magazine and takes it in with him "as an insurance policy against inane, straightboy teen flicks".
"And how many times have I sat through fucking Velvet Goldmine, again ? And seen Ewan McGregor's naked cock flopping round ? Like, sixty-two ?"
"Ewan McGregor's naked cock is the main reason I own that film, Tone."
"No it's not. You're such a gayboy, you even own the soundtrack."
He smiles broadly.
"Thanks for the reminder. We're doing karaoke."
I groan out loud.
.
Inside is enormous, and given that it's mid-day on a gorgeous weekend day in a resort beach town, largely empty.
"Where ?" I ask.
"Here", he says – back row, center. "We want the full surround sound experience, of course."
I roll my eyes and plop down next to him.
I do give the film a try, so as not to spoil Tony's excitement and intermittent bursts of spontaneous narration, but by the first half hour, find myself, during brightly lit scenes at least, sneaking peaks at my little magazine. When I look up at one point, however, on the screen is the first, and I would learn, only appealing thing in it.
"Who's that ?" I ask.
"Hm ?"
"Tall thing. Glasses."
"Oh, that's Hank. He turns into Beast later on in the comic book."
"Beast ?"
"Ya, this big, blue, hairy ape."
"Splendid," I groan.
I observe the young actor. I can't help it; there is something oddly compelling about thick, black glasses and nerdy clothing.
"Kind of cute."
"Huh ?"
"I said he's cute."
"Him ?"
"Ya," I say, as the girl in the film approaches him seductively. "She seems to think so."
"Ya. That's a blonde for ya."
I laugh. "Yes, we blondes are just …" I then for some reason ask a question, even though I don't want to know the answer:
"Do you think she's pretty ?"
He doesn't hesitate.
"Um, ya, Max," he says, eyes never leaving the screen. "Kind of obvious."
God, why is it such an instant knife to the gut ?
"I mean that both ways, though," he continues. "She's hot, but she's a bit obvious/generic, y'know ? Like a Barbie. But," he shrugs, "still shagable. Definitely Old Tony's type."
Eager to swiftly move on from this topic, I cough out loud. "So ... where to, after this ?"
He scarfs down a handful of popcorn.
"Wherever ya want, Max."
He grasps my hand. I instantly jerk it away.
"Thanks Tone," I say, holding it in the air and patting around in the dark for a napkin. "Fucking covered in buttery goop."
"Sorry."
"Napkin ?" I snap, in annoyance.
"Sorry; didn't get one," he says absently. "Just use your shirt."
"I'm not about to use my shirt, Tony, I-"
"-Oh for fuck's sake; here," he huffs, grabbing my wrist and messily pressing and dragging both sides of my hand down his front. "Don't be such a poof."
"Fuck off," I mutter, yanking my hand back and rubbing any remnants into the material of the adjacent seat.
My eyes return to the screen. Some silly, computer generated special effects are going off causing a room the size of an aircraft carrier to catch fire.
"How much longer do we have to endure this drivel ?"
He shrugs. "Dunno."
I return to my magazine, as best I can.
A few minutes along, he points to the screen. "So, this is interesting. You actually think that guy is hot ?"
I look. It's boy-scientist again.
"Um, well ya, in a way. Shy, and shit. Who's the actor ?"
"No clue. Some dweeb."
"I smell a straightboy."
Tony shrugs and downs a few more kernels.
"Whatever. His loss."
I turn, astonished.
"What ?"
Tony looks, shrugging, and answers simply, seemingly unaware of the magnitude of his words.
"I said it's his loss."
His loss.
I push back deep into the seat cushion in order to keep from raising clenched fists, screaming out in a riotous giggle and flinging myself round the room, and allow the cooling, soothing serum to flow through my veins. The serum of truth and righteousness, of triumph, of wildly, hopelessly impossible victories. Wow. Seriously. Again: WOW. Who knew the power, the beauty, the clear-the-boards clarity of two little otherwise wholly insignificant words.
Tony's sitting next to me, oblivious, following along with the inanities on the screen. He has no idea. A part of me wants to make a bloody scene. Stand up and scream it to the rafters, to in fact walk down and stand in front of the bloody screen jumping and shouting just how amazing Tony Stonem is … however when I picture it, I see even Tony standing up and waving angrily at me to get the fuck out of the way … and so I remain seated.
There is no harm in a private, solitary celebration, I tell myself, at least until later, and so I simply reach for and take his hand in mine; buttery, salty, popcorn fingers and all.
As I do, he looks down, groans, and before I can stop him, returns my hand to his chest to wipe off the goop, after which, this time, however, he takes and turns my palm towards his face to lick off the remnants.
And that's it. Tony, in two parts: a boy's eyes glued to the flickering screen, whilst a grown up tongue, warm and pink and muscley, slithers out impatiently to clean me up … and in that instant, the blood in my body hurriedly redistributes itself to a certain central spot.
Quickly I'm up, like a cat, back arched and kneeling sideways in the seat to kiss him as he yelps in surprise and the popcorn goes flying and he's trying to laugh, trying to push me away.
"Maxxie, fuck's sake, what are you doing ? !" he hisses, nervously looking round us as I feel him up through his jeans.
"Shut up," I tell him, and pull his face towards mine.
"Max !" he whispers as I go for his belt.
"Told you five times; only been four."
"But ! Are you nuts ? You can't- ! !"
"Shhhh," I whisper, pulling his belt free, yanking on his zipper, and slithering to the floor at his feet.
And there it is before you, the sacred and the profane … and there's sort of nothing like that moment of surrender, is there, in the entire world, when the look of panic and fear and disbelief gives way to grudging acceptance … and then not so grudging … and between nervous glances in all directions, and still somehow, several at the screen, there is finally that moment when his eyes meet yours and there's an instant spike in your arousal at the knowledge of just what exactly he's watching you do, just what exactly you're doing, here on the grubby movie theatre floor ... and at the same time, you're not here, either of you; you're in that perfect bubble that you both seem to exist in, protected from the world, exempt from it's rules ... and he's soothing your scalp, threading his fingers though the mess of your 32-minute hair, sympathetic with your plight, with the mess that you've gotten the two of you into and the war raging inside you between hurry and don't ... but in his face you can see that he knows it's your fault and he's not about to let you off the hook, not gonna let you get away with not finishing what you shouldn't have started to begin with ... had you not been such a filthy, animalistic little slut.
And his cock is dissolving, disappearing in your mouth like slow melting butter, tip poking you gently in the throat ... and quickly it's serious and you're readying your hand to cover his mouth and he's instead, because he seems to have developed a thing for it, taking and licking at your fingers, pulling them, one by one, past his lips ... and then you can't help it, it's so insanely hot, all of it, that you're shoving your whole hand inside, a new twist on 'fisting', never done this with anyone before, nor wanted to ... and in that instant, he erupts, coming in a gurgling rush of near-silent, sticky gouts, and you cough in surprise – you think you know his come by now, the texture, the mineral content, but this is different; thicker, saltier, and you ponder momentarily the popcorn butter, and then without warning he's pulling you up because the credits are rolling and the lights are coming on and you crawl off your knees and onto the seat beside him as if you'd never left it, the two of you panting away, looking round for signs of trouble but there aren't any, and his shirt's sticking to him, and you spy his fingers, white-knuckle intertwined with yours and in your mind of course it's a perfect metaphor; enmeshment, entanglement, the faultless, elegant dovetail found only in nature.
Author's Note:
Okay, for anyone who doesn't know this, I purposely, winkingly chose to have the boys see X-Men because Nicholas Hoult himself is in it, as a dweeby (but imo still beautiful) young scientist, Hank McCoy aka Beast. Personally, I'm with Maxxie here in that I think the film is total crap, and I also find thick black nerdy glasses inexplicably hot. (And, I don't think there is, BUT if there's possibly anyone reading this who hasn't actually seen Skins, Nicholas Hoult plays Tony in the series. So what I have here is 'Tony' going to see a movie starring the guy who plays him.) (Also, the 'blonde' referred to in the film is played by Jennifer Lawrence, who just happens to be Hoult's real-life girlfriend, at present).
And, for anyone who finds this stuff interesting, this chapter almost involved a let-the-reader-choose ending. I'd first written the boys inside the theater being very good, ie zero sex. It was to end where Maxxie takes Tony's hand and says "and so I simply reach for and take his hand in mine; buttery, salty, popcorn fingers and all." Then came the notion of a bit of naughtiness, but because movie-house smut is so damned cliche, I'd ruled it out ... then ruled it back in again, deciding it if I could write a decent enough scene - if it seemed generally up to snuff and not too horrid, I'd maybe give the smut a chance. Ultimately, I found I couldn't decide between the two endings, so I was going to write in both endings separately and let the reader choose the one they wanted ... then finally said screw it, and found a way to mesh the two.
If you have a moment, I'd sincerely love to know your thoughts. Would one have worked better than the other, or do they work okay the way it's written, blended together ?