He shouldn't have said - what he said. It's that simple. If he hadn't said it, he wouldn't be in the condition he's in now.
He wouldn't look the way he looks now.
He wouldn't be exhausted. I mean, the man can't move, not an inch. I know, I watched him try. But then, he shouldn't have said what he said.
Maybe I should be a bit more - explicit? Give you the gory details? Blow by blow description? Yes? No?
Basketball. Just me, the remote, pretzels and beer. He had errands, so the game was mine.
Lounging, sweatpants, Jags t-shirt, tube socks.
I should admit at this point, that I missed him. I was comfortable, don't misunderstand, but ---- he wasn't there. I'm used to him, kind of need him around. But the good news? Jim Jr. was getting a much needed rest. He'd been very excitable of late, what with his secret hankering for the short guy who said what he shouldn't have said. And damn, Jim Jr. can be insatiable.
So. The game. Warm, comfy loft. Stomach full of beer and pretzels, the Jags winning.
The door blows open and in comes the object of Jim Jr.'s affection and lust. He's flushed, excited, hands waving in the air, punctuating every word, coat is flung somewhere, even I miss where it lands, shoes are toed off and kicked in the general direction of his room, two flannel shirts are discarded, *on* the floor because he missed the back of the kitchen chair, and after grabbing a beer and plopping down beside me, a huge, shit-kicking grin on his face, he says, "So, isn't that great, Jim?"
Confession: I didn't hear a word he'd said. I'd been too busy controlling Jim Jr. but that's no excuse for not listening to Blair. But I'm not about to admit it....So I tilted my head and said, "Yeah, great and the Jags are winning."
He shook his head at me, that "God, you're so transparent" expression on his face and accused, "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"
"Uh......well, I know it's great."
He picked up a pillow and hit me with it. Hard.
"I got the fucking book, man. Walter Naismith sold it to me. *The* book."
Ah, yes. *The* book. A coup, no doubt about it. The University would be pleased. And yes, I *did* know what book. Blair had been talking about it for weeks, how no one had been able to convince Naismith to sell, how Dr. Peters had convinced Blair to try.....
"So, how did you talk him out of it?" I ask, allowing just the right amount of sincerity to drip from my words.....Hey, I just like *hearing* him, so a little coaxing couldn't hurt.
And then - he said it.
"It was so damn simple, Jim. I knock, he answers, I say, *I'm Blair Sandburg,* and he lets me in, I sit, admire his collection of African art, and badda-bing, badda-boom, it's mine."
He looked right at me when he said it. His lips curled deliciously around the sounds, his eyes were lit up like a Christmas tree, my eyes zoomed in.....and he said it again.......
"Badda-bing, badda-boom, Jim."
Badda-bing, badda-boom. Oh, man. And suddenly Jim Jr. was out of control, Jim Sr. not very far behind. Because we *both* wanted to desperately badda his bing and boom. Major badda'ing wanted. I should refuse Jim Jr.?
Blair kept on talking, until I reached over and curled the fingers of my right hand around the collar of his t-shirt. And pulled. And kept pulling.
Until he was practically in my lap. And he squeaked. Blair Sandburg squeaked. It was great.
"So, badda-bing, badda-boom, hey, Chief?" , I whispered huskily in his ear.
I kissed him. Just latched on and planted one. Wrapped my other hand around a hankful of hair and dug in. Badda-bing, badda-boom. And his bing *and* his boom were mine. He kissed me back. Ferociously. Single-mindedly. Totally focused.
I'd like to say that from that point on, I was the perfect gentleman. I'd like to say that, but it would be a lie. I dragged him off the couch, hauled him over my shoulder and hustled us upstairs. But hey, I *did* ask. I remember that. Honest, I asked.
"You okay with this, Chief?"
See? I asked. He said, "mmphe, head, blood, um ---- yes."
Got upstairs, dropped him like a sack of potatoes, ripped off my clothes, and jumped. In. On. Over. Around.
He never had a chance. Never. My badda, binged and boomed like never before.
I kissed, licked, tickled, fondled. I found his chest hair to be an aphrodiasic, his pubic hair to be......well, I'm addicted, okay? He tasted like I knew he would. He loved me better than I'd ever dreamed. He was aggressive, passive, controlling and controlled. But when he wrapped his legs around my waist, and pulled me close, and kissed my eyelids, and my temple, and stroked my hair, and murmured my name, and nobody says my name like he does, I knew I had to have him, and I must have asked, with my eyes, because he just nodded, that incredible smile on his face, a smile I'd never seen before, but plan on seeing from now on, and I took him. No, we *took* each other.
I was careful, he was impatient. He pulled and twisted, and squeezed and urged, and I lost it, and he loved it. When I finally entered Blair, well, what can I say? Badda-bing, badda-boom. I pumped and he thrust, so I pumped harder, deeper, faster, and his legs just squeezed and demanded more, and I had to have his lips, his mouth again, and I was tongue fucking him like there would be no tomorrow, and his moans drove through me, and he came as I gave his cock one final stroke, and when he yelled my name, I came, because he's yelled my name before, in panic, in surprise, in danger, but never in love. And this was *in love*, and I shot deep inside, and his eyes popped open because he could *feel* me, feel *it*, and then he rasped out, "oh god, you, inside, god, jim..." but I couldn't answer, I could only collapse.
So. Now he sleeps. And he's exhausted, and his lips are bruised, and his hair is a tangled mess, and I *know* his ass is sore, and I've left bite marks all over his neck, shoulders, back, and even his hip, for crying out loud.
He shouldn't have said it.
But I'm thanking God that he did.