Frigid rain falls steadily from a leaden sky as the train pulls into Union Station in Portland. Even the dreary weather cannot keep Tigger from bouncing up and down on the edge of his seat. It’s a habit he’s had all his life. As a child his mother teased him that he was bouncier than a rubber ball. His liveliness had earned him his nickname.
You should have grown out of this by now, he chides himself. You’re an adult. You should be able to sit calmly. But his heart is racing, his palms are wet, and his stomach has tied itself into a Celtic knot. He has more nervous energy than can possibly be contained by sitting still.
He searches the platform eagerly for a glimpse of Harold, although he knows that the only people on the platform are Amtrak employees. He’s looking forward to spending the long January weekend catching up with his friend who he hasn’t seen since school started in September.
As the train glides to a smooth stop, the other passengers queue at the door, waiting for it to open. Tigger reaches for his suitcase in the overhead bin. Grabbing the handle, he yanks, but the suitcase is a tight fit for the space and doesn’t budge. Suppressing his frustration, Tigger steps up onto the seat to get a better angle on the stubborn luggage and, with a little struggle, manhandles the case down onto the floor. He glances up to see if anyone has seen him climbing on the furniture, but the door is open now and the other passengers are too intent on exiting the train to notice.
He hurries after them, smiling at the official who’s helping passengers down the steps, but ignoring his helping hand. Once on the platform he pauses to extend the handle on his rolling case. Out of habit he shakes his pale blond bangs out of his eyes and pushes his glasses back onto the bridge of his too-small nose. He glances down at his crotch to make sure his dick is behaving. That too is habit. He’s wearing chinos with pleats in the front to hide his erection, in case he gets one—which is likely. Ever since he was thirteen he’s had an embarrassing problem: he has no control over when and where his cock will decide to stiffen to its full, thick, just-shy-of-eight-inch glory. Tigger’s cock, when hard, is difficult to hide on his small frame and he lives in dread of his next humiliating incident. He wonders if he will ever get to a stage in life where a hint of gorgeous man won’t instantly cause his blood to run south and whether he’ll be disappointed when that happens.
By the time he makes his way inside the station, his heart is lodged securely in his throat, hammering away like a woodpecker. Relax! It’s just Harold, he scolds himself. Just Harold, one of his friends from high school. Just Harold, the friend he’s had a crush on since forever—well, since the first day of seventh grade when the other boy had graced him with his brilliant smile and taken a seat next to him on the school bus.
Then Harold’s there, smiling that same smile—the one that lights up his whole face. Harold’s blue eyes are twinkling as he pushes his way toward Tigger. He’s all lean and angular; his hands are slender, his cheekbones sharply cut. His spiky black hair is longer on one side than the other, and his bangs are bright blue.
“Hey, Tig.” Harold sticks his fist up for a bump.
Tigger, who had been about to drag Harold into a hug, hastily readjusts and meets his fist with a firm tap. “Hey, Harold, you look fantastic.” Oh shit! Is that a gay thing to say? He recovers by adding, “I think you’ve gotten even taller, and your hair is unreal!”
Harold grins. “You like it? My roommate’s calling me ‘emo boy’ now. I’m not sure how much I like that music, but I do like the style.”
“Yeah, it looks good on you.” Harold’s skin was pale, his lips full, and his nose just a bit long. His eyes are too full of merriment to carry off the sulky look that most emo boys have though. Tigger notices the tunnel plugs in his ears—those were new. Harold had gotten his eyebrow and lip pierced at the end of their senior year of high school.
“You’re going all the way, huh?” Tigger asks, touching his ear lightly.
“Only with you, babe.” Harold’s grin widens.
Tigger feels his cheeks grow hot. He can’t mean that. He’s not gay. He’s just teasing me. That thought does not stop the flames from spreading like wildfire across his face.
“We’ll need to catch the light-rail outside,” Harold says, not seeming to notice Tigger’s blush as he leads the way to the door.
“Looks like Steve’s in the shower.” Harold flops down on his bed in the small dorm room. “I hope he hurries—I gotta piss.”
Tigger parks his suitcase at the foot of Harold’s narrow bed and takes a seat at the desk on Harold’s side of the room. “So how do you like Portland State?”
“It’s good. I like Portland a lot. I can get around almost everywhere with my bike or their light-rail system. School’s not going so well. My teacher for freshman English is an uptight bitch. Man, I hate that class.”
“How about your other classes?”
“There’s way too much fuckin’ reading for History—I mean, who cares about all that shit that happened a couple hundred years ago?”
Tigger doesn’t say anything. He likes History.
“And my math class—I don’t know. The teacher seems cool, but he’s going way too fast. He lost me the first week.” Harold shakes his head, a frown darkening his handsome face. “Last semester I barely squeaked by with ‘C’s. I might have to get a tutor or something.” He glances up at Tigger and his gloom drops away like darkness in the face of a blazing sun. He smiles his heart-stopping smile and Tigger melts a little.
“What about you? How’s U-dub?”
“It’s great,” Tigger replies. “I haven’t seen much of the city. I’ve mostly been sticking close to campus.” In truth, Tigger had been petrified of going out in the big city. Coming from the small town of Centralia, Seattle is overwhelming. He spends most of his time in his dorm room or at the library with his face in a book. He made all ‘A’s his first semester.
Suddenly the small room shrinks to half its previous size as the door to the bathroom flies open and a very large, very muscled young man steps into the room.
“Oh thank god!” Harold dashes into the bathroom.
Tigger stares. Harold’s roommate is naked except for a towel around his waist. His short blond hair sticks to his head in wet curls that drip onto his shoulders and slide enticingly down his sculpted chest. Thick blond fur covers his torso, forearms, and legs. His abs are the most defined Tigger has seen outside of a magazine spread. Tigger’s mouth goes dry.
Steve glances at him. His gray eyes take him in and seem to dismiss him as not worthy of his attention. He turns to his dresser and begins rummaging through his drawers.
Tigger is treated to a view of perfect deltoids and lats. Steve’s arms are as big around as his own thighs and look as hard as granite. Tigger almost swallows his tongue when the big man drops the towel on the floor revealing an ass that rivals the hottest model Tigger has ever ogled. Steve bends over to slip on a pair of briefs and Tigger’s eyes travel down his lightly furred crack, hoping for a glimpse of his pucker.
Unfortunately, the big blond is efficient and in short order he covers all those wonderful muscles with tight jeans and a T-shirt. As he turns away from the dresser he glances at Tigger again and does a double take.
Tigger has been so lost in the wonder of Mr. Muscle, he hasn’t been aware of his body’s response. Now, as Steve’s eyes zero in on his crotch, he realizes with horror that his painfully hard erection is tenting the front of his pants obscenely. His rampant cock has broken free of the confines of his small briefs, and those pleats that he hoped would conceal a world of sin do nothing to hide him now. As he looks down at himself he notices a wet spot starting to spread right at the tip of his cock.
Shit, shit, shit! Panic fights embarrassment for top billing as he jumps to his feet, moving his hands to hide his shame.
He’s too late though. Steve has obviously gotten an eyeful, and as Tigger looks at the big man, he sees fury blaze in his eyes.
“You fuckin’ faggot!” Steve screams.
Tigger flies backward as pain explodes across his cheek. His head cracks into something hard and sharp, and he cries out as his body slumps to the floor.
A glob of spit lands on Tigger’s cheek. He’s too terrified to move.
Harold comes tearing out of the bathroom, taking in the scene with one quick look. “What the fuck, Steve?” he roars.
The big man whirls around and comes at Harold so fast that Tigger is sure he’s going to hit him too, but instead he gets right up in his face and yells, “Your little faggot friend was perving on me getting dressed. He needs to fuckin’ keep his eyes and his fuckin’ stiffie to himself. Get him the hell out of here! If I catch him in my room again I’ll do more than just punch him.”
Harold steps back a pace, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide. He glances over at Tigger and winces. Then his face darkens with rage and he fixes a deadly glare on Steve who has sat down on his bed and is slamming his feet into tennis shoes. Harold starts to say something but his roommate cuts him off by launching to his feet and jamming a finger into Harold’s chest.
“You better be happy I walked in on you boffin’ that girl, ‘cause otherwise you’d be on the floor too! But you need to do a better job of pickin’ your friends.” He glares at Tigger with such hateful intensity that Tigger’s stomach curls into a little ball.
“I hate fuckin’ faggots! You better be gone by the time I get back. And don’t you get your faggoty germs on any of my stuff.” With that, he shoulders an overstuffed backpack and strides out the door, slamming it with a force that shakes the small room.
“Oh god, Tigger!” Harold kneels on the floor in front of him and wipes away the spit with a tissue. Touching his cheek gently where Steve hit him, he whispers, “I’m so sorry. Let me get you some ice for that.”
“I’m … I’m okay.” Tigger suddenly feels tears well up in his eyes and he blinks hard to keep them at bay. The throbbing of his face and the sharp pain in back of his head are nothing compared to the knife twisting in his chest. Why do people have to be so hateful? He’s been accused of being a faggot before, but never with such hatred. Being spit upon has made him feel unclean. His hand shakes as he reaches up to feel the back of his head where he’d hit it on something—likely the corner of the desk. His fingers come away sticky with blood.
“You’re bleeding!” Harold sounds distraught. “Let me see. Lean forward.”
Tigger obeys, sucking in deep breaths. He feels dizzy.
“Shit! You’re bleeding pretty bad. Maybe we should take you to the clinic.”
“No, I’ll be okay. Head wounds always bleed a lot.” Tigger is amazed at how calm his voice is. He does not want to go into a clinic and explain to someone how he hurt his head. He’s pretty sure he has a bruise blooming on his cheek; clearly he’s been in a fight. Well, not really much of a fight. I didn’t do shit. Steve’s twice my size.
“Just help me to the bathroom. I’ll run some cold water over it.”
“Are you sure? You could have a concussion.”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t hit my head that hard. I didn’t lose consciousness or anything.”
“Maybe I should call campus security.”
“No.” Tigger definitely didn’t want to talk to a macho security guard about being the victim of a hate crime. “Steve’s gone and I’m fine. Just help me up.” Tigger sticks out his non-bloody hand and lets Harold pull him to shaky feet.
The bigger man slips his arm around his shoulders to support him as they make their slow way to the bathroom. He’s acutely aware of Harold’s scent, clean and a little citrusy. The warmth of his arm around his shoulder is comforting and Tigger thinks glumly that if he hadn’t been hurt this closeness with Harold would be a dream come true. As things stand now, as soon as his head quits bleeding, he’ll be trying to catch a train back up to Seattle. He lets out a heavy sigh.
“Here, can you kneel by the tub?” Harold folds a towel and places it on the floor next to the bathtub. “Take off your sweater and I’ll help you rinse off your head. Then we can see how bad it is.”
Harold grabs the hem of his sweater. Tigger helps by reaching his arms over his head. The sweater is tossed aside and Tigger’s T-shirt comes off next. Tigger looks aghast at the big bloody streak on his white T.
“I’ll wash those later,” Harold says. “Here, lean in.”
Tigger dutifully leans into the bathtub, supporting himself with his hands on the floor of the tub. Harold turns the water on.
“It’s going to be cold,” he warns, “but I think that’s best.”
Tigger braces himself and manages not to whimper as Harold urges him under the cold stream. It feels good and he closes his eyes as it washes over his face. After a few minutes his stomach starts to settle. When he peeks, he’s pleased to see the water is no longer pink as it swirls down the drain.
After what seems a long time, long enough for Tigger to start shivering, Harold turns off the water and he feels the other man’s gentle hands in his hair.
“The bleeding has almost stopped. It doesn’t look too bad. How do you feel?”
“C … cold.”
“Come here.” Harold moves from his knees to a sitting position on the rug in the bathroom, his legs splayed out in front of him. With firm hands around Tigger’s waist, he urges him backward to sit between his long limbs. A towel drops over Tigger’s head. He grabs a corner of it to wipe off his face. Harold pulls him into the shelter of his warm arms. His body trembles and he’s horrified when a small whimper comes out of his mouth.
“Shhhh, shhhh, it’s okay Tig,” Harold sooths. “Let me warm you up.”
Tigger blinks against the tears that threaten to flow again. It feels so good to be in Harold’s arms, having him comfort away his pain, but Tigger knows it won’t last. His traitorous dick has ruined everything and now it’s time to go home. He lets himself relax back into Harold for a minute first though.
“How are you feeling?” Harold’s tone is full of concern.
“Okay, I guess. My head hurts. My face hurts too.”
“Once you’re warmed up a bit, I’ll get you some ice.”
They sit there for a few minutes in silence, and Tigger becomes aware of Harold’s warmth against his spine, his strong legs resting against the outside of his own. Harold runs a hand rhythmically across his collarbone and upper arm. As his trembling finally ceases he becomes aware of something else, something hard and blunt and—oh fuck!—gloriously erotic, pushing up against his ass. He stops breathing for a second as it registers that Harold has a hard-on. Panic flashes through him and he closes his eyes tightly.
Harold shifts slightly and the head of his cock rubs against the base of Tigger’s spine. Tigger bites back a moan and forces himself to resume breathing on a regular cadence.
“So, are you?” Harold asks, his voice low and rough.
Tigger shudders at the sexiness in Harold’s voice and the bigger man wraps his arms even tighter around him, resting his chin on Tigger’s shoulder. Tigger suddenly realizes that Harold asked him a question.
“Are you gay?”
Tigger freezes. Harold’s hard cock is clearly evident and his own is just as hard, now thankfully hidden by the towel he’s dropped into his lap. He’d decided not to be in the closet. He had even admitted he was gay to his mother when she’d asked, and his sister had known for some time. But no one else had asked him. A few, like Steve, had accused him, but no one had asked him outright before. He hadn’t come out to his friends yet.
He takes a shuddering breath. If Harold is asking, he must suspect, and if he suspects and is still holding me like this, then he’s not going to suddenly beat me up, Tigger reasons.
“Yes, I … I think so.” Tigger’s voice is a whisper.
“You think so?” Harold’s tone is teasing. “You don’t know?”
“Well, I’ve never … but, yeah, I … I like guys.”
Harold chuckles and shifts, not loosening his hold on Tigger. Tigger feels that delicious hardness pressing against him.
“Are you?” Tigger asked softly.
“No,” Harold answers immediately. He lets go of Tigger and eases back, but then Tigger feels fingers in his hair.
“It looks like it’s stopped bleeding,” Harold says.
Tigger climbs abruptly to his feet. “Let me change my clothes and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“What are you talking about? You’re staying the weekend.”
Tigger keeps his back to Harold, aware that his cock is still swollen; however, it’s rapidly retreating in the face of Harold’s denial.
“I think it’s best if I go.”
Harold puts a hand on his arm and pulls him around so they are face to face. His eyes travel down and take in the slight bulge in Tigger’s pants. The wet spot he’d made earlier while watching Steve is still visible.
Harold smirks. “You’re still having trouble with your dick, huh? You were that way all through high school too. I never saw anyone get hard so quick as you.”
Tigger feels color climbing his cheeks. He nods miserably. “You’d think I was still fourteen the way my dick behaves.”
“Maybe it’s just cause you’re not getting any. You need to find a boyfriend to keep to you satisfied.” Harold smiles at him warmly and Tigger feels a wave of relief. He and Harold can apparently still be friends.
“I’m sorry I perved on your roommate,” he says. “He was fuckin’ perve-worthy but I should have had more discretion.”
“He’s an ass, but a gorgeous ass,” Harold agrees.
Tigger goes into the dorm room and picks up his suitcase, laying it out on Harold’s bed.
“What are you doing?” Harold asks, following him.
“Changing my clothes.” Isn’t that what I just said?
“Why? I mean, you’re not going home already are you?”
“Please stay. I’m sorry my roommate hurt you, but he’s gone for the whole weekend now. I … I’ve been looking forward to hanging out with you. I don’t want you to go.”
Tigger looks up at Harold. The taller man is looking at him with what could only be described as puppy-dog eyes. Aw hell! I have no defense against that!
“But … but I’m gay.” Tigger looks down at his feet as he says this. He doesn’t want to see disgust or disapproval in Harold’s eyes.
“And I care because…?”
“Well, you’re not.”
“Are you planning to rape me?”
Tigger’s head whips up to look at him, shocked at this suggestion. “Of course not!”
Harold laughs. “Then why do you feel you have to go? I don’t even care if you get hard now and again. You were perving on me all through high school and we’re still friends.”
“I … I was…?” Tigger sputters. He can tell his face is bright red, but Harold is smiling at him in a kind of flirting, teasing way. Should I admit I have a crush on him? No, better not. Tigger begins rummaging through his suitcase.
Harold comes up close behind him, his crotch once again in the small of Tigger’s back, although this time Tigger doesn’t detect a hard cock. He reaches around Tigger and stills his hands. “You don’t have to go.” Harold’s voice is low, and his warm breath tickles the back of Tigger’s neck. “I don’t want you to go.”
Tigger can smell Harold’s citrusy scent, and he suppresses a shiver of desire. His damn dick is starting to twitch again. “I still need to change my clothes.”
“No you don’t.” Harold steps away from him and grabs a robe off a hook on the back of the door. “Here, take your pants off and put this on.” He holds it out for Tigger to slide his arms into.
The robe looks soft and warm, and although Tigger isn’t sure he wants to wear it, his body has responded automatically to Harold’s commanding tone. Before he knows it, Harold has slipped the robe over his shoulders. He smells Harold on it and he sighs with contentment as the bigger man massages his neck.
“Take your pants off and I’ll wash them for you.”
Tigger hesitates. If he takes his pants off, he’ll feel vulnerable. But Harold is looking at him expectantly so he takes a deep shaky breath and undoes the fly on his chinos, sliding them off. He leaves his underwear on and belts the robe securely around his slender waist.
“Don’t you want to do something tonight?” he asks. “I don’t want you to have to stay home on my account.”
“The weather’s miserable—it’s pouring out there now. Staying here, ordering pizza, and watching a movie sounds perfect to me. What do you think?”
“Yeah … okay. If that’s what you want. But I could go out with you if you want. I’m fine.”
They’re facing each other now, still standing close. “No,” Harold says, reaching out and touching Tigger’s sore cheek very gently with the tips of his fingers. “Let’s stay in.”
Tigger nods. Closing his suitcase, he shuffles it once more to the foot of Harold’s bed. Taking a seat nervously on the edge of the bed, he makes sure the bathrobe covers him well.
“We should have some ice in here.” Harold is at the mini-fridge on Steve’s side of the room, opening the door. “Oh my god! Steve forgot his beer.” He looks over his shoulder at Tigger with a huge grin on his face. “Normally, I wouldn’t touch his stuff, but I think he owes you at least a six-pack for being a total dickwad. In fact, on Tuesday when the administrative offices open up, I’m going to file a formal complaint.”
“You don’t have to do that. I don’t want to cause trouble between you and him.”
“Don’t worry about it. I was going to see if they could move me in with someone else anyway. I don’t like living with him—he’s a prick. This will be the ammunition I need to convince the powers that be to move me. I might even get a private room.”
“I had a private room for a while. My first roommate didn’t last two weeks before he got too homesick and moved back to Pomeroy. Luckily I met Jon and he moved in with me before they could assign me someone else. Jon’s great.
“Love interest?” Harold asks. His voice is neutral but he’s watching Tigger’s face intently.
“No. He’s gay too, but we’re not each other’s types. We both like big guys and he’s tinier than I am.”
“Big guys, huh?” Harold says. “I’m surprised you liked me in high school. I’m tall, but I’m skinny.” He pops the cap off one of the Henry’s and hands it to Tigger.
Tigger doesn’t like beer, but he accepts it without comment. He can feel his face flushing. “I … I like tall. And thin is better than fat.”
“But you’d prefer muscles, like Steve?”
“Ugh! Did you have to bring him up? Muscles are nice, but really, is a guy that looks like that ever going to go for someone like me?”
Harold raises an eyebrow. “Don’t sell yourself short. With those beautiful aqua eyes, you could probably get anyone you set your heart on.”
Tigger turns his flaming face to the floor and bites his lower lip. He never knows what to say when people compliment him. They often comment on his eyes, which are very pale and can pass for either green or blue, depending on what he’s wearing.
After getting a beer for himself and taking a long pull, Harold busies himself filling a baggie with ice and wrapping a small towel around it. He hands it to Tigger.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Really.”
Harold looks at him with concern but doesn’t come back with, “Are you sure?” Instead he says, “You’re a pepperoni and olive guy, yeah?”
Tigger is startled for a second before he realizes that Harold is talking about pizza toppings. How sweet. He remembers what kind of pizza I like. He feels his insides going gooey and chastises himself. Don’t go thinking you’re special. We ordered pizza so often in high school, it’s probably just etched into his brain. “Yeah, but I’ve branched out a bit. I’ll eat other stuff on my pizza too.”
“Mushrooms?” Harold asks hopefully.
“Sure.” Tigger’s quick smile turns into a wince. His cheek hurts like hell. He might even end up with a shiner. Wouldn’t that be fun to explain to his new friends at school?
An hour later they’d finished eating. While they’d waited for the pizza to arrive, Harold had rinsed the blood out of Tigger’s shirt and sweater and thrown his clothes in the washer along with a load of his own.
“Why don’t you pick out a movie while I run down and put the clothes in the dryer?” Harold hands his laptop to Tigger. “I’ve got a Netflix account or we could watch Hulu or whatever. Sorry I don’t have a bigger screen. We’ll have to sit close.” He throws Tigger a sly grin and Tigger tries again to convince himself that Harold isn’t flirting. It certainly seems like Harold is flirting. Down boy! Tigger orders his deviant cock.
“What kind of movie do you want to watch?”
Harold waggles his eyebrows and taunts, “How about some porn?”
“Absolutely not!” Tigger huffs. He feels like a prude, but he’s sure if they watch porn, he’ll get hard regardless of whether there are boobs involved or not. If Harold got turned on, he’d get turned on. He’s already feeling self-conscious about wearing a bathrobe.
Harold laughs and the sound of it brings a flood of memories: goofing around in the halls of their old high school, swimming at the lake in the summer, playing Nerf Pong in his basement. Tigger can’t help but grin back at him. “I’ll pick something we’ll both like.”
“I’m sure you will.” Harold winks at him and Tigger feels the color rising in his cheeks again.
By the time Harold is back, Tigger has found an old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie, Commando. He loves watching big muscular men run around with no shirts on.
He and Harold sit close, their shoulder’s touching, the laptop balanced between them as they watch the first part of the movie. They drink all of Steve’s beer, Tigger having two and Harold pounding down the other four. Two beers make Tigger feel giggly and Harold is definitely wobbly when they pause the movie so he can retrieve the laundry. When he returns he insists that Tigger sit between his legs for the rest of the movie, saying he’s getting a stiff neck and it would be more comfortable for both of them.
Tigger agrees with some trepidation, glad that the laptop covers his crotch. Harold wraps his warm arms around him and he snuggles back against the bigger man’s chest, loving the way it feels to be held. He can’t help the instant daydream that plays in his mind: Harold is his boyfriend—he gets to snuggle like this with him every day. He hits his mental pause button when it starts to go further, but he has trouble focusing on the movie after that. Harold gently strokes his arm and he feels Harold’s dick swelling against his ass. His own cock, not to be left behind, immediately engorges beneath the warmth of the laptop.
After a time Harold’s hand steals from his arm across his chest and begins to pet the sparse hairs there. Tigger’s breath hitches and he fights to keep his heartbeat under control, sure that Harold will feel it and know how he’s affecting him.
When Harold’s lips touch the side of his neck, he squirms in panic and would have pulled away if Harold hadn’t tightened his arms.
“What are you doing?” His voice is high.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Harold murmurs, kissing along his neck.
Heat flushes through Tigger and he gasps for air, suddenly light-headed. His mind is screaming at him to pull away, but his body refuses to obey. He can’t do anything but lie there and let Harold nuzzle him. “But … but you’re straight!” he finally manages to stutter.
“I never said that.” Harold’s hand moves over to gently pinch one of his nipples.
“Ungh!” Tigger is not able to control the sound that comes out of his mouth or the twitch of his hips. As Harold continues to torture his nipple, he throws his head back against his shoulder and lets out a long moan.
He feels Harold chuckling against his neck. “You’re very sensitive,” he whispers in his ear. His fingers abandon the now-stiff nub and move slowly across his chest to start in on the other one.
That brief respite is enough for Tigger to gain a tiny bit of control over his body and he grabs Harold’s hand in desperation. “Wh … what?”
Harold manages to extricate his hand, but instead of going back to play with Tigger’s nipples, he touches his jaw, tipping Tigger’s head toward him.
“You have such kissable lips.”
The sound of Harold’s voice, low and silky, sends a shiver through him. He’s sure he’s dreaming. That’s it. I’ve fallen asleep while watching the movie and am having a wet dream about my high school crush.
He pants softly while Harold removes his glasses and sets them on his desk. Then Harold shifts around and leans in to kiss him.
Tigger is too startled to protest. Hell, he doesn’t want to protest. If this is a dream, he’ll run with it. But the lips on his feel very real, warm and soft, and Harold’s breath smells like beer and little like pepperoni, which he doesn’t think he’d paint into a wet dream. He can feel Harold’s hard-on pushing into his hip.
Harold deepens the kiss and began to rock against Tigger with a gentle rhythm while his fingers find Tigger’s nipple again.
Tigger’s brain goes into overload. He’s never been kissed like this or touched at all, and he’s unable to process the amazing sensations. Harold’s tongue thrusts into his mouth and he groans around it—loudly. He feels Harold smile against his lips, and then he moves his face away and the weight of the laptop leaves Tigger’s groin. He hears Harold close it with a snap and shuffle it to the side. Harold settles behind him again.
Tigger feels cool air waft over his cock as soon as it’s freed from its electronic prison. With a panicked whimper he looks to see how much of a fool he is making of himself. Sure enough, his cock is fully erect and plainly visible, having fought its way out of a gap in the bathrobe to proudly proclaim that it’s ready to go. A bead of precum gathers at the head.
“Oh, that’s gorgeous.” Harold’s voice is husky. “Can I touch it?”
It takes Tigger several seconds to process what Harold said. His brain feels like it’s filled with mush. Boiling mush. Before he’s able to respond, Harold’s hand wraps around his cock, his thumb sliding over the slit to gather the precum.
Tigger loses any semblance of sanity he might have had. His head drops down against Harold’s shoulder, his eyes squeeze shut, and his hips buck on their own accord as Harold begins to stroke him.
“Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.” The words stream out of Tigger’s mouth without any direction from his brain. Harold jacks him with a slow rhythm and his hips come forward to help. The taller man begins to grind his own crotch against him; he can feel an iron-hard cock rubbing against his butt crack, the plush of the bathrobe starting to get damp. Harold’s other hand begins to pinch one of his nipples and he hears himself emit a hoarse cry.
Struggling to get air into his lungs, he fights for control over his mouth. He’s spiraling into the stratosphere, every raw nerve in his body on sensory overload. He gasps out, “Ha … Harold!”
Harold speeds up his rhythm, his hand racing up and down Tigger’s leaking cock. Tigger feels his balls draw up and his whole world flies apart. His body is no longer in one piece. Each separate molecule screams in pleasure as it disintegrates.
He feels heat splashing across his chest but distantly, as if it were miles away.
“Yeah, Tig. That was so hot.” He hears Harold, feels his breath tickle his ear, but he can’t respond. He tries to gather himself together again, taking slow mental inventory. Yes, my fingers are still here. I think I still have toes. My hands are resting on the bed. My legs feel like jelly.
Suddenly he feels something frigid on his chest and his body coalesces in a snap. His eyes fly open and he sees that Harold has taken the hand towel off of the ice pack and is using it to clean the evidence of his release off of him.
“Oh!” Tigger says. His brain is still not functioning enough to form a sentence.
Harold finishes his task and sets the cloth aside; then his hand strays back to Tigger’s chest to finger one of his nipples.
Tigger groans. His nipple is so sensitive it’s almost painful, but Harold’s touch is gentle. Harold’s lips move along his shoulder and up the side of his jaw, bestowing playful kisses. Harold’s cock is still hard and insistent between his ass cheeks.
He suddenly has an overwhelming desire to see it, to touch it, to taste its salty essence. But now that he’s no longer in the throes of pre-orgasmic delirium, his usual caution reasserts itself. He needs to find out what Harold is thinking.
“What’s going on?” he murmurs. His body feels so languid that no matter how he wills his voice to sound it comes out torpid.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not gay?”
“No, I like girls.”
“But … I’m not a girl.”
“I noticed.” Harold laughs softly. “I guess I like guys too. But you’re the only one I’ve ever done this with. Most guys, like my muscle-bound roommate, I’m not attracted to at all, but you … you’re beautiful … and soft … and hot.”
Hot? Tigger twists in Harold’s arms until he’s facing him, their groins together. His bathrobe gaps wide to reveal his bare chest, abs, and slowly reawakening cock. He sees Harold’s eyes skim appreciatively over him and he can’t help but shimmy against him.
“Oh!” Harold’s head drops back. His hands scrabble under Tigger’s robe to grab his small ass, a cheek in each palm. He squeezes and moans, pushing his hips forward, rubbing his crotch against Tigger’s. “You’re so sexy,” he rasps.
How can I possibly be sexy? Tigger looks on in awe as Harold writhes below him, his face limned with ecstasy. Oh God! The realization that he is causing this reaction in Harold is exhilarating. A sudden burning desire to strip Harold naked, to touch, to taste, to tantalize him, overwhelms Tigger. He slips his hands under the hem of Harold’s shirt and runs his fingers up his lean chest, finding a patch of curly hair to tug.
Driven by an instinct he doesn’t question, Tigger yanks Harold’s shirt up and presses his face against the curls, breathing in the musky scent of his sweat-damp skin. The texture against his cheek is scratchy. He can hear Harold breathing, fast and loud, almost panting as his hips grind into Tigger’s. The fabric and button of his jeans are rough against Tigger’s bare skin.
Tigger pulls back, stilling Harold. His fumbling hands go to Harold’s fly on their own accord and start tugging at the button. What are you doing? Tigger’s natural shyness interrupts his libido. He freezes.
Harold looks at him from under eyelids heavy with passion. “What did you stop for?” he gasps.
“So you’re bi?” The question slips out without any prior consideration on Tigger’s part.
“I guess so.” Harold’s voice is strained with need. “I must be. I’m so damn turned on right now … by you.” He thrusts his hips forward again.
Tigger can clearly see the outline of his dick, straining against the fabric of his jeans, a telltale wet spot starting to form. His mouth is as dry as the Mohave in July, and he desperately wants to slake his thirst with the fluid emitting from Harold’s fountain.
“May I?” he asks, his fingers poised at Harold’s fly.
“God, yes!” Harold’s answer is almost a groan and it sends a shiver through Tigger. He quickly has Harold’s fly undone. Harold lifts his hips and pushes his jeans and underwear down to his knees. Tigger grabs them and drags them the rest of the way off.
“Shirt, too!” Tigger demands, reaching for the hem.
Harold smirks. “You’re pushy in bed,” he teases as he pulls his shirt off.
“Oh, yeah,” Tigger sighs as he takes in Harold’s naked form stretched out below him. He’s thin, but proportionate. His pale skin contrasts sharply with the dark treasure trail that runs from his belly down to his groin. His cock is gorgeous—perfectly formed and cut, with a thick corona and a leaking slit.
The clear liquid entrances Tigger. Before he can have second thoughts, he sticks his tongue out and sweeps it across the head. The fluid is salty with a bitter, nutty flavor.
“Ungh!” Harold makes a sexy sound deep in the back of his throat.
Tigger flushes with pleasure. I did that to him! Emboldened, he grabs Harold’s thick cock in his hand and runs his tongue around the tip. Another few drops of precum drip out and Tigger thrusts his tongue into the slit, sliding it rapidly back and forth, trying to get all of the salty essence.
Harold has been up on his elbows watching Tigger, and now he drops back, onto the mattress with a low groan. Tigger notes that his hands are fisting the blanket and his body is stiff with tension.
Tigger runs his tongue down the length of Harold’s member, feeling the veins, tasting and licking until he reaches his tight balls. Burying his nose in Harold’s hair, he breathes in his musk. It’s a heady scent and Tigger pauses, savoring.
“Oh, please! Please suck,” Harold gasps out.
Does he mean his balls or his dick? Tigger wonders. Maybe both.
He pulls one of the orbs into his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue and sucking gently.
Harold sounds like he’s coming unglued. Tigger can’t help but glance up at him. His eyes are closed tight and his face is scrunched up. He’s out of control. I’m doing that to him! The thrill is empowering.
Tigger sucks and licks Harold’s balls to a cacophony of appreciative sounds. Moving slowly, he kisses his way back up Harold’s engorged cock.
“Tigger!” Harold cries his name on a plea.
Tigger smiles as he takes Harold’s head into his mouth. It feels so right. He’s imagined this so many times; it’s just like he imagined and not, at the same time. It’s instinctive to pull his lips over his teeth and suck down the hard length of tender skin encasing steel. His lips slide until he triggers his gag reflex, then he starts back up, marking the place with a firm hand wrapped around the base of Harold’s shaft. All of this he expected. What he didn’t expect was that he could feel every vein in Harold’s cock with his tongue. He also hadn’t imagined that his lover would be moaning as if he were being tortured with pleasure.
He thought he would feel embarrassed, but he doesn’t have room in his head for embarrassment; he’s too engrossed in his task. He starts up a rhythm, his hand sliding naturally with his lips, his tongue playing with the veins and the ridges. He feels like he’s been born to suck cock.
Harold makes a desperate sound and thrusts his hips. Tigger gamely swallows a little deeper. He can feel Harold’s muscles, taut as a coiled spring, and a light sheen of perspiration breaks out across his lover’s skin. He must be close now.
“T … Tig!” Harold’s voice cracks. Tigger feels movement in Harold’s balls and then his mouth is filled with salty goo. Harold lets out a loud groan and cants his hips. Tigger swallows rapidly. The cum fills his mouth and he struggles to stay with Harold’s bucking hips. He’s surprised at the amount of cum and swallows as quickly as he can.
Harold’s groans roll into a moan as his movements slow and stop.
Tigger gives his softening cock a few more licks and looks up at his face. His eyes are closed, his jaw relaxed; he looks asleep.
Tigger crawls up to lay next to him. “Harold?”
Harold opens his eyes and smiles at Tigger sleepily. “That was awesome,” he murmurs.
“It was okay?” Tigger asks even though, judging from the sounds Harold made, it was more than okay. Pride fills him. He feels warm all over.
Harold nods. “It was unbelievable, Tig. That can’t have been your first time.”
“You’re amazing. Come’ere.” He pulls Tigger down into a sloppy kiss and then breaks off abruptly, laughing. “You taste like cum!”
“Your cum,” Tigger points out.
“I guess that’s okay, then.”
Tigger dives back in for another kiss. His cock has reawakened during the excitement of the blowjob, and now it’s poking insistently into Harold’s bare hip, drooling precum.
Harold thrusts his tongue into Tigger’s mouth and he answers eagerly, sliding his own tongue around Harold’s. His hips launch into a dance of their own, rubbing his cock against Harold’s bare skin.
Harold slips his hands down and cups his small ass firmly, pulling Tigger more fully on top of him and encouraging his thrusts. A whimper of desire comes out of Tigger’s mouth.
Harold pulls out of the kiss to whisper in his ear, “You’re so fucking sexy. I love it when you lose it like this.”
Have I lost it? Tigger wonders. He’s too deep in a lustful haze to figure it out. His cock feels amazing sliding against Harold’s smooth skin, and he can’t get enough of Harold’s hot mouth. The bigger man’s hands stroke his back then move down to squeeze and knead his butt. He moans around the tongue exploring his mouth.
He’s in heaven. Warm skin on warm skin. His hands have found their way to Harold’s firm ass; he can feel his lover’s muscles under his fingertips, clenching as Harold pushes up against him, helping him rub his cock against his hard abdomen. Sparks of ecstasy radiate from the tip of his cock up his shaft, past his balls, and right into his gut. He hears moaning gasps and realizes that the sounds are coming from him, but there’s nothing he can do to stop them. He’s lost all control over his body. He’s on a freight train heading toward a broken trestle, helpless to pull to a stop before he plunges into the abyss. Not that he wants to stop, he just wants to prolong the delicious, torturous journey.
He’s whimpering desperately into Harold’s neck. He doesn’t remember ending the kiss, but he’s incapable of doing anything now except humping and clutching and making feral, needy sounds. Then the train rushes headlong over the cliff and Tigger screams. His rhythm breaks as he slams his hips against Harold in jerks, cumming in thick spurts all over his stomach.
It seems to take a long time for his brain to come back from La La Land. He feels Harold’s fingers gently stroking through his hair. His cheek is resting on the bigger man’s chest. He breathes in Harold’s scent and sighs.
“You okay, Tig?” Harold asks softly.
Tigger has a hard time operating the muscles that move his head in a slight nod. “Never better,” he mumbles.
Tigger suppresses a sigh as he turns the page in his history text. When he realizes he has no idea what the last three paragraphs said, he turns the page back to reread them.
I need to pull myself out of this, he tells himself angrily. There is no reason to be acting like a lovesick middle-schooler.
Those three days with Harold had been the best in his life. He didn’t see much of Portland, but he’d tried very hard to make up for nineteen years of celibacy. They had licked and sucked and stroked and touched until both of them had been thoroughly sated. By the time he’d said a sorrowful good-bye to Harold at the train station, his cock had been rubbed raw and his balls sucked dry—literally.
He sighs again deeply, glad that his roommate is not there; Jon would be giving him shit for his pathetic state. At the same time he can’t help but wish that Jon was there to take his mind off the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day and he hasn’t heard one word from Harold.
He thought for sure he would get at least a text from him today, but the day is drawing into evening, and it’s looking less and less likely. They texted back and forth a lot right after Tigger had come home, but within a few days Harold became much slower to respond. Tigger had called him that next weekend, but he’d sounded distracted and cut the conversation short. After that his text messages got still fewer and further between. Sometimes Tigger would send two or three texts without getting an answer back.
Harold said he was just really busy, but Tigger can’t help thinking that isn’t the reason. He sent Harold four texts yesterday and still hasn’t received a response. He refuses to let himself contact Harold again. He knows how to get ahold of me. Tigger glances at his phone again. It’s depressingly blank.
He can only think that Harold doesn’t share his feelings. Harold doesn’t want a boyfriend. It was just a weekend fling for him. I refuse to chase after someone who doesn’t want me. I will not be one of those whiney, clingy saps who doesn’t have enough self-respect to walk away when it’s clear the relationship is over.
What relationship? Tigger desperately hopes that they can at least still be friends, but it’s going to be damn awkward.
I can’t believe he hasn’t even texted “Happy Valentine’s Day” to me. Tigger blinks back tears. Maybe he doesn’t think about stuff like that. Maybe he doesn’t think about me at all.
It really hurts to think that, because Harold is all Tigger can think about. He keeps trying to get his mind off of the tall handsome man, but it doesn’t matter how he distracts himself, Harold is always a thought away. I should have never gone down there in the first place, he tells himself, but he immediately recants that thought. No, it was all good—then. If I can just get over this pathetic heartbreak, I’ll have some wonderful memories that maybe someday won’t be so painful. He swallows down the lump in his throat. It was perfect. And now it’s over.
I’m an idiot to let myself fall in love. Why didn’t I guard my heart? Why didn’t I see it the same way Harold saw it—two buddies jacking each other off for fun. That’s all. That’s all it ever was.
The clock on his desk is ticking excruciatingly slowly. Still, if he doesn’t get himself together in the next ten minutes, he’ll miss dinner in the dining hall.
He’s not hungry.
Ugh! I need to snap out of this!
He decides to force himself to eat something just to pretend that nothing is wrong. His body feels lethargic, almost as if he has the flu. He drags himself out of bed, sheds his sweats, and pulls on the first pair of jeans that comes to hand. Glancing in the mirror, he runs a hand through his pale hair. The big blue-green eyes that stare back at him look sad.
He slips on his tennis shoes and is just reaching for his coat when there is a knock on the door.
Probably someone looking for Jon, he thinks. He makes an effort to brighten his face—he can’t quite manage a smile—then swings wide the door.
Harold is standing there with a huge grin on his face and a bouquet of a dozen red roses.
“Hey, Tigger—Happy Valentine’s Day!” Harold’s radiant smile is directed at him.
Tigger melts. He can’t seem find any words to say. He can’t seem to control his muscles at all, especially the one between his ears. But that doesn’t matter because Harold is taking control. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. He sets the flowers on the dresser and pulls Tigger into his arms.
“I missed you,” he says as his lips descend on Tigger’s.
Tigger’s world turns on end. Harold’s familiar scent envelopes him. Harold’s strong arms wrap around his waist. Harold’s lips are warm and demanding. His lethargic body is suddenly full of energy. He snakes his arms around Harold’s neck, tangling his fingers in the heavy dark hair. A whimper erupts from the back of his throat as his lips press hungrily against Harold’s.
All of that horrible tension, those feelings of unworthiness, drain away. He wants me! He came all the way up here to see me on Valentine’s Day. Suddenly a million questions crash into his mind and he pulls away from Harold, gasping.
“How did you get here?”
Harold smiles his stunning smile. “I took the train.”
“And how did you get into the building?”
“Jon let me in.”
“Yes, I wanted to surprise you. I’ve been planning this for a while and Jon is in on it—he’s found someplace else to stay for the next couple of days.”
“Really?” Tigger is shocked. “I thought … you didn’t answer any of my texts yesterday.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was crazy busy and then my cell phone died. I got all your messages this morning, but I knew I was going to see you soon and I wanted to say Happy Valentine’s Day in person.”
“Really?” Tigger had convinced himself so thoroughly that Harold didn’t want him, he’s having trouble believing what Harold is saying.
“Yes, really. I’ve missed you so much. I’m sorry I haven’t been more communicative. I’ve not much of a phone guy.”
Harold is looking at Tigger with so much longing—love?—in his eyes, Tigger feels light-headed. Perhaps he’s walked into a dream. Nothing is real.
“I’ve made reservations for us at Le Pichet at eight-thirty. Is that okay? Can I take you out to dinner?”
“Y … yes.”
“I can’t believe I’m finally here with you. You’re so beautiful.” Harold pushes a lock of Tigger’s hair out of his eyes. “Will you be my Valentine Tigger?” His voice is husky with emotion.
A huge smile erupts across Tigger’s face. He can’t remember the last time he felt this happy. “Yes! Oh, yes!”
Harold swoops in for another kiss and Tigger meets his onslaught with enthusiasm. He’s instantly lost in a maelstrom of passion. Harold’s tongue thrusts into his mouth and he sucks on it eagerly. He feels strong hands gripping his butt, massaging, and he pushes his swelling erection against Harold’s, feeling the heat of him even through his jeans.
Harold’s hands move around to the front of his jeans, tugging at the button.
Tigger breaks away from the kiss for a gasp of air.
“We have time for a quickie now before we have to get ready for dinner.” Harold is breathless. “Then maybe after dinner we can take our time.”
Tigger looks into Harold’s deep blue eyes. “That sounds perfect, Valentine.”