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Real Slick
by Mister Harman (address withheld)

***

Slick's best friend is having trouble coming out of 
the closet and it takes a while before he... 
unloads... his secret on Slick. But Slick's not gay, 
right? Right? (MM, MF, bi, voy, mast, oral, anal, rom)

***

Chapter 1

Neon signs flickered halfheartedly, dreaming neon 
dreams of what it would be like to hang on a building 
in Las Vegas. James parked the aging (his mother would 
have been quick to point out that it had finished 
aging and was now just waiting to die) Camaro outside 
of the Café Jé. The place was one of those little 
treasures of urban dining that crop up in towns where 
the most touristy thing to do is tour the local 
brewery and stare at the one interesting building. 

Milwaukee offered little in the way of entertainment. 
Which, in fact, probably explained the profusion of 
bars. James looked around and spotted the familiar 
face of his oldest friend. Where James was short and 
skinny, his friend was tall, and built like a draft 
horse: all strong muscle, well-defined, well-toned, 
effortless. Where James was pale, his friend was 
almost dark enough to be called olive-skinned. James 
had a somewhat large nose that seemed to stand out 
from his otherwise understated facial features, but 
his friend's nose looked almost comically small on a 
face with such powerful features. 

James was a blonde, his friend had long black hair. 
They shared a few tastes in common—denim jackets and 
well-fitting jeans, a mutual love of Cinnabon and all 
that sprang forth from Cinnabon, a penchant for 
posters from nineteen-sixties sci-fi movies. Beyond 
that, all they really shared was their first name. 
There were those who suspected that they'd become 
friends merely to confuse others.

James—James Larson, the short one, that is—reflected 
fondly on how they had become friends. It wasn't 
really a story either boy could ever tell. They tried 
not to talk about it, even after nine years. Theirs 
was the only friendship that had survived Jimmy's 
moving to Milwaukee. The bigger boy had broken the 
news to his smaller friend on their last day of middle 
school. For a while, Larson had been angry. But he got 
over it. They were still in the same state, at least, 
and even if Fond Du Lac was going to be boring as hell 
without James "Slick" Slickowski in it, he'd get by.

"Larson, you old jackass! There you are!" Slick stood 
up and extended a hand to his friend, sending a cup of 
coffee tumbling to the floor in the process. "Sorry I 
missed the party yesterday," he said, ignoring the cup 
in favor of apologizing properly. "I know you missed 
me there."

James shrugged. "It was just my seventeenth birthday. 
You didn't miss sixteen. Don't miss twenty-one and 
you're fine."

"Can I send a cardboard cutout if I'm too busy? You'll 
be too drunk to notice."

James stuck his tongue out. "Try it, Slick. Just try 
it." he grabbed a bunch of napkins from next to the 
forks and knives and started sopping up the spilled 
coffee. Slick finally took notice of his mishap and 
started helping. 

"I got you a present, anyways. It's in my bag. It's 
not much, but... y'know."

James smiled as they finished sopping up the spilled 
coffee and he took a seat. A waitress was headed in 
their general direction. "I'm glad you could come 
today," James said. "I'm just feeling really... really 
depressed lately. You always cheer me up."

Slick gestured as though to say "it's what I do", but 
James shook his head. "No, I mean it. I don't know 
what I'd do without you, Slick."

"James," Slick said after a moment, "I get the feeling 
there's something you aren't telling me." He looked up 
at the waitress, who had arrived and was tapping her 
foot impatiently. "I'll have another coffee, and uh... 
a mocha for him. You have to try the mochas, James, 
they're killer."

The waitress wrote down the order and walked off, and 
James sighed. "Yeah, Slick, you're right. There's 
something I'm not telling you. You uh... you remember 
Laura?"

Slick nodded. "Lemme guess. She left you? James, I 
told you that girl was no good for you."

"You never met her, Slick. I would've been pretty 
surprised if you had, because she... she didn't exist 
in the first place." James suddenly regretted not 
having a cup of coffee in front of him to sip coolly 
at that particular moment. It would have hidden his 
deep blush. "I've never actually had a girlfriend, per 
se," James added.

"'Per se,'" Slick repeated. "Clarify."

James smirked and gestured lazily in Slick's 
direction. "I dub thee Claire. There. I Claireified."

"Not the time for it, Jimmyboy."

James sighed. "I know. It's just that I'm about to 
admit stuff, and I don't wanna." He looked up at his 
friend, trying to pretend that his heart wasn't going 
like a hyperactive jackhammer on crack. That's not an 
easy thing to pretend. "I think the problem with the 
idea of me having a girlfriend is kind of a manner 
of... word choice. Well, choice of a part of a word. 
Choice of... oh, dammit, Slick, I'm not good at this. 
I don't... I'm not... oh, hell. This was a mistake, 
Slick, I'm sorry." 

He got up to leave, but Slick grabbed him by the 
elbow, and when Slick grabs you by the anything, you 
tend to stay right where Slick wants you. "Let go of 
me, Slick."

Slick shook his head. "You, my friend, are a hard nut 
to crack. But I intend to figure you out someday, and 
this is something that I intend to figure out today. 
You know I'm not going to laugh at you or disown you 
or whatever it is that you're afraid of. Now sit down, 
shut up, and start talking. Uh, without the shutting 
up. You know what I meant."

James couldn't help grinning. If nothing else, Slick 
was consistent. But he shook his head. "I'm sorry, 
Slick. I'm just not ready. I thought I was ready to 
tell you this, but I'm not. Please let me go."

Stubborn and obstinate though he may be, Slick knew he 
didn't have the right to make James stay there. The 
waitress arrived with James's mocha three minutes too 
late.

...

James opened the car door, slipped inside, and drove 
down the block. He turned right on Broadway, found an 
empty spot over to the side of the road, pulled into 
it, and turned off the car. He was already starting to 
breathe in short, sharp breaths. The ragged edges of a 
panic attack were brushing over him. He hadn't felt 
this bad in... ever, really. Even when Jesse came to 
him for that awful conversation, when he knew that it 
was over, even then, he'd felt sadness, anger, 
reluctance to listen, even a certain fear of what was 
coming. But he hadn't panicked. So why should talking 
to his best friend set him so on edge?

He pounded on the steering wheel as he realized that 
tears were flooding his eyes. "No, dammit!" he cried, 
but it was useless. He couldn't stop the tears now 
that they were here. He let them come out, burying his 
face in the malodorous faux-leather wheel. They came 
for a long, long time. When the tears finally stopped, 
he drove home with the radio on, losing himself in the 
comforting uniformity of modern rap.

James stalked into the house, breezed past his mom, 
and ducked into the shelter of his room. His laptop 
was sitting open on his desk. A chat window was 
bugging him for attention. Slick, reminding him that 
if he needed to talk, there was always time to spare. 
James didn't want to hear about it. He just sighed and 
crawled into his bed, but the screen kept glowing and 
glowing and glowing. 

He got up and shut the computer, then locked his door 
and returned to bed. Now that the panic was gone, he 
just felt... empty. Empty and horny. The whole 
incident had left him feeling very needy and extremely 
unsatisfied. He thought about cruising for porn on the 
web, but that window would be there, tormenting him. 
He sighed, buried his face in his pillow, and 
screamed.

...

James woke up in the dark. He had the vague impression 
that he wasn't alone, but being facedown, he couldn't 
tell for sure. He looked up. Slick was leaning against 
the doorframe, idly twirling what had—probably—once 
been a paperclip between thumb and forefinger. 
Whatever it had been, it was a lock-pick now. He was 
smiling roguishly.

"I figured you out, you know," he said. "What you were 
trying to say at the café. I figured it out."

James flushed deep crimson and looked down at his 
blue-jean-sheathed legs. He hadn't even taken his 
shoes off before he collapsed. He kicked them off now, 
and absently stripped away his jacket, tossing it off 
the side of the bed.  Slick laughed. "You're gay, 
James."

He didn't bother denying it. Slick padded across the 
thick carpet towards him, quietly closing the door 
behind him, and took a seat on the bed, kicking off 
his shoes. "You know," Slick said, leaning in 
conspiratorially, "there's really nothing wrong with 
that. In fact, I think I like you better this way than 
as some boring old... straight guy."

James suddenly became very aware of just how nearby 
Slick was. He could smell the other boy's sweat. He 
couldn't help it. He felt his body responding to the 
intimacy, and tried to cover it up, but Slick grabbed 
him by the wrists. "Hardly, Jimmyboy. You're keeping 
those hands where I can see them." He stripped off his 
jacket and draped it over the chair by the desk. One 
of his hands brushed lightly across James's forearm. 
James fought down an urge to shudder at the touch.

Slick was grinning brightly now, and James was, 
whether he wanted to be or not, completely alert as 
his friend climbed up onto the bed, no longer content 
just to sit on the edge. Now, Slick was kneeling next 
to James. A moment later, that changed to straddling 
James's waist. Slick knelt, with one knee on either 
side of James, his torso straight upright, his eyes 
fixed on James's. "Besides," he added, "if you cover 
it up, how will I get to feel complimented?"

James opened his mouth to speak, but Slick leaned down 
and placed one finger delicately over his friend's 
lips. "Don't ruin it," he suggested. As he spoke, he 
let his hips fall, and he was, rather abruptly, 
sitting the full weight of his body on James's crotch. 
James had the distinct impression of being struck by 
lightning. He whimpered slightly against Slick's 
finger on his lips, and Slick merely grinned and sat 
back up, stripping his own shirt off and tossing it 
away. He was built beautifully, and well-tanned.

"You know what's coming by now, don't you, Jimmyboy? I 
bet you never thought I had it in me." Slick slid down 
James's legs and his hands slid down James's chest and 
stomach, and finally came to rest on James's zipper. 
He pulled it down, opened up the front of James's 
jeans, pulled them down. "I bet you never thought I 
had this in me, either," he said, pulling down James's 
underwear. James felt hands softly grasping his 
erection. He let out a tiny gasp, and then he felt 
Slick's mouth enveloping his cock, and a rush of 
pleasure surged through his body...

...

James groaned and his eyes flew open as his orgasm 
washed over him. For a moment, he had no idea where he 
was, why he was facedown, and why he was no longer 
getting a blowjob. Only the last question really held 
any import at the moment, but then he realized that he 
was wearing his jacket and his shoes. Which meant that 
he hadn't woken up in the middle of the night and 
taken them off. He felt the wetness of his own semen 
on his stomach. The words "wet dream" drifted through 
his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned 
again, this time not in pleasure.

"How in the hell am I gonna tell him?" he asked 
himself.


Chapter 2

Slick found himself confused by James's insistence on 
mysteriousness. Generally, they'd been very open with 
each other over the years. He went home irritable. It 
was his general default reaction to not knowing 
things. 

Two days later, he was still irritable. James hadn't 
responded to his gentle probing, and Slick was unhappy 
about it. If he had a girlfriend, it wouldn't have 
been so bad, but June always seemed to be the worst 
month for that. The last time he got laid in the 
summertime was the only time in his life that he'd 
gotten laid in the summertime. So not only was he 
irritable because of James, he was irritable because 
he hadn't had a good screw in months.

Needless to say, this sort of bullshit could only go 
on for so long. Slick hopped into the car and drove 
out to James's house after the fifth unanswered call 
to his friend's cell phone. Slick pulled into the 
driveway and slammed the car door as he stepped out 
onto the gravel. His shoes crunched softly across the 
driveway, and he knocked on the front door. James's 
mother answered it, clad in an apron and smiling 
sweetly. She smelled vaguely of cookies. 

"Oh, James," she said cheerily. "Jimmy is in his room. 
I didn't know you were coming over."

"Neither did he," Slick replied, and Mrs. Larson 
smiled.

"He'll be delighted to see you, then."

Slick nodded and headed for James's room. James was 
clearly at the computer; it was quiet inside, save for 
the occasional squeak of the chair that sat in front 
of James's desk. Slick opened up the door.

James was seated in front of the computer. He was nude 
from the waist down, with his hand in his crotch, 
still in the middle of a stroke. As the door swung 
wide, he turned and his eyes went wide just as he went 
over the edge into orgasm. 

Cum shot out of him, splattering onto his shirt with 
the first spurt, splashing up onto the computer desk 
with the second, and dribbling over his clenched 
fingers in the third and fourth. Slick saw Mrs. Larson 
moving in the kitchen down the hallway, and decided 
that he should probably close the door. Besides, James 
clearly had porn. Slick shut the door and leaned over 
to get a better look at the screen. From the door, he 
could see only a vague impression of bare skin and 
thrusting. 

As he got a better look, he was surprised, to say the 
least. Two very naked young men were tangled together, 
one penetrating the other, on the screen. James had 
earbuds plugged into the computer. Only one was in his 
ear, and from the one dangling free emerged the sounds 
of grunts and groans of pleasure. A particularly loud 
groan accompanied the sight of a copious ejaculation 
from the man being penetrated. His partner came a 
moment later, pulling out in the process, spraying 
semen all over his ass.

James stared at Slick, panic in his eyes. "Oh, Lord, 
Slick... I... I didn't mean for you to... oh God..."

Slick shook his head. This was unreal. Then again, it 
answered a few questions. "This is what you were 
trying to tell me the other day, isn't it, Jimmy?"

James turned the most spectacular shade of red that 
Slick had seen in a week and stared down at his feet, 
pointedly ignoring his slowly withering erection. 
"Not... not exactly. Or... not all of it. It's not 
just that I'm... gay. It's that... that... uh..."

Slick sat down on the bed and kicked a pair of pants 
in James's general direction. "Take your time. But 
tell me."

James glanced back at the computer. The two men on the 
screen were frozen in a post-coital embrace. James 
slipped his left leg into the pants and sighed loudly. 
"I'm... Slick... I think I'm in love with you."

He heard Slick get off the bed behind him, heard 
footsteps padding across the carpet to the door, heard 
the mechanism click in the door. James squeezed his 
eyes shut and listened to the pounding of the blood 
vessels in his ears.

"In love, James?"

James looked up. Slick's hand wasn't on the doorknob. 
It was on the lock.

"I asked you a question, James. You're in love with 
me?"

James tried to recover what little dignity was left to 
him. There was depressingly little of it. His pants 
slid back down his leg. He kicked them away. "I'm 
sorry, Slick. I shouldn't have said anything." He 
turned the chair around. "You should probably leave."

"I'm not doing that, James." More footsteps on the 
carpet, and James felt Slick's hand on his shoulder. 
The hand moved, and there was some shuffling sound, 
and James saw Slick's jacket land unceremoniously on 
the bed. "Tell me about it, James."

James shook his head. His flush deepened. He looked as 
though he would soon have blood nowhere but in his 
face. But he complied. "I dreamed about you the other 
night. It wasn't the first time. I... I dream about 
you a lot. I dream that we're making love, I dream 
that you're just... just holding me. I catch myself 
thinking about you all the time. I know you don't want 
me. I know it, and it's stupid..." now tears were 
running down his cheeks, and he sniffled. "But I can't 
help it," he finished lamely.

Slick sighed reached out to take James's hand. It was 
still pretty slimey. Slick ignored it. It wasn't a 
state his own hands had never achieved. He pulled 
James over to the bed, the smaller boy's body 
convulsing with his sobs. He hugged him tight, 
whispering comforting words that meant nothing. 
Nothing he could say would fix this. He felt a brief, 
irrational, and unfulfillable desire to rail against 
fate for making him do this to his friend simply by 
making him straight. 

"James. James, I wish... I wish I knew what to say to 
you. I really do. Is there anything I can do?"

James shook his head, drying his tears as well as he 
could, fighting back the sobbing. "No, I'm sorry... I 
shouldn't have... I just didn't... oh... oh hell."

Slick was never sure afterwards exactly why he did it. 
He had intended it to be a sort of a farewell gesture, 
a parting gift, or at least something along those 
lines. But beyond that, it was just an instinctive 
response to James's body crushed against his own, 
wracked with sobs and cold with sweat born of equal 
parts fear and humiliation. He kissed James gently on 
the lips, and the other boy responded to the gesture 
with surprise, and then quiet resignation. Slick 
pulled back from the kiss and let his hand drift up to 
brush a tear from James's cheek. "It's gonna be all 
right, James. Really, it is."

James swallowed hard, nodded. He opened his mouth to 
speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth 
again, sagging against Slick's body and casting his 
eyes back downwards. Slick's hand glided down James's 
face to lift him up by the chin. "You're going to be 
all right, James."

James managed a feeble smile this time, and he looked 
so hopeful, and so sweetly innocent that before Slick 
really had time to analyze his own actions, he had 
plunged into another kiss, longer, more tender. He 
felt James's hand drifting up his back, and damned if 
he didn't like it. James's tongue flicked across 
Slick's lips, and Slick let it into his mouth, trying 
to hook his tongue on James's. 

James's hands slid down Slick's sides, roaming around 
his hips. Slick felt his body stirring, responding to 
James's exploration. He pushed James back onto the 
bed, straddling him, unwittingly echoing James's 
dream. He kicked his shoes off, and they clumped to 
the floor one at a time. Slick kissed James more 
deeply, more intensely, and pushed the boy down onto 
the pillow and the blankets, and Slick's own denim 
jacket, forgotten by now. 

Slick's hands wormed their way under James's shirt and 
pulled it off, tossing it aside. He was silent, 
stopping his kisses only to let James pull his own 
shirt off and toss it away. James's hands wandered 
down Slick's torso and unbuttoned his jeans, pulled 
down his zipper. Slick wriggled his way out of his 
pants, leaving him in only his boxers and a pair of 
white athletic socks. 

His hard penis had slipped out of the fly, about an 
inch of engorged flesh visible and tantalizing in 
front of James's eyes. James reached out and gripped 
Slick's glans with his left hand while his right 
pulled the back of Slick's boxers down. Slick gasped 
sharply.

"Slick..."

"Shut up, James."

Slick pulled James's hand away from his member and 
pushed his boxers down, ignoring his socks. He ground 
his erection against James's, letting their tongues 
tangle again in the wordless, meaningless language of 
lovers. 

James reached between them, grabbed both of their 
cocks in one hand, and began masturbating them 
together. Slick let out a long, low groan that turned 
into a growl as he started thrusting into James's 
hand, and the motion of his manhood against James's 
own set off a cascade of sensation in both of them. 
They began thrusting in unison, savoring the feeling 
of each other's bodies as they made love. 

"God, James," Slick whispered, rushing to force the 
words out between deep gasps for air. He shuddered, 
pre-cum flowing from his penis. James's penis felt 
warm and damp against him, and he thrust faster, 
provoking a low groan from James that swelled into a 
louder gasp and a muffled cry of ecstasy. James's 
penis throbbed against Slick's, pumping cum out onto 
his chest, and the sensation was just enough to push 
Slick over the edge. 

Slick kissed James with nigh-brutal passion as his own 
cum rushed out to join his lover's. He sagged against 
James and groaned in pleasure.


Chapter 3

Slick stirred after a few moments, looking down into 
James's eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but no 
words came. 

"Slick, that was... oh God, Slick. That was 
incredible."

Slick stared down at James, looked over his body, as 
though he wasn't quite convinced that they were both 
covered in their mingled semen. "James," he said after 
a few moments' contemplation, "that was... I shouldn't 
have done that. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done 
that."

James laughed. It sounded forced. "As far as I'm 
concerned, Slick, you have nothing to apologize for. 
That was the best it's felt for me in a long, long 
time."

Slick glanced over at the computer screen. It had gone 
to screensaver. A starfield, zipping past at warp 
speed, concealed the two lovers that Slick knew were 
still frozen together on the screen.

"No, James, I can't..." now the tears came to Slick's 
face instead of James's. "I'm not gay, James. I'm not. 
I'm not gay." each time he repeated his insistence, he 
seemed to grow less convinced. Slick slid away, off 
the bed. James sat up. "James, please... just... I 
need a towel." Slick's head fell to rest on his 
upturned palms as he sat heavily on James's chair. He 
drew in a long breath, and it came out in a ragged, 
extended half-sob.

James's smile fell and he slid off the bed himself. He 
grabbed a towel that was hanging on his closet's 
doorknob and tossed it to Slick. Slick began to wipe 
the semen from his abdomen, paying the task far more 
attention than it required. His arm bumped the desk, 
and James's little wireless mouse fell to the floor.

The battery compartment popped open when it impacted, 
but the second the mouse moved, the screensaver 
blinked away, and there were the two lovers. Slick 
flinched at the sight and turned away, scrubbing 
harder at his stomach. By the time he was done 
cleaning up, the laptop had gone to screensaver again. 
He tossed the towel to James.

"Get cleaned up," he said. "and put some pants on." 
James nodded mutely. Slick's voice was quiet, tinted 
with an anger that James had never heard before. "Do 
you have any soda in the fridge?"

James nodded. "Yeah, we have Coke."

"Good," Slick said. He grabbed his pants from the 
floor and stared blankly at them. James tossed him his 
boxers. Slick, in turn, tossed James an angry look. It 
seemed that acknowledging what they had just done was 
forbidden. Slick pulled his boxers on, pulled his 
pants on, found his shirt and put that on. "Do you 
want a soda while I'm in there?"

James nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

Slick slipped out the door and padded down the 
hallway, only half-aware of where he was going. He 
found Mrs. Larson in the kitchen, pulling dishes out 
of the dishwasher and stacking them in the cupboard. 
"Hello James," she said. "Will you be staying 
overnight tonight?"

Slick tried not to let how horrifying the question was 
show on his face. Judging from the frown that appeared 
on Mrs. Larson's face, he was pretty sure he'd failed. 
"I don't think so, ma'am," Slick mumbled. "I have 
plans at home tomorrow."

She nodded, and turned slowly back to her dishes. 
Slick opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pair of 
Cokes, but before he could turn to leave, Mrs. Larson 
spoke up again, more softly this time. "Are you all 
right, dear? You look... well, you look a little pale. 
Are you feeling okay?"

Slick considered for a moment. The answer, of course, 
was no, but whether or not letting her know that was 
the right decision was up for debate, to say the 
least. Letting her know why was simply unthinkable. 
"Yeah," he lied. "I'm fine. Just... I could probably 
go for a sandwich, I guess. Or something. Maybe James 
and I will make a pizza. I don't know." He glanced 
over at the oven, feeling Mrs. Larson's eyes drilling 
holes in his head. 

He didn't move for a few, uncomfortable seconds. 
Finally, he ripped his eyes away from the oven and 
fled as calmly as he could to the hallway. He slipped 
into James's room. James was sitting at the foot of 
the bed, wearing a pair of blue jeans and precious 
little else. Slick pointedly ignored James's bare 
chest. Any other day, he probably would have noted, 
maybe even commented on it. 

James had been working out, Slick was fairly sure of 
it. Now, any thought about the fact that James even 
had a body to be seen brought blood rushing to Slick's 
face. Whether it was rage or mortification was 
anybody's guess, Slick included. He guessed it might 
be equally divided between the two. He handed James 
one Coke and put the other on the desk. He didn't open 
it.

"Was there anything you wanted to do?" James asked 
quietly.

Slick stared at him. He felt the muscles in his back 
knotting up, screaming for him to do something, 
anything. Finally, he leapt to his feet and felt a 
strangled cry of anger break out of his mouth. His 
hand was cocked back, ready to deliver a powerful 
blow. The fact that James flinched was probably all 
that saved him from losing teeth. Slick stopped and 
stared down at James. He shook his head. "No. I'm 
sorry, no. No."

Slick turned and walked out the door, back out through 
the kitchen. Mrs. Larson looked up as he passed. 
"James?"

"I think you were right after all," he said. "I'm 
feeling kinda sick." He hurried out the front door and 
across the driveway to his car. He opened it up, 
stepped inside, and reached into his pocket for the 
keys. They weren't there. He thought for a moment, 
wondering where they were, then groaned as he realized 
that they were in the pocket of his jacket. Something 
tapped at the passenger side window. Slick looked up. 
James was holding his coat up in front of the window. 

There were tears in his eyes again. Slick moved to 
open the door, to let James into the car, maybe even 
talk to him, but James stood up straight, dropped the 
jacket on the roof, turned on his heel, and walked 
back to the house. Slick squeezed his eyes shut and 
fought down an urge to ram his fist into the horn. 

He stepped out of the car and dragged his coat across 
the roof and into the car. He pulled out his keys, 
turned on the car, drew in a deep, shuddering breath, 
and pulled out of the driveway.

Whether or not he would ever come back, he didn't 
know. He didn't even know if he wanted to.

...

James watched Slick pull out of the driveway from the 
window in the living room. Slick's tires kicked up a 
spray of gravel, he accelerated so fast out of the 
driveway. James shuddered and turned away from the 
window. When Slick had almost hit him, he'd almost 
felt he deserved it. What he couldn't piece together 
was why. 

There shouldn't be any reason for Slick to be angry at 
him. James, after all, hadn't done anything to provoke 
Slick's advances. Hell, he'd suggested that Slick 
should go. Slick must have intended what happened, on 
some level. The moment James had made his confession, 
Slick had locked the door. You don't lock a door if 
you don't want to keep what happens behind it a 
secret. 

James pounded a clenched fist into his leg. This was 
wrong. It shouldn't have happened this way.

...

When Slick arrived at home, he was still trembling a 
little bit. He went to his room and closed the door 
behind him. His father looked up as he passed and said 
something, but Slick didn't bother to stop and listen. 
It couldn't matter all that much, anyways. His father 
was sitting on the couch, watching football, after 
all. Recorded football, no less.

Slick sat on the end of his bed, giving in to the 
tremors that were trying to shake him apart. He lay 
back after a while, and stared at the ceiling. Slowly, 
the shaking stopped, and Slick gradually fell into 
sleep. Either he didn't dream at all, or he couldn't 
remember it.

All he did remember was waking up in the morning, 
feeling dirty and greasy and slimy. He left his room 
and grabbed a towel, then went back into his room and 
went through his dresser, pulling out a set of 
clothes. If it didn't quite match, he didn't notice. 
He was only just stopping shy of choosing his clothes 
deliberately for mismatch. If someone noticed that he 
seemed too well-coordinated today, he reasoned, he 
might not be able to handle it. 

A well-coordinated outfit on a boy his age, after all, 
was as clear a signal as wearing jeans cut for a girl, 
or a belt that was anything but black or brown. Slick 
tried to pretend that he didn't feel like he was 
wearing a neon sign announcing that he'd fucked his 
best friend the day before. He entered the bathroom, 
simultaneously furtive and almost painfully 
nonchalant. He locked the door. He always locked the 
door, or else his little sister was nearly guaranteed 
to pop in while he was in the shower and pull some 
annoying little stunt or another. 

Once, when he was eleven and she was seven, she had 
had a disposable camera and decided that it would be 
funny to sneak in and snap a picture of Slick in the 
shower. He'd barely prevented her from showing the 
picture around school. She wasn't that bad anymore, 
but she was liable to burst in and start washing her 
face with all the hot water she could pull out of the 
sink, or if she felt particularly mean-spirited, 
simply flush the toilet and leave—or worse yet, sit 
against the door with an issue of Cosmopolitan, 
waiting for the water to get so cold that he begged 
her to leave so he could get out.

Slick turned on the water and, without a moment's 
hesitation, cranked the heat as far as it would go. He 
stripped down and stepped into the shower. The water 
hurt when it hit his skin, but he clenched his jaw and 
plunged in again, closing the little stall's door 
behind him. He pulled out the shampoo and soaped up 
his hair, rinsed it out, and washed it again. He 
pulled the washcloth down from where it was slung over 
the door and poured soap into it until he felt the 
soap soaking through to his hand. 

He scrubbed his entire body, head to toe. He had to 
resist the temptation to scrub out the inside of his 
mouth. By the time he was finished, he felt like he'd 
been scrubbed raw, and he was red not only from the 
heat of the water, but from the vigor of his own 
scrubbing. Slick leaned back against one of the walls 
of his tiny, rainy world. 

Clean. He felt clean, at last. He sank to the floor, 
crouching in the fiercely hot stream. More than clean, 
he felt like he could believe his assertion of the 
previous day again. He was straight. He had had sex 
with girls. Plenty of girls. 

He recalled Melinda Becket, his first. She'd been hot, 
and she'd wanted him bad. As he thought of the 
sensation of driving himself into her pussy, his 
member swelled. He reached down to stroke it, shifting 
to sit cross-legged on the floor. He grabbed the body 
wash from where he'd left it on the floor and dribbled 
some into his palm, reflecting on his vivid memories 
of Melinda. How tight and warm she'd been, how she'd 
pushed him down on his back and impaled herself on 
him. 

Slick's hand closed over his cock and squished the 
body wash around. He pumped it up and down his shaft, 
closing his eyes and drifting into memory. He was 
thirteen again, in his head, lying back in Scott 
Hertsen's bedroom, or perhaps Scott's parent's room. 
Melinda was sitting on top of him, straddling his 
waist and slowly lowering her inviting pussy down onto 
his meat. 

As he entered a girl for the first time, his hand sped 
up on his cock. She lowered herself down on him, 
taking his shaft deep into the recesses of her vagina. 
He thrust gently into her, unable to gain much 
leverage lying on his back. Her hands wandered over 
his chest as she started bouncing up and down on him. 
Slick's cock throbbed in his hand. He noticed that his 
other hand was stroking his chest. He thrust into his 
hand and cast his mind back to the bedroom. 

Melinda bobbed slowly up and down on his cock, letting 
out a sigh that swelled into a moan as she milked his 
body for pleasure as well as semen. He thrust up into 
her, and she gasped. He thrust again, and was rewarded 
with another gasp, and another, and then, suddenly, 
she cried out and her pussy clamped down on him, her 
orgasm rippling along his member until he let out a 
cry to echo hers and thrust deep into her. 

His hand sped up and a wave of pleasure washed across 
Slick's pelvis as he thought about the first time he'd 
had sex. But he had never taken very long back then. 
He thought about another time, when he'd been more 
experienced, and forced himself to slow down his hand. 

Lucy lay back on the bed, waiting for him, inviting 
him in with her legs spread wide. He crawled between 
her legs and lowered his cock down to her labia. He 
grabbed it and ran it over her clit. She sucked in a 
sharp breath and told him to stop teasing her. He was 
only too happy to acquiesce, and pushed into her cunt, 
thrusting as deep as he could with one fast stroke. 

She groaned underneath him as his hand sped up on his 
tingling cock, and he thrust mercilessly into her. 
Lucy's breathing sped up, and Slick thrust hard, fast, 
breathing hard. Her legs wrapped around his waist and 
he pulled her into a sitting position, still thrusting 
deep into her. Her first orgasm struck as he pushed as 
deep as he could, rippling rhythmic contractions down 
his member, and setting him grunting in pleasure and 
thrusting faster. 

Slick's hand pumped faster at his cock, and he thrust 
hard into it as he concentrated on how it had felt to 
thrust, almost exactly from the same position as he 
was in now, into Lucy's eager vagina. She gasped and 
rolled her hips on his thrusting manhood, pressing her 
lips to his. He pushed into the kiss, thrusting faster 
and faster and faster, setting off a second orgasm 
that gripped his penis and sent him into his own 
orgasm. He groaned as he pumped his spunk up into her 
vagina, down across James's stomach, in a powerful, 
incredible jet that leapt from his hand and splattered 
against the wall of the stall. 

A second jet joined it, hitting lower on the wall, and 
a third rushed out just to his feet. The fourth spurt 
oozed down his fingers and left him shuddering and 
cursing as the image of James's chest collecting blast 
after blast of his semen lingered in his head. He 
remembered looking up into James's face as James 
finished his own orgasm, groaning beneath him, his 
cock still throbbing against Slick's. 

Slick thought about the feeling of power he'd had, 
controlling, touching off James's orgasm. He had held 
James in his fingers, molding his actions. Slick's 
penis refused to go down. Slowly, his hand sped up 
again, and flashes of his experience with James roamed 
through his mind. James thrust up against him, his 
cock sliding against Slick's. Slick bore down hard on 
James's pelvis, grinding hard into his friend. 

James's penis throbbed with his orgasm. James's penis 
slowly grew hard against Slick's body as Slick pushed 
him down onto the bed. Slick's hand sped up. He gasped 
as James fondled his glans before his boxers were even 
off. James's penis pumped out semen onto his chest, 
spraying and convulsing. Slick thrust in long strokes, 
massaging as much pleasure as he could out of James. 
James's feet wandered along Slick's calves as they 
both thrust against each other...

Slick bit off the ragged end of a shout as his cock 
jerked and jumped in his hand, letting loose another 
powerful jet of cum that landed on the floor just 
beyond his feet, coated his heels, covered his hand. 
He shuddered and let the slowly cooling water sheet 
down his back.


Chapter 4

When Slick left the bathroom, his sister was outside 
the door, glaring at it. "Oh," she said. "Are you 
finally done jerking off? Is it safe to go in now?"

She waited only long enough to confirm that he was 
blushing bright red before she brushed past him into 
the bathroom and slammed the door shut and locked it 
behind her. Slick rushed to his room and tossed 
himself onto his bed. What could it mean? At the 
penultimate moment, his fantasy had shifted 
irresistibly to James. That would have been bad 
enough, but thinking about it, he'd masturbated to 
orgasm a second time, not even bothering to steer his 
thoughts towards girls. 

"I just need a girl, that's all," Slick mused to the 
ceiling. "Just need to get my rocks off the right 
way." He thought about the various phone numbers that 
he kept in his drawer for just such an emergency. 

Well, okay, maybe not this exact emergency, but the 
need for a good screw, in any case. He could call 
Melinda, if he wanted to. She still enjoyed getting 
together with him once in a while. But she did that 
thing where she pinched his ass. He didn't feel like 
getting his ass assaulted today. Too near to the cause 
of his worry for his mind.

He could call any one of the girls whose numbers he 
had—there were at least a half-dozen of them—but maybe 
that was the problem. Maybe he needed to go out and 
get a girl. Slick stood up, found his shoes, and was 
halfway to the door when he spotted himself in the 
mirror. Flannel shirt, blue slacks. The first word 
that popped into his head was not "fuckable". It was 
more like "mentally impaired". He sighed and went back 
to his room. He got rid of the flannel, stripped out 
of the slacks, and thought for a moment.

"Jesus, James! Close the door if you're gonna be 
hangin' your ass out all over the place!" His sister 
slammed his door shut. Apparently, he thought wryly, 
the bathroom was free again.

"Screw you too, Katie!" he shouted after her. She 
didn't reply. Slick shrugged and pulled out a pair of 
cargo shorts and a t-shirt with a band logo on it. The 
band hadn't been on tour in at least a decade. He put 
on his clothes, grabbed his jacket from where it sat 
on his bed, and glanced out the window. It didn't look 
too hot out there. He'd be perfectly fine wearing the 
jacket, which was good, because the jacket made him 
look good. He headed out the door and elected to walk 
instead of driving. That much more time to think, 
after all.

The baristas at the nearest Starbucks were, for the 
most part, pretty cute. But they weren't fantastically 
hot or anything like that, and Slick felt like getting 
his mind blown today. After all, the mind and the body 
must live together. So he went further into the city, 
and finally settled on going down to the lakefront. It 
was Saturday, the Calatrava should be open if he 
wanted to cool off—and blow a few bucks—the beach 
would be full if he wanted to try the bikini circuit. 
He might manage both. 

Slick hopped a bus for the ten blocks down to the art 
museum and headed for the weirdest building in town. 
The tourists were out in full force today, he mused. 
All seven of them. The no-money beach lovers would be 
down by the lake already. He headed for the sand. 
There was always one idiot ruining the lake on a day 
like this by trying to pretend it could be surfed on. 
Today, the patented Milwaukee Idiot was wearing a 
wetsuit and wielding a white surfboard. He was 
familiar. Probably the same idiot that tried to surf 
when the weather turned stormy. He looked rather 
disappointed today. Passing cargo ships made his head 
pop up until he realized that they probably wouldn't 
be creating a decent enough wave to knock over a 
toddler, let alone surf on. Slick ignored him and 
walked on.

A gaggle of girls—the kind of bleach-blonde wannabe-
clones that populated high schools and might be more 
properly called a flock—gave him an intense and 
evaluating look as he passed. The whole time, they 
never broke off their chatter. None of them were worth 
the effort it would take to get them alone.

Slick had already chosen his first target, anyways. A 
little ways down the beach, two guys absorbed in a 
contest of who-can-throw-the-biggest-thing-into-the-
lake were completely oblivious to the fact that they 
were being watched, intently, by a leggy brunette who 
wasn't wearing her bikini so much as trying 
desperately to convince people that she had 
accidentally put it on when she left for the beach. 
Slick walked up to her. 

"Ten bucks says the tall one brains his buddy with the 
next stick," he offered. "Not on purpose, of course. 
But he'll still laugh about it."

"Too late," the Brunette replied. "Only it was the 
short one. About five minutes ago." She waggled her 
thumb in a generally southern direction. "They were 
down that way when it happened. The tall one wound up 
in the drink."

"So I'd guess you're watching the short one so 
carefully, then. He probably smells a lot better."

"What," she said, "you staking your claim or 
something?"

Slick fought a losing battle against a rather 
insistent need to blush and stammered, "N... no. I 
was... I was just making conversation."

"Oh, relax," the Brunette said. "I'm teasing you. 
Siddown, relax. My name's Jessica, but you can call me 
Jess." 

She stuck out her right hand and Slick shook it. 
"Slick. Well, James Slickowski, if you wanna get all 
technical about it, but I don't."

Jess chuckled. "Ooh, last name, getting' all fancy on 
me. Next thing you know we'll be adding titles."

"Call me Doctor S, please," Slick laughed. He looked 
around. Now or never. "You know, really, I mostly just 
came over here to ask if I could buy you a soda or 
something. I mean, pretty girl like you, I'd have to 
be crazy or gay not to want to be seen with you."

Jess gave him a grin that looked a little bit 
predatory. "I'd be delighted, Slick. Or should I call 
you Doc?" She rose to her feet, shaking her head so 
that her hair bounced cheerily across her breasts. 
Slick had the feeling that if she did that too often, 
her hair might brush away her bikini top. "And I'm 
thirsty," she added, "so there's that to consider. You 
just have good timing, Doc."

Slick shrugged. "I don't know about that. I think 
maybe I'm just attractive."

Jess laughed. "That too," she said.

He led her to the nearest restaraunt-type 
establishment, a burger stand that seemed to only have 
tables on the outside. 

Jess took a seat at one of the tables and glanced over 
the menu. "Get me a Pepsi," she said.

Slick spent the next five minutes in line. There was a 
time when a guy could walk up to a girl and just say, 
"hey, you wanna go fuck?" but Slick didn't feel like 
waiting for the next drunken party, so he had to play 
the ridiculous little game.

The guy behind the counter looked very bored with his 
job. Considering that the last few people to come 
through had been girls whose main reason for existence 
seemed to be breast support, Slick began formulating a 
theory that the guy was actually a recent addition to 
the ranks of the undead. That or lakefront fast-food 
work was even more soul-sucking than its inland 
counterpart. The two were probably about equally 
likely.

Slick ordered two Pepsis. He wasn't really all that 
thirsty, but what the hell. He had to have something 
to do while he pretended to pretend not to stare at 
Jess's chest. The food-zombie handed over the drinks, 
grunted something that was either a deeply 
unenthusiastic version of have-a-nice-day or else a 
quiet curse upon Slick and all his family, and turned 
his head to the next person. Slick sat down at the 
table and handed Jess her soda. She smiled at him and 
started sipping away. 

"So," she said. "Are you a local boy?"

Slick nodded. "Why, are you not from around here? You 
don't have an accent."

Jess laughed. "Oh, no, I just like to know where 
people come from. It's my thing."

As she spoke, her foot tapped his, and then started to 
run up his shin. He took a calm sip of his soda and 
listened to her talk. She was going on about how her 
friends were from all over, really, if you just asked 
them about it, but her mile-a-minute rambling was by 
far less interesting than the way her foot was moving 
up his leg. She stopped in the middle of a sentence to 
take a long pull at her straw and smack her lips in a 
very moist way, then launched back into her inane 
speech. 

Slick was only barely keeping up the appearance that 
he cared. As she spoke, Jess's breasts shifted in her 
bikini top, and if she made an enthusiastic point and 
jumped up a bit, they bounced. Between her foot still 
making its slow way up his leg and the absolute 
fascination of her breasts, Slick quickly forgot he 
even had a drink. 

Her legs were incredibly long, Slick thought as her 
toes toyed with the hem of his shorts. Ideas about 
those legs wandered through his head, and he felt 
himself growing very, very hard inside his shorts. 
Jess let out a voluble "aaah" as she drained her soda. 

"Anyways," she said, "do you wanna get out of here and 
go do something a little more fun?"

A little scoreboard in the back of Slick's head 
chalked up another point for him. He nodded. "Yeah, 
that would be great." He had to force the irony into 
his voice as he said, "your place or mine?"

Jess laughed. "My place is in Madison, Slick. Is your 
place really available?"

Well, that was direct. He shook his head. Jess 
frowned, and then seemed to have an idea. She grabbed 
him by the hand and led him, boner and all, away from 
the table. "We'll just find a nice quiet place that's 
private and we'll go there," she said. "Nobody will 
know."

Slick harbored his own, private doubts, but this 
wasn't a level of craziness he'd never achieved 
before, and it was basically guaranteed sex, so he 
followed mutely along behind her. Jess stopped in her 
tracks. "Hey," she said, "are you a quiet fuck?"

One of Slick's eyebrows made an involuntary attempt at 
the summit. "Well, I'm usually pretty quiet, but I've 
been known to make some girls get really loud."

"Oh, play nice," Jess teased. "Come on, I know where 
we can go." She led him towards the burger stand. The 
fact that this was insaner than most insane anonymous 
hookups occurred to Slick, but he didn't question it. 
One of the doors on the burger stand was hanging open, 
and Jess ducked into it and pulled it shut behind her. 
Darkness. 

Slick felt hard floor beneath his feet. He looked 
down. A trickle of light from outside revealed a 
concrete floor, and blank walls that were, for some 
unsearchable reason, wallpapered, surrounded him. 
There was another door that seemed to lead into the 
stand proper, and a door that led into what might be 
an office-slash-locker-room. Jess pulled him into the 
office-slash-locker-room. A single wooden bench hung 
from one wall, and in front of a computer—the screen 
was dark—there was, instead of an office chair, a 
recliner. 

The boss was either a comfort hound or couldn't afford 
a proper office chair. Judging from the sorry state of 
the recliner, the latter seemed likely. At least, 
Slick thought as Jess pushed him into the recliner, it 
was clean. Of course, it was so dark in here that that 
was only a guess, and when she stood and closed the 
door, it got even darker. There was a soft thump and a 
curse as she barked her shin on the bench, and then 
she was sitting on his lap.

"Well," she said. "Someone's excited. Does being all 
alone in the dark with me get you turned on? Or maybe 
it's the danger. We could get caught any second."

Slick grinned and reached out to touch her. His 
fingers brushed against her stomach and he felt her 
leaning forward. She kissed him, and his hands slid 
around behind her and found that her bikini top was 
already unhooked. He had to wonder when she'd had time 
to do that. He'd ask later, he decided, and he peeled 
away the meager containment. Her breasts must not have 
been all that restricted by the swimsuit; they barely 
changed their position against him. 

Jess shifted in the darkness and he felt her taking 
off her bikini bottom, heard it drop to the floor. 
"Your turn," she said.

Quietly, Slick whispered back, "There's something I 
want to do first." He reached out and grabbed her by 
the waist, pulling her close and eliciting a shocked 
giggle. His hands felt down her sides, around her 
legs, in between her thighs, and found her aroused and 
sensitive. He ran his fingers over her groin, rubbed 
her clit, and smirked as she let out a long, breathy, 
whispering whimper. 

"Oh, you're good at that," she said.

"I've had some practice," he replied, and he pushed 
her off of him and stood to take off his clothes. 
Because they were in such a vulnerable place, and 
might have to leave in a hurry, he debated for a 
moment over whether to take his shoes off. He decided 
not to. He could slip his shorts over them, and he did 
just that, kissing down Jess's body by feel alone as 
he crouched. He got to her pussy and immediately dove 
in to run his tongue around, exploring her anatomy 
with practiced eagerness. She was soon breathing very, 
very hard, and she kept going that way until he had 
his shorts off. 

He changed his mind about the shoes, too, and pulled 
them off of his feet, then slowly stood up, running 
his tongue up her body and putting his hands on her 
hips. He turned her around and pushed her into the 
chair. He could just see her, silhouetted against the 
very small amount of light from the computer's 
keyboard. Someone had left caps lock on. 

Slick dropped his boxer shorts and stepped out of 
them, approaching her eagerly, already nearly 
tremoring in anticipation. He leaned against the 
chair, and suddenly her legs wrapped around his waist, 
forcing him in close to her. So close, in fact, that 
his penis slipped into her and he found himself 
enfolded in her insides. She was warm, wet, and tight. 
And her legs were working, her heels digging into his 
ass and prompting him to thrust. 

He was only too happy to comply, pushing into her 
energetically. She gasped softly under him, and he 
thrust faster, letting out a low grunt. She was 
sweating hard and gripping his ass with her heels, and 
he pushed himself deeper and faster. Jess's back 
arched and her breasts rubbed against Slick's chest as 
he pounded into her. 

"Oh, God," she moaned quietly, and he pushed harder 
into her, letting his hips roll in long, deep strokes 
that pushed his cock deep into her. She moaned again, 
louder, and he clamped his hand over her mouth even as 
her volume increased again, and then her vagina was 
convulsing as every muscle below her waist twitched 
and contracted, slamming tighter and then looser on 
his penis, leaving him gasping on the edge of an 
orgasm himself. 

She began to thrust her hips up and down in time with 
him, pulling up as he thrust in, pushing down as he 
pulled back to plunge deeper again. His breath came in 
ragged pants as he sped up, desperately putting more 
friction on his member, pouring more speed into his 
hips.  Slick's hands wandered over her chest, playing 
with her breasts, slowly teasing towards her nipples. 

"Suck on them," she demanded urgently, and he clamped 
his mouth down on one nipple, flicking his tongue over 
it and over it, again and again. Even as he worked at 
her nipple, she came again, biting her lip and 
throwing her whole body into the orgasm that rocked 
through her. Slick couldn't take any more. He came 
too, pumping furiously into her and then, only slowly 
and reluctantly, pulling out. 

Jess was breathing hard, and when she kissed him 
again, her breath even made it through into the kiss. 
"Thanks, tiger," she said. "I needed that."

He gave her a goofy grin that she couldn't see 
anyways. "You're welcome. Any time at all. Seriously. 
If you want..."

"I'd tell you not to get cocky, but, well... too late, 
I think," she said. "You were moving like a demon," 
she added, handing him up his boxer shorts. "The last 
guy I had given me a fucking that thorough was having 
a fight with his girlfriend at the time. Who are you 
fighting with, and may I recommend that you stay angry 
at her?"

The memory of James's face, flinching as Slick moved 
to strike him, popped, very unwelcome, into Slick's 
head. "I'm not fighting with anybody," he lied. "Maybe 
I'm just a really great lay."

Jess shrugged. "Maybe so," she said. She finished 
refastening her bikini top and kicked one of Slick's 
shoes over to him, then she left Slick alone to pull 
his clothes back on in the darkness. He couldn't find 
his shorts.

This was ridiculous. Alone, in a burger stand's 
pathetic excuse for a back office, and unable to find 
his shorts. Slick swore under his breath.

"Here," a voice said, and the light turned on. Slick 
froze. His eyes drifted up to the door. The food-
zombie was leaning against the doorjamb, a smug, 
knowing smile on his face. "Hook, line, and sinker, eh 
kid?"

Slick stared. This guy couldn't be serious. For one, 
he's just called Slick "kid", and that simply wasn't 
right. Slick had at least two years on him. But what 
was all this business about "hook, line and sinker"? 

"What are you talking about?" Slick asked as he 
reached for his shorts. The food-zombie chuckled.

"Nothing that'll be a big problem for you," he said. 
"Jess just has certain needs. I let her use the stand 
to fill them as long as she can prove she's clean 
beforehand. Usually when I start my shift. She's not a 
cuddler."

"I hate to call another guy an idiot," Slick said 
after a moment's thought, "but if you're seeing her at 
the beginning of your shift any time she wants to have 
a random fuck, why don't you just, like, arrive early 
and give it to her yourself?"

Zombieboy grinned a lopsided little grin. "Two 
reasons," he said, stepping into the room. He walked 
with a swagger. "One, she would never want something 
that regular. And two..." his hand reached out and 
flicked the zipper on the shorts hanging almost-
forgotten from Slick's hands, "I'm a lot more 
interested in what the pussycat drags in the door. A 
lot of guys are pretty willing to do a lot of things 
for somebody who just made a good screw possible for 
them. What do you say to that?"

Slick felt a hint of a stirring in his boxers at the 
suggestion, so he decked the creep and pulled his 
shorts on while the food-zombie was still lying 
insensate on the floor. He stuffed his feet back into 
his shoes as the guy sat up. "I'm gonna go with 
'that's the shittiest chair I ever sat in, and if you 
lay one finger on me you'll have two more black eyes 
and two fewer balls than you started out with,'" Slick 
said. He walked out the door. 

Jess was standing just outside the burger stand, 
looking down at her watch. "Well," she said, "either 
that was the quickest blowjob in history, or you—"

"The only reason you're still standing up right now," 
Slick growled, leaning in close to her, "is that I 
make it a policy not to hit girls unless they ask me 
to do it during sex. You're coming dangerously close 
to meeting the qualifications, bitch. Get away from 
me."

Jess turned and ran. Slick stalked home. He spent the 
whole bus ride hiding a boner.


Chapter 5

Slick woke up the next day feeling irritable and 
confused. It might have had something to do with the 
dream he'd had the night before—James about to fall 
into a sea of magma, and Slick rescuing him. There'd 
been hugging—or it might just be that he was awakened 
by Katie throwing something warm and soft into his 
bed. He looked down at the object that was now on his 
legs and nearly had a heart attack. 

"Dad bought a rat," Katie announced calmly.

"Dear God, why!?"

She shrugged. "I'm guessing he was drunk. That's 
usually why he does stupid stuff. Anyways, he said we 
should make the best of it, because he's not getting 
rid of it. Do you think an omelet would be the best, 
or should I get a deli slicer?"

Slick stared at her. He could never quite be sure if 
she was joking. It was scary as hell, really. He fully 
expected her to slit his throat some night. "No, you 
little sociopath, stick the... thing... in a cage. I'd 
suggest you feed it, but you're not the nurturing 
type."

"I'm not dealing with it," Katie said. "I'm 'not the 
nurturing type,' but you are. It's your job now. And 
if I find it in my room, God help me, I will nail it 
to your door and let it hang by its tail until—"

Slick picked up the rat and glared at his sister. "Go 
away, Katie," he snapped. He held the rather confused 
varmint up to his face, eyes level with it. Its nose 
twitched. "Real cute. I suppose you're looking forward 
to having me provide all your needs, then."

The rat pooped on him. Slick thought over his 
situation for a moment and rolled off his bed. He 
found a laundry basket, upended it, and put the rat 
down on the floor underneath it. Plastic had about as 
much chance of holding a rat permanently as it did of 
writing a hit musical, but at least it would make an 
acceptable temporary cage. But then, he had no idea 
where to get a permanent one, and he knew better than 
to pawn off an involuntary pet on his sister. The 
tarantula incident would haunt him forever.

His first instinct was to call James. But then he 
realized that that would be a bad idea. That his logic 
ended rather pathetically with the idea that it was a 
bad idea because it was a bad idea either didn't occur 
to him or stoutly refused to bother him. He thought 
about who else to call. Who could he even give a rat 
to? Rather bitterly, he concluded that if someone 
didn't give a rat's ass, it was likely due to the fact 
that nobody wanted a rat's ass—or the rest of the rat, 
for that matter. 

Failing miserably to think of a way to rid himself of 
the rat, and flatly refusing to accept the idea of 
caring for it himself, Slick deduced that the best 
course of action would be to take it into the city and 
either "lose" it or sell it, or maybe give it away. It 
would be happier in the wild, anyways.

He searched around for fresh clothes and got dressed. 
With a sigh, Slick reached under the basket, 
retrieving his rat. 

"You suck," he informed it, and with that, he started 
heading for the door. He wasn't quite sure what he was 
going to do, but the opportunities for a boy and his 
rat to be separated in a city were bound to be 
endless. Right?

Slick made his escape into the streets and groaned. 
Wisconsin seemed to have suddenly realized that it was 
summer. It was at least eighty degrees, which would 
have been fine if it weren't also so humid that he was 
effectively sweating in reverse, absorbing water 
rather than losing it. The rat gave him an accusing 
look, as though to say "You did this to us both, you 
know. We could go back inside."

Slick glared at it. "You just keep your eyeballs to 
yourself and don't crap on me again."

He didn't notice it at first, but he was wandering 
down to the lakefront again. Whether it was because of 
the instinctive knowledge, ground into him by 
countless weathermen, that it was cooler near the 
lake, or the vague idea that a rat might thrive if 
released near the shore, or the thought that all the 
crazy people would be in the lake cooling off today 
and might be willing to take in a rat, he didn't 
really care. He just wanted to get rid of the damn 
thing. He turned north at the Calatrava, and headed 
for the beach again. Sure enough, it was packed. 

Old men in far too little bathing suit mingled with 
doting mothers and their uncounted giggling spawn. 
Beach umbrellas were planted like flags marking the 
locations of oases of either pleasant, boozy calm or 
quiet, desperate pretense of sophistication. 

Frat boys were plentiful. Slick tried to be very 
visible as he walked down the beach, and he tried to 
make the rat even more visible, but he had no luck in 
that regard. Nobody asked him, and he knew better than 
to walk up to people at random and ask if they wanted 
his rat. That was a great way to get arrested. 
Eventually, he found himself staring over at the 
burger stand he had visited the day before. The 
temptation to throw the rat in the building and have 
it done with was quelled only by the fact that the 
building was surrounded by people. There would be 
witnesses. And he was thirsty. He wanted a lemonade or 
something. 

Slick looked around for some other place to get 
something to drink. His options were few, and, more 
importantly, far between. He went to the burger stand 
and stood in line. The person behind him—a large man 
in a non-large speedo—kept his distance from the crazy 
rat-boy. At least there were some advantages to having 
vermin stuck to his shoulder. Slick just hoped that he 
wouldn't end up facing the food-zombie. The line 
advanced.

"Well, hello there."

Slick groaned. "Live in hope, die in despair," he 
mumbled. "Give me a lemonade and say nothing," he 
said. He tried not to look up, but he couldn't stop 
himself. The little weirdo had plastered a smug grin 
across his face.

"What's with the rat?"

Slick glared at him. "My dad drinks a lot." his cheeks 
were slowly heating up. This was just about the height 
of humiliation. But at least the creep didn't have an 
answer for that. He turned and gave Slick his 
lemonade. Slick very nearly snuck to a table and sat 
down, nursing his drink. He was about halfway through 
it when somebody sat down across from him at the 
table. 

"You know, I think we got off on the wrong foot," the 
food-zombie said. His ability to maintain a 
conversational tone when talking to a guy with a rat 
on his shoulder who had recently applied a left hook 
to his jaw was admirable. He stuck out a hand. "My 
name is Eric."

Slick nodded. "Uh huh, Eric. You just wait right here 
for a second. I gotta go grab something." he got up 
and looked at the counter. It was being manned by a 
very burly woman. Slick shuddered. Women should not be 
capable of burliness. He walked up to the counter 
anyways, grabbed one of the plastic forks from the 
slightly-dingy holder they were sitting in, and 
returned to the table. 

Before Eric could question what he was doing, Slick 
swung the fork down into Eric's right hand. The boy 
screamed and clutched at his hand, which, Slick was 
pleased to note, had a fork sticking out of it now. 

"You'll probably want to sterilize that," Slick said. 
"Odds are you're right-handed, which means that's 
probably your masturbating hand, and you clearly need 
that, perverted little fuck that you are."

Eric clenched his jaw and glared at Slick. "You're not 
getting rid of me that easy. You're interesting, and I 
intend to learn more about you." By now, his hand was 
bleeding, and blood was seeping through the other 
hand, which he had clamped over it. He seemed to be 
doing a very good job of ignoring it. "So," he said 
again, "what's with the rat?"

"I already told you," Slick replied. "My dad drinks. A 
lot." He took another pull at his lemonade.

"That does not explain the rat," Eric said.

"He bought the rat last night while he was out 
drinking. I'm trying to get rid of it."

"The lake is a little further east," Eric said, 
gesturing lakeward with his head. 

"Are you really gonna sit there with your hand 
bleeding, talking to me about a stupid rat?" Slick 
said as blood began to trickle slowly away from Eric's 
hand on the table.

Eric shrugged. "It's not that serious. I'll be fine."

"You are fantastically stupid, aren't you? Show me 
your hand, pervert."

Eric shook his head. "No, I told you, I'll be fine."

Slick grabbed Eric's hand and pulled it forcibly 
across the table. Eric tried to pull it back, and 
Slick was jerked toward the table. The rat squeaked 
irritably and Eric stopped resisting. Slick stared at 
the wound. It was oozing, not spurting, so that was 
something. But it was also fairly deep. "You got first 
aid stuff in that crapshack you call a burger joint?"

Eric didn't object to the label Slick applied. He just 
staunchly refused to look at his hand and nodded. 
"Yeah, we do. It's... uh... you've been in the room 
that it's in, actually."

"You got some kinda problem with blood?" Slick asked. 

Eric nodded. "Yeah, a little bit."

Slick shrugged and went around to the back door that 
he'd gone in the day before. It was standing open. 
Eric walked up behind him and reached his uninjured 
hand into the hallway. He turned on a light switch. 

"Hey!" The burly woman called. "Who's back there!" 

"It's just me, Martha," Eric called back. "I uh... I 
managed to take a pretty hard fall on my way to the 
bus stop, and I need the first aid kit. I got somebody 
in here helping me out." He led Slick into the office, 
opened one of the lockers on the wall opposite the 
bench, and pulled out the first-aid kit, all with his 
left hand. He was holding his right hand well out of 
sight. 

Slick grabbed the little weirdo's hand and rather 
unceremoniously pulled it over towards him. He pulled 
out some antiseptic. He debated his options. He could 
spring the antiseptic's sting on Eric by surprise. 
That would be startling, but at least he wouldn't be 
in agony over anticipation.

"Okay," Slick said, "This is gonna sting. You ready?" 
Eric nodded and grunted an affirmative. His hand 
tensed up in Slick's, and Slick grinned. "You know, we 
should rinse that off first."

Between rinsing the wounded hand, and cleaning it with 
gauze, and leading Eric around by the hand that he was 
steadfastly refusing to look at, all while making sure 
that the antiseptic was clearly ready for use at all 
times, Slick managed to tease a good five minutes of 
entertainment out of watching Eric squirm. Finally, he 
settled Eric's hand over the little sink in the little 
bathroom in the little burger shop. 

"Okay," he said for the third time. "This time, for 
real. Ready?" Another nod. Eric cringed. "Here it 
comes," Slick said, and then, only after about a 
second of waiting, to let the tension build up, he 
poured the antiseptic into the wound. Slowly. 

Eric yelled in a delightfully un-masculine manner, 
startling the rat. Slick distinctly heard Martha 
laughing outside. "Pussy!" she shouted in Eric's 
general direction.

Slick let Eric suffer for a little longer than was 
strictly necessary, finished cleaning the wound, and 
bandaged it.

"There," Slick said. "You're fine." He started to walk 
out of the room, but Eric caught him by the hand. 

"You enjoyed that," he said. When Slick raised an 
eyebrow and started to reply, Eric shook his head. 
"You enjoyed it. You thought it was just... tons of 
fun to make me squirm."

Slick grinned wickedly. "Yeah," he said, stepping 
closer. He had at least five inches on the burgerboy, 
and he was using it. "Yeah, I did. I liked making you 
scream, too, so don't think I won't do it again. Most 
people usually get the message if I stick a fork in 
'em. Usually means you're done. But hey, if you're 
gonna stick around and let me jam pointy shit into 
you, I'll gladly go ahead and do it. It's easier than 
a voodoo doll." Now he was grinning down menacingly at 
Eric, and Eric was looking up at him with something 
halfway between gratitude and fear in his eyes.

"Well, you took good care of it," he said. He raised 
his bandaged hand up in front of his face. The rat 
jumped off of Slick's shoulder onto Eric's arm, and it 
suddenly occurred to Slick just how close he was 
standing to Eric. 

Slick also came to the more uncomfortable realization 
that he had an erection. The rat ran up to Eric's 
shoulder and the silence grew more uncomfortable as it 
stretched out longer. Slick thought that he should 
really step away, but he couldn't seem to move his 
feet. Eric surprised him by moving first. He strode 
out of the bathroom and stuck his head out into the 
serving area. Martha came in the door and talked 
quietly to him for a few minutes. Slick didn't come 
out of the bathroom. Eric came back in after Martha 
left. He was sans rat.

"Martha is a really creepy lady," Eric explained.

She returned a few minutes later, and Eric led Slick 
out of the burger stand. They stood behind the little 
building for a few moments, and then Eric said, "Well, 
I guess you got rid of your rat, then."

Slick nodded. "Yeah. Well, actually, you got rid of 
it, but... I helped?" Eric nodded, and Slick added, as 
an afterthought, "I still don't like you, you know."

"I'm fine with that," Eric said. He reached up to lay 
a finger in the center of Slick's chest. "I got to get 
those strong arms of yours holding my hands," he said.

If he had any more to say, Slick didn't hear it. His 
hand snapped up and grabbed Eric's wrist. Eric winced. 
"I don't need you touching me," Slick said. He twisted 
his hand, forcing Eric to stumble closer to him. He 
was perfectly aware of his erection now, and he 
figured that drawing a little bit of quasi-sadistic 
pleasure from tormenting the food-zombie would be a 
tiny vengeance, all things considered. 

Eric met Slick's eyes evenly. "Did... did you, uh, 
want something?"

Slick stared at him. He let the silence get longer, 
longer, and finally, Eric filled it up the only way 
that popped into his head. He kissed Slick as softly 
as he possibly could. Slick was startled at first, but 
his erection, which had been standing at half-mast or 
so, suddenly took on new ambitions. 

Eric noticed. "Do you want to go to my car?" he 
suggested quietly. Slick didn't respond, but when Eric 
started moving towards the nearest parking lot, he 
followed.

Throughout the short car ride to a dilapidated 
townhouse that was trying hard to look like it wasn't 
hurting anybody, Slick leaned back in the passenger 
seat and thought of baseball. It didn't help. Eric led 
him into the unit on the north end of the townhouse 
and up to his bedroom. The bed was large, with a 
wooden frame that had been painted black. The whole 
room smelled too clean to belong to this kind of a 
person. 

Eric started walking towards the bed, but Slick 
grabbed him by the back of his collar and turned him 
around, pulling him close. He was almost snarling. 
"Strip," he commanded. 

Eric stripped dutifully, starting at the shoes and 
working his way up. Socks came off, and were left in 
the shoes, and then his pants. He was wearing white 
briefs. They had absorbed enough sweat to be damp and 
cling to his legs as he pulled them off, then moved on 
to his shirt.

He stood nude in front of Slick, and Slick stepped 
forward, leaving Eric no choice but to back up, 
heading for the bed. Slick stopped just short of 
actually forcing Eric to fall. He reached out and 
grabbed Eric by the shoulders, then pushed him roughly 
to the bed. The frame thudded against the wall. 

"Scoot back. I want your head against the headboard," 
Slick snapped.

Eric did as he was told, and Slick got a good view of 
him for the first time. He was skinny, without any 
seriously developed muscles. His boner was angled ever 
so slightly to the left. Slick slipped his shoes off 
and climbed up into the bed, straddling Eric. He got 
himself up over Eric's chest and snapped, "Pull out my 
dick and stroke it."

Eric complied with the eagerness of someone who has 
finally gotten to the fun part of a game. He quickly 
unfastened Slick's pants and pulled them and the 
underwear as far down as they would go. He wrapped his 
bandaged right hand around Slick's shaft and started 
stroking it. Slick thrust into his hand, pulling his 
shirt off and tossing it away. Already, he felt waves 
of pleasure rolling over him. He almost didn't want to 
do anything but this, but he decided that that 
wouldn't quite be fair. 

Slick rolled away from Eric's hand only long enough to 
take his pants off, then he returned to his position 
and thought to ask the question that hadn't, until 
now, occurred to him. As Eric stroked his penis, Slick 
said, "I'm guessing you have lube, right?"

"It's all in my bedside table's drawer over there."

Slick looked over at the bedside table. He had an idea 
in mind. "Grab it," he said. "But suck me while you're 
doing it."

Eric let go of Slick's member and immediately slid his 
mouth over it. Slick grunted in approval as Eric 
started leaning to rummage around in the drawer. His 
tongue worked up and down Slick's shaft, and Slick 
thrust none-too-gently into his mouth, forcing Eric to 
deep-throat him. Eric became more enthusiastic in his 
sucking, if anything, and it took him a minute or two 
to sort out lube from the myriad random crap in his 
drawer. By the time it was extracted, Slick was 
getting tempted to just finish in Eric's mouth. 

Tempted, but not tempted enough. He pulled back and 
ordered Eric to put the lube on him. Eric did so, with 
a lot of unnecessary stroking and rubbing. Slick 
slipped down his body and, without any preamble, 
plunged dick-deep into Eric's anus. Eric drew in a 
sharp breath, but Slick wasn't in the mood to give him 
time to adjust. He immediately began thrusting hard 
into Eric, grabbing him by the hips and pushing deep. 

Eric's penis bobbed obscenely with the motion in front 
of Slick, and then Eric's hand was on it, stroking it 
and running his thumb across the head. A shiny coating 
of pre-cum glistened on Eric's glans, and he started 
thrusting into his hand and clenching his ass on 
Slick's cock. Slick thrust faster, grunting and 
panting as the pleasure between his legs grew.

Suddenly, Eric shouted and cum blasted out of his 
penis. One drop landed on his chin. The sight pushed 
Slick over the edge, and he groaned as his prick 
twitched in Eric's ass, spraying spurt after spurt of 
cum into him. 

Eric moaned in concert with him, relishing the 
feeling, and gradually they both slowed to a halt. 

Slick pulled out of Eric.


Chapter 6

Slick leaned back on the bed and stared down at Eric. 
"Holy crap!" he gasped. 

Eric, apparently, agreed. He was grinning like an 
idiot, despite having been abused and bullied the 
whole time. If anything, he looked as though he wanted 
more. Slick, however, had no intention of giving it to 
him. Because now that he was looking at Eric, lying 
blissed out on his back, all he could see was James.

James, sitting in a mud puddle at age eight. He'd been 
the victim of bullies, then. Too small to fight back, 
too proud to run to teacher for help. Slick hadn't 
wanted to be associated with the little dweeb, but 
something about James was too good to leave in the 
mud.

James, hovering over him on the ice at age thirteen, 
making him laugh through the tears. Slick had broken 
his leg in a hockey game, and James refused to leave 
his best friend's side until the cast was on.

James, lying beneath him on the bed at seventeen, in 
the warm aftermath of pleasure and confession.

James, sitting on the edge of his bed five minutes 
later, flinching. He had shown his heart to Slick, 
made love to him, but something in the boy was too 
much to take. Slick had reacted with rage.

"Oh, God," Slick whispered.

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Not as bad as you thought it 
would be, huh?"

"I... I'm an idiot," Slick muttered, burying his face 
in his hands. "I've been so stupid."

"Okay, now come on," Eric said, "you don't have to be 
mean."

"Not you," Slick said irritably. "James. I've been so 
unfair. He's my best friend, and I was angry at him 
for it."

Eric quirked one eyebrow up. "I take you've had an 
epiphany then? Something about a missed opportunity, 
I'd wager?"

"Yeah. I have to go talk to him. I'm sorry... I 
shouldn't have... I shouldn't be so heartless to you, 
but... you're not James."

Eric shook his head. "Hey, that was sex. We're talking 
love here. I get it. Do you wanna use my shower?"

Slick nodded. "Yeah. I... I'm gonna go to him as soon 
as I can. Right after I get home and into the car."

...

Slick pulled into the gravel driveway, but he stopped 
about halfway in. The Camaro was gone. He looked 
around in a mild panic. Where could James have gone? 
He stepped out of the car and ran to the front door. 
He didn't bother knocking. If anybody was home, it 
would be open. He turned the knob, pushed, and found 
himself inside.

Mrs. Larson, who had previously looked busy in the 
kitchen, now looked startled, holding a tray of 
cookies in one oven-mitted hand, the other one 
perfectly manicured and over her breast in her 
surprise. With the apron on, she seemed to have become 
lost on her way to a nineteen-fifties kitchenware ad.

"Oh, goodness, James! You startled me. If you're 
looking for Jimmy, I'm afraid he's gone out to meet a 
friend of his."

"Do you know where?" Slick asked. Mrs. Larson looked 
rather confused. "It's important," Slick insisted. 

"I think he's gone to the Culvers in town," she said.

Slick thanked her and ran back to the car. It started 
irritably, but it started. He drove a bit faster than 
was strictly necessary, legal, or sane, but he arrived 
at Culvers intact, and sure enough, there was the 
Camaro.

Slick jumped down out of the car and started running 
for the restaurant. He spotted James inside, talking 
to some guy in a cheap leather jacket. He was 
laughing. Slick rounded the corner and sprinted into 
the burger joint—a lot of his life seemed to center 
around burgers lately—immediately fixing his course on 
James's table. But he stopped short when he saw James 
lean forward and gently kiss his companion. 

He nearly fell to his knees. As it was, he sat down at 
a nearby booth, no longer trusting himself to stand. 
He'd lost James. Lost him as a friend to his own 
stupidity, to say nothing of as a lover. He put his 
head down on the table. A shadow passed over him and 
he heard James's voice, caught up in a low laugh as he 
passed. Slick watched James go, retreating hand-in-
hand with his newfound boyfriend. 

Two days ago, I hated the idea that I'd had sex with 
him, he thought to himself. Now, my heart is breaking 
because I'll never kiss him again. This is ridiculous.

The Camaro passed outside the window, and Slick got up 
and drove back to Milwaukee. He looked at the road in 
front of him when he got to thirtieth street. He could 
turn south and go home. He should turn south and go 
home. He went straight. Slick pulled up in front of a 
dilapidated townhouse that was trying very hard to 
look like it wasn't hurting anybody. 

He had the feeling that he had gotten exactly what he 
deserved. Slick stared out the window at the 
townhouse. He turned the car off and slipped the keys 
into his pocket. There were tears in his eyes. He 
ignored them. Let them stay there, there would only be 
more to replace them if he wiped them away. 

Slick walked up to the door that he'd entered through 
earlier that day. He rang the doorbell. There was a 
loud crash inside, and a louder obscenity, and the 
door opened up. Eric looked Slick up and down a couple 
of times. 

"Oh, Slick... I'm so sorry," he said. "I don't know 
what to say, Slick."

Slick sniffled loudly. "Don't say anything," he 
advised. "Just hold me."

Eric led him into the house, sat him down on the 
couch, and gave him a cup of hot tea.

...

The neon signs on Broadway buzzed halfheartedly today. 
The one over Café Jé was glowing a little brighter 
than usual today, or so it seemed to James. He walked 
into the coffeehouse and looked around until he 
spotted what he was looking for. 

Nestled between the hipsters and the emo-wannabes that 
crowded the café at this time of day, Slick was 
sipping his coffee and talking animatedly to a 
slightly younger boy. His friend had bright red hair—
clearly not natural—and a quick, engaging smile that 
suggested secret knowledge. James approached him 
cautiously. He couldn't quite bring himself to believe 
the message that had been left on his voicemail, but 
here it was proving true. 
	
Slick laughed, then leaned over the table and kissed 
Eric, grinning. "I should have known you'd tell her 
that. Imagine it! Martha, trying to say the word 
'orgy', let alone getting an invitation to one! That 
was just mean, Eric."

Eric, too, was laughing. "Oh, but it was great! There 
was nice fancy lettering, and I'd even embossed it 
with a screwdriver. There were these little stylized 
dildos in the corners..." he looked up as someone 
loomed over their table. 

"Slick?"

Slick looked up, and for a moment, it looked as though 
he might panic and run away. For another moment, it 
seemed he was about to start crying. "I'm sorry, 
James," he said at last. "I'm so sorry for what I did 
to you."

"Slick, you didn't do anything to me. You cut yourself 
off from me so completely, I didn't know what happened 
to you. It took your... uh... this guy here... finding 
my number and calling me for me to even find you. He 
told me. You thought you lost a friend, Slick. I'm 
sorry, I should have called you. But you didn't call 
me, and I didn't call you, and we just kept... not 
calling. I'm your friend, Slick. If you'll have me, 
that is."

Slick smiled and pulled a chair that a hipster had 
been about to sit down in over to the table. The 
hipster gave him an irritated look and slunk off to 
suckle on his coffee elsewhere. "Sit down, James. I'd 
like you to meet Eric. He's my boyfriend now. I should 
thank you. Without you, I never would have met him."

"And if he never met me," Eric added, "he never would 
have stabbed me with a fork."

James sat down and settled in to listen to a long 
story. We need to get this Eric guy a denim jacket, he 
thought.

Finitas, mi amigos.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 73