Learning the Ropes

Author's Notes: Thanks to all who left feedback and who left their rating for the last installment. I really appreciate it. Hope you will consider leaving some comments on this one if you should read it. The last one was predominately set-up and backstory. In this installment, the main characters get down to it... And so, I would like to remind you once again, dear reader, that all characters getting down to any business between the sheets or elsewhere are over the age of 18 and/or the age of consent in the (fictional) areas in which they reside. The ethical choices of the characters are their own and, therefore, do not necessarily reflect my own beliefs and/or values. Similarities to persons living or dead are coincidental. Appreciate all the feedback on my author's page, too. Rest assured I read every bit I receive. Thanks and let me know what you think. =)

P. Alinea

==

I swallow. My mind goes white: completely blank. No excuse, no plausible story can begin to explain the two studs rutting on screen or the hand I have thrust into the crotch of the boxers I've borrowed from Mark. I should've left well enough alone. I should've been more careful. I should've at least waited until the middle of the night, when I could be sure he wasn't going to catch me in the act.

Neither of us says a thing. I ease my hand out of the fly of the boxers. The lump in my throat will not seem to budge, my eyes weighted down with hot, stinging shame. My mind is racing now. Where there was nothing but blank space a moment ago, dozens of thoughts collide.

I know he has more to answer for than I do: it was his video, after all. That hardly seems to matter. It doesn't change facts. The fact that I care so much about him, about our ties. The fact that I was snooping in his private business. The fact that I was overcome with lust for the men on the screen.

"I-I'm sorry," I stammer. With my head in my hands, I stoop over, rocking back and forth now. "Mark, I'm sorry."

I feel his hand on my left shoulder. He squeezes it, and I realize just how tightly I've been tensing the muscles there without even noticing. A sigh of relief escapes my lungs. I cover my eyes with my hands and rub them a few times for good measure.

"How about that pho?" he asks, picking up the remote and banishing the images of the two young men.

I can't imagine how I'll possibly get myself to eat just yet but nod and look up at him, searching for some way to understand his casual tone. His warm brown eyes are peering at me. Through me. To the very core of me.

I clear my throat. "Yeah, how about that pho?"

We prepare the meal in silence; it's like a ceremony of sorts. He slips a large packet of noodles into boiling water. I tip whiskey into two glasses. The alcohol already coursing through me keeps me a little heavy-handed with the stuff, and I try to make up for it with a generous splash of soda water.

I hand Mark his drink and set about helping him snip up cilantro. He slices limes and chops up a bunch of lime leaves. Out come spicy red and green peppers. The longer we go without exchanging words, the more hopeless it feels that we'll be able to strike up casual conversation after the pornographic fiasco earlier.

It's not until we sit down and Mark takes a few tentative sips of the broth from his bowl, tossing over some cilantro, that he says something.

"You're probably wondering about what you saw..." He's donned a black tank that matches my own, the towel still draped around his shoulders. "And even if you're not, I don't know that I'm gonna feel right about the whole thing if I don't try and explain."

I say nothing, instead scattering cilantro over the noodles in my bowl and look up at him, waiting.

"I don't know exactly when, but I started having doubts." He clears his throat but never makes a move to look away, his eyes locked on me. "How do you get to where I was and not know, you know? I mean, I had a career, this place, a wife, a marriage. I still have my career and this place, but I don't have a wife anymore. It's been nearly a year already, a year since we went our separate ways. Now she's just someone I send a check to."

I nod. There is nothing else to do. Is he suggesting he had doubts about the marriage, about his sexuality? That would explain the hot and heavy video from earlier, at least.

"She wanted kids. She's a few years younger than me, so we took things slow at first. Still, we were getting to that stage where you have to make decisions about the big issues: a mortgage, kids, where we were going to grow old together.

"She was so sure about everything. And why shouldn't she be? We'd been married almost five years. I thought I was just as sure when we started off down the road together. We'd talked about it. At the time, I couldn't wait to get started with her."

He drains half his glass of whiskey and soda, grimacing. "Shit, kid. Who taught you to mix? These could take paint off the pavement."

"Nobody taught me. I think that's the problem."

He smiles. "For us, the problems started when she decided we were going to try for kids. She was ready to be a mother. She'll be an amazing one. Her talking about it made me realize I wasn't sure I was ready to be a father. I didn't doubt how ready I was before that, not until she started telling me all about her ideas for the future, I mean.

"The more I heard, the less sure I was. And then, in a flash, I knew without a doubt I wasn't ready. I couldn't guarantee my kid a good life, couldn't say for sure whether I was going to do right by her. For me, that was a deal breaker. I couldn't, in good conscience, bring a beautiful baby into the family when I didn't even know for sure who I was.

"I wasn't intentionally deceitful, you know..."

"But how do you get married when you're not even sure about..."

Your sexuality? Your interest in men?

Even starting to ask these questions makes me feel like a dick. I mean, aren't I facing the same doubts in my own relationship? Sure, we aren't married, but that's just splitting hairs.

"You'd be surprised. Happens more often than you might think. My upbringing didn't leave much room for questioning. I never thought of myself as one to have hangups about my sexuality. In fact, I always thought I was pretty sure of myself and what I liked.

"That all changed when a guy from work came on to me one night after we'd had too much to drink. One thing led to another..."

"You had sex with him?"

"Nah, just some heavy petting." He laughs, but it sounds hollow, half-hearted. "In all seriousness, though, it was enough to be kissed like that and realize that I liked it. I won't go into all the gory details, but I was happier to see him than I could remember being to see my wife in quite a while, if you know what I mean..."

I nod. I do know what he means. I've been dealing with the same problem for weeks now. Brushing a guy's hand can give me a stiffy, but making out with Sharla doesn't seem to be fanning the same flames as of late.

"I couldn't bring myself to tell her, though..." He swallows his drink in one go, eyes falling to the empty glass.

"You didn't tell her you were having doubts, or that you kissed a guy and you liked it?"

"What good could telling her do either of us? It would just hurt her pride and confuse her." He pokes at his bowl of noodles. "Instead of going into that whole mess of unresolved feelings and unspoken emotion, I just played the asshole.

"It was the last role I wanted to step into, and not because it would make me look absolutely horrible, which it did, believe me. It's more because I'm pretty sure it broke her heart a little. Something went out in her eyes when she looked at me.

"I don't mean love for yours truly. I'm not that narcissistic. I mean something more basic. Trust. Belief that people are basically good. I hurt something in her when I chose to keep this to myself."

He looks up at me.

"But I'd do it again. I know the truth would have hurt her far worse. Would've damaged her self-respect. Everything she believed about us and about what we built over five years. It's better she believe I'm a cold-hearted asshole than worry about what my sudden affinity for men might mean."

I'm not entirely convinced that lying, or selectively withholding the truth, I guess, is the best policy, but then I'm being hypocritical again.

Mark stands from his place huddled at the coffee table.

"Care for another drink?"

I've barely made a dent in the one I have, but this doesn't seem like any time to refuse, so I drain the glass in one gulp, screwing up my face at the bitter aftertaste, and extend my glass in hand.

"Make it a double."

He smiles and tousles my hair before taking the glass and heading for the kitchen.

"How about a mojito with honey and whiskey instead of sugar and rum? We've got the lemons and mint."

Without waiting for my blessing, Mark rustles through the cabinet for the ingredients. Just as well. I'm starting to feel lighter and less inhibited; I'd drink just about anything if he promised it'd keep the buzz going.

"And how about you? You said there was a reason you didn't stay at home even though you're out at the college..."

I nod. "Yeah. My dad."

"Your dad?"

"I don't get along with him. At all."

"Really? John's a good man, but then you know that," he offers, bruising the mint with the back of a wooden spoon and depositing half in each glass.

"He's a good man when you don't have to live with him. You don't want to know who he is behind closed doors. I learned from having my arms all bruised up and my teammate's nose all bloodied up."

"I wish I'd have known."

"I was so embarrassed when it happened. Mortified after. He stopped coming to my sports meets after that. Stopped asking me how school was that day. It was like a different person."

He nods. "And that's why you asked for a ride all those times?"

"I'll never be able to repay you for the gas money."

"Or the damned five o' clock wake-up calls every single time your team was up to win anything at all. How many times did we end up eating convenience store breakfasts while you were carb loading?"

I laugh. "Come on, that was fun, right?"

He snorts, pouring honey into my glass. "Not hardly. Remember those toaster waffles we tried warming up in the microwave at the Mini-Stop?"

"The ones that turned into frisbees?"

Now it is Mark's turn to laugh. "Wait, wasn't that the time you went to State? We had to take off at, what, four?"

"Yup."

"You were wearing those tiny track shorts and a tank, and had to be freezing, it was so late in the season."

"Freezing my nuts off."

"You shoulda brought sweats--I did! So, I had this bright idea we'd buy something and warm it up--"

"And I thought the microwave at the truck stop would be perfect. Little did I know that it would turn those waffles back into plastic."

"Didn't you fling one out the window?"

"Yeah, I think I almost hit someone jogging past with their dog."

"That's right!"

I look down at the chest and stop speaking. A glass touches down in front of me and suddenly I feel a warm embrace.

"Mark?"

He says nothing but holds me tighter still.

"Remember when I had to go to my grandparents', how you put me up when my parents left to figure out how to deal with that kiss?"

He says not a word, instead squeezing me tighter still and tousling my hair again.

"You were so cool about it. It was the only reason I didn't go over the edge. I knew I had someone to look up to, to talk to... I know I haven't been around since going off and getting my own place. I missed you, Mark..."

Here, I wrap my arms around him and return the embrace.

He strokes my back and I feel myself getting hard again. At this, I push away just slightly. He takes the hint and releases me.

"Drink up before the ice all melts," he says, clearing his throat and taking a drink from his own glass.

We sit in silence for a spell. There's so much I want to ask, so much I want to say to him. Instead, I slurp some noodles up. While I'm making headway in the drinks department, I can't seem to find my appetite despite the earlier run.

"It's really good." I grin.

He smiles back at me and picks up his chopsticks again. "How about you?" he asks a second time.

"How about me what?"

"You're seeing somebody, right? You mentioned you've got a special someone..."

"Yeah, I do..." My eyes drop to the chest. "Or I think I do. I'm having about the same problem you seemed to be..."

I look up at him. He wears a look I can't immediately place. He seems to be searching my eyes now. If it were anybody else, I think I'd have dropped my eyes, but I find it easy to hold his gaze. Comfortable, even.

"I just wish I wasn't having this problem, you know? It's scary... Yeah, that's the word: downright scary. I don't like not knowing. I never asked to have these doubts. But I feel awful about it. She doesn't deserve to have a boyfriend who isn't all right for her..."

"Why do you think you're not all right for her?"

I hold my breath and then exhale. "I thought you got what I meant. I guess I'm finding myself worked up around guys. I got worked up when we wrestled earlier. And I'm not so worked up around her. And it's got me pretty psyched out."

"Hey, listen up, kid. There's nothing wrong with not being sure about stuff. You don't wanna end up on a ride you weren't sure about signing up for just because people pushed you to buy a ticket. That's what I did. There's no shame in being unsure. Heck, take all the time you need to keep being unsure. This is your time to figure stuff out. And try having some fun while you do it, eh?"

"But my parents, you know, they'd never understand. I mean, my dad..."

"I know. I know, and it breaks me up inside to see you conflicted like this. I know there's stuff about you you think you need to change. But the truth is: some of it, you can't. You can't change who you love any more than your fingerprints.

"And you shouldn't feel like you need to. Nobody has the right to make you feel like you're not good enough because you don't fit their idea of normal or good or valuable. OK?"

I look at him and immediately there are tears.

"Goddamn it!" I shout, and then I'm sobbing. "This was supposed to be a chill evening, you know? I was supposed to forget about all the pressure of trying to put myself through school and working so much and trying not to screw up.

"But the one thing I wanted to forget more than anything was this... This attraction I didn't even ask for. And I was supposed to be spending it with somebody I know I can trust to be cool with me because he was cool with me even when my Dad wouldn't be. Even when he couldn't be."

"You don't need to go burying anything to spend time with me, kid. You can just be whatever, you know? And I'll just keep loving whoever shows up. Because that's what we're supposed to do. All of us. We just need to get reminded sometimes."

I lunge forward and press my lips to his. I put my hand on his knee. He presses his hands into my chest and I'm almost sure he's going to move things forward when I feel him pressing away with a feather touch.

"I--I'm sorry," I stammer. "I thought... Shit, I don't know what I thought. I'm just... You know, I'm gonna take off. I can sleep off the highballs at my parents and I've gotta do a bunch of work for these summer classes I'm taking."

I push off the ground with one hand and ready to stand myself up when I feel him pull on one wrist.

"Stay."

I look down at him. He pulls me close and holds me again. He smells like the mojito and lime leaves and the shampoo we've both used. And he's warm and solid. He pulls me closer somehow and strokes my damp hair. "Stay."

So I do.

My eyes open to black. I feel parched and half-dead. The room spins a bit, reminding me I ate too little and ran too much to have drunk anything, much less the clumsy concoctions I served up. I yawn and reach for the water bottle on the nightstand. Three hearty swigs later and I'm beginning to slightly less like I've been washed up on shore and then baked in the sun.

I turn over to see Mark. That's right. I climbed into his bed. He tried to get me to go to the guest room, but I'd insisted I couldn't sleep alone. I think I could have slept about anywhere, though, as drunk as I was. The thought strikes me as funny, so I chuckle a little and close my eyes.

When my eyes open again, I'm aware first of Mark's soft but steady breathing. Another glance at the clock radio confirms its still early morning, a quarter to five.

"Mark?" I venture, not whispering but not wanting to startle him, either. I almost give up and roll back over when I hear him respond.

"Hmm?"

"Can I... Can I Come closer?"

Not moving, he mutters, "Mm-hmm."

I pull myself over to his side, heart thumping all the while. At first, those last few inches feel like a chasm between us. "Just move..." I scold myself. And then, gulping in a lungful of air and courage, I pull myself to him and feel him let out a sigh. His arm flops over my chest, and again, he is asleep.

I reach out and rub his back in large, slow circles. He sighs and I can make out a smile creeping over his face even as he drifts off again. This time I can't help letting my dick press into his thigh. I press myself to him as my hand dips lower into the small of his back.

Lower and lower my hand goes until it's resting on the ridge just above his ass. He has a pretty high set of cheeks, and they're firm and slightly rounded. I stroke them and let my hand dip down to cover them through the silky shorts he's wearing. I try grasping the globes of flesh and then rubbing them. Something about it makes me feel like everything is new. Like I'm touching another person for the first time. I'm harder than I've ever been.

He groans but doesn't stir or open his eyes, so I continue.

I let my hands move upward and turn him over slightly. He makes no move to stop me, turning over exactly as I wanted. On his back now, he turns his face slightly away and sighs, his arm rising to slip behind the pillow beneath his head. I rub my hands down his chest to his tummy and rub his abdomen. He's relaxed here and I take the chance to stroke his belly and touch the ridges of muscle on the side. I also stroke the softness here and gasp at how smooth it is.

My eyes can just make out where his cock slumbers in his underwear. I want to touch it so bad, but I remember my attempt at kissing him from the night before and stop. Instead, my hand trails upward to rub his pectorals. They must be sore from the wrestling match the night before and the reps on the bench I spotted him on.

His pectorals, I stroke in slow circles. And then, without thinking, I bring my fingers around his right nipple and stroke it back and forth.

He lets out a sigh that gives way into a moan. I flick my fingers, feather light on his hard right bud, back and forth. I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach: I'm not supposed to be doing this. He hasn't given consent. I'm molesting him in his sleep.

Entranced by my own perverse exploration of uncharted territory and the hot aching need to be opened wide to this man and let him see the side of me I have been so careful to hide even from myself, I continue to touch Mark's slumbering figure.

He gasps out a puff of air and his breathing is ragged now. I can't tell whether he's fully awake but can't stop myself from putting my other hand over his left nipple and giving it decidedly harsher treatment. I tug gently at it and push my fingertip into it before backing off and flicking at both of them so gently.

His hand goes to his boxers and he fishes out the head of his cock, rolling his fingers around the dripping head. He opens his eyes to look at me. There, I see a harsh warmth. Desire? No, more than that. Need. This is what it looks like to need touch, to need someone to make you feel.