Episode 2 of “The Worst Best Luck” – HOT SEXIN’ for your Sunday pleasin’s!

YEAH BABY!  I had an epic two days on this – 13k words in two days? Whaa?!  Long weekends are awesome!   Not quite sure how the whole plot’s going to shake out right now, but the scary part is the fun part, right?  I’m pretty sure I’ll figure something out 🙂

I really need a sexy mechanic picture for my cover, but I’m not finding what I want – the few I’m finding on Dreamstime etc. are either wrong or smirky, like a model as mechanic is just a porny joke or something.  Well, there’s time.  I gotta do a hat tip as well to one of my inspirations for this story – “Shop Class as Soulcraft” by Matthew Crawford.  (Yeah, “Matt” is a hat tip too!)  It’s an awesome book and yes, the author just happens to be TOTALLY HAWT!

Okay!  Away we go…

 

Peter had his own plan for Friday night.  He was going to show up at the theater, where Matt was meeting him at the movies at 7.  Allegedly, he told himself.  He’ll blow you off, wait and see.  Then he was going to go to Barnes and Noble and pick up a book for the weekend.  Then I’m going to pick up a bottle of wine, come home, drink it all and hurl myself crying onto the couch, he’d thought with a grin, not really meaning it.  Drama queen!

Still, he was a wreck.  Some part of him knew that Matt wasn’t that guy, wasn’t the bullshitter who would cancel or worse, just not show.  So then what?  What do I wear?  What kind of underwear do I want to be seen in, if it should come to that?  Which it won’t but if you’re not prepared, well, that’s when it’ll happen of course… What do I eat now, so I don’t hog out at a late dinner and gross him out?  Do I have toothpicks so I can get any popcorn out of my teeth?

And then of course there was money.  Living in Manhattan without a huge paycheck, or a trust fund, was an adventure in living on the razor’s edge.  What if Matt wanted to go somewhere really nice?  Like, fifty bucks a person nice?  Peter was determined to hold up his own end of the expenses tonight, and that $100 bill from Kyle was a life saver now.

Katie flipped through a magazine, an island of calm on his couch while he spun around the room.  “You’re overthinking it.  People do this, you know.  Most single people in Manhattan.  Go on dates on Friday nights.”

“You’re not,” he said accusingly, discovering a single horrifying hair on his earlobe, his nose nearly pressed to the mirror.

“I’m on sabbatical.”  Katie’s last boyfriend had turned out to be married, with a wife and family in Connecticut.  And another in New Jersey, which she’d learned while watching NY1, when Connecticut Wife tried to kill him with a pair of scissors in Grand Central Station.

“It’s futile, anyway.  He’s fucking…God, Katie, he’s the most beautiful man.  I mean seriously.  Like unreal.  And it’s his smile, that’s what kills you.  Kills me.  It’s too good to be true.  A nice gorgeous single man who fixes things and lives in Manhattan.”

“If he was perfect, he wouldn’t be gay.”

“Well, maybe he has a twin.”

“Now that’s dreaming.”

 

Peter stood outside the IFC Theater on Avenue of the Americas, just another guy waiting for his date.  Matt had suggested seeing the restored version of the original “The Wicker Man,” with Christopher Lee.  Peter had been surprised, figuring that a mechanic would want to go see “Shit Blowin’ Up III” or something.

That’s why you know he’s going to show up, Peter laughed at his black dog, the voice that been telling him it would all go wrong.  Nobody makes a blow off date for an art house movie.

Then, there he was.  Peter saw Matt before Matt saw him.  He had on jeans, black boots, a black biker jacket, a New York Giants beanie keeping his cornsilk hair behind his ears.  He had his “city face” on, neutral, flat, bland, don’t bother me…but then he saw Peter, and that smile broke out, that gleam in his eyes flashed, and it was like a Times Square billboard lighting up.

“Hey,” Matt said, giving Peter a hug.  Peter hugged him in return, felt the firm ridges of Matt’s back, a thought flashing in his mind where you’d run your hands over his naked body if he had you on your back fucking the shit out of you and then he turned that off, pulled back, tried to remember that he was Peter Rabbit, and this wasn’t gonna go there.

Matt bought their tickets before Peter could say anything.  “Thanks,” he said as Matt handed him his ticket.

“My pleasure.”

“Snacks are on me,” Peter insisted.

Matt nodded.  “Cool.”  He was clearly pleased by that, and Peter forked out twenty bucks for popcorn and sodas.

When they took their seats, Matt didn’t even ask.  He just threw his arm around Peter’s shoulders, all proprietary-like.  He was ready to pull it right back at the first sign of tension or discomfort from Peter, but when he looked out of the corner of his eye, Peter was smiling, looking straight ahead at the previews as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.

Matt’s arm stayed there, and about halfway through the movie, Peter thought, You only live once, and shifted into Matt’s chest.  God, he was bigger than Peter thought.  His frame had looked so compact, but it was deceptive – unlike Peter’s wire-thin runner’s body, Matt’s was meaty.  He could feel Matt’s big firm pectorals twitch and dance underneath his shoulder blade each time Matt shifted to eat some popcorn or sip his drink.

And he was so warm.  It had been (he’d counted it up earlier this week, after meeting Matt, after refusing to think about it for a long time) nine months since the last time he’d been with a man.  And Cody wasn’t a cuddler, by any means.  Only when he had Peter pinned down in the middle of sex, or had wrestled him into the floor during the rough foreplay he liked, did Peter really feel the warmth, the weight of him.

“That was crazy,” Matt said afterward.

“Yeah, huh?  Like batshit crazy.”

“Good though, right?”

“Yeah, oh yeah.”

To Peter’s relief, dinner was going to be at an old family restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen – not the kind of place they gouge you on the check.  They knew Matt by name in the little bistro, and gave them a table for two by the window.

The old Italian lady who owned the place came out and put her hand on Matt’s shoulder.  “So glad to see you bring a friend with you for once.  You eat alone too much.”  She winked at Peter, making sure everyone got the message.

Peter watched Matt blush, and he put a little plus mark next to Matt’s name in his mind.  So not a Lothario, eh?  Though of course there were plenty of ways for a beautiful gay man to get laid in New York City without taking his “friend” to dinner.

Matt had counted the months, too.  Peter was right – sex in the city was like candy on the street for a guy like Matt, just waiting to be picked up.  But Matt didn’t pick it up.  Well, not anymore.  Somehow, since he’d left his old job, his old life, he hadn’t had an appetite for the meaningless sex, the hot, yet cold, encounters he’d used to block out his misery back then.  Getting shitfaced and fucking strangers every weekend was what you did when you hated your life, Matt thought now.

He’d felt the most wonderful calm since meeting Peter, as if something that had been unquiet, restless, tossing and turning, had finally been tucked in and had gone to sleep.  A disquiet he hadn’t really known was there, until it was gone.

And that was why he’d gone ahead and thrown his arm around him at the movies on the first date.  It just felt…meant to be.  It wasn’t anything he could remember feeling with a man, and yet it didn’t shock him.  Matt had become accustomed to good things happening to him, ever since he’d taken charge of his life four years earlier, thrown over the old job, the old expectations, gone to mechanic’s school, found a master mechanic to work under, before finally going out on his own last year.  It just made sense that living the life he was meant to live would result in meeting the guy he was supposed to meet.

“So,” Peter said after a glass of wine relaxed him, “a luxury car mechanic in Manhattan.  Good choice.”

Matt laughed.  “There’s definitely a market for the skill.”

“Did you always work on cars?”

“No,” Matt said, sipping his own wine, wanting to pace himself, knowing he had a lot of physical labor ahead tonight.  With luck.  “I used to work in an office.  Went to school, all that.”  He shrugged.  “Not my thing, though.  No offense.”

Peter threw his hands up in mock surrender.  “None taken.  Not my first choice, either, but…well, it pays better than working retail, or pulling coffees, or…anything else I could do.”

“So what’s your dream?  Your goal?”

Peter blushed now.  “It’s silly.  It won’t happen.  My own fault, though, because I won’t suffer for it.”

“Which is?”

“ ‘I wanna be a producer…’” Peter sang softly, and Matt smiled, getting the reference to “The Producers.”

“Not necessarily of a big Broadway show,” he appended hastily.  “Just…theater.  New York theater, though, with the best and the brightest.”

“And what would you have to suffer to do that?”

“Poverty, and probably humiliation, degradation at the hands of some crazy rich producer, to learn the ropes.”

“Well, how did they learn the ropes?”

Peter laughed.  “Mostly?  By getting rich first, and then becoming Broadway producers!”

“So what’s the very best show out there right now?”

“ ‘Mr. Burns.’”

“As in, The Simpsons’ Mr. Burns.”

“Yeah.  Sort of.  It’s complicated.”  Peter paused, waited to see if Matt would shrug it off and change the subject.

Matt didn’t change his thoughtful, interested expression.  This happened sometimes, or happened nowadays.  He only noticed because it never happened before – before he threw away his old life, before this new one.  It didn’t upset him…well, okay, it did.  This thing, this idea, that “office people” had – because you were a mechanic, because you worked with your hands, it was because you couldn’t work with your mind.  Why would you ever be a mechanic if you could work in an office?  You have a college degree, why are you doing that?

So when a conversation turned in an intellectual direction, some people paused now.  They never paused when they knew he had a degree from Harvard in Comp Lit with a Secondary in Comp Sci.  They never paused when he worked as an analyst in a consulting firm, wearing a tie every day, a tie with which he wanted to hang himself by the end of most days.  Because then?  Of course you understand anything I’m about to say.  But now?  Well, it’s complicated, maybe we should change the subject so I don’t embarrass you.

Peter looked into Matt’s eyes.  They were clear, bright, intelligent.  If he didn’t get it, he didn’t get it.  But even if the grounding, the reading, wasn’t there, the smarts were.  He’d get the gist of it anyway.

“Well, it’s set in three time frames.  In the first one, civilization’s just collapsed, and people are out in the woods, entertaining, comforting each other sitting around the fire, telling old Simpsons episodes.  There’s no more electricity, certainly no more cable.  So it’s the only way to ‘see’ them again.  But you can see their memories are already shaky, that they’re losing some of the details.  Then in the second part, it’s seven years later, and there are these minstrel troupes who put on ‘old times’ shows, mostly old Simpsons episodes, or how they remember them now, but they reenact everything that used to be popular culture, it’s this mélange of music videos, and TV commercials too, because of course there’s this nostalgia for all the shit you can’t buy anymore.

“Then it’s seventy years in the future, and we’re back in pre-industrial society, and the Simpsons have become these…archetypes, these…gods, almost, whose stories become transformed into passion plays.  They’re killed, they die and ascend to heaven, but they still defeat evil in the form of Mr. Burns, who’s the Devil now, and Itchy and Scratchy are his demons…it’s…mind blowing.  And of course Bart is the trickster god, the Mercury, the Pan, all that.  And you can just see it coming true, like of course this is what the future would be if it all fell apart.”

Matt nodded.  “So they’re the new Homeric legends, so to speak.  And remember, they used to call the devil Old Scratch, so Itchy and Scratchy are perfect as demons.”

Peter laughed, delighted.  “Yes! Exactly!”

“Sounds fantastic.  I’d love to see it.”

“I’d love to see it again,” Peter said.  He felt ashamed, that he was surprised, ashamed that he’d thought Matt wouldn’t get it.

“Well,” Matt smiled as the food arrived.  “We’ll have to make a night of it.”

Peter smiled.  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

When they left the restaurant, there was a crowd of camera trucks at the other end of the street.  “What’s going on?” Matt asked a passerby.

“Someone won the lottery.  One winner.  Seven hundred million.  Can you believe it?  At that store down there.”

Matt laughed.  “Lucky bastard.  Poor bastard.”

“Poor bastard?” Peter asked.  “Why’s that?”

“Well, most people, it pretty much ruins their life, doesn’t it?  I mean, they go and blow it on drugs and hookers, or,” Matt ventured, “a solid gold house.”

Peter laughed, getting the Simpsons reference.  “Right.  I remember one guy they showed on the news, it was crazy.  He was walking around his giant mansion with the camera guy and saying, here’s my three Lamborghinis, and here’s my suit of armor, and here’s all this crazy shit I bought.  And he looked so sad, like, I don’t know, like he felt obligated to buy all this stupid shit he didn’t want and now he was stuck with it.”

“What would you do with that kind of money?”

“Drugs and hookers for sure.  No, seriously?  I can’t imagine.”

“Become a Broadway producer.”

“Definitely.  Bring back Busby Berkeley extravaganzas.  Because I wouldn’t have to turn a profit.”

“Bring back Busby Berkeley from the dead to do it.”

“ ‘We’re in the money, the skies are sunny…’” Peter sang, doing the little finger doodle dance that came with it in the movie.

Matt joined in with a surprisingly clear and pleasant singing voice.  “ ‘We gotta lotta what it takes to get along!’”

Matt stopped and it took Peter a second to realize it.  He spun around and met Matt’s eyes, serious now in his smiling face.  “Well, this is my place.”

“Ah,” Peter said.  “Well…”  Of course the date was over, of course Matt had picked a restaurant close to his house so he could escape easily if it all ended in tears.

Matt walked up the steps, and Peter couldn’t believe it.  They were just singing together, but that was it?  The end?  Not even a thanks, goodbye?

Matt turned around, eyes hooded, half predatory, dangerous.  “You coming?”

“Oh.  Oh!  I didn’t…  Yeah.”

Matt smiled.  Damn, this one is fragile, he thought.  Needs special handling.   But that was exactly what Matt liked best – wallflowers made his dick hard, watching their faces as he made love to them, made them bloom, made them reveal themselves to him.  Some self-esteem issues there, probably a bad boyfriend or two in the past… But no matter.  I’ll show him how I esteem him about a half hour from now.

Matt unlocked the door to his building and held it for Peter, putting his hand gently on the small of Peter’s back as he passed.  It was like a hot wire stuck in his spine, the shock of it blinding him for moment.  Oh fuck I’m gonna get laid by this insanely hot man I can’t believe it!

“Apres vous,” Matt said, letting Peter go first over the threshold into his apartment.

“Merci,” Peter responded without thinking.  A summer in Paris in college had been the happiest time of his life.

He blinked, stunned again.  Matt’s apartment was made of books.  Bookshelves, full of straight spines, and more crooked spines laid on top of them, and some more stacked up on the floor in front of them.  Books on the coffee table, three of them with bookmarks sticking out.  An old tube TV with no tube, full of big books about the golden age of movies.  Where there weren’t books there were plants, and behind the plants, paintings, some prints but mostly originals.

“Wow,” Peter said involuntarily.  Without thinking, he went into browsing mode, an automatic reflex in the presence of so many titles.  History books, lots and lots of history.  Literature, a whole bookcase full of Oxford’s World Classics and Penguin Classics.  Contemporary fiction, good stuff, David Foster Wallace and David Mitchell and Dave Eggers…  He laughed, realizing that a whole shelf had whimsically been given over to Daves.

“Nice,” he said.  “And putting The Making of 2001 at the end, genius.”

Matt flushed with pride, and another feeling, too.  Peter got it, right away, even the joke that was the 2001 book, the reference to “I’m sorry, Dave” that most people had to have explained to them – if they even got the Dave joke in the first place.

Peter felt ashamed that he’d thought for a moment that Matt wasn’t bright because he was a mechanic.  Hell, the guy was a genius, probably.

“Make yourself at home,” Matt said.  “Glass of wine?”

“Sure.”  Peter realized that he’d been hypnotized by Matt’s library, hadn’t even taken his coat off.   “So what was your major?”

Matt smiled as he uncorked the bottle.  He was hoping, had been pretty sure, Peter would ask the right question.  The wrong question, the New York question, was “Where’d you go to school?”  Because to some people, that mattered more than what you learned.

“Comparative literature.”

“Compared to what?”

“Mostly movies.  I focused on literature of the 20s and 30s, compared to the movies of the same time, how they dealt, or didn’t deal, with the same themes.”

“Thus all the movie books.”

“Yeah.”  Matt was next to him, pressing the glass into his hand.  Peter took it and sipped it as he continued to browse, but he was losing his focus now with Matt at his side.  He turned to see Matt regarding him, reading him, it felt, the way Peter was reading the spines of Matt’s books, as if seeing him through them.  Matt was out of his coat, only a white v-neck t-shirt now, with short-capped sleeves that showed off his long, lean, fatless muscularity.

“So,” Peter said chattily, trying to diffuse the tension. “You went to school, and got a degree in Comp Lit, and now you’re a mechanic.  That’s kind of an unusual path.”

“Yeah.  I guess I realized I wanted to touch things, you know?  Not just think about them.”

Peter swallowed.  Things he thought he knew, things he relied on to be true, that were as solid as bookends and paperweights, were suddenly feeling like leaves, and Matt was the breeze lifting them up, scattering them effortlessly.  It can’t be true, they said, but they were just leaves, and could barely make a noise.

Matt’s hand stroked the side of Peter’s face.  Matt knew the look, the flinch that came not from the expectation of being hit, but from the shock that love, affection, could cause in someone deprived of it.  It was like being with a starving person; you couldn’t just set a banquet in front of him or he’d stuff himself and die.

Peter was breathing hard, his pulse racing, the fear in control, but fortunately paralyzing him, preventing him from breaking off from this thing, so terrible, so wonderful… And when he closed his eyes, that was when Matt knew to kiss him.

Just lightly, softly…The kind of kiss a prince would use to awaken a sleeping beauty, Peter thought absurdly.  His mouth opened in a gasp of shock, of pleasure.  Matt tasted so good, so sweet and fresh and clean.  It was like getting into a bed made with just-cleaned sheets.

Matt took the glass from his hand, knowing without looking exactly where a gap on a shelf could be made to fit it.  Then the other hand was on Peter’s hip, stroking, finding the V…

Matt smiled; Peter’s body wasn’t soft from office life – slim but fit, definitely.  “You work out,” he whispered, nuzzling Peter’s throat.

“I run,” Peter said, reaching up to stroke Matt’s hair, to pull it back to see that perfect face eagerly lapping at his neck.

“Marathons, I hope.”

Peter laughed.  “Why, you planning one?”

Matt looked up, the devil in his smile.  “Yeah.”

Peter half laughed, half groaned.  “Well, I’m not in condition, it’s been a long time.”

“Since you ran a marathon?”

“The kind you’re planning, yeah.”

Matt smiled.  “Okay.  Come here.”  His hand was back on the base of Peter’s spine, and Peter felt like a puppet, albeit a willing one, as Matt pressed him face down onto the couch.

Now, said the dark voice, now you’re on familiar ground.  Just like Cody, he’ll yank your pants down and…

But instead, Matt got on his knees next to him and started massaging his legs – like a pro, in fact, working his hams and his calves and bringing the blood to them, warming them up.

“Oh my god that feels good,” Peter sighed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  You certified?”

“No, but my last boyfriend was.  He taught me a trick or two.”

“I bet that was mutual.”

“Heh.  I think he learned a few from me.”

So what happened to him? Peter wanted to ask.  Tell me so I don’t do whatever it was he did to lose you…

“But he moved out west,” Matt said as if reading his mind.  “I’m a New York City boy, my life is here.  We’re still friends.”

What must that be like, Peter wondered, to have a positive healthy relationship that ended well, when two people moved on…without tears or grief or recriminations…

“And you, no boyfriend?” Matt asked him, his powerful fingers getting closer to Peter’s glutes.

“No…not for a while.”

“You don’t want one?”

“I do!  I do.  It’s just easier said than done, you know?”

“Yeah.”  Now Matt was working Peter’s glutes, still like a pro, so that Peter could still think that Matt was treating them as “my glutes” and not “MY ASS.”  My ass that’s on fire…

Peter couldn’t help it, he shifted, spread his legs, arched his rear.  He turned, one eye meeting Matt’s solemn gaze, inviting, hoping…  He buried his face in the pillow, waiting to be taken…

Sinuously, Matt climbed on top of Peter, straddling him, bringing Peter’s legs back together with the force of his own.  Then his hands began to work on Peter’s shoulders and back, the muscles as hard as bricks.

“Oh, God, that hurts.”

“You’re tense.  Not just ‘right now’ tense, but tense period.”

“That’s true,” Peter laughed.

“Breathe.  Deep.  In.  Out.”  Peter did as he was told, felt himself relax.

“Rinse.  Repeat,”  Matt continued, making Peter laugh.

Matt reached into his pants and adjusted himself, taking the strain of his jeans off his giant erection, before stretching out, putting his weight on top of Peter, knowing that his big boner was going to tell Peter what was in store, if he wanted it, could handle it.

Peter felt Matt’s legs, the toes of his still-booted feet holding Peter in, felt his strong lean arms slip under him, his hands curling up to cup his shoulders…and then, Matt let his hips settle against Peter’s ass.

It was like a lead pipe in Matt’s pants, and it made a dent the size of the Grand Canyon in Peter’s left ass cheek.  “Holy shit.”

“It’s fucking big, ain’t it?” Matt whispered in his ear, his hair curtaining Peter, protecting him from the whole world outside the two of them.  “My monster cock.  My blessing and my curse.”

“Curse!” Peter laughed.  “How could that be a curse?”

“You know how hard it is to get a guy to swallow it?  I mean, deep throat it?”

“Oh yeah,” Peter said casually, shocking Matt.  “You have to suck it upside down.  The bottom has to be in 69 position to get it all in there; right side up, it just keeps denting the back of his throat.”

“You got some experience there, do you?”

Peter laughed, realized how practical he’d sounded.  “I don’t look like I do, I know…”

“Yeah you do.  I saw it in your eyes.  Such a nice young man, till you get his pants off.  Then he’s the very devil.”

Peter nodded, on familiar ground now.  “That’s right.  A succubus, just waiting for a man like you, ready to drain his tap dry.”

“Fuck,” Matt said, his own turn to lose his breath.  He started to grind against Peter’s ass, felt him respond with lavish enthusiasm.

It would take effort, Matt knew, to control himself.  He knows how to be taken, but not how to take, to accept what’s given.  He’s used to hot nasty fuckin’ but with no lovin’ in it.  I’m going to have to use the side door to get deep inside there, give it to him hard and then, when he thinks he knows where we’re at, surprise him with a blizzard of kisses….  He smiled; he was starting to see under Peter’s hood, how the engine would respond, how he could tune it, make it sing…

“Fuck me,” Peter said.  “Fuck me.”

“Yeah, no doubt,” Matt said.  “In time.”  He got up enough to turn Peter over, face up, and pull off his polo shirt.  Then he tore his own shirt off and pinned Peter’s wrists back against the arm of the couch.

Peter looked up at him with disbelief, adoration, at the compliments given to Matt’s body by the light and shadow from the “make-out lighting” Matt had turned on when Peter wasn’t looking.  You’re my god now, he thought.  Just let me worship you.  But it wasn’t to be, just yet, because first Matt began to worship him, grazing on his neck, his earlobe, a nipple, refusing to let Peter move, touch in return…

Then he took Peter’s wrists and brought them together, holding them now with only one hand, as the other moved down, undid his own belt, slid it off, put the tongue of it against Peter’s lips.  Peter opened wide, licking it, his eyes glassy with lust, agreement.  Yeah, I want that on my ass!

Matt smiled, dropped the belt on the floor, yes, later, then reached down and undid Peter’s own belt, his pants, his zipper, reached in and squeezed his equally stiff cock, not nearly as large but not, even Peter knew, laughably-sized.  Cody would have mocked it it if had been, he knew, so clearly it wasn’t totally inadequate.

Peter’s eyes were closed now, instinctively, his brain getting so many sensory messages from his skin that it had to shut down his eyes to handle it.

“I’m gonna make you cum tonight, Peter.”  Peter’s eyes flew open, the oddity of hearing his name during sex was jarring.  He’d just been…whatever he was to Cody, a hole, a function.  To be here, to be addressed…for someone to even care if he came, what was that?

Matt saw it, had been ready for it.  “Yeah, you.  I’m not cumming till you do.  Fuck, I’m not cumming till you cum twice.”

Peter laughed, game on now.  “You wanna bet?  You wanna bet I can’t pull a fucking load out of you before you can say ‘boo’?”

“What do you wanna bet,” Matt asked.  “How about whoever cums first has to buy tickets to ‘Mr. Burns.’  That sounds fair.”

Suddenly Peter wanted to cry.  Matt was already planning another time together, another night, as if it was inevitable, natural, predestined.  How could anyone feel this for me?  How can this be?

“Hey,” Matt said, seeing the tears.  “Hey.”  He let go of Peter’s wrists, wrapped his arms around him, buried his face next to Peter’s.  Then he let Peter cry.

“Fuck I hate crying,” Peter half laughed, half sobbed.  “Fucking feelings!  What the fuck…  I’m so sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m crying!”

“Why do you have to apologize for that?”

Peter had an answer, didn’t have an answer.

Matt wanted to cry, too, wanted to cry because he knew the story here.  Not the details, but so what, the details were always different but the story was always the same.  Someone who had never been loved, and so had never been taught how to be loved.

He knew the drill.  You can’t fix people, they said.  But you can, he replied.  Things that are broken have a design somewhere, a set of plans for the way they’re supposed to be, and you can restore them to that.  You can make things right.  Just like a car.

Matt knew what was necessary now – pleasure, and forgetting.  He got up, pulled Peter to his feet, held his hand as he led him into the bedroom.  It only took the touch of his hands on Peter’s shoulders to get him to go his knees, unbuttoning Matt’s pants before he hit the ground.

“Slow down,” Matt said, stopping Peter before he could pull Matt’s cock out.  “My greedy little piggy,” he said tenderly.

“I’m hungry,” Peter said.

“And I’m gonna feed you.  Don’t you worry.”  Matt put a hand on Peter’s chest and pushed him back just a little, just to make sure he could see the whole show.  The light from the living room was all there was to see by, but it was more than enough.  God he was cut, Peter thought.  Like a young Brad Pitt, not a wasted ounce of flesh on him.

Matt unzipped his jeans, painfully slowly, his powerful abs flexing as his hand moved down, down, and the waiting was like dentistry to Peter.  Then, when he should have dropped them to the floor, he held them up with a thumb through one loop, hooded eyes looking down.  “Help me get out of my boots.”

Peter was on them in a flash, tearing at the laces, and again Matt put down a restraining hand.  “Slow.”

“Right, sorry.”  This was like with Cody, being on his knees, getting ready to service his dominant lover…and it wasn’t, because Cody never slowed him down, was impatient to get his cock out, and in, no delay brooked.

He could see the fabric begin to bunch around Matt’s ankles as he undid the laces, knew that Matt was timing the drop of his pants to coincide with Peter’s finish.  And sure enough, when he’d undone the other lace and pulled the boot out to loosen its grip on Matt’s foot, down came the pants, and the boxers with it.

Peter looked up and there it was, tall and straight and hard and fat, was the most gorgeous cock he’d ever seen.  He wanted it more than anything ever.  And of course Matt had a tan line, from his hips to his knees; naturally he wore board shorts in the sun, what else would a total dude wear?

“You like it?” Matt asked, holding his trophy by the root to show it to best effect in the light.

“It’s like…the Stonehenge of cocks.  A monolith.”

Matt roared with laughter.  “Well you know what they did at Stonehenge.”

“Made offerings…” Peter whispered, his head rising from the floor, reaching for it, and finally, finally, Matt didn’t stop him from taking what he wanted.

He put his mouth on it, its big soft head an improbable cap to something so hard.  He put a hand on it, felt its ridges, the whole thing so big it had a muscularity all its own, its own network of veins and channels and ridges.  It seemed to go on forever as he slid his tongue down the bottom of it, let it brush his cheek, poke his eye as he went for the base, letting it caress his face.

“Fuck…” Matt whispered, letting go of his dick now, letting Peter take control.  Peter touched Matt’s smooth, shaved balls, wondered who’d touched them last, who he shaved them for last, then banished the thought.  Mine now.

He took one, then the other, then both of Matt’s big balls into his mouth, sucked them, rolled them around, Matt’s primal half-grunt, half-sigh all he needed to hear to know he was on the right track.

Then he licked it, starting at the base and traveling up, long catlike strokes lapping at it like a dish of cream.  There was no hesitation, no doubt now, because if there was one place Peter had perfect confidence, this was it – he knew he was a world champion cocksucker.  He put his lips around the shaft, puckering them in and out like a fish, not moving his head, just teasing, torturing it, tapping the opening with the tip of his tongue.

Matt was delirious with pleasure, reached to put his hands on Peter’s head, to make him suck it, then remembered their bet.  He chuckled, dropped his hands to his sides, clenching them to stop himself.  Fuck this was too good, but if he started moving Peter’s head, he’d cum for sure.  And he’d promised, he’d bet, he’d make Peter shoot first.

Soon enough it was Peter who gave up, knowing this wouldn’t be the way he’d win.  “Fuck me,” he said, jumping on the bed, legs in the air so he could pull his pants and undies off, then leaving them that way, high in the sky.

“Oh?” Matt asked.  “You wanna get fucked?  Really?”

“Yeah!”

“You want that fucking monster cock in your ass?  You serious?”

“Yeah, oh God yeah!”

Matt shook his head, even as he stepped out of his pants.  “That’s crazy talk.  That dick’s too big for your tight little ass.”

“I’m flexible.”

Matt laughed.  “You’ll have to be.” He got on his knees on the bed, pushed Peter’s legs back, covered him, reigned over him.  With Peter’s ankles secured against Matt’s shoulders, Matt reached into the bedside drawer for lube and a condom – a Magnum, of course, Peter saw.  Even that would be a stretch to get on that big ole thing.

Matt put some lube on his fingers, and probed Peter’s ass, massaging his hole as expertly as he had his legs.  He had to smile.  “You’re tense down there, too.”

“Yeah, but that’s a good thing.”

“Not for long,” Matt growled, and Peter almost whimpered.

Matt braced himself with Peter’s legs, pushing them back with his hands.  He didn’t touch his cock at all, just let it tap and bounce against Peter’s hole until he thought he’d scream with frustration.  Then he finally got his hips where they needed to be, got his shot lined up, and began to press himself in, his eyes locking on Peter’s.

Now this is different, Peter’s body said.  It only remembered Cody, the way Cody used to force himself in, in this same position, relishing the grimace on Peter’s face, and Peter, relishing the glee on Cody’s – Peter’s pain was Cody’s pleasure, and Cody’s pleasure was Peter’s dark joy, knowing it kept him bound to Peter, Peter’s willingness to take anything, anything Cody dished out to him…

Matt was insistent; he was gettin’ in there no matter what, but he was patient, too.  He was pushing Peter’s boundaries, watching him ride the edge of pain, because there was no way that big fucking thing got in anywhere without a struggle, unless it was a hot-dog-down-the-hallway situation, but that wasn’t an issue here.  But he never pushed too far, too fast, opening that hole, wider, wider, but never so that Peter didn’t love it, Matt never looking away, always taking stock of where Peter was, what was on his face, in his eyes, and it was still pleasure, astonishment that so much of a man could go inside him, that he could open that wide, and there was still more to go…

Now Matt was past the first barrier, now it was a question of stretching it.  Matt’s dick wasn’t quite perfect for fucking, he always thought, could have been narrower at the top, so that a guy didn’t have to take so much at the beginning.  Some guys complained that it was too much, too uncomfortable, too painful, but not Peter…

Now Matt pushed with his hips, made the slow, insistent thrust that buried him inside Peter’s ass.

“Aahhh…” busted out of Peter’s mouth as the head of Matt’s cock reached its destination…and kept going, finding a man’s internal g-spot, that little almond of pleasure deep inside.  “Oh!” Peter cried, as the pressure bent him, squeezed him, pushed him inside out.

“Heheh,” Matt chuckled, reaching down and flicking a drop of precum off Peter’s cock, putting in Peter’s mouth.

“That doesn’t count as cumming,” Peter hissed through the searing pressure-pleasure.

“It will in a minute,” Matt said, and he began to fuck him.

Peter saw stars.  Boom, boom, boom went the rhythm as Matt suddenly, finally, gave him what he needed, craved, hungered for, it was like fireworks, now he suddenly got that analogy, something beautiful exploding in his head, and Matt’s emerald eyes glinted in the sky above him, the most incredible display of all, this man, watching him, seeing him, giving to him…

Peter came, screaming, without touching himself, a catastrophic, cataclysmic eruption.  “Yeah!” Matt egged him on, fucking him harder, faster, revving Peter’s engine, hearing its song in Peter’s screams, knowing the pain he was causing was right, was the precise fuel injection needed to the parts of Peter’s brain now sending endorphins racing to blunt it, opiates flinging themselves around in there like showers of glitter.  Peter was cumming like a woman now, again and again, riding it like a wave…

God, his face in ecstasy, it’s so beautiful, I made that, I built that… That did it.  Matt pulled out, ripped the rubber off and jacked himself once, twice, and with his own shout he blew his load up and over Peter’s head.  Peter watched it splat against the headboard, then the next pulse landed on his face and he stuck his tongue out to catch it like sweet, salty rain.

“You like that?” Matt asked, “seriously?”  He’d been with so many guys who pulled a face at the idea of taking his cum, who’d grudgingly accept it in their mouths to get him off, and then spit it out like poison.  But not Peter – his tongue was desperate to find every drop Matt had scattered on his face.

That was so hot for Matt that Peter could barely finish nodding before Matt was up, squatting across Peter’s torso, with one hand on the wall, his dick in Peter’s face, the other hand stroking it, flinching, his eyes shut at last as his own pain took him, and he only opened them, had to open them, to check his aim, to make sure he shot every fucking drop straight into Peter’s wide, eager mouth.

“Oh God!” he shouted, disbelieving, grateful, as Peter’s eyes lit up with delight at the taste of him, the look in his face clear, is there more, there is, how wonderful!

Finally, his tank empty, he collapsed on top of Peter, both of them panting, their sweaty bodies slipping against each other.  “Oh fuck!” was all Matt could say, and Peter couldn’t speak at all.

Which was nice.  Really nice.  He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, was just…here.  Under Matt’s body, in Matt’s bed, just…here.  And so it wasn’t long before he fell into the best sleep he’d had in years.

“So,” Matt said in the morning.  “Eggs benedict, or bacon and sausage omelette?”

“Oh, you cook, too.”

“Mais bien sur.”

“Which do you want?”

“I want bacon.  Makin’ bacon makes me want bacon.”

“Bacon it is.”

Peter still couldn’t think.  Which was great.  The best!  All that thinking about this stuff ever led to was self-abnegation and misery.  Just once in your life, he thought, fucking enjoy your good fortune.

“So what’s on your schedule today?” Matt asked, serving up their breakfast.

“I’ve got lunch with my friend Katie, and we’re gonna see a movie, hang out.  You?”

“Work, maybe half a day.”

“You love your job, huh?” Peter said, but as a comment and not a question.

“Yeah, I do.”

“So how did that happen, becoming a mechanic?  And not the double entendre version you gave me last night.”

Matt’s mouth pulled sideways.  “That was clever, though, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, did you just think of that?”

“You inspired me, yeah.”

Peter said nothing, waited.  Matt nodded, running a hand through his glossy mane.  Peter didn’t usually like long or even longish hair on guys but on Matt, somehow it was just…right.

“Okay.  I got my degree, and the only thing I could do with it was either go back for a Masters and teach, or get a job that didn’t really use it.  But,” he shrugged, “even though it was an English degree, it was from Harvard, so that’ll usually get you a job you aren’t exactly qualified for.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, impressed but not really wanting to show it.

“I got a job as an analyst at a consulting firm.  I guess they figured Comp Lit qualified me to read reports, write reports, writing bullshit, really, summaries of bullshit, abstracts of bullshit.  What I said last night was true.  You don’t make anything at a job like that, other than more bullshit.  You read all this…”

“CorpSpeak,” Peter said.  “Maximizing added value to low hanging fruit.”

“Right.  But it’s just empty words.  What does it have to do with real things, what is it but a smokescreen?  If you were really doing something, you’d say what you were doing.  You would say, we’re building a better mousetrap, not, we’re looking to rebrand ourselves to appeal to Generation Z.  You wouldn’t make shit up to hide the fact that you’re doing nothing, that you’re not building a better mousetrap, you’re just trying to make the old one look shinier.

“But when you fix a car, it’s real.  You’re doing something.  Something’s broken, or it’s off balance, out of sync, and then you fix it, and then it’s not wrong anymore, it’s right.

“And…well, it’s more interesting, honestly.  More intellectually challenging than just writing…wiggle words that just obfuscate and conceal and blow smoke.  You have to learn about engines, and the history of that engine, and the history of that kind of car, and the history of the problems that kind of car has.  It’s a lot of information to hold in your head and sort and evaluate and go back to when one thing doesn’t work.  It’s more cerebral than the job I had before, more demanding of my intellect.”

Peter nodded.  “I know what you mean.  That’s what I want to do.  Make shit.  Make theater.  It’s a thing that’s real, too, you know, it’s just that it doesn’t last, it’s there and gone and you can never have that moment again.  But what’s great about it is, the memory is real, and if the experience is great, the memory lasts forever, so it has to be the best experience you can make it, knowing it won’t last.  You’re making something wonderful, but you’re making it inside people’s heads…”

He trailed off.  He and Matt looked at each other.  Peter looked away first.  No, I’m not ready.  This is too fast.

Matt agreed silently, for a different reason. No, it was too early to fall in love, to call it love.  It needs time.  It’s passion, yeah, awesome.  But don’t run, don’t push.

“So,” Matt said, collecting their dishes.  “How was it?”

Peter laughed.  “Breakfast?  Or sex?  Cuz you didn’t ask me how that was.”

“I didn’t have to,” Matt said, and Peter couldn’t see his smile, but could hear it in his voice.

“No, you didn’t.  Breakfast, by the way, was almost as good.”

“Almost?  Why not as good?”

“Last night you used a bigger sausage.”

“Oh, brother.”

 

At work on Monday, Peter had to think for the first time in a long time about what his future could, should look like.  He thought about what Matt had done, how he’d thrown over a bigger paycheck for a more satisfying job.  Started at the bottom, started at zero.

Could I do that?  Go back to being an…intern, basically, to get his foot in the door somewhere in the theater world?  Did I even have the hustle, the sharp elbows, to get in there in front of everyone else who wanted in?

Maybe, a little voice said.  If you had Matt to support you, encourage you, if you could take an emotional bruising during the day and come home to something like that…

But then there was money, of course.  Where would he live without this paycheck?  Out in a squat in Queens, with a bunch of hipsters?

Kyle knocked on his desk, startling him.  “Oh, hey, sorry.  Drifting.”

“No worries.  Thanks for taking the car in.  You found Matt okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Kyle blinked.  “Ah.  Aha.”

“What?”

“Your downcast eyes.  You like him.  He’s hot, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter smiled.  Little do you know.

“You should go for it.  No, never mind, he’s not gay.  He wasn’t interested in me, so, yeah, he’s not.”

“Right, that is the litmus test.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“What do you need, Kyle.”

“Nothing.  Too bad you didn’t buy a lottery ticket that day.  You know the store right down the street from the shop is where they sold the winning ticket.  Right around lunchtime that day, too.  Winner still hasn’t come forward.”

Something slipped an ice cube into Peter’s guts.  “Really?”

“Yeah.  I wouldn’t either.  I’d lawyer up and wait it out.  Though the name has to come out sometime, it’s in the lottery rules, no anonymous winners.”

“Too bad…”

“Well, thanks again.”  Kyle frowned.  “You should go home.  You don’t look so good.”

“Yeah, I don’t feel so good.  Maybe I will.”

Shaking, he checked the winning numbers on his computer, wrote them down on a slip of paper, and went to the bathroom.  It was nothing, it was absurd, they sold about a trillion tickets.

He went in a stall, shut the door, put the lid down, sat on it.  He was terrible with numbers.  Good thing there was only one line to compare.

27, 13, yeah he had those.

14, 59, those too.  How much was that worth?  A thousand, maybe?

17.  Oh my god.

There was only one number left, the Quadrilliball number.  The number on his ticket was…

1.

Peter folded the ticket back up.  Slipped it back in his wallet.  Stood up.  Lifted the lid of the toilet.  Got on his knees.  And threw up.

When he was done, he texted Katie on his phone, his hand shaking so badly he could barely type.

>I need your help

>Where are u you’re not at your desk

>I can’t say it out loud.  I just won the lottery.

>very funny.  What’s up?

>Your dads a lawyer.  I need to see him.

>omg

Peter waited, went to the sink, splashed water on his face.  This was supposed to be the most wonderful thing that could happen, right?  Why did he feel so terrible?  Why did he feel like he’d just been diagnosed with something awful?

>where are u

>mens bathroom

The door banged open half a minute later.  Katie was holding in a barely repressed squeal of glee, ready to hug him, when she saw his face.

“Dude, what’s wrong?”

“Everything’s ruined now,” he said, and began to cry.

5 Comments on Episode 2 of “The Worst Best Luck” – HOT SEXIN’ for your Sunday pleasin’s!

  1. Not quite sure how the whole plot’s going to shake out right now, but the scary part is the fun part, right?

    This is such a cool story…hurry (please?)

  2. Very nice! And with a 700 million dollar monkey wrench, no less! You definitely have a handle on the whole contemporary romance thing. One or two things: the line “Fuck this was too good, but if he started moving Matt’s head, he’d cum for sure.” I do believe you meant *Peter’s* head; then the description “long, even longing hair” of Matt’s hair- did you mean longish? Spellcheck can be a bitch, dude.

    With love! XOXOXO

    • OH SHIT Thank you! Fixed and fixed…the joys of racing to print. And thanks for the compliment 🙂 I think I’m getting the “mechanics” down on these stories a little better each time, and I think this one could be a breakthrough…

      • K. Tuttle // December 2, 2013 at 7:04 am //

        No problem! I’m starting to see why beta-reading could be fun: it’s like the thrill of the hunt!

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