The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (19 page)

“Bullshit,” Josh said, horrified. “You wouldn't.”

“Try me,” Rob said, looking back at a pouting McCullough.

“And just think what we could do to you in your sleep,” I said, laughing and rubbing my hands together to make Josh freak out even more.

“Oh yeah, McCullough,” Rob said, stabbing both his index fingers at each other. “You'll be getting it from both ends.”

“Like a pig on a spit,” I said. A few of the guys from the team laughed, and McCullough huffed, tugging the draw-strings of his hoodie so tight that his face vanished.

Since the motel was overbooked, we got stuck in the “honeymoon suite” complete with mirrors on three of the four Pepto-Bismol pink walls and even one on the ceiling. The only wall without a mirror had framed posters of those vapid, sunglasses- and glove-wearing chicks copping a feel of each other's breasts. The frames were glued to the wall, like the management was actually afraid someone would wanna steal “the art.” The rest of the room wasn't much better—red shag carpeting that climbed halfway up the wall, a vibrating bed topped with a mock polar bearskin comforter, a minibar stocked with a bottle of generic sparkling wine and a six-pack of Pabst (Coach Mueller had the manager remove 'em.), and a mildewy aquarium filled with this giant, one-eyed diseased goldfish.

The room terrified me. Not because I thought Rob'd put the moves on me. That was pretty much a given. He'd been joking about popping my cherry all week. No, the room was scary 'cuz I figured even most hookers wouldn't be caught in a place that looked this cheap.
I'll do anything you want, Mister…let you come on my face, suck off your dog, whatever…just please, take me to another motel.

I was nervous. Really nervous. When Rob and I were inside our room, we kicked off our sneakers, and Rob fell backward onto the bed. He grinned, arching his eyebrows and practically begging me to strip and throw myself on top of him.

“I gotta go to the can,” I said and raced to the bathroom, locking the door.

I should've brought a paper bag. I was that close to hyperventilating. My armpits were like a faucet with a slow drip. I paced the bathroom, stubbing my toe. I sat on the toilet, twiddling my thumbs. I got up and stared into the mirror, trying to give myself a pep talk.
Go get 'im, tiger. How bad can it hurt, really? You can take it. You're not a wuss.
I tried taking a crap. Nothing. It sounds gross, but I did a finger check on myself, figuring my index finger'd be a sorta Paul Revere.
The penis is coming, the penis is coming
. The dip-stick came back clean.

I paced the bathroom some more, this time, hobbling on my heels, figuring I couldn't stub anything that way, but still, I managed to slam my toes into the toilet. I washed my hands, slapped cold water on my face, and put on some of Rob's cologne—to get him in the mood,
natch
—only I splashed so much of the stuff on me that it practically dripped off.

I was all set to give myself another pep talk when Rob knocked on the door.

“Fall in or something?”

“Nah,” I said. I flushed the toilet so Rob'd think I actually did something in the john besides make a fool of myself. I opened the door, glad Rob was still in most of his clothes and wasn't waiting for me there buck-naked, glistening hard-on in hand, licking his lips. He'd only taken off his shirt and socks.

Rob peeked past me, trying to see what had kept me for so long.

“Got enough cologne on, pup?” Rob laughed, leading me to the bed. I sat at the edge. Sweat streaked my ribcage. Rob climbed behind me, sitting Indian-style, and massaged my shoulders. The television was on VH1, some “I Hate the '90s” show, and Vanilla Ice and the Pips—his whole “VIP posse” in white shirts and black vests and pants—jumped around to some over-choreographed MC Hammer-lite dance.

“Would you do him?” Rob asked.

“Vanilla Ice?”

“Yeah.”

“Nah,” I lied. “The riff's a total rip-off of ‘Under Pressure.' It was a single off of Queen's crappiest album,
Hot Space
. The guy's a total fake.”

Rob wasn't asking 'cuz he cared if I wanted to force a washed-up white rapper to bite pillow. He just wanted me naked and biting a pillow.

“I'd do him,” Rob said. “He looks tall.”

“That's all it takes with you? Being tall?” I asked, pushing my back against him.

“Well, pup, it helps if they've got a big—”

“What?”

“A big nose and huge ears. And, I like them skinny.” Rob pulled me backward so my head was in his lap. I'd've told him to quit lying, but he leaned in and kissed me, sucking my tongue into his mouth.

Somehow, without ever unlocking lips, we scooched from the foot of the bed to the head. I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. There was no way I was gonna lose my virginity with Vanilla Ice in the background. I couldn't've lived with myself.

Rob's fingers hooked the bottom of my T-shirt, turning it inside out as he tugged it over my chest. The collar caught my nose. Rob snickered and eased it loose. We struggled to get each other's jeans and underwear off, fingers not quite finding zippers, knees bumping, feet kicking denim and cotton to the floor. I cradled his head in my right arm, and traced his tongue with mine.

“I love you, Charlie,” Rob said. He daubed his lips with the back of his hand and kissed both my eyelids.

“I love you, too.”

Rob grabbed my face, pushed his lips against mine, and rolled on top of me. Licking me from my chin to my crotch, Rob slid down the bed. He cradled my dick and tongued it. I squirmed and bucked like crazy. Rob sucked one of my nuts almost to the back of his throat and then rolled it across his tongue. I arched on my toes and practically humped his face with my crotch. I felt hot, almost feverish. I scrambled down to Rob at the bed's edge, shoved my tongue into his mouth, and then tried to lick my way down to his dick.

“Don't,” Rob whispered, bracing his hands on my shoulders and stopping me from kissing his inner thigh. “I'll come.” He wrapped his arms around my neck and held my cheek to his chest.

“I really love you, pup,” he said. He sounded sad, almost.

We held each other. My dick was throbbing and bumping Rob's. He pushed me back to the bed and reached into his bag for a rubber. The thing was red and when he got it on—
No, I didn't help; I'm not like those sluts who can slip a condom on their boyfriend's cock using just her mouth
—I almost laughed. Rob looked like he had an angry balloon animal taped to his crotch. He reached into the bag again, pulled out a bottle, and squeezed a stream of liquid into his hand.

“KY Jelly,” he said. Rob slicked his dick with it, then mine—damn, it was cold—and then bent me over the bed. He reached around my waist, held my dick with one hand, and used the other to work one finger, then two, inside me.

It felt good, incredible even, but when Rob tried getting his dick up there, it hurt like hell. He wasn't even in a millimeter and I thought I was gonna die. My butt winced, pushing him out as I launched forward, yelping.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rob repeated, planting little kisses along my knobby spine. “I'll go slowly.”

Glacier slow, I wanted to say, but couldn't. In the mirror above the headboard, I saw why. I was biting my bottom lip so hard I was practically piercing it. My knuckles were bone white and grabbing the polar bear comforter so tightly it looked like I was trying to skin the thing with my bare hands. My head flopped to the side, melting into the bed, but I could still see myself sucking air through my teeth and Rob's second siege attempt.

“Should I stop?”

His reflection had this sincere, I'll-go-as-slow-as-you-need-me-to look, the kind a dad would hope the guy deflowering his only daughter would have. But I wasn't getting deflowered. Rob wanted to give me the full-on, gas-powered, Rototiller-tearing-up-the-garden treatment.

“Slowly,” I said.

I looked to the mirror on the wall like I expected somebody to jump out and rescue me. Rob made a bit more headway, but I felt like I was being ripped apart. My face showed it. My teeth were grinding, I was making loud sucking noises. Out of instinct, I arched on my toes to get the leverage to push away, but Rob held my shoulders and kept easing himself inside.

“Does it hurt?”

Duh. Yeah. You couldn't tell by the way I was trying to slither out from under you?

“Yeah,” I said, burying my face in a pillow and locking my fingers over the base of my neck in a grade school tornado-drill mode. Breathing heavily, Rob grabbed my hips and s-l-o-w-l-y slid the rest of his dick in. His pubes brushed my butt. He didn't start pumping right away, I guess letting me get used to the feeling.

We looked ridiculous. I could tell it was killing Rob not to just start screwing me. Even when he played a really hard piano piece, he didn't look like he was struggling as much as he did then. My face looked like a bad soap opera actor begging his director for some direction. The rest of me didn't look so hot, either—scarecrow torso pinned to the bed, toothpick arms with tiny biceps fanned out across the bearskin, my almost ass getting the pile driver treatment. I didn't remember losing my stiffy, and to be honest, I kinda prayed Rob would lose his, too.

“Maybe we should try a new position.”
New position? Like what? The two of us finding girls and bringing them back to our hotel room to bang?
Rob pulled out and I expected to hear the sound of a champagne cork popping.

“Roll over.”

I did and accidentally found my double in the ceiling. My mirror twin looked like an oversized baby getting his diaper changed—knees in the air, bony feet flapping around, toes splayed, an afterthought of dick across his stomach. I felt embarrassed for him and closed my eyes. Rob grabbed my ankles, wishboning my legs, and then hitched them onto his shoulders. He swabbed my butt with more KY Jelly, held the heels of my feet with his hand, and sawed into me.

I didn't shriek—
too much
—it actually felt good in a weird kinda way. I didn't exactly show any “star quality” in the bedroom mirrors. Part of the time, I looked retarded—hairless legs over Rob's shoulders, eyes rolling to the back of my head, and wide-open mouth making these dumb sex grunts.
Ah…ah…ouch!…unggh…ungggh…ouch!…ah…ah
…The rest of the time, I just grinned like an idiot, 'cuz we didn't look hot or romantic. We looked like two guys in a naked crab race. I laughed nervous, goofy laughter that threw off Rob's concentration. The motel room should've had some kinda sign above the bed.

“Stop looking in the mirror,” Rob said. We changed positions again. This time I was on top of him. We were still face-to-face, but I was straddling him, kneeling. The bottoms of my thighs were on the top of his. My dick was trapped between both our stomachs and each time Rob thrust, it felt like I was getting jacked off.

Now, for most guys in my position—well, guys who'd actually like being in my position—it probably would've been abso-
fricking
-lutely amazing. Rob'd found some secret, gay boy G-spot. But I had to bite my tongue to stop from laughing. It sounded like the fake farts kids make by cupping a hand under their armpits and squeezing the air out.

Rob's shoulders tensed and he wrapped an arm around my neck. I matched his rhythm. His hand slipped between our stomachs. I came as soon as he touched my dick, coating both our chests. Rob groaned and hugged me tighter, our chests practically cemented together. Somehow, he was getting deeper and faster than before. I shivered. Rob closed his eyes, hands locking my hips as he plunged. His Adam's apple seemed to bounce, flex. He shuddered, grunted. Still trembling, Rob rolled us over and collapsed on top of me.

“Hi,” Rob said after he slipped out of me. He drew me into him.

“Hi.”

“We need to do that again,” he laughed, kissing my nose.

“I'm not in any rush,” I said.

“Dork. I didn't mean right now.”

 

More Things I Learned From Having Sex with Rob Hunt Friday Night in a Downstate Motel Room:

So, besides telling us that sex really isn't beautiful to look at, the people who've actually done it should tell us virgins what to expect afterward, too.

Sure, a total moron could figure out that after you take it up the ass, things are bound to be a little sore. Telling me that wouldn't've been helpful. A heads up about what to expect after getting my butt used like a butter churn would've been nice.

How was I supposed to know that Rob would find the only dry spot on the whole mattress, roll over, fall asleep, and leave me naked, wet, and shivering? And really, would it've been too hard to
casually
mention that the air and lube in me would be itching to get out?

We ended up winning two of the three games we had today, which meant the division title was ours, and we'll be playing for the state championship. Mom was waiting for me at school when we got back and she took me out to celebrate.

We pigged out on Cantonese—beef and broccoli, kung pao chicken, egg rolls, egg foo yung, lobster kow, and fortune and almond cookies. She kept pestering me about how I looked different, more mature. I didn't tell her about Rob and me. That'd have been too weird. She was already acting like she expected some Bar Mitzvah Today-I-Am-A-Man speech. An old man with hemorrhoids, maybe.