Page 42 of Proof Of Life
“Oh God, why is this happening? Why now?” As if my life isn’t enough of a shit salad.
“I don’t know. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I guess we have two choices. We can either squash it, or see where it goes.”
Why is it easier to discuss difficult things in the darkness when you have your head buried and you don’t have to feel the weight of the other person's stare?
Brandt strokes his hand down my back. His words are a soft caress in my ear. A whispered secret. “Even if we squash it, there'll be distance between us, and things might be awkward for a little while, but I think we’ll get over it.”
He's giving me an out, but I’m not convinced I want it. But like a coward, I’m going to play along. “I think we can go back to being friends afterwards, like nothing happened.”
“Nothing has happened,” he stresses, “but what if we can’t? What if it stays awkward because it’s still there, still happening between us?”
“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” I have to wonder how long he’s been keeping it from me, letting these questions run through his head. “Are you saying you want to try?” Just asking the question feels like a thrill, and my stomach rises in a wave of queasiness.
His hand now rests at the base of my skull, his fingers rubbing back-and-forth through the short hairs of my neck. His touch is warm and soft and I want it to go on and on.
“I don’t know. I know it feels good. Don’t we deserve a little happiness after all the shit we’ve suffered through? Is that not fair?”
More than fair. But are we just making excuses for our impulsive behavior?
“I don’t even know what that means. Does that mean we’re gay?”
Brandt chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I don’t know what it means. Whatever you want it to mean, I guess. Whatever you feel comfortable saying about yourself.” Then he sighs. “I don’t really fucking care one way or the other. Labels are bullshit. The only thing I care about is you.”
“But if we kiss and do butt stuff–”
He laughs louder this time, like a bark. “Butt stuff sounds pretty gay to me, but you can call it what you want.”
“Fuck off,” I say without heat, finally raising my head to look at him.
“Don’t you mean fuck you, or fuck me?”
I’m so nervous, I can barely swallow, and my expression loses all traces of humor. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
I watch his throat slide, and I can tell he’s just as nervous. “I’m sure. I just want you to be sure.”
I’m not fucking sure of anything, besides my impressive hard-on and the relentless need to cum that’s been clawing at me for hours. But I can finally admit to myself that it’s not just a-hand-is-a-hand that’s making my dick rock-hard. It’s Brandt. I’m hard for him. In fact, I’m ready to throw twelve years of friendship right out the window just to feel his hand on my cock again. Or his mouth. What I wouldn’t give to feel his mouth right now.
“So we’re doing this?”
He just chuffs, laughing softly on an exhale of breath. “Why do you make it sound like you’re executing a strategy?”
I feel like a fucking ass, and I hope my face isn’t red. “Because I have no idea what I’m fucking doing.” Maybe we should just go for it, balls to the wall, and push past the awkward part so we can get to the feel-good stuff faster. When I’m thinking with the head of my dick and not my actual head, I don’t care about things like consequences and nerves, I’m just focused on the pleasure.
“Do you trust me?”
With my fucking life. “Should I? How much do you know about gay sex?”
He laughs again. At least we’re having fun. “Just follow my lead.”
Brandt scoots up so that he’s half-reclined, and he urges me to sit up. I scoot back so that our cocks are aligned, and he tugs my sweats down far enough to expose my cock. It bounces up and slaps my stomach, and there’s no way my face isn’t bright red this time. He takes it as a compliment and smiles, looking ridiculously hot with his glistening abs and bed head.
His grin turns wicked as he works his briefs down his hips and frees his cock. It’s as hard as mine, and the tip is wet. Brandt grabs the lotion and squirts a fat dollop in his palm. The sweet smell of peppermint candy taints the air and his hands are cold as he grips our shafts together in his slippery fist. It feels like the sweetest torture as he begins a slow glide down to the base and back up again.
“Ungh,” I breathe, feeling heat gather in my gut. “I didn’t know this was a thing.” My breath becomes shallow as I watch him stroke us. “Should I ask how you know?”
His chuckle morphs into a hiss. “Watch us together.”
His voice sounds as raw as my nerves, but I watch, and the sight of our smushed-together cockheads, both glossy and dark red, disappearing into his fist is blowing my mind. The pressure feels incredible.