[This story wouldn't have gotten past first base without Lesa Soja.]
U2's "Desire" is on the jukebox and you think of JC but only fleetingly because when you come back from the bathroom Lance is leaning over the bar to hand the guy money. Jeans pulled tight across his ass and a black shirt with the sleeves torn off and tanned biceps smooth and shimmering in the light cast by a Budweiser lamp over the pool table.
Lance turns back with two pints and you take one. The glass is already slick with perspiration and you grip hard so you don't drop it. It's a dive, no way to dress it up and take it out, it's a dive and when Lance asks if they'll turn up the AC some grizzled guy at the end of the bar laughs and says Charlie always forgets to pay the electric bill, you should be glad there's lights and the music works. It's a dive and Lance asks if you want to leave and you shrug like you wouldn't mind because you know he'll stay to finish the round he bought.
The beer hits like a cold shower and you're done in three gulps. "I'll get the next," you say, hand on your wallet, and he just shrugs and downs his in one long draw.
"And here we all thought Timberlake had never even learned to carry his own cash," he says, wiping his mouth. It pisses you off a little. Sometimes it's like because you've admitted that you can be an asshole they all think it's okay to treat you like one. Not always, just occasionally, just after a careless drink or two when they're someplace dirty and mean like this. Sometimes they talk about you like you're not even there and they act like they're joking but you don't really think that's true.
"Fuck off," you say, signaling the bartender. Lance pushes away from the scarred wood and wanders down to where the old-timer's abandoned his perch on the curve of the horseshoe shaped bar. When you hand Lance his drink he looks slightly sheepish and you can't not grin. He's sitting backwards on the bar stool and you set your glass behind his left shoulder, reach over his right to dig through the tray of lemons and limes and pop three maraschino cherries in your mouth, yanking the stems out and dropping them on the dirty floor.
Lance leans back against the counter and props his feet on the metal footrest of the stool, one ankle tucked between the chrome curves. He runs a hand down the side of his thigh as he swallows the dark ale and you move to stand nearer between his open legs. You keep meaning to talk to him about this, to tell him that normal guys don't sit like that, that normal guys can't sit like that even if they try, not without pulling something. Something valuable, the kind of injury that gets you benched for the rest of the season and suddenly Bob Costas is talking about your groin on NBC and it's all downhill from there.
Except Lance, apparently, can sit like that. Lance is a relatively normal guy and yet both willing and able to spread his legs like his hips are on hinges. Very willing. Maybe, maybe he even likes it.
You haven't done this in a while, the two of you. Not in almost forever, not since he decided you were sometimes an asshole and he could get pretty much whoever he wanted, anyway. Usually when you want it like this, dirty and mean and no way to dress it up as anything else, usually it's not someone you know before or have to talk to after.
But Lance looks up at you and you take a step forward. He shifts on the shiny red vinyl seat and smirks a little. "Oh," he says, finishing the beer, not touching you. Without turning his head, without looking away from you, he sets the glass behind him. He cocks his head and smirks again and says, "I guess it's my turn." Your mouth feels dry and he shifts his weight again, puts his hand on his crotch and adjusts himself.
"I'll --" you start, and then just turn away, snagging his empty. You'll get it. You get it. You're maybe the kind of asshole Lance likes to fuck in trashy bars, if he doesn't have to be nice about it.
You're maybe okay with that.
You pull out your wallet, a real guy's wallet, black leather that still creaks a little cause the fact is you don't need actual money all that often. You bought it on a whim, mid-fitting at the Armani store you pointed and said, "That, I want one of those." So maybe bought isn't the right word, because you don't think you actually paid for it.
Anyway there's a fat stack of hundreds and some credit cards and your ID and your room card and you catch Lonnie's eye on your way to the front door.
"Lance isn't coming?" he asks, and you shake your head. You ask him to clear the place and he actually laughs a little when you try to hand him the cash, says he has his own supply for that kind of thing. You've never done that before, though you've been around when Chris or Joey or even Lance would nod at someone and then you'd have the club or store all to yourselves.
"I'll, I'll just get another drink, then," you say. By the time you walk back from the door, the bartender is gesturing to the bouncer and then the big guy starts herding people out.
"What," the bartender says, and you kind of want to ask who did the tribal tat on his forearm but there's Lance in the corner of your eye, watching you and sucking on a lemon rind. "I'm not going, if that's what you're after. Everybody else, fine, make it worth my while and that's fine. But it's my bar. I don't leave."
Oh, you think. Like that. You reach for your wallet like you've done this before, wonder how much is really in there. You don't want to give him too little, insult him.
"I shit you not, kid," he says. "You and your boyfriend want another drink, you can pay for that. Anything else goes on here tonight won't be something I haven't seen before, and I don't leave the ship unattended, no way, no how." He meets your eye and his glare's rock solid, calm and sure. You think most of the people you work with, who all have a lot more to lose than this guy, would do better if they could look that inflexible when you want something.
You put a twenty on the counter. "I just want another round," you say. He tilts the glasses as he runs the tap, letting the head run down the drain. You don't wait for the change, and by the time you're back to Lance there's no one else left.
Lance slowly turns back around, puts his elbows on the bar. He shakes off the beer you offer, so you set them down, come up close between his open knees and rest your hand on his hip. You guess Lonnie's outside. You wonder if he cleared the bathrooms. You're pretty sure you've never fucked anyone in this particular bar but you can't remember for sure. You've traveled a lot. You wonder if there's a back entrance, an alley where some guys are fucking already and might wander back in. You wonder if you care. There's a guy standing twenty feet away polishing glasses like the bar's empty and you decide you don't give a shit, not in the slightest. You're gonna fuck Lance but good and if that makes you an asshole, fine. Takes one to know one.
Lance kisses you first, gripping your shirt and pulling you in, and his lips are soft and sour-sweet and you're still a little surprised it's that easy, you just pay people to leave and then he's ready and waiting. He wraps one foot around the back of your knee and you fall into him a little, catch yourself with a hand on the bar. You move your hand back down to one of his thighs and he moans. Ready and waiting and willing and able and even better he remembers things like how you love it when he sucks on your tongue, so it's already a million times hotter than some scruffy stranger.
You trail fingers down the taut, tanned skin of his arms, tracing muscles he didn't have the last time you did this, and he stretches up into the kiss, puts a hand on the back of your neck, loops the arm around and tugs you even closer. His crotch bumps against yours and he puts the other leg around your waist, scoots forward to perch on the end of the seat. He's a little sweaty and the whole place smells like beer and smoke and Lance and lemon twists.
He hangs on your neck and you kiss his collarbone, pushing the black cotton down with your nose and putting a hand up the shirt from the bottom, scratching your nails across the hair on his stomach. You can see his hard-on straining the fly of his jeans and you pop it open one button at a time. You take a half step back and he holds on, lets you lift him off the seat and work the denim down around his ass. He's not wearing underwear. He's buck fucking naked beneath those pants and you think for a second maybe he's not just ready, he's prepared. Maybe he knew it'd be like this.
When you set him down again he lets go, stretches long buff arms out and grips the counter. He waits. You're ready. You're willing. You strip back the jeans from his thighs like you're peeling a banana, stepping back slowly and bringing the pants with you, yanking the flared cuffs over his boots. You drop the jeans on the floor and he hangs one foot down for balance and torques the other out at a sharp angle, black boot on the stool footrest, dick jutting hard and hot from the hip.
One foot in front of another like you're fourteen again and trying to prove to Chris you and Lance weren't sneaking beer from the fridge while the older guys were out. Sneaking beer and Lance would take a turn looking at you with your pants off while you covered your eyes, and then you'd switch. Touching and looking but never both at once.
One foot in front of another like your knees aren't shaking a little bit and then you're between his legs and his hands are on your zipper, pulling you out, pushing your pants and underwear down but not all the way off, so they just hang on your thighs. You nudge the shirt up under his armpits and his whole body seems rippled, like the skin's wrapped around a tidal wave of soft muscle. You bend down, bite at his neck, chew on his shoulder and gasp when your dicks touch, skin sliding hot and sweaty and someone's leaking already and it might be you.
You're almost the same height with him up off the floor like that and when you draw him toward you he tilts his hips up, clambers up your shoulders again and you lift and push him back against the counter. You hold him an inch or two off the seat and your back is on fire, straining, this is nothing like lifting weights and you think maybe you'll be the one to pull something important, but he locks his legs around your back and the boots dig into your ribs but that's better, that's more balanced.
And, anyway, he's got his hand between the two of you, wet on your dick and you don't really care how that happened because he's lining you up, he's putting you in the right place and when he grunts into your ear you push back. You push in and he loosens his grip, lets himself sink back down so half his back skims the seat and you thrust again. You think that's gotta hurt, wood cutting into his flesh like that and when you move he winces. You do it again, harder this time, and he grunts but doesn't tell you to do anything different. His eyes are closed and he's biting his bottom lip and you hiss into his ear. "You with me, here? Cause if you're not into it, I can stop --"
"Don't," he gasps, eyes suddenly wide and angry. "Don't you fucking dare."
You laugh and push deep and slow and he moans aloud, and that's better. He pushes up against you, stretching wider, kicking you, squeezing and egging you on like you're a goddamned horse and you gnaw on his chin, whispering, "Make more noise, c'mon." He lifts his lids like he's waking up from a nap and smirks, fucking laughs in your face but then shuts his eyes again, thrusts back, says your name low and long. You run a hand across his tailbone, around his ass, back up and around his side and pull on his cock, bumping your own chest with each stroke.
It's never been like this, the two of you, it was fumbling kid games and maybe it had to be, maybe you weren't built for this yet. You suck on his throat, feeling the moans rumble before they find his lips, anticipating and shifting and his skin is slick and he slides on the vinyl and you hold him tight against you, yanking him faster, making short, shallow jabs into him and when he clamps his thighs around your hips and comes, you do too.
You sag against the bar, smoothing your hands over his back where it's red and dented from the edge of the counter. His legs slide down the back of yours and you ease out and he rests most of his weight back to the seat, keeping his ankles behind your knees. He licks your neck, your chin, your cheekbones and drops light kisses on the edges of your mouth, soft and sweet like you're in a bed somewhere with the lights off. When you can breathe again you tuck your chin over his shoulder and blink and, yeah, you're still in a bar, and it's still empty and dank and there's a flashing neon Coors Light sign over the door. Lance nuzzles your ear and you swallow, clear your throat.
"Hey," you say, and Lance doesn't stop. He knows who you're talking to. "Bartender," you say loudly, and he turns back with a cool stare from where he's drying shot glasses. "Toss me that towel." You don't ask.
Lance is soft and sticky against you, all that strength and supple flexibility slackened and loose. The guy looks you in the eye, then balls up the cloth and chucks it down the length of the bar. You catch it one-handed and the guy shrugs, stacks glasses on a shelf.
The fabric is damp and you wipe Lance down first, then yourself. He never stops touching you, mouthing your wristbone, lapping the inside of your elbow, fingers mapping your face even as you button up your pants again. It was never like this, sweet and quiet, and part of you thinks maybe he'll be nicer now. Part of you wants him to be.
You pull his shirt down and bend down to grab his jeans off the floor. He chuckles when you hand them to him and you shove him a little and say, "Shut up." When he's got them mostly buttoned, he drinks half the warm beer still sitting there. You leave another thousand on the counter, nodding at the bartender and leading Lance by the hand down the length of the room.
"Next time," you say, as you stop to kiss him up against the front door, which is still closed and barricaded and guarded and maybe Lonnie's dug a moat on the other side, you think. You were in there a while and no one's even knocked. No one's come to corral the two kids and if you wanted you could fuck Lance again right there.
He kisses you more fiercely now, under the blue neon glow, his hands on your ass, skimming the outline of the wallet in your back pocket. He claws at your shaved head, trying to get a grip and you hold his hips hard enough to bruise, maybe, and bite down on his lower lip. You think maybe you are an asshole after all. You come up for air and he takes a deep breath with his eyes closed.
"Next time," you say, tapping a finger on his chest. He opens his eyes slowly. "Sit up straight."
He tucks fingers in your belt loops and kisses you hard. "Don't be an asshole," he growls, but you can feel a soft grin against your lips. He cranes his neck and whispers in your ear. "Next time, I'll buy the drinks. And maybe then I'll fuck you. Maybe." And then he covers your mouth again.
You sigh into him and think, next time. He said next time.
END.
Credits: Title by U2. The thighs of destiny, as much discussed by the ddddirty popstars.