Mindbottling

I'm digging through the fridge in search of red meat. I'm not sure why, but I've gotten it into my head that I want a roast beef sandwich with extra mustard and I'm going to have to hop into the car and drive to Arby's if I can't find what I need here.



Jimmy is prissing around and clucking like a hen at the mess I'm making as I empty out the fridge in my desperate search for protein.



The phone rings, but I take no notice of it, because I think I've spotted my prize at the back of the meat drawer. I pull out the soggy plastic zip-lock and turn it over in my hands, looking for a 'best before' date.



Two weeks ago. Shit.



I open it anyway and give a test-sniff.



"Does this smell okay to you?" I ask, waving it in Jimmy's face. He is standing in the middle of the kitchen, the phone in his hand.



"Who was it?" I ask, waving the meat packet at him. "Wrong number?"



"Jesse," he says, rooted to the spot, "It's Coach. He's … he's had a heart attack."



"What?" I toss the meat away and turn to look at Jimmy. I think he must be joking, but he's just standing there, blinking, still gripping the disconnected phone.



I take it from him and place it back on the cradle. "What did he say?"



Jimmy blinks a few more times before answering. "He was … they were at a restaurant, and Coach just sort of collapsed. They're at the hospital."



I put an arm around his shoulders and steer him towards the couch. "Cumon," I coax, "sit down. I'll get you something to drink."



"Jesse said-" Jimmy's mouth continues to work, but no sound comes out. "The doctors are working on him … Oh God!" His lip starts to tremble and I have to fight the urge to run away. I hate it when people cry. I never know what to do or say.



"He's going to come and get us when … if …"



His forehead is getting all wrinkly too, and I steel myself for blubbering



"But what if he doesn't? What if …" Jimmy makes a little whining noise in the back of his throat and I pull him to my chest as he breaks into sobs.



"Hey, shhh," I say, feeling incredibly unequipped to soothe him. I pat his hair clumsily as he grips my shirt and buries his face in it.



"It's okay man," I say. His shoulders shake with each round of sobs and I pull him more tightly in the circle of my arms and press my lips to the top of his head. "S'okay," I repeat, over and over, my hand stroking his hair.



"I'm sorry," he says, still trembling against me.



"S'okay, buddy." I kiss his forehead, then his temple, "S'okay." I kiss the tears from his cheeks and he tilts his face up and his mouth finds mine. It is wet, and breathy, but oh God - so soft and sweet. My tongue touches his, and the realization of what we are doing streaks through me like a jolt of electricity.



My moral compass, small as it may be, screams that this is wrong, that I shouldn't take advantage of my best friend in his time of pain. The much larger douche-bag portion of my brain roars in triumph and round-house kicks my moral compass in the face. Jimmy is kissing me! My Jimmy! And moral compass or not, I'm sure as hell not going to stop him.



The sofa now forgotten, I push him against the closest wall and press myself against him, feeling his heat, his heaving chest and oh God, his hardness. He's hard! I deepen our kiss and rub myself against him. He groans and his head falls back against the wall with a thunk.



I attack his throat, sucking and biting along the pulse, my hands sliding down his back and gripping him closer. He lets out a strangled half moan/sigh and I come in my pants right then, like a horny teenager. Oh shit buckets! I haven't done that since before I had pubes.



I slide down to my knees so that my face is level with his crotch. He looks down at me, eyes wide, and I rub my chin along his hardness. He lets out a surprised huff of air, and then a quiet "Shiiiit." I grin against his jeans and set about getting them off of him.



I pop the top button, then slide the zipper down with my teeth. He presses his hips forward, and I mouth him through the soft cotton of his underwear. I take my time, peeling his jeans away while still tonguing the now wet material with his straining heat beneath.



I place one hand against his stomach, and marvel at the way the muscles flutter underneath my touch. He smells amazing, and I can taste the tang of his arousal even through his tighty-whities. I suck harder, relishing the flavor, and he begins to jerk.



"Oh shit. Oh please" he breathes. Jeans now around his knees, I take mercy on him and release him from the confines of his Y-fronts.



His cock is as beautiful as the rest of him and I eye it hungrily, before dragging my lips across the length of it. His knees threaten to buckle, and I use my hands to press his hips against the wall, before wetting my lips and letting him slip inside my mouth.



He moans again, and I would have creamed myself a second time if I was any younger. I pull back, then press forward again, working my tongue along the underside of his prick. One shaking hand grabs my head for support and I tighten my grip on his hips to ensure he won't fall.



In and out. In and out. I set up a rhythm, and before long, he tenses up and cries out, and I do my best to not look like an amateur and choke on his jizz. I release my grip on him and he slowly slides down the wall until he is sitting face to face with me.



Now that I've gotten what I wanted, my conscience manages to speak more loudly. That was a really shitty thing to do; taking advantage of him like that. I brace myself for a verbal attack, but instead, he gently pushes my hair out of my eyes and ducks his head to look into my face.



He seems to think about what he's going to say, but then settles with "Wow."



"Surprise!" I say, trying to sound flip, and failing miserably at it.



"I … I didn't know you liked boys," he says, carefully.



"I don't like boyZAH," I say, emphasizing the plural, "just one."



"Really?" he asks, sagely. "Do I know him?"



I look at him, confused, then he cracks a smile.



"I uh …" he pauses, unsure of how to continue. "I've been hoping you would do that for a long time now." He looks down at his lap, then back at me, horrified. "I mean, not THAT, but um…"



"Kiss you?" I ask.



"Yeah."



"Okay," I say, and place my mouth over his again.





"Are you going to make a sandwich with that? Or write it a love letter?"



I looked down at my hands and was surprised to see that I was holding a package of roast beef. "I uh …a sandwich, I guess."



Coach leaned forward, a look of concern creasing his brow. "Are you okay, Chazz? You look like you're crying."



I put a hand up to my cheek and wiped at the wetness there. "No. But I think I might be remembering stuff."



"Really," he said, putting his own sandwich down on his plate, "What kind of stuff?"



I opened my mouth to reply, but then shut it. Shit. To say out loud that I think I'd been banging Jimmy made it sound even more … wrong. Hell, Coach was like a father to him.

I jerked as a jolt of pain shot through my forehead. When I pulled my hands away from my face, they were red.



Red.



Why did that seem familiar? I stared at them dumbly, my mind searching for that memory, until Coach shoved a wet towel against my face and pushed me down onto a kitchen chair.



"Chazz! What the hell was that? You flinched, said something crazy about the sun, then blood started pouring out of your nose." He pulled the towel from my face to check the bleeding, then put it back on. "Keep pressure on it, I'm gonna get Jimmy."



"I'm fine," I said, tilting my head back, "it was just a … What? What kind of sun?"



"I don't know, desert? Yeah, the desert sun," said Coach, shrugging. "You said something else too, but I was too busy watching blood spew out of your nose to catch it. Now sit tight."



I nodded and pressed the cloth to the bridge of my nose.



"Coach, wait!" I called, stopping him in the doorway, "Did you have a heart attack last year?"



He considered the question for a moment, then; "No." He turned to go and my chest felt suddenly heavy. Then these weren't memories after all. Just dreams, or … visons, or some fucked up sexual fantasies.



"Oh wait," he said pausing, "You must mean my angina attack. Yeah, was hospitalized last year." He left to get Jimmy and my own heart began to beat faster.