Jordan was twenty-three, sunburnt, and had the sort of hairstyle that can only come from sitting on the top deck of a boat on a very windy day, which made sense, he'd just taken a ferry over a small island not too far from where I lived. He was a writer. I was to discover, later, that he was a very awful writer, but I was twenty-one year old wannabe writer with an erection, a drawer full of condoms, and a refrigerator full of beer, and he was an attractive...writer.
Jordan's sunburn was a Speedo sunburn. Only his cock and his crack were left unlobstered. This, he said, was the reason he had to take a few Vicodin before we fucked. It's also the reason we had to stop at CVS and buy him some Solarcain on the way back to my apartment.
"Oh, yea." He said, as I sprayed the Solarcain on his back. "This feels awesome." If he was this easy to please, I had the feeling we were going to be in for a night full of -- "Ow. Ow. My back is...ow...careful." or not.
After three beers, and two shots of Tequila (plus three Vicodin for him), I decided to make my move. "Easy." He said. "I still kinda...oh yea." I, gently, very gently, put my hand on his face and begin kissing him. His lips were cracked. It wasn't too noticeable when I closed my eyes and kissed him, but when he started kissing down my body, I got a sensation I imagined not dissimilar to having my stomach licked by a cat. While his tongue seemed pretty adept at giving head, his lips caused the little man in charge of my brain synapses to push the button marked "Chafing! Chafing! Avert blowjob!"
I pulled out of his mouth, and pulled him up on the bed, where I began to--"Do you want to 69?" He asked.
I had a plan. I would let him think I was into 69ing for about five seconds, and then I would knead and/or spank his burnt ass. Surely, this would cause him to..."Oh, yea!" He yelled after the first spank. "This feels awesome." What kind of writer says this feels awesome to every physical sensation they feel. Oh, right. One who's been popping Vicodin all day. My spanking was not going to produce the intended result.
"Have you ever...fucked a guy?" He asked.
"No." I said. Which would have been true had he asked "Have you ever...fucked a guy...today?" I was taking artistic license.
I smiled the way I imagined virgins smiled. "Yea."
"Awesome." And he laid his head down on the pillow and stuck his ass in the air. A position, I've since learned, isn't exceptionally comfortable even when you're not 90% sunburnt.
I strapped on a condom, and "Ow. Ow. Yes. Ow. Yea. Ow. Awesome. Yea. Ow."
His little ow symphony started to grate on me. "Ow. Yea. This feels. Ow. Awesome. Ow." So I started pulling his lower body toward mine, like I was giving his inner thighs The Heimlich. "Ow. Yes. Ow. Ow. STOP!"
"Ow. Ow. Ahhhhhhhhh. Thanks."
The hell? I'd stopped, thinking he was in pain from the way I was gripping his thighs. He rolled over, revealing several unmistakably sticky spots on the blue sheets.
"That felt awesome. I'm gonna, like, pass out, though. Those Vics...yea, I'm tired. You can keep fucking me until you're done or whatever, but I'm..yea, don't worry about it. It feels awesome."
While I admired his desire to make sure I got to come, I was a little leery of fucking someone I know regarded as a comatose drug addict, even though I, clearly, had his consent. "How about until I wait until you wake up."
"Yea." He said. "Whatever."
I pulled a sheet over him, propped a fan in his general direction, and went downstairs to get another drink. He was still out cold when I was ready to fall asleep. I debated whether or not to crawl into bed with him. On the one hand, he was cute. On the other, he was liable to say "Ow. Awesome. Ow." every time I touched him. On a mythical third hand, I didn't know him very well, and didn't want to discover that he was kleptomaniacal drug addict after he left my house. So I climbed into the spare bed. "Mmmmmm." he said. If this was followed by an awesome, I was going to punch him very hard in the middle of his peeling back. "Change your mind?"
"You gonna fuck the Sleeping Beauty?"
Eww, dude. "Only after he wakes up."
"I'm awayyyy...ow!" He said, rolling over to face me. "Do you know where I left my Vicodin?"
On the nightstand to his left. "No."
"Oh, then maybe, we'd better wait. I feel kinda..." He was getting pukeface. Code red! Code red! "Where's your bathroom?"
I pointed. Then decided to take action, and have him lean on me, as I half-dragged him into the "Bluhoooooruk." bathroom. He didn't make it to the toilet. Close, though.
While I toweled up the puke, Comatose No Longer Beauty went back to the spare bedroom, popped a few pills, and put on his clothes. "I'm gonna....yea, I'm sorry about the puke, but...I think I'd better go. I don't want to miss the last ferry. I've gotta...you know...work tomorrow and stuff."
"No problem." I said.
He ambled over and leaned in to kiss -- "Dude, you just threw up on my floor."
"I'll e-mail you tomorrow when I get out of work. Tonight was...awesome...until the whole puking thing. Again, sorry."
"Talk at you tomorrow then?"
"Sure." I said. "That would be...awesome."