Some Call It Luc

(This is meant to be scandalous and shit. Mind the tags :) I'm here for the drama. The hell is this story even about? Read to find out. This is very long. It will have two parts total. If you've read anything by me, you know it's gonna be a SLOW burn. This story more than most! I hope you brought your patience. Happy reading!)

--

Andy's life has been full of uncanny coincidences. Some, like his girlfriend Chelsea, call it luck. His latest mishap feels like the unluckiest he's ever been. This particular coincidence has the 23 year old wondering what it means to be in the right place at the right time.

"I'm telling you guys something the universe told me. You can believe it or not. Andy has the odds in his favor and that's why I'm keeping him around." Chelsea's cheeks are the rosiest red, and she's been giggling loudly at every joke for the better half of the night.

It has me blushing to see her blush. Particularly every time she does this smirk and peek over her shoulder to look at me every time she thinks she makes a funny joke. Something about it always gets to me. It's the way she peeks her hazel eyes under her dark brown eyelashes, the round but doe-like shape of her nose, her top lip that's bigger than the bottom one slightly.

I don't think she knows that she does it. Only five months in, and tiny things about her make me crazy. Even though she's talking about me right now, she's the magical one. Chelsea's friends are as rambunctious as she is. Right now, she's explaining my "unbelievable luck." I'd have to agree that I'm lucky to be so attracted to my girlfriend, lucky that her friends seem to like me after two nights of hanging out with them, and lucky that life hasn't smacked me down too many times.

Although, right now, she's talking about my uncanny ability to run into people of celebrity status.

"We were in LA for Cat's birthday, and Andy goes: 'what if we ran into Jennifer Aniston' and I was like 'why do you say that Andy?' and he's all--'oh, she's filming that thing. I saw an article.' Guess who we fuckin' see three hours later? Jennifer Fuckin Aniston."

"Coincidence," I scoff. Chelsea shakes her head.

"He's a warlock or somethin' guys," Chelsea airs out her blonde hair at the dark roots. I always thought it was a pretty grayish blonde. "Andy met some random childhood star from some random show he used to watch."

"I was his biggest fan! Jurney Lorne."

"See? Nobody knows who that is, the guy is

Bolivian,

lives

in

Bolivia

,

and Andy met the guy with his family at a random bowling alley in Sacramento," Chelsea says, tossing her hands up. "I keep telling him to give me lottery numbers.

Everyone seems to have a drunken laugh at Chelsea's insistence of my psychic luck or whatever, and I stop myself from grabbing drink number four. Even though I'm not driving, I don't feel like getting too wasted as I meet more and more of Chelsea's family and friends.

At one point, I go to reach for my drink, and Chelsea and I bump foreheads. Everyone laughs, and I instinctively palm her forehead, massaging it. "Babe, come on."

"I'm sorry," she hiccups. "You guys don't know how many times this happens."

"And you have a hard ass skull," I groan, rubbing both our foreheads.

"Did I even tell you guys how me and Andy met?" Chelsea goes on, despite our blunder.

Of course she has. We met our first year in Berkeley because we'd volunteered together for a woodshop. Hadn't said a word to each other the entire time, until the last week, when we all played a game, and we were paired off as the only two from the East Coast. Not only were we both from Maine, but we discovered that we briefly went to school in the same small city, separated by the railroad. Chelsea had gone to the school up North, and I the South. Though Chelsea'd grown up there, I had only attended my high school for the last two years.

I didn't build any really long lasting friendships from my time there, but I happened to remember that there was a cheerleader who was thrown into a banner the homecoming year our football teams played against each other. That cheerleader turned out to be none other than Chelsea.

It took us way too long to date. After keeping in touch for the last five years, we finally got close. The last five months have almost felt like way longer. Longer than even the five years we've technically been in each other's orbit.

I'm just glad I seem to be having a semi-normal relationship. Something that seems like it'll last forever, maybe. I'm always hesitant to say that. Things always get weird around six months for me. Even if I end up staying in the relationship longer, I usually can point to the time when the situation spelled doom.

We've been dating for five months and a few weeks. I've shoved my six-month-o-meter back as far as it'll go. At that point, I'm just looking for an out, right? It's time to stop self-sabotaging. I'm almost 24.

Finally, I have Chelsea to myself, and she's trying to see when her brother Charlie will be back. "Ooh, Andy. Wait til you meet Dax and Charlie. Dax and his wife Lux are literally like... movie stars. They live the craziest life. Family influencers."

"They sound awful," I joke. Dax and Lux sound like cars.

Chelsea smacks my shoulder. "You're gonna be obsessed with Dax. I don't know what it is about him, but he's like... if a person could be cocaine."

"I'm not confident with my girlfriend describing another guy as 'cocaine,' geez," I scoff. "A married guy at that."

"You'll see what I mean," Chelsea says, rolling her eyes. "Jealous much?"

"What are their real names so I don't judge them right off the bat?" I ask, taking a sip of her drink, avoiding my own.

"Please be nice."

"Of course I will. I'm meeting your brother, too."

"Charlie's gonna like you, Dax and Lux will love you--Andy, sometimes I swear you're the most confident insecure man ever."

"Ever?" I ask.

"

Ever."

Chelsea kisses my forehead. "We're going to Dax's house in like, ten."

"Change of plans?" I ask. She nods. "More rich people. Fun."

"They're 'Maine' rich. Which is like... meh."

"Stop saying 'like.'"

----------------------

After spending two days with Chelsea's friends, they seem to be chill people. They remind me of some of the people I spent time with in high school, which makes sense. This town couldn't be all that different across the tracks.

Pete asks me a question. Chels has been friends with him since middle school. "While Chels is out, tell us something you haven't told her."

"Uh... so that you can tell her? No thanks," I chuckle, not keeping my promise to myself to sober up as I take a sip of beer. "You guys tell me first."

A girl, Samantha, shakes her head. "We have to have some dirt on you, Andy. Come on. 'Fess up." A friend a few years older than Chelsea and me. She's likely 26.

"I... don't know." Something pops into my head, of course. But my second thought is the fact that it's not that bad, so I pretty much am in the clear. Maybe I'll tell them. "I watch porn sometimes."

"That's not juicy," Sam waves me off.

"There's a specific video I watch. She definitely wouldn't know about it."

"Is it perverted?"

I blink at them. "It's... porn..."

"You know what I mean," Pete frowns.

I shake my head. "Nothing like... crazy... no..." I suddenly remember that between seltzers, I'd taken shots. I'm drunker than I thought. There's no way I stumbled into a trap like this. Telling a half-truth is a stupid idea. Worse than lying.

So I lie. "I know the guy in the video."

That seems to get their attention, and I see that Chelsea is wrapping up talking to her friend who owns this house. "It was uh... stupid. Him and his girlfriend. Happened to be a decent video. I don't know."

"You're friends with the guy?"

"Barely. Not really," I nod. Then I point to Chelsea, who is coming over. "Don't say shit to her, though."

Her friends pretend zip their lips, and I figure that even if this happens to come up again, I'll be able to escape it without a lot of harm.

Truthfully, I do not know anyone in the video I watched for years, nor did it feature a guy and a girl. I actually haven't thought about it in a long, long while, and finally decide there's no way I'm touching more alcohol tonight. To casually bring up something that was my biggest shame for years, despite the low atrocity, I'm too loose-lipped. I've effectively spooked myself.

Chelsea hops in beside me. "Ready, guys?"

With a resounding "yes," we're off.

I forget that sometimes it takes an hour to get places here. I've sobered a little when we've pulled up to a house near the coast.

I'm already dazzled by the size of the house until I realize it's the garage, and then I'm a little sickened by the sight of the mere mansion behind it. Where the hell am I, and who the hell is Dax?

I've met two people outside, and neither of them seems to be the owner of the house. The ick continues. We all finally step inside after enduring a beach, a pathway, a boardwalk, and a front section of the house.

We're greeted by a brown-haired woman, and she looks like a Real Housewife. Assumedly Lux. When she greets me, it's confirmed.

"You're Andy? Geez, Chelsea, you didn't tell me your boyfriend was a linebacker."

"I actually was. But I suck at football."

Lux gives me a hug. "I believe the first time I heard about you was actually a couple years ago. Chelsea does

not

know how to pick them. But this time?" Lux looks me over. "You're a big kid."

"They've been telling me that for a long time," I nod, stupidly flexing for this stupid lady. Chelsea grabs my arm, giggling. She holds on tight, and I end up lifting her off the ground, something we do often as a habit. Lux thinks this is the most adorable thing ever, and she squeals. I don't know how old she is. She could be 25 or 35. The botox makes it hard to tell, no offense to her, of course.

"He's a foot taller than me," Chelsea giggles.

"I can see that," Lux gushes with her.

"Eleven inches, technically," I nod.

"...What is?" Lux asks suggestively, and Chelsea smacks her arm. "I'm kidding! Come on Chels. We just redid the garden. Let me show you guys."

I'm a little dumbfounded that anyone in Maine bothers to live on the chilly coast, but with a house like this, weather is a blip.

We've gone outside to indulge in more Home Channel greatness, when the door to the patio opens, and two people join from around the corner. Chelsea pops up immediately, running around to see who's come in.

"We were chasing you guys all over the place trying to see where you went," comes a man's voice.

"Dax, you can't find your own shoes," Lux retorts. I round the corner as greetings start, and Chelsea grabs me, excitedly pulling me over to meet none other than her brother, and the other owner of the house.

I don't think I've ever felt so genuinely shocked in my life at the sight of a man.

It's him.

-------------------------------

Coincidence or curse?

It's the obscure type of thing that you don't tell anyone about. The thing you do that keeps other things in check. Even if aspects of that "thing" came out sometimes, it was always kept in check.

It'd be silly to assume most guys haven't had it slip their mind at least one time, what it'd be like to be with another man, at least once. Once, at the very least.

Me, well, it tended to be more frequent back before. A few years ago, things settled down, but for a while my mind was consumed. Mostly with one video.

I had a habit of building random things. "Tinkering" is what my father called it. Electronics, wood, plumbing. A fixer. He always said--"women love a man who uses his hands." I had a habit of picking up old tech from the local junkyard. Some other people had a habit of junk-building, too, but it was commonly known that all the "tinkering" we nerds did at least recycled some of the material that was scrapped.

I found an old laptop. Right when I was heading off to college, and I was getting barely any hours at my job, I had more time to mess with old tech. I decided I'd try to get the thing to work, despite the screen being partially detached.

There wasn't a "calling" in my mind or anything. I wasn't drawn to the junk for any reason. There were other laptops. I could've easily chosen a different one.

But I happened to choose the one that changed everything.

It was clunky, which I guess gave it some retro appeal. I spent a few days finding a cord, some replacement parts that were essential for the startup. I was about to give up on it, when the screen finally cut on, and with a few tactics I'd learned, I broke in. There wasn't much. It seemed like schoolwork, maybe some jobs. I didn't recognize any names, and I deleted everything permanently. Scrubbing it clean was part of the process. I wasn't nosy. I didn't want to spy on people through their old technology.

I'd noticed a compartment, though, underneath the laptop. It had a flash drive inside.

The only thing in it was a file reading 'Vid.exe.'

My curiosity got the best of me. The next thing I knew, I was watching a video 16 minutes and 48 seconds long.

Within five seconds, I knew what was going on, mostly because it featured a blonde guy in the middle of a couch, sweaty, naked, telling the screen, "So, I just got fucked twice, and they finally remembered to turn on the cameras."

Not very subtle. I tried to pause it, but it wouldn't stop. Then I didn't try again. Even after two other guys entered the screen chuckling and apologizing, bigger and beefier than the guy who talked. The setup had me dumbfounded. How I'd just stumbled upon what appeared to be homemade porno. Gay porno at that.

With the most adorable shrug, nonchalant but playful, the blonde tossed his hands up. "See? How hard was that?"

Everything in my brain should've screamed to turn it off, shut the screen, but this felt like... fate. That was the part that ended up turning me on. His adorable reaction. His shrug.

See? How hard was that?

Around that time, I'd seen a stupid comedy where two guys ended up making out in the background for laughs, my mind spiraled down into thinking I needed to search some gay porn to scratch an itch. Days later, I was watching the most gorgeous guy I'd ever seen get laid the fuck out for almost 17 minutes.

I wasn't an excessive porn consumer, like some of my friends. I liked to think I had taste. Absolutely ridiculous, when talking about watching a bunch of large and small-breasted girls get semi-violated on screen--if not from the sex itself than the setup, the degrading words even if the guy wasn't putting in enough effort to warrant such vulgarity. The cheesiness. I thought everyone usually deserved better.

The highest quality camera work didn't make up for the really bad acting, the ugly mugs on some of the guys, the meager positions that couldn't possibly be getting anyone off--genuinely. Not to be a film critic about it.

I preferred... pretty much what was on the screen that I happened to find. Something genuine, intimate, fun. Heterosexual, up to that point, though.

The first time I'd watched it, I was speechless. Not that there was anyone around to say anything to. But I was painfully hard, wondering exactly

how

that guy managed to be so fucking hot while taking a cock in both his ass and his mouth, or

why

I found a guy hot in the first place.

Complete strangers had recorded some fun for themselves, likely, and this half-destroyed laptop didn't quite fade into complete obscurity after someone got rid of it. I couldn't express my gratefulness at the time. I didn't really know what I'd found.

What I did know, was that once it hit second 48 after that 16 minutes, I was restarting it, throwing my hand into my pants faster than lightning.

It started unlike many videos I'd enjoyed before. A beautiful specimen being felt up, touched, squeezed. The blonde giggled as the other men groped at him, shoved him around, forced a cock into his mouth, showed off his perfect,

juicy

ass to the camera. If the quality were better, I'd've been able to see how pretty and pink he was inside, stretched out a dime's width as his ass was toyed with.

What I could see was a tattoo on the back of his thigh. An eagle. Not all patriotic. It fit him.

I tried to look at the other guys, see if I recognized an upperclassman from years ago, but I could hardly take my eyes off of Blondie. Neither could the guys occupying him.

At one point, the camera was slightly off, not quite getting the ideal shot. I considered it the best part of the video. They didn't notice for a while, either. For good reason.

Though the angle was off, everything that mattered was in the frame. Blondie, one knee on the couch, one on the floor, as his whole body was in the camera shot, but only the lower half of the other men. One crouched behind, getting the perfect leverage to lift up and fuck down into the blonde at a steady, heavy pace.

"Ohhh that's

deeeep,

" the twink moaned, not overly loud. Purely enjoying the moment, the feeling. It would've likely been silent in the room, save for the wet, plunging sound of his ass. Taking every hit. On this old laptop, there was a lasting staticy sound, which I only noticed in that moment. He adjusted slightly, arching his back, clenching his fist, burying his head in one of the couch pillows.

The unoccupied top simply laughed a little, ruffling his fingers in Blondie's hair before gently running his hands along the twink's back, sliding from his shoulders down to his tiny waist, where he pressed him into the couch. The other top groaned, grabbing fat mounds of the ass he was pounding, holding him open.

"Haha, he's gone, dude," one of them said. Likely the top who held Blondie down by his back.

"Fuck, yeah he is."

Blondie whined in response, nodding on the couch. His friends laughed, fucking harder, pressing deeper. I heard deeper breathing. Concentration. Likely, they were both just watching him take that third limb in his ass. I was, too. It was hard to look away. I stroked faster in my pants, building right along with these guys.

I was obsessed: the tilted angle, the camera getting half the floor. At the top half of the screen, a desperate, moaning and whining,

beautiful

man getting served exactly what he begged for. Homemade porn at its finest.

I hadn't noticed that the bigger man hadn't put his full dick in, until he did, beginning to plunge fully inside.

Blondie squirmed a bit, clenching his fist, kicking out his leg. "

Fuuuck,

I can't--"

"Stay still ______." A name. Two syllables. I couldn't hear it. I didn't think about it at the time.

"

Mmmmffff,

fuck, it's too big--" he whined, he panted, desperately moaning into his pillow. He moaned consistently at this point, panting out pleas.

They were all absorbed in the moment, until the other top realized the camera had fallen a bit. He took his hands from Blondie's lower back, mumbling before going to fix it. As he headed back, they all shared a laugh, and Blondie sat up to take the other top in his mouth again.

Back to business. Performing again. For a moment, I wondered what they were all thinking. Watching such a beautiful sight.

It wasn't about the gay sex. At least I tried rationalizing myself out of it by saying that at first. But ultimately, I was officially entranced. Quelling my "gay thoughts" only took digging up an old good-for-nothing laptop to watch a--possibly decade old--video of Blondie getting pounded and taking it absolutely gracefully. Clearly he was the star of the show. I'd certainly been convinced. I found him to be addicting. I could find myself understanding why the two other guys would grab Blondie's waist, want to fuck him hard. He was... gorgeous. I didn't know how else to put it.