Force
Draw
Notes: This is
an AU. I started it more than a year
ago, as a sort of an exercise to get me past a bad case of
writer's block (Maverick
told me to write about Beecher watching Keller do something). At the
time, I was reading an anthology of stories of William Carlos Williams,
so, for fun, I tried using his dialogue style (i.e., no quotation
marks). After it became more of a story than a writing exercise, I
thought about making the dialogue more standard, but it kind of felt
wrong to change it at that point. Anyway, that's why this story
is...like it is. LOL. Thanks to Mav and Rowan for encouragement and for
helping me try to think up a title.
He seems annoyed at
first that I'm
bowing out of the game. I tell him I'm doing everyone, including him, a
favor by sitting this one out. Let me take a break and just watch, I
say with a smile, the most genuine smile I can manage in the wake of
this latest humiliating defeat.
He stands there
shifting his cue
from one hand to the other, trying to decide whether he's going to let
me off the hook. You're never gonna get better if you keep quitting, he
says, scowling.
I tell him I
want to learn by observation for a
while. I ease myself up onto a bar stool and light a cigarette, hoping
to end the discussion. It seems to work, and he starts gathering the
balls and looking around for someone else to play against. An older guy
who's been standing quietly against the wall grabs a cue and comes
over. He's one of those men who looks like he just stepped off the
plane after leading an expedition up Everest or
something—weather-beaten, rugged, tanned, wiry, self-assured. I watch
him set what looks like a tumbler of scotch down on a nearby table and
start chalking up his cue as he casually sizes Chris up.
There's
something satisfying in the way Chris always keeps track of me. It
never changes. I can feel that I'm in his peripheral vision even when
he seems to be concentrating on the game; nothing I do ever escapes
him. For fun, I test it now by forcing a yawn and looking away while he
breaks. Pay attention, he growls, without even turning his head to
look. The other guy assumes at first that Chris is talking to him. He
looks confused, so I answer. I tell Chris I am paying attention and
that the yellow solid ball went in, and is he going to try to hit the
purple one in next?
He laughs and
shakes his head and says the
same thing I've heard a thousand times now: You never think past your
next shot, do you Beecher?
No, frankly, I
never do. It's one ball at a time for me, and it probably always will
be. It isn't so much that I couldn't
plan my shots, on a purely theoretical level—it's more a matter of
preferring to avoid the frustration of not having the skill or
coordination to implement any such plan. It's fun to watch Chris
strategize, though. He chalks his cue as he scans the table, taking his
time, probably trying to make the other guy squirm. The other guy
doesn't seem to be squirming quite yet. Either he's very good or he's
never seen Chris play.
Chris walks to
the other side of the
table and examines the configuration of balls again for a few seconds.
Then, without warning or hesitation, he bends over and takes his shot.
He doesn't change his posture until the red ball he had been aiming for
banks off the opposite side of the table, just barely misses two
others, and rolls directly into the corner pocket. The cue ball has
spun backwards after making contact and is now perfectly aligned for
another shot, one that even I could make.
He goes on to
sink his
next three shots. Each time, I hold my breath without realizing it
until the balls are no longer in motion. Each time also brings a surge
of adrenaline that makes my fingers tingle, and at first I think it's
because I'm excited on his behalf, the way I should be. But when he
looks over at his opponent and smiles after his first miss, I realize
that isn't it. This is nothing but typical, garden-variety jealousy,
and it annoys the hell out of me.
I force myself
to dissect that
jealousy into its components. None of them are particularly novel or
interesting; it's pretty much the same old story. Chris effortlessly
projects this aura of confidence—it surrounds him no
matter
what he's doing, and it draws people to him like a magnet, makes them
want to stay close and watch him. His bright smile could melt the polar
ice caps, and it somehow manages to make an appearance even after he
misses a shot he would normally make. What sportsmanship. That smile is
directed at this other person, this stranger, someone who's never felt
its heat before, and he, like most people, appears physically unable to
resist smiling back. Who could possibly blame him?
I shift in my
seat and clear my throat, then light another cigarette while smoke from
my last one is still curling into the air above the ash tray. Chris
backs away from the table to give his opponent some room, then stops to
watch, his hands wrapped loosely around his cue, holding it upright
against the floor. He bats it slowly from hand to hand except for when
the other guy is lining up his shot, when he stands still and seems to
hold his breath. Chris's eyes travel from the man's face to the tip of
his cue and back again.
I watch Chris
watching him, and then I
watch him step away and to the side as the other guy prepares to line
up an awkward shot that requires him to hold the cue behind his back as
he sits on the edge of the table. My fingers are still stiff with
nervous sensation. The man he's playing with seems incredibly relaxed,
although he really shouldn't be—he's well on his way to getting his ass
kicked in front of an audience. He takes the shot behind his back
carefully and misses by only a fraction of an inch. Then he hops off
the table and grins at Chris. He says something that's probably
supposed to be endearingly self-effacing, and I hear myself snort
before I can do anything about it. They both glance at me, and I turn
it into a minor coughing fit.
How does this
guy see me? Casual
pickup? Close, overprotective friend? Bitchy, jealous boyfriend? Or has
he really noticed me at all? Chris, as always, is a natural center of
attention. This man—
Excuse me, what
did you say your name was?
I ask. It takes him a second or two to realize I've said something to
him, but he finally looks up at me, blinks, and answers. John. His name
is John.
—John has barely
let his eyes wander from Chris or the
pool table since he came over. I wouldn't be surprised if he had been
watching Chris long before that. Unfortunately for him, looking is all
he'll be doing. That thought makes me smile, because I know from
firsthand experience how painfully frustrating it is to see Chris but
not be able to touch. I remember the first time I watched Chris shoot
pool, in this same room, just a couple tables away from where we are
now. He had been dressed a little more provocatively at the time—a
tight black wifebeater and jeans instead of a slightly less tight
long-sleeved thermal and jeans—but, other than that, he looks about the
same. Still turning heads in gay bars across the land. Yeah, okay,
straight bars, too.
Not that I'm
totally lacking in that
department, it seems. A cute blond at the next table is watching me as
he chalks up his cue with a little too much gusto, tiny cascades of
blue powder landing unnoticed on the front of his shirt. I smile at the
sight—a smile I immediately realize will be misinterpreted by anyone
who sees it. My cheeks warm as I look away, look down at my cigarette,
look over at the illuminated Heineken clock on the wall, look at my own
watch, look deeply and intently into my ginger ale as I take a slow
sip, and then, almost against my will, let my eyes fall back to rest on
the blond guy—just for a second, but long enough to see that he's still
looking at me and smiling even bigger now.
The whole
situation,
innocent as it might be, makes me guiltily excited, but not for any
reason Blondie over there might suspect. Guilty, because I have very
vivid memories of the last actual fistfight I saw Chris involved in, a
fight that started with a drunk groping my ass in a bar. Excited,
because I can't stop myself from remembering how rough and possessive
Chris's mouth and hands felt on me when he fucked me later that night.
It's like I can feel them again already. I shift my glance away from
Blondie and over to Chris. Someone who didn't know him would think
nothing was out of the ordinary, but I know in an instant, simply from
the set of his jaw and the tightness in his shoulders, that he saw it
all.
There are only
three balls left on the table: a solid, the
cue ball, and the eight ball. Chris lines up his shot faster than
usual, too quickly; the cue ball sends the solid spinning a few inches
off target, then banks hard and ends up knocking the eight ball into
the corner pocket.
Chris loses.
He exhales in a
hissing
breath, shaking his head in disgust. Whatsisname is saying Hey, good
game, or some shit like that—but I'm paying attention only to Chris,
who's taking the long way around the table, the way that takes him
close enough to invade Blondie's personal space and give him his most
threatening grin as he passes by on his way back to where I'm sitting.
He uses one hand to grab his beer bottle and down the last few swigs
and the other to pick my jacket up off a nearby chair and shove it
against my chest.
Time to go, he
tells me. Since when do you walk away after a loss? I ask him. Since
right now, he says. Let's go.
He
stays long enough to shake hands with Joe or whatever his name is
before directing me to the door with a firm hand on the small of my
back. There was a time when that habit of his annoyed me to no fucking
end, but that was before I learned enough about Chris to decipher his
repertoire of gestures. I used to think he was treating me like a child
or his possession, like he needed to demonstrate something to me and
everyone around us. Now I know that what it's really about is connectivity;
he does it when he needs to maintain contact with my body, for his own
peace of mind. The implications for later on, when we're alone
together, are all good. The only question is
how long he'll be able to wait.
It
doesn't take long before I imagine I've learned the answer. As soon as
we reach his truck I find myself pinned hard against the side, Chris's
chest heaving against my back. He tells me he saw me smiling at that
twink in the bar, and he'd like to know what I have to say for myself.
He's trying to sound very serious, but I can tell he isn't truly angry.
He also has an erection, and he's gently humping my ass as he speaks.
I wasn't smiling
at him, I say. I was laughing at him. Now why
don't we just get in the truck and go home, Chris? It's getting kind of
late.
He
laughs against my neck, a low chuckle I can feel everywhere from my
cheeks to my groin to the tips of my toes. Then he surprises me by
pulling away suddenly, moving me to the side and unlocking the door. I
just stand there, missing the feel of him rocking against me.
Chris
walks around to the driver's side, gets in, and starts the truck. The
window on my side rolls down. What are you waiting for? he asks. An
engraved invitation?
Maybe I'm
waiting for a better offer, I
suggest with a warm smile. He just laughs and shakes his head as he
puts the truck in gear and I climb in.
As we start off
through
the dark city streets, I begin to plan how long I'll maintain the
façade of indifference once we get home. Maybe I'll head
straight into
the kitchen and start making something for lunch at work tomorrow. I
think of all the possibilities that could lead to—
Chris attacking
from behind, wrapping his arms tight around me, biting into my neck as
he reaches inside my pants...
Chris
taking hold of my wrist, the butter knife clattering to the counter,
being spun roughly to face him, a kiss so bruising my lips will be sore
when I walk into the office the next day...
Chris grabbing
me by
the back of my neck, shoving me to the table and bending me over it,
tearing at my fly until he's able to pull my jeans down just enough...
I
don't allow myself to follow the progress of any of these scenarios to
their completion. Not now, not yet. Instead, I reach forward and turn
up the air conditioning. Chris watches me as I do it, and the next
thing I know, we're taking a wrong turn down a street I don't think
I've ever been on before.
What the fuck? I
murmur, knowing very
well exactly what. Chris pulls the truck into a dark alley, slams the
breaks, and locks the doors—first his, then mine, leaning across me to
do it. Grabbing me by each arm, he pulls me closer to him and shifts
himself a little closer to me. Then his head is in my lap, his lips and
breath warming my cock through my jeans.
I don't think
this is such a good idea, Chris—why don't we wait until...we
should...Chris...oh...fuck...
It
takes only seconds of being inside Chris's mouth before I lose all
motivation to keep up the act. He works me with his tongue and sucks
with all his strength, the way he does when he wants to make me come
very, very quickly. He's holding my hips in his hands, fingers digging
into muscle, holding me down and in place, immobile. He knows
everything that drives me crazy by now, and nine times out of ten it
feels so goddamn good I don't even think to throw him a curve ball,
maybe shake things up a little. But tonight feels like a special
occasion.
I push him off
me—maybe a little too roughly, but I
don't want to give him a chance to react. My turn, I snarl, and then I
tear open his fly. I wrap my first around the base of his cock and wrap
my mouth around the rest, swallowing hungrily as that first surge of
precome hits my tongue. My own erection is trapped against the seat,
sticking uncomfortably to the vinyl, but I'm enjoying the sensation of
Chris's hard cock in my mouth too much to do anything about it just
yet. He buries his fingers in my hair and starts raising his hips off
the seat to meet me, fucking my mouth and growling my name.
I
can't get enough of Chris being this close to out of control, of
knowing he's this way right now because of me—knowing that no matter
what other guys he's been with, he wants me, when he could have
anyone. I can't ever fucking get enough of it, and I always want more.
I suck harder, take him deeper, close my fist tight around him and
stroke him, and then roll to my side so that I can jerk myself off, and
so that he can watch me do it.
Oh, fuck, Toby, yeah...yeah...
The
sounds filling the truck are making me as hot as anything—the wet
sounds of Chris's cock in my mouth; the faster, stickier sound of my
own cock in my hand; the creaking of the seats beneath us; our heavy
breathing, punctuated with grunts and sighs. We sound like a porn
movie, minus the soundtrack. I hear the sounds I'm making in the back
of my throat intensify even before I feel the tightening in my abdomen
that tells me I'm starting to orgasm, and suddenly I lose my rhythm as
I jerk hard and come. Chris strokes my hair and waits until I'm
finished before he starts thrusting into my mouth again, even more
frantic now than he had been.
I let him slide
out of my mouth
and start pumping him hard with my fist, crawling to his seat and
straddling him as best I can. It's obvious that he's close, and when he
comes I want him groaning into my mouth, so I press my open mouth to
his and savor the taste of him, the lingering flavor of beer. I pull my
shirt up and whisper against his lips, Come on, come on, come on, and
he does, convulsing beneath me and shooting warm come against my
stomach.
I think he
catches his breath even before I do—which
I'm just going to go ahead and chalk up to the smoking instead of to
the quality of his orgasm, because he looks so satisfied.
Chris—like most of us—has different degrees of "satisfied," and I've
made a careful study of all of them. Right now, he's "gonna have to
wait a few before I start the truck again" kind of satisfied. Works for
me.
You gotta do
that in here? he asks, as I roll down my window and light up a
cigarette.
Yeah, kind of.
Sorry.
He
sighs and uses his sleeve to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead,
muttering something about not even being able to wait until we get home.
Look
who's talking, I say, maybe a little smugly. I can get away with it,
too, because Chris is almost always a good sport after I make him come.
And yeah, he laughs a little at that, because I do have a point.
He
leans over to my side of the truck again, lets his head rest against my
chest as he takes the cigarette from between my fingers and brings it
to his own lips. I watch him take a small drag off it and exhale the
smoke slowly. Smooth, he says. Satisfying. And then he flicks the whole
thing out the window and into the alley.
You're such a
prick
sometimes, I tell him. But I can't stop laughing. I guess maybe I'm a
pretty good sport after I come, too. Chris just gives me his most
gorgeous smile and starts up the truck.
As we make our
way home,
I spend a couple of seconds trying to decide who came out on top
tonight. But in the middle of sorting through events and ticking off
points, I turn to see Chris's profile, lit by the lights of traffic,
and then he turns to me and grins a little and reaches out to touch my
hair, pretending to comb a piece back into place, and then I forget why
I ever cared about who's on top of whom.
Losing to
Chris...sometimes it feels strangely like winning.