Loving Jay (4 page)

“Jay? You aren’t going to do what I think you are planning to, are you?”

I was still holding two coffees and whisked them out of harm’s way as he abruptly sat up, his hands going to his belt.

“Relax! No one is watching. And even if they are I don’t give a rat’s arse. I cannot—simply cannot—stand to be wearing these pants for another minute now that I have realized the error of my ways.”

I flicked another horrified look around the carriage
—
we were more than halfway into our journey now and we had picked up a number of other commuters. Not that they were worried about us at all. Half of them had their earbuds in, listening to whatever cranked their handle, and the other half were catching five more minutes of sleep.

I heard the soft sound of a zipper and couldn’t help but look over. Jay wasn’t quite right in his statement that “no one is watching” because
fuck me
holy hell, I certainly was. Jay was quick and unselfconscious about shucking those tartan pants, but he still had to stand briefly, which put his cock at my eye level.

Shit! Oh fuck! Shit! Shit! Holy-mother-of-God!

It was simply a glimpse but it was burned into the back of my retinas. That half-a-second look was going to provide me with spank-the-monkey material for weeks!

Briefs! Not boxers like I wore. But nicely skintight briefs. Red—what else for Jay? I was right about the blond pubic hair, too. I could see its honey color in the hair curling on his thighs and that line of hair that snaked from his adorable belly button down to that red material.

And what a wonderful package that material held! In the space of less than a tick of the clock I had absorbed, measured, and catalogued the delightful sight of Jay’s cock and balls all curled up snuggly and together, just waiting for a chance to come out and play. I could see the roundness of his testes and the cylindrical curve of his cock as it rested slightly to the side, lying on their drool-worthy pillows. Oh, how delicious. I was hard before I could even blink. Thank God for jackets!

But as I turned away, my sluggish brain registered something even better. Something that made me nearly cream my own pants, then and there.
Oh-sweet-mother-of-sweet-fucks!

Jay was wearing briefs with a grope-hole.

Oh, hold the front page and fuck a duck!

Now, I know that they are not really called grope-holes. They have a much less sexual-sounding name, but really? What guy uses the opening in the side of his underwear to pull his dick out to take a whizz? It’s not like you wear your pants up around your armpits. Only an idiot can’t move the waistband of his briefs down two inches. The only reason to have underwear with a flap at the side is if someone is hoping to get groped. Hence a grope-hole. If you have grope-hole undies it is easy for someone to simply undo your fly and stick their hand in. And once they have their hand inside your underwear….

Peter-Piper-picked-a-peck-of-pickled-peppers!

So did Jay get groped a lot? Maybe he had a boyfriend who would meet him at work on their lunch hour. Working at a radio station, I imagined that there were a lot of small, dark rooms where two guys who had ten minutes to spare and dirty minds could disappear into.

For a moment I imagined Jay pushed up against the wall of a dark room, the door closed and locked behind us, the clock ticking down to when we had to be back at our desks. I am just a bit taller than him—my frame wider, broader. I could come up behind him and push him face first into the wall, press my body up against him, and prevent any potential threat from stopping our mutual pleasure. He would moan. I could just hear it. I would be hard and I could grind myself into his arse. I had had so many sessions with just my hand, thinking of that arse. I could lean into him and curl my arm around his waist while my lips explored the back of his neck. He would shiver, pressing back against me, begging me for my hand. And I would oblige. Now that I knew he had a grope-hole, I could help him out in an instant.

I would delicately pull down the tab of his zipper—no need to undo his button or belt. That rock-hard cock of his could just stay snug and warm inside his pants. Once Jay’s zipper was down I could sneak my hand inside. Maybe I would explore for a moment over the top of the material, rubbing and teasing his firm cock and gently cupping his sensitive balls while he moaned and begged me for more. He would push and thrust his hips, imploring for a harder touch, pleading for skin-to-skin contact, arching up and pistoning his hips into my hand. Then, when I had teased him into a frenzy, I would slip my fingers into that grope-hole. My hand would touch the soft, wrinkled skin of his sac first. His cock would be pointing straight up, aching in need for my hand, but I would go for his sac first.

I imagined his ball sac to be lightly furred and extremely sensitive. I would use gentle fingers, running them up and around before sliding my hand under to hold them tenderly. I would squeeze, ever so lightly, just enough so I could feel each individual egg inside. I could roll them around between my fingers, loving them in the darkness. I would be aching to feel them with my tongue, but we would only have a few minutes to spare. No time for that.

But Jay would be agitated and excited. He would plead, “Please, Liam. Please, please, please. You know what I want. You know what I need. Don’t tease me. Touch me. Stroke my cock. You know it’s hard for you, just for you.”

So I would explore upward, curling my fingers around the firm flesh of his arousal. His cock would be long and thick. I would wrap my hand around him and squeeze—not gently, but not hard either. His cock would be begging and pleading and I would slowly, slowly undulate my fingers up its length, until I found the head of his shaft.

He would be leaking. I fancied Jay as a gusher, the head of his cock dripping with precome. I would investigate that liquid, drawing it around the head, exploring the ridge of his skin around the crown, touching the sensitive underside of his erection. Once I had spread that lubrication all over, I would grip him firmly again, squeezing and moving my palm up and down his length.

My mouth wouldn’t be idle either. I would be pressing kisses to the back and side of his neck and tracing his earlobe with my tongue. I would draw those tiny diamond earrings into my mouth and suck slightly. My mother has always told me I was a very oral baby, always putting things in my mouth. And God I wanted to put things in my mouth now. But I would have to be satisfied with Jay’s earlobe and earrings. I would circle those studs with my tongue, and suck at them while I moved my hand up and down the length of his erection.

He wouldn’t last long—I know I wouldn’t if our roles were reversed. I would stroke faster and faster, kissing behind his ear and lightly biting at that strong muscle in his neck. And there in the closed darkness he would come.

Oh-Snow-White-and-her-horny-little-seven-dwarves!

I was about to come myself, in public, on a public train and be very publicly humiliated.

Jay was bent over, threading his feet into the legs of his jeans. He drew them up and stood briefly again to pull them up over his hips. I stared straight ahead, but saw a flash of red in my peripheral vision and knew that Jay’s cock was temptingly near my mouth again. He leaned back, buttoning and zipping in quick order and thankfully, he was once again covered.

“See!” he crowed. “All done and no one saw a thing!”

I choked on my tongue and turned red.

“What?” he asked me. “What’s wrong?”

I tried to laugh it off. “I’m just trying to think who I would call if I needed to be bailed out. Which person could I tell I had been arrested for public indecency along with a gay man who had no pants on?”

Jay laughed as he unceremoniously stuffed the atrocious tartan pants in his bag. “So, did you decide who you would call?”

“My brother, Dale. He owes me.”

“Yeah? What did you do for him?”

I smirked in Jay’s direction. “I dated his wife.”

He snorted. “What? You mean he didn’t take out your daddy’s shotgun and shoot you for it?”

“I know it sounds worse than it is, but you see, I dated Candice at university. We had three dates and then I had to attend my cousin’s wedding, so I took her along. It was there she got to meet my whole family. Two weeks later, over a very nice piece of steak, she tells me she can’t see me anymore because she is in love with my brother, and can she please have his phone number?”

It was Jay’s turn to choke and spit as he tried to contain his laughter. “Obviously the story has a happy ending?”

I shrugged. “I guess it depends on your idea of bliss. Dale tells me he hasn’t had sex for over six months, but he is ecstatic with his one-month-old son.”

The train entered the tunnel, taking us down under the city to our stop. “So was your heart broken?”

“Nah. I am just thankful I never took her to bed. Can you imagine the ick factor of knowing you’d once screwed your sister-in-law?”

But instead of laughing, Jay simply tilted his head, and surveyed me in a considering manner. “Really? Three dates—well, even more than that if you include the wedding—and you didn’t manage to get into her pants?”

I was saved from answering by the announcement we were now at Perth Underground. I joined the surge of people rushing for the door. I guessed it was telling that Candice and I had dated without me even once
trying
to get her naked and in bed. But was I ready to reveal all and announce that I was gay? What would people say? What would my mum say? What would my boss say? Oh God, what would my dad and my brothers
do
?

Had I even thought about the consequences of being gay?

I followed the same path as yesterday, moving away from the crowd and to the escalator. I could feel Jay next to me, taking the long way just to keep me company. At the top of the escalator I paused off to the side. Would Jay come straight out with it? Would he just say, “Hey, are you gay?” And if he did, what would I say?

Those cows had spent so long out in the paddock they weren’t quite ready to come home yet.

As much as I wanted to explore a physical relationship with Jay—assuming he wanted to as well!—I just couldn’t quite admit out loud I was gay.

I halted and looked up, expecting to see a knowing smile on Jay’s face, but he looked like his normal self. “So…?”

He just shrugged. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

I could’ve sobbed with relief. He wasn’t going to say anything more on the subject. “Yeah. Tomorrow. Flat white, right?”

He made a
moue
of disgust at me. “If you want to see a big, flaming drag queen, hissy, sissy, melt down, you can bring me a flat white.”

I chuckled. “No thanks. I’ll just have to swallow my manly pride and order a skinny mocha.”

“Thanks, Liam. See you tomorrow, then.”

“Catchya later, Jay.”

I
MANAGED
to order Jay’s super-fussy drink without too much difficulty and the moans and sounds of appreciation coming from his mouth made it worth the loss of pride I’d experienced in ordering it.

It was a conundrum I’d struggled with for longer than I would admit to myself. If I had been meeting a woman, there would’ve been no shame in ordering the drink. But because it was for a slightly feminine male, there was a problem. What was the problem with Jay?

My two—somewhat
bleh
—sexual encounters with other guys had been brief. Both men had been older than me and
manly
men. If I liked men so much, why didn’t I like the big, buff bodybuilder types? Sure I liked them, they were nicely built and all. But they didn’t keep me up at night. They didn’t make me melt into a puddle of mush at the thought of bringing them into my bed. They didn’t send shivers down my spine by just saying, “Thanks, man.”

With Jay, I liked that he liked to be high maintenance. His fingernails were polished, his hair carefully styled, his makeup applied. He obviously spent time in the morning working on his appearance. I liked that. I liked that he did and I didn’t. I didn’t want to be like him at all, I was happy with my own casual appearance. But I liked that he was different.

And yet a carefully coiffed and polished woman hardly did a thing for me. It was extremely frustrating.

I’d done research on the Internet. I’d googled and found references to fairies, queens, gym rats, twinks, bears, daddies, and drags. I guess the best way to describe Jay was somewhere between a twink and a queen. He was tall, but slight framed and feminine, had great dress style (most of the time!), wore makeup, and smelled divine. But he wasn’t a “flaming queen”—no sequins and glitter, no heels or skirts or feathers. He was just Jay.

So why did his,
See you on Monday, man. My turn to get coffee
make me wish the weekend would fly, and yet the sight of thirty-six sweaty men in tight white shorts on the football field get hardly a twitch out of my cock. I appreciated the thirty-six pairs of buttocks—okay, maybe only thirty-five because you don’t perv on your own brother, do you?—but they didn’t keep me up Saturday night.