Blind hearts-ManxMan-boyxboy

tuna casserole

The evening seemed to have grown colder, the sky darker. He turned his back upon the sight and wrote back, u called her a dumbass again, didnt u?

Nah, nah, i asked her nice and polite, r u a dumbass?

Alex rolled his eyes. sorry cnt deal right now. got a date with Tony.

u dont give a s*** about Tony.

Alex felt his hard d*** shrivel.  i dont give a s*** watchin you getin stiff over hipster chicks.

The irate buzz of a phone call replied, and Alex turned the phone off.

The claustrophobic whiff of Indian sandalwood ushered Alex into Tony’s bachelorette—a tomb of stacked books and tuna fish cans. Evening Books on screenwriting and launching the stand-up career piled high with the books on how to nurture the confidence of a beast, and the tuna cans, well, Tony had said tuna was for brain food. And as Tony, his chest bare, supple, silvery with sweat, brownnosed someone on the phone, Alex wanted to tell him his cum was an even better brain food. It was soft slant of his shoulders that hooked Alex’s eyes, the sparse chest hair that drew them to the trail lining down his belly and disappearing into the waistband of his briefs—navy blue. His fly was open, the clip was still undone; the phone call had interrupted his dressing up. It was all the better for Alex relaxing in the solitary chair and widening his knees to allow more space for his erection to mature.

“Here me out, Diehard in the Getty so works,” Tony said into the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder as his hands struggled to zip his fly. His hands seized in the air, his voice dropped low. “Meredith, a drag queen can totally be badass Bruce Willis …. A drag can be waltzing in the getty and be ready to save the day …. That’s a point here: the first shall be the last and last shall be the first … right, you don’t get that.” His hands dropped back to struggling with fly, but the zipper did not seem to want to cooperate, prompting Alex to jump over to help Tony.

“Dude, dude.” Tony muffled the receiver. “Step away from the d***.”

Alex complied, put his hands behind back and stared now brazenly at the zipper that was sitting squarely against the ridge of his cock.

“Alex, sit your ass down and stop staring at my d***!” Tony fought to keep his voice down and away from the phone.

“You standing there, looking sexy as hell.” Alex swished his smile around as Tony rolled his eyes. “Hot as hell?  Rock hard as hell?”

Swiftly Tony turned his back on Alex and resumed talking on the phone. “Sorry Meredith, my dog needs its bone …. Yeah I just got a new dog, an ugly ass Doberman that is about to be put down .… You didn’t know I had a dog? F*** yeah, I like animals …. All right, all right, so you don’t like Diehard in the Getty, how about Diehard in the Smithsonian?”

Unfortunately, Tony was leaning on the faux wood counter, his buttocks sticking out and swallowing up all of Alex’s view. He could picture his d*** nestled and snug against Tony’s crack, the cheeks squeezed tight against his pulsating heat. Alex swallowed hard, dabbed his heat-bathed neck. The sink next to him should have been more cooling fixture, but it shone  so bright and rather incomprehensibly spotless next to the fridge door that was a maze of magnets or the nearby working area, which was strewn with opened tuna cans and the lone box of green tea. Blood rushed to Alex’s head, and in the discombobulation of vertigo and savage need for release, a tiny question niggled him: had he remembered to pick up a new box of chamomile tea?

He panicked. Reaching for his phone to call his mother, he remembered with a clenching pain in his throat what he had decided for the night. Unbelievable really thinking about chamomile tea when next to him there was a warm-blooded male, albeit still yakking and yakking about Diehard and drag queen alpha heroes—Alex reached to swipe the phone from Tony, and after some tense struggling for control, Tony gasped into the receiver, “My dog’s chewing on my pant cuff. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow with other ideas that don’t involve Diehard.” Then Tony turned his full feral attention to Alex.  “Your d*** can’t wait two minutes?”

“Baby,” Alex said, looking dreamily at the emergency growing in his pants, “That needs an all night service, but that can wait till after dinner, speaking of which it’s after nine ...”

Alex loved the half-frown, half-curiosity brightening the almond gloss of his face. Tony looked uneasily and deliciously helpless at the ceiling, the fridge, looked unable to decide an internal debate, as Alex would guess slyly, a debate between his ego and his d***. But that was easy, thought Alex grabbing him by the back of his head and kissing him. Minty fresh, a hint of the special herb and something there with the Tony’s wrestling tongue, drove Alex to explore further, drive deeper, to turn his face aside and suck on the prickly trail of his sideburn. Tony’s surrender was not exactly immediate. But surrender he did on all fours on the bed and after a few breathless gripes about a dog that had promised to be good.

Alex was good, pumping and drilling Tony whose head was squashed against the armrest and his mouth was open, drooling, exhaling fast heated breaths. The muscles on Tony’s back, working and twisting, spurred Alex’s galloping thrusts. The spasm of elation in Tony’s eyes almost drained his reserves.

“S***!” Tony bit down his lip, even that was not enough to contain his exploding breaths, “S***, I’m going—”

“Oh no, you’re not.” Alex stopped cold, firing a frustrated growl from Tony.

“We need to get dinner.”

“I’ll make you a tuna casserole.” Alex helped him roll over his back and raised up his legs and braced them flat over his belly.

“You can’t cook.”

“You’ll be surprised at what I can do.” Alex entered him again. A slight twist crossed Tony’s face and then the naked invitation to torture him sparkled in his eyes, and he was absolutely beautiful. And in that nuclear moment, nothing else mattered. Not the starless night imprinted on the window, not numerical analysis project due the next Monday, not the fact that he did forget to buy chamomile tea, not the heartless bitch of his mother, not Dimov’s silly ideas, not Frank, especially not Frank invading his dreams, spread-eagled on his bed, pounding heavily on a proud plump prick—Aww yeah, aww Frank yeah ….