You remember your firsts.
Jack had been thinking about firsts a lot. His first car, a honey of a 1955 Coupe, dragon-red with black detailing, chrome that shined like nobody’s damn business. He’d worked his ass off to pay for her, then spent his evenings riding around town, up and down the strip, a different girl in the front seat every night., where everyone could see.
One special boy in the back seat when nobody was looking.
He thought of his first kiss, the sweet smell of her perfume, her soft lips, platinum hair, like spun sugar. The feel of her sweater under his palms. The ache in his chest when she pushed him away, when she ended their embrace with a headshake, a kiss is all you get look in her eyes.
Good girls didn’t. Not back then.
So he went for a bad girl, one with a reputation, a reputation that turned out to be false. She kissed different from his first. Open mouth, dark hair wrapped tight around his fist. But when he slid his hand up under her blouse, fear hit her eyes. Yeah, she had a reputation, but she’d never done it. Not before. Not really.
So he found Nate—found him out behind the gym, smoking, like all the other toughs out there. Jack fit in. He could take an engine apart. But even more important, he could put one back together. He had the greaser mentality, the grime under his nails, and he had a look that both boys and girls found appealing.
Nate was his real first. In the back of his car. Late at night, off where nobody could find them. Nate’s mouth on his cock—those petal lips open, a hungry look in his dark green eyes. The girl’s hadn’t looked hungry—they’d been scared and excited, as if they’d need convincing but might just be pleased if he would take the time to show them the way.
Nate needed no convincing. He was the one to peel open Jack’s jeans, release his hard-on, wrap a fucking fist around it. Jesus, god, Jack could feel Nate’s hand on his cock even now. Half a century later. That’s good hand job, man. If you can feel the tension after fifty years.
The sensation of Nate’s mouth, warm and wet and welcoming, was like nothing he’d ever envisioned, nothing he’d dared to fantasize about. He’d only known his own five fingers before, with his mother’s face cream slicked on his palm to smooth the ride. Oil of Olay was a fragrance that could get him hard to this day—and make him feel guilty and shamed at the same time.
Nate’s lips and tongue slipped up and down his shaft, before—oh, my fucking Christ—darting down to his balls. Jack simply hadn’t thought what it would be like to feel a man’s tongue on his balls. The low lick there. The build to climax—to a too-quick climax the first time, because he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t hold back.
“I’m going to—oh, god, Jesus H. — I’m going to—“
“Come, baby,” Nate had said, a low voice—neither masculine nor feminine, just sex talking. “Come, baby. You come for me.” And Jack hadn’t known which way was up, who he was, where he ended and Nate began. He’d pumped his hips and Nate had swallowed, locking his lips on Jack’s rod, devouring him to the hilt, before slowly, slowly bringing him around again.
For no explicable reason, that memory was mingled with thoughts of the bad girl. Grace. He remembered his first time with her. Going slow, kissing her neck, then touching her skin under her cotton-candy colored sweater. Oh, how he’d loved to touch her, up under the form-fitting cashmere to her silk-covered breasts. The time his hand brushed her naked skin, he was lost. That first sigh of pleasure from her high-glossed lips let him know how much she needed his touch.
Those lips—as red as the paint on his car, made him groan. She had a reputation because she wore red lipstick, and when he finally, finally, on the fifth date, convinced her to bend her ringlet-covered head into his lap, she smeared that lipstick up and down his cock. And he’d learned something new. Something fantastic. Something he couldn’t wait to share.
The next time, with Nate, he’d passed over a tube of his sister’s lipstick—a gold-flecked coral he’d swiped off the counter. His sister never wore red.
“Please,” he’d said. “Just, please.” And Nate, with that look in his eyes, that understanding, got it exactly right. He sat up in the front seat and slicked on the lipstick, staring at his reflection in the rear view mirror. Jack watched from the back seat, knowing already what lipsticked lips would feel like on his cock, and knowing that Nate’s blow job would send him far further than Grace’s. Over the moon.
It wasn’t that Nate needed to look like a girl. It was the blur, chameleon style that tripped Jack’s wires. The lean tough-looking hood, with the leather jacket and the crisp Levi’s putting on the feminine cosmetic—that’s what did it. That’s what worked for Jack.
Now, he sat in his solitary room, staring out the window at the fall leaves. Why did the leaves stirring always make him think of Grace?
Why did the wind make him think of Nate?
Anthony looked up at him. He was lovely, auburn hair slightly mussed. He didn’t look anything like Nate, but that wasn’t a problem. New was good. At this stage in Jack’s life, new was rare.
He rubbed his thumb along Anthony’s cheekbone, then traced the line of his jaw. “I’ve been thinking,” he said softly, “a lot about firsts. And lasts. And, baby, if that was my very last blow job, you put a swell bookend on the shelf for me.”
Anthony stood then, smoothed his hair back, leaned against the wall and looked at Jack, orderly uniform not so crisp anymore. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said, those eyes of his were so bright. This was youth, looking at him, and yet he had to be in his forties. The definition of youth changed as you aged, didn’t it? What had once been an old fogey—don’t trust anyone over 30—was now the fountain suitable for Ponce de Leon.
Tony’s tongue flicked over his lips. He was almost animalistic. Jack felt himself starting to stir—when had he last gotten more than a single erection in 24-hours? He couldn’t remember.
He stared out the window once more, at the swirl of golden leaves. At the rustling branches. You consider lasts as you get older, Jack thought. You ponder the starts and the ends. But maybe that was a mistake. Maybe he should be thinking of the nows.
“Jack?” he looked up at Tony, who moved to kiss him, ran one hand through Jack’s silver hair. “Why on earth would you think that was your last?”—For BastardLife by Alison Tyler
