The Mating of Michael (18 page)

“Can you describe what’s going through your mind?” Michael asked gently.

“You’re, um, bigger than me. Your thighs are really pale and pretty.”

“You sure? You’d better check again.”

Lem turned and looked a little longer this time. He turned back around. “You’re not circumcised.”

“No. My mom is a nurse. She never saw much sense in it.”

“Oh.”

“Are you circumcised?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s probably for the best. Most men are. If anything, I think men find it a little intimidating if it’s not.”

Lem licked his lips nervously, but he didn’t say anything. He turned and looked again, though.

“What else?”

“Your, um, your scrotum is smaller and tighter than mine. Less… less hangy and gross.”

Michael smiled. “Yeah? Well, I kind of like hangy ones myself, but I’m glad you think so.”

Lem swallowed and stared. “You don’t have much hair.”

“I take most of it off, particularly around my scrotum and down in here.” Michael reached down to stroke his perineum, spreading his legs a little farther.

“Okay. Why?”

“I just like it. I like feeling smooth when I touch myself there. And I think some guys like it too. What about you? Do you prefer hairy guys?”

“I… I don’t… I never really….” Lem stammered.

Michael just watched him and waited patiently.

“You look good,” Lem finally managed, getting redder by the minute. “Clean, I guess. But if someone else that I like, that likes me, I mean, if they were natural, that’s okay too. I don’t expect….”

“You’re right, it’s not that important, is it?” Michael agreed honestly.

Lem sighed in relief. “No.”

“Would you like to see how the foreskin works?” Michael took himself in hand and rolled back the foreskin. “When I’m limp like this, the foreskin hides the head completely, but when I have an erection, most of it peeks out.”

“Oh.”

“It’s very soft.” Michael rolled the end of the foreskin between his fingers. “Would you like to feel it?”

Lem blinked, seemingly mesmerized by what Michael’s fingers were doing. “Okay,” he said after a bit. He scooted a little closer. Michael released himself and folded his hands calmly on his ribs.

Lem glanced up at them. “You have a n-nice chest.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

It was so formal and polite. Michael bit back a smile. Lem wiped some more sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “I’m sorry I’m nervous. I was doing better last week.”

“It’s okay. This is kind of a big deal. I think you’re doing fantastic.” Michael made his voice, his posture, everything about himself relaxed as if to say,
no big deal, just a normal day, ho hum
. He hoped the lack of tension would rub off on Lem. It wasn’t working gangbusters, but it was probably helping. He actually reached out to touch Michael’s cock.

He tentatively stroked down the foreskin with one finger, petting it. “Soft,” he said, drawing his hand back.

“Make sure you get a good feel. You might not see another guy who’s uncut like this.”

Lem glanced up at him in surprise, as if that hadn’t occurred to him. But he reached out and stroked it a little more. “It’s really, really soft. Nice.”

“Want to check and see how my scrotum feels while you’re at it?”

Lem stroked his finger lower, running it over Michael’s hairless balls before pulling it back entirely. “Okay,” Lem whispered, looking a little shell-shocked.

He shifted uncomfortably, and Michael could tell that Lem had an erection. His hands in his lap were shaking, and there was a pokey tent in his dress pants. Michael wasn’t sure how much further he should take this. Jack had wanted him to try a full show and tell, though, and Michael’s gut told him Lem was hanging in there.

“Have you ever watched two men having sex, like on a video or online?”

Lem swallowed and nodded. “Dr. Halloran gave me homework. A DVD. It was… better than the stuff they have online. I tried to watch that before, but it seemed so… I couldn’t do it. But the DVD had a doctor talking and then two men, and it was more….”

“Loving?” Michael asked.

“Yeah,” Lem whispered.

“So in that video, they talk about how the most important thing is finding out what your partner likes and showing your partner what you like. Most men like having their shaft rubbed up and down, but different people might like different pressure, or speed, or more attention to the glans, or less.”

Lem nodded. “I like a lot.” As if realizing what he’d said, he blushed furiously.

“Yeah? I do too, but only when I’m very hard. Before that, too much attention there feels like too much.”

“Oh.”

Lem was looking down at his hands again.

“Would you like to see more?”

Lem glanced at him. “Like what?”

“Did you watch the last part of that video, on anal sex?”

Lem nodded, looking a little ashamed to admit it.

“Would you like to see what I look like there?”

Lem hesitated. “That’s really dirty,” he whispered anxiously.

“It’s not dirty, Lem,” Michael said solemnly. “It’s a natural part of your body like your nose or your ears or your belly button. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It can be beautiful to make love to someone there. It feels really nice.”

Lem considered it, biting his lips. He nodded again.

Michael shifted a little lower and pulled his legs up to his chest, exposing himself. Lem blew out a big breath and stared. “Wow.”

“You okay?”

“That is… this is… really weird.”

Michael laughed. “Yeah, it kind of is. But being not-weird is highly overrated, don’t you think? And it’s educational, right?”

Lem tittered nervously. “Dr. Halloran said I should think of it that way.”

“Want to see what it feels like there?”

Lem didn’t even answer. He just reached out to stoke his fingertip over Michael’s anus. He got a sort of strangled look and stroked it back and forth, back and forth, his fingers shaking. Then the tip of one finger penetrated a little, and Lem shuddered all over and made a strange sound. He pulled back and shifted his body away abruptly.

Michael’s heart rate picked up, and he got a flush of heat down his body. He started to plump up, which was really bad timing. He’d thought he might show Lem what he looked like erect, if Lem seemed to be handling things okay. But sometimes, sessions just went sideways, and that was all she wrote.

Michael sat up and tied his robe closed. He shifted to sit closer to Lem and leaned into his arm a little. “You okay?”

Lem didn’t answer. His head was turned away, but Michael could tell he was mortified.

“Hey. You did a great job with that. You get a gold star,” Michael said warmly.

“I… I came in my pants.” Lem’s voice was low and embarrassed.

“I know.” Michael bumped his shoulder a little harder. “That’s kind of hot, really.”

“It is?” Lem looked at him in surprise.

Michael smiled. “Totally.”

Lem looked confused. “Why? I thought… isn’t that called premature, um… you know?”

“Nah, not your first time. You get a couple of free passes ’til you get used to the whole deal. Anyway, it’s hot to think that someone was so turned on by touching me that they orgasmed. Wouldn’t you feel sexy if that happened to you? If John touched you and thought it was so hot that he came right there?”

Lem got a little humorous light in his eyes. “Yeah. I don’t think he’d be touching me there, though. At least not in the office.”

Michael laughed. “No, I suppose not. My tax accountant never offered.”

Lem laughed out loud. He took a shaky breath. “Well anyway, I’m not attractive like you.”

“When you find the right guy, he’ll think you are. You did great today. You just looked at a naked man and touched one. That’s major progress, isn’t it?”

Lem thought about it. He smiled. “I guess it is.”

“Totally. So! You can clean up in my bathroom while I make some tea. Sound good?”

“L
OS
A
NGELES
to Denver,” James said smugly, turning over his destination card.

“Crap.” Lance rolled his eyes. “Between you and Devon, I never win this game.”

“And you have to put up with our ugly mugs on top of that,” James quipped. “You’re either a saint or a masochist.”

“He’s got five kids, so that goes without saying,” Devon snarked, not without affection.

Devon drew a train car. He was close to completing a route from Washington to Boston. It always seemed to work out that way. James and Devon, who was a fierce competitor, always ended up on opposite coasts in Ticket to Ride. And probably in life too, at least metaphorically.

“Your turn,” he said to Lance.

It was James’s monthly Friday game night with his old writers’ group. Five members were left—Devon, Lance, Frank, Allison, and James. They were all science fiction writers, and all but Frank were published. Frank “wrote for himself,” and he wrote weird-ass alien bug stuff. Lance had written a series of sci-fi fantasy novels that had not sold well. Allison wrote vampire erotica, and Devon…. Devon had published nearly as much as James. And he never let anyone forget it. When they’d first started meeting, James had been the only one published and a sort of demigod thanks to
Troubadour Turncoat
. Devon lived in a fantasy where he was Anne Baxter to James’s Bette Davis, the ingénue showing up the old horse.

James didn’t much give a shit.

Though they’d started out as a writer’s group, meeting monthly to read and review each other’s work, they’d slowly transitioned to playing games. Devon got paranoid about people seeing his ideas, and James and Lance got tired of Devon’s nitpicky critiques. But no one seemed interested in giving up on the group entirely, least of all James, who had few enough friends. And game nights were fun. Usually.

Allison refilled the chip bowl and then sat back down at her chair where she draped herself over Devon. Their PDA always made James uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because he’d known them both before they got together, or maybe it was the way Devon seemed to flaunt it deliberately under James’s nose, but it always served to remind him that he was alone, that meeting someone and hooking up was something that happened to other people—whole people.

Devon added three cars to his train on his next turn, nearly catching up to James’s lead. But then James had a run of luck and completed Seattle to San Francisco. He won the game.

“Fuck!” Devon turned a disturbing shade of lobster red. He pushed himself back from the table harder than was necessary. “I need another beer.”

“I’ll get it, hon,” said Allison. “Anyone else?”

They all took her up on it. It was still early.

While she was gone, Lance pulled his book bag up from underneath the table. He wore a smile that seemed out of keeping with his just having come in dead last. But then, Lance was a happy soul.

“Hey I picked up the latest issues of
Empire
today. Guess who’s in it?”

He took the magazine from his bag and put it on the table, opened it to a marked page. It was about the Millennial Award. The nominees were listed. And there it was—
Troubadour Turncoat
by J.C. Guise.

“I feel so humbled that one of our very own has been honored,” Lance said, faking an emotional sniff.

“You dog! Congrats, James,” said Frank enthusiastically, finishing off his beer.

James felt a huge swell of pride. He reached for the magazine.

“Lemme see.” Devon grabbed it before James could and turned it around on the table so he could see it.

“Nominees—
Troubadour Turncoat
by J.C. Guise,
American Gods
by Neil Gaiman,
Snow Crash
by Neil Stephenson,
The Andromeda Strain
by Michael Crichton,
Doomsday Book
by Connie Willis,
The Forge of God
by Greg Bear,
Effervescent
by Peter Marlowe. Holy shit!”

James felt his stomach plummet at the list of names. He hadn’t known the other nominees until just now.

“Yeah. Good luck with that,” Devon snorted. “No way will you beat Gaiman or Stephenson. Though Crichton probably will be the sentimental favorite. And Peter Marlowe, he published
Excelente
last year, a huge hit. That thing was on the bestseller list for months. The Millennial Awards are for classic works, but they always pick someone who’s either deceased, like Crichton, or someone who’s currently hot.” He looked at James with a shrug. “Too bad.”

James kept his face cool as if he didn’t care, but inside, he was in a stew of anger and bitter disappointment. He was dying to cut Devon’s ego down to size with a snappy reply, but he couldn’t think of anything, damn it.

No wonder he was a shit writer.

“Hey, now,” Lance said defensively. “
Turncoat
has a good shot. People love that book.”

“People love all those books,” Devon argued snidely. “That’s why they’re nominated. You seriously think
Troubadour Turncoat
can beat
Snow Crash
? Especially since James has—” Devon cut himself off, but he didn’t have to finish the sentence for James to know what he was going to say.

Especially since James has gone downhill ever since, like a slow-moving mudslide.

Allison brought their beers. They all took drinks, an awkward silence around the table. James kept his face blank, but he could feel the heat in his skin rising as he got more and more upset and… humiliated. Fuck.
Fuck
.

He wanted to leave, badly, but he was riding with Lance and he wasn’t sure how to ask Lance if they could go without showing Devon he’d won. He was going to be sick.

“Well, it’s an incredible honor just to be nominated,” Lance said at last. “I mean, look at that list of books. That’s fucking amazing. Nothing I ever write will deserve to be in company like that. That’s an amazing accomplishment, James.”

Lance smiled at James, and he forced a carefree smirk in return. “You set the cockles of my heart all aglow, Lance. Thank you.”