Looking For It

Pete closed the front door as T.J. came into the house. He was glad to see his buddy. The past few days had been difficult ones. Although Ronnie had been cool about his arrest, not everyone had. Word had somehow gotten around (Pete suspected Julie Boudreaux), and a couple of customers had told Buck they didn’t want Pete working on their vehicles. On Wednesday afternoon Buck told him to take some time off until things blew over. He’d spent the past forty-eight hours in the house, watching television, drinking, and convincing himself that he was the one being attacked. Finally, he’d called Ronnie, T.J., and Gary to see if they wanted to go to the Briar Patch. Gary hadn’t picked up, and when Julie answered instead of Ronnie, Pete hung up on her. Only T.J. had been home.

“So, what’s the plan?” Pete asked. “Want to head over to the bar?”

“Nah,” T.J. answered. “I thought we could just hang out here.”

“Shit, man, I’ve been in this house for two fucking days. I want to get out.”

T.J. nodded. “I hear you,” he said. “But I’m not so sure you should be out on the town, if you know what I mean.”

“Why not?”

“Dude, you know people are talking,” said T.J.

“Let them talk,” Pete snapped. “What the hell do I care? I didn’t do nothing.”

“Come on, Pete,” T.J. said, looking down. “Everybody knows you did it, man. For Christ’s sake, you used a car from the shop.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

T.J. looked at him. “Well, you did, right?”

“No,” Pete said. “No.”

T.J. continued to look at him. Pete, agitated, walked around the living room. If even his friends didn’t believe him, how the hell was he going to convince anyone else of his innocence? Suddenly, the confidence he’d been feeling began to crumble. He sat on the couch and hung his head.

“Hey,” T.J. said. “It’s no big deal.”

Pete stared at him. “No big deal? Right. Tell that to the cops. They think it’s a big fucking deal.”

“They just want to scare you, man. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could go to jail,” Pete said.

“You’re not going to jail for beating up a couple of fags,” said T.J. “Most you’ll get is probation.”

“You think so?” Pete asked.

“Shit, yeah,” said T.J.

“What about what people are saying? What about Buck?”

“Screw Buck. So a couple of customers are freaked out. They’ll get over it.”

Pete nodded. T.J. was right; people would get over it. He was worrying for nothing. The knot that had gripped his stomach loosened, and he relaxed a little. He just had to chill, take it easy. A couple of weeks and no one would even remember that he’d been arrested.

“Got any beer?” T.J. asked.

“In the fridge,” said Pete. “Grab me one too.”

T.J. disappeared, returning a minute later with two cold Buds. He handed one to Pete and sat down on the couch. Holding up his bottle, he clinked it against Pete’s. “You cool?”

Pete took a deep swallow of beer. “Yeah,” he answered, picking up the television remote. “I’m cool. Thanks.”

He turned on the set and flipped to the cable menu, looking for a movie. “How about Die Hard?” he suggested, and when T.J. shrugged, he turned to the channel and sat back.

For two hours they watched Bruce Willis fight his way out of a building overrun with terrorists. Every half an hour or so, one or the other of them would make a trip to the kitchen and come back with two more beers, until the coffee table was littered with them. Pete had sunk into a comfortable haze, his thoughts fleeting and unfocused. Mainly he just stared at the screen, imagining himself in the building with Bruce. Man, he’d blow the shit out of those terrorists if he had the chance.

When the movie ended and the credits began to roll, Pete got up to take a piss. He’d been holding it in for a while, and he badly needed to go. “You pick the next movie,” he told T.J., tossing him the remote.

He went into the bathroom, unzipped, and let his stream fly. Christ, how many beers had he had? He peed for what seemed like forever, his bladder spitting out an endless flow of urine. Finally, he felt it end. Squeezing out the last few drops, he tucked himself away and flushed.

“What’s on?” he called out to T.J. as he went to the kitchen for more beer and then headed back to the living room.

“Nothing good was on, so I got one of your videos,” T.J. called back.

When Pete entered the room, he saw that Pete had gone into his bedroom and picked up one of his porn tapes. A muscular guy with a shaved head and massive cock was sitting on a couch, stroking himself. Seeing him, Pete wanted to throw up. T.J. had found one of the movies he’d ordered online, a bisexual film called Switch Hitters. He’d watched it once and put it away, telling himself he’d only gotten it because the girl on the cover had such hot tits.

“You don’t want to see this, dude,” he told T.J. “It sucks.” He reached for the remote in T.J.’s hand, but his friend pulled it away.

“I want to see what happens,” said T.J.

Pete handed him a beer. Maybe if he got him drunk enough, he thought, he could convince T.J. to turn it off.

“Look at that fucking thing,” said T.J. as the man in the film smacked his hard dick against his stomach. “Jesus H. Christ.”

Knowing there was no arguing with T.J., Pete took his place on the couch and watched through half-lidded eyes as another guy entered the room. Apparently the first man’s roommate, he wore only boxer shorts, and seemed surprised to find his buddy sitting on their couch, his tool in his hand.

“What are you doing?” the man asked.

“I couldn’t sleep,” the guy with the shaved head answered, speaking as if reading a cue card held off camera. “This beats counting sheep.”

The roommate looked down at his friend’s huge prick. “Need some help?”

“Sure.”

The second man sank to his knees and took his roommate’s cock in his mouth. Pete closed his eyes. Why did it have to be a scene with two guys? What the hell was T.J. going to think? He waited for an exclamation of disgust to come. When it didn’t, he opened his eyes and looked over at T.J.

T.J. was looking at the screen, seemingly unmoved by the two men going at it. After a moment he looked over at Pete. “Feel like helping me out?”

Pete laughed, thinking that T.J. was mimicking the dialogue in the film.

“Come on, dude,” T.J. said, looking down. Pete followed his gaze down and saw that T.J.’s hand was rubbing his obviously hard cock.

Pete shook his head. “I’m not into that,” he said.

T.J. laughed. “Like shit. You were into it the other night.”

Pete was silent. It was the first mention T.J. had ever made of what had happened between them. Pete had almost convinced himself that it had never even happened. T.J. took a swig from his beer bottle and squeezed his crotch again.

“Nothing happened,” Pete said.

T.J. responded by unbuttoning his jeans, exposing the head of his cock. Pete stared at it.

“You know you want it,” T.J. said, milking his prick with his hand so that a glistening drop of precum escaped from his piss slit. “Come on.”

“T.J., man, I’m not like that,” said Pete. “I don’t know what you think—”

“What do you think Ronnie and Gary would think if I told them how you put the moves on me while I was sleeping?” T.J. interrupted. “Think they’d believe nothing happened?”

Pete felt as if he’d been slapped. He looked at T.J., his mouth open, not believing what he’d heard.

“Come on, Pete. I don’t give a shit. Just do it.”

T.J. shucked his jeans down so that his lower half was bare. His cock stretched toward Pete as T.J. scratched his balls with one hand. Pete swallowed.

“Do it, dude.”

Slowly, Pete leaned down toward T.J.’s dick. Halfway there, T.J.’s hand came down on his neck, forcing him the rest of the way. Pete felt the thick, warm head of T.J.’s cock against his mouth and opened to it. T.J. groaned.

“That’s it,” he said.

Pete took as much as he could into his mouth. T.J.’s hand was insistent, pushing him farther down until he started to choke. Still T.J. pushed. Pete resisted, but his buddy’s touch was firm, and finally he had to just relax and let T.J. fill him. He felt the rough hair of T.J.’s belly against his nose, smelled sweat and manliness.

“I bet you’ve been thinking about my cock ever since you sucked it, haven’t you?” T.J. said.

Pete, unable to respond, moved his mouth up and down T.J.’s shaft. T.J.’s hand never left his neck, working like a piston to control Pete’s movements. Pete’s throat began to burn as it was scraped by the thick head. T.J. continued to talk, his voice droning in Pete’s ears.

“Suck that big prick,” he said. “Suck it nice and slow.”

He continued to imitate the dialogue coming from the television set, where the man on the couch was receiving the same treatment from his roommate that Pete was providing for T.J.

“Oh, yeah,” T.J. growled. “Milk my fucking balls, faggot.”

Pete recoiled at the word. Had T.J. just called him a fag? Pushing against T.J.’s grip, he raised his head. “What did you say?”

“Suck my cock,” T.J. replied, trying to push him back down.

Pete pulled away. “I’m not a fag.”

T.J. looked at him and laughed. “Tell it to my dick,” he said, reaching out and grabbing Pete’s T-shirt, pulling Pete toward him.

Pete pushed against him, freeing himself. “Knock it off.”

T.J.’s eyes went dark. “Suck my fucking cock,” he said.

“Get out,” Pete ordered. “Get the hell out of here.”

Before he knew what was happening, T.J. had tackled him. Pete was thrown to the floor as T.J. landed on top of him. He felt his hard cock pressing against his stomach. Then T.J. was straddling his chest, pinning his arms down. The head of T.J.’s cock was placed against Pete’s lips.

“Suck it,” T.J. said, his voice hard.

Pete turned his face away, but T.J. forced it back. He slapped his dick against Pete’s lips. “I said suck it.”

“Fuck you,” Pete said. “Get the fuck off me.”

“Okay,” T.J. said. “I guess you want it in another hole.”

He got off Pete, who tried to scramble away. But T.J. overpowered him, holding him around the waist as if they were wrestling. Pete felt T.J. fumbling with the zipper of his jeans, then felt them pulled down. T.J. pushed forward, and Pete found himself flat on his face. T.J.’s weight held him there, his face pressed into the carpet.

“Is this what you want?” asked T.J. as Pete felt his cock press against his asshole. “You want my dick in your ass?”

T.J. pushed into him and Pete yelled into the carpet as pain ripped through him. He felt as if he were being split in two as T.J. kept going, filling his butt. Pete tried to buck him off, but his motions simply drove T.J. deeper.

“That’s it,” T.J. said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He lay on top of Pete, his thighs pressing against Pete’s, his hips moving up and down as he fucked Pete’s ass. His breath was hot against Pete’s ear, the smell of beer foul in Pete’s nose. His hands gripped Pete’s wrists, holding him prisoner.

“Your ass is fucking tight,” T.J. said, moaning.

Pete closed his eyes tightly, trying to will the hurt away. He felt sick, his ass on fire and his stomach clenched as he attempted to ease the fresh bursts of pain that came with each thrust of T.J.’s invading tool. Even worse, he was hard as a rock, his own cock pressed tightly against his belly, scratching against the carpet. How could he be hard? He was in pain, ashamed. Yet there it was, evidence to him of how right T.J. was.

T.J. increased his thrusts, pounding Pete’s ass. Pete could sense his breathing getting heavier, faster. Then there was a loud moan and T.J. shuddered. Pete felt his cock twitch, and knew that T.J. was coming in his ass.

“Fuck,” T.J. said simply as he finished. He pulled out and got up. Pete, rolling over, looked up at him. T.J. was pulling his jeans back up.

“How about you help me out now?” Pete said, gripping his still-hard cock in his fist.

T.J. shook his head. “I’m not a queer,” said T.J. “Sorry, man. You’re the cocksucker.”

Pete could only look at him, a mixture of rage and fear flooding through him. T.J. was getting dressed as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just held Pete down and fucked him.

“Don’t worry,” T.J. said as he picked up his beer and drained the rest of it. “I’m not gonna tell Ronnie and Gary. This will be our little secret. You take care of me when I need it and we’ll be fine.”

Pete was on his knees, standing up and pulling his jeans up, covering himself. He couldn’t believe what T.J. was saying. All he could do was watch as T.J. put his jacket on.

“I’ll see you later,” said T.J., going to the front door and opening it. “Thanks for the beer.”

He left, the door shutting behind him. Pete stared at it. Then he looked at the empty beer bottle T.J. had left behind. Picking it up, he threw it as hard as he could at the door.

“Fuck you!” he shouted. “Fuck you! I’m not a faggot!”

He collapsed, falling to his knees. The pain inside him poured out as he cried, hot tears filling his eyes. “I’m not a faggot,” he repeated. “I’m not a faggot.”