Chapter 5 #3
He grabbed Carver’s hand and stood, allowing the sketchpad to join the pencil on the floor.
Instead of heading straight to the bedroom, he gathered Carver into his arms. They pressed together, hardness against hardness, with only a couple layers of cloth between.
It was thrilling, actually, to be fully dressed while his partner was entirely nude.
Perhaps feeling the same way, Carver ran his hands down Frank’s sleeves and across his back, then hovered at his waist for a second before grasping his khaki-clad ass.
Oh, ass! Frank was now free to touch Carver’s glorious ass, and that was exactly what he did. He was generally a visual person, but in this case touching was far superior to simply looking. Later, he vowed, he’d create a drawing that truly conveyed the superiority and majesty of Carver’s ass.
They were both grinding against each other fiercely, the way that Frank had sometimes ground against another soldier for a few hungry minutes. Fleeting as they were, those encounters had been heady too. Delicious stolen fruit for ravenous men. Frank almost lost himself in the familiar thrill.
But then Carver whispered in his ear—“Frankie”—and Frank remembered that they didn’t have to be quick. Nobody was going to discover them and disgrace them. Enemies with guns weren’t lying in wait. And, for that matter, a raid by the vice squad was highly unlikely.
Frank was going to get a single chance at this, so he’d damn well do it right.
This time he took Carver’s hand. Frank’s limp was irrelevant, the ache temporarily faded away. They were both laughing, giddy and full of the simplest, most primal of joys.
As soon as they got inside the bedroom, Carver started tugging impatiently at Frank’s shirt. “Off! Too many buttons.”
Frank undid just enough to pull the shirt over his head. He paused before removing his undershirt, struck with a pang of self-consciousness. “I’m not a movie idol,” he warned. He was too skinny, too pale. He had scars.
“I don’t want an idol. I want you. Off!”
With a sigh, Frank obeyed. He was rewarded by soft caresses—and then an even softer pair of lips touching his nipple, sucking on it, making him gasp and arch his back.
But then he had to take off his shoes. His stupid, ugly, custom-made orthotic shoes that cost a fortune but allowed him reasonable mobility.
He sat heavily on the mattress. Before he could move to unlace them, however, Carver sank to one knee in front of him, that wicked grin in place, and took up the task himself.
“Did you see The Sicilian Oracle?” Carver asked.
No point in denying it now. “Twice.” Carver had received an Oscar nomination for his portrayal of a Roman slave who led a revolt.
“Do you remember the scene when I had to unlace my master’s sandals?”
Oh yes, Frank definitely did. He’d replayed that particular scene in his head several times over the following months—usually in this very bed, dick in hand. “Was the sensuality intentional?”
“Of course.” Carver removed the first shoe, the one on the intact foot, peeled off the sock, and started on the second.
“The guy who played my master was pretty uncomfortable with it, but it was important for my character development. And I had a lot of fun. Not nearly as much fun as I’m having now, though.
” With utmost care, he took off the shoe.
When he removed the sock, he didn’t wince or show any signs of disgust. Instead, he stood and shot Frank an expectant look. “Those trousers can come off now.”
Indeed they could. Along with Frank’s boxers, they joined the other clothing on the floor, leaving Frank as bare as Carver, if you didn’t count his wristwatch. Carver looked, seemingly pleased by what he saw. His erection hadn’t flagged.
“You’re staring,” Frank pointed out.
“You got to look at me forever. I’m trying to catch up.
It’s only fair.” Carver cocked his head.
“On the other hand, touching is much more fun.” For the second time that afternoon, he launched himself at Frank, who ended up on his back on the mattress, legs hanging over the edge and Carver on top of him.
It was a good place to end up.
For one thing, he had easier access to that ass. For another, their cocks were meeting directly, without any fabric between them. And also, Frank and Carver could kiss some more. Carver was an excellent kisser.
And Carver, bless him, was in no hurry. Whenever things got just a bit too heated, he stopped moving long enough for them to catch their breath.
Eventually they scooted around so that Frank’s legs were completely on the bed, spread rather wantonly and with Carver’s legs between them. His leg hairs tickled Frank’s.
“I like your eyes,” Carver said during a brief pause.
Frank’s brain wasn’t working well at the moment. “Wha’?”
“They’re pretty. But they’re also… sharp. As if they can see right through things. Did you ever buy X-Ray Spex when you were a kid?”
“I never did.”
“Well, they’re a scam. But I think you have X-ray eyes.”
Frank reached up to stroke Carver’s cheek. “I don’t.”
“You saw the real me, didn’t you?” That seemed to settle the matter for Carver, who dropped the subject and instead used his mouth to explore Frank’s body.
It was all so leisurely, and somehow both lighthearted and deadly earnest. Frank had never experienced anything like it.
And since he probably never would again, he did his best to live in the moment while also committing as much as possible to memory.
It couldn’t last forever, though. Frank somehow ended up on top of Carver, holding their cocks together while they both did their best to thrust, Carver alternating between needy whimpers and cuss words that would have made a sailor blush.
They climaxed almost in unison and so spectacularly that Frank once again felt as if he’d leapt from a plane into the sky.
He surprised himself by calling out wordlessly while the world’s most wonderful explosion went off inside his body and mind.
He collapsed soon afterward, barely managing to fall to the side so he wouldn’t squash Carver.
Then he braced himself for what he knew would come next: Carver standing, gathering his clothing, getting dressed, and leaving.
He’d be nice about it because he wasn’t an asshole.
And Frank would have a hell of an afternoon to remember.
But Carver didn’t get up. In fact, he snuggled close to Frank, sighed contentedly, and toyed with Frank’s chest hair.
“Thank you,” Frank said, meaning it most sincerely.
Carver raised up on one elbow and sternly stared down at him. “Thank you? Did you think this was an act of charity on my behalf? Like signing an autograph, only a bit more?”
“No, but—”
“I wanted this, Frankie. Wanted you. In case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Why?” Frank held up a hand to stop objections. “I’ll concede that some men have found me at least reasonably attractive. I have had sex before. But I’m curious about why you would find me attractive. Apart from convenience.”
“Ugh.” Carver collapsed onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “I’m not shallow just because I’m an actor. Pretty faces are everywhere in Hollywood. But you’re more than that.”
“I’m the X-ray-eyes fellow.”
Carver poked him in the ribs, hard enough to make Frank yelp. “You’re slightly infuriating, that’s what you are. Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?” He rolled onto his side for better eye contact.
Frank took a moment to think seriously about this question. Did he want to know? “Yeah, okay.”
“I see a man who deserves an Oscar and an Olympic Gold Medal for self-control. No, don’t argue.
Listen. You’re worried about ending up like your parents so you don’t touch a drop of alcohol.
You’re worried about being like your grandmother so you don’t make many connections to other people.
You’re worried people might think you’re weak because of your injuries, so you hide your pain.
You’re worried people will find out you’re queer, so you fence yourself off. ”
“They’re all reasonable worries,” Frank said evenly.
“Absolutely. But it takes a huge amount of effort to deal with them, doesn’t it?
Maybe not the booze part—I don’t know about that.
But you, Frank Porter, are a person who delights in whimsy, who has a wicked sense of humor all locked away, who aches for other humans as friends or lovers.
And you don’t allow any of that to show. ”
If the words had been false, they wouldn’t have stung so much; Frank knew that. But he couldn’t admit it. “I’m here now. With you.”
“After I literally threw myself at you. Jesus, Frankie, we spent hours together at the studio, and I was flirting my hardest, and you… you kept your distance.” Carver sighed again, as if this had been some great tragedy.
“You barely know me.”
“Buzz! Wrong answer. What did I tell you was my hobby?”
Frank pretended to spend time trying to remember, although he recalled perfectly well. “Finding out what makes things tick.”
“Bingo.” Carver playfully tapped the tip of Frank’s nose. “So you see through me, and I know what makes you tick. A good match, wouldn’t you say?”
“Match,” Frank replied wistfully.
“We’re compatible in bed. Obviously. God, I can think of a hundred ways we could spend an hour together, and I bet with time I could think of hundreds more. And when we’re not fucking, you’re still good to be with. You’re interesting. You listen. You have Christmas parties for frogs.”
“It’s not a party, just some decorations.
” Even the protest sounded ridiculous. And really, Frank didn’t want to protest. He wanted to buy into Carver’s cotton-candy fantasy.
But Frank knew it was a fantasy. Perhaps Carver had forgotten that real life wasn’t anything like a romantic movie.
Real lovers rarely had their sunset-on-the-beach happy ending—especially when they were both men.