for lexual, because she asked, and trusted me to make it dirty many thanks for the fast and furious beta by kelandris
Billy and George slip away from the party with a bottle liberated from the bar. The air is soft and wet against skin, and juicy with the green scent of plants still hot from the sun. Billy pulls George by the hand and they run, staying back behind the trees and the landscaping at the perimeter of the yard. They reach the fence at the back of the lot and fall on each other. They're already drunk; they've been drunk for hours now, and they're giddy and clumsy, groping and shedding clothes in the dirt. They can see the party--if they care to look--up at the house: paper lanterns glow, and an old console hi-fi on the patio plays Johnny Mercer for the few dancing couples. Jim is out there, being a good host, but he's looking around, probably for them, his face creased by a frown.
Billy, shirtless, leans back against a hickory tree and George drops to his knees in the leafy loam, working on Billy's belt buckle. Billy takes a swig of Wild Turkey then tilts the bottle over his bare chest, rivulets sluicing off the sides of his waist, through his navel, and under the waistband of his jeans.
"Jesus, Billy, don't waste it," George says, laughing. He works Billy's pants down off his hips, letting his erection slap back hard against his belly.
"Then don't let it go to waste," Billy says, running a hand through George's hair and around to the back of his neck. "Drink up."
George has spent his whole life being quiet and hanging back; whether that's polite or being chicken is open to interpretation. His Daddy walked out when George was just four and from then on it was his responsibility to keep Momma company and prevent her from feeling lonely. When he proved inadequate to the task, Momma threw herself into church and dragged George along with her. He had planned for that to change when he graduated from high school, but since he couldn't find a job or afford to move away from her house, Momma expected him to keep up his fellowship. This meant going to church with her for two or three hours at a time on both Sundays and Wednesdays. George has never had a real feel for church or Jesus or the Bible, and, over time, he has even lost interest in the possibility that he might go to Hell.
A few Sundays before George met Billy he decided that he'd had enough church. Getting high beforehand wasn't working anymore, and he just didn't want to go. He had no inclination to put on his frayed dress shirt and second-hand tie only to sit in a hard pew for hours of lecture about Christian behavior. George figures if he's going to get the blame, he ought to actually participate in some of the sinful things he's being accused of doing. When George refused to get up that final Sunday, Momma pitched a fit and said he was going to hell, but when she was done hollering he just went back to sleep. It felt great.
George Tucker bought marijuana from Billy Hanson a few times before they really met, shook hands and exchanged names. A girl named Denise introduced them. Denise had fucked Billy already and was fixing to fuck George, and both boys were well aware of that when she told them each other's names. Denise was the sort of girl who tended to know boys in the Biblical sense first and foremost.
"I seen you around," Billy says. His smile is almost a leer, and he isn't letting go of George's hand after their handshake. George feels his face grow hot.
"Wait your turn, Billy," Denise says, only half-joking. "And in the meantime, why don't you sell us some pot?"
A flat-black Camaro pinstriped in red roars up to the curb in front of George, and from inside the car he hears. "Hey, you! George! You want a ride?"
George bends and peers in the window. It's Billy the pot dealer. "Sure," George says, opening the door. The car is immaculate inside, all the chrome shiny, everything clean.
"Where you going?" Billy asks. George gives him Momma's address. "I'm Billy, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember. You sold me dope. Besides, Denise introduced us." He taps a fresh pack of cigarettes on his knee.
"Denise," Billy says, shaking his head. "That girl."
George snickers. "Yeah, Denise. Want one?" he asks, holding out the cigarettes.
Billy pushes the lighter knob into the dashboard. "Sure." Cigarette lit, Billy turns to George and says, "You in a hurry? You want to get a beer?"
"Sure," George says, pleased. Someone like Billy, handsome and wild and unpredictable, is the sort of friend he's always wanted to have. "Why not?" He settles back in the seat and smiles to himself. Billy is smiling, too.
It starts here for them, easy and natural. Neither boy is a deep thinker. They're just comfortable together, and that's enough.
The novelty of doing what he wants is sweet and intoxicating. Billy, with his violent tempers and sexual magnetism, is a prime, if exaggerated, example of the sheer pleasure of everyday sinning. Being short on friends himself, Billy is more than happy to pull George into his chemically dazed, high-octane, mostly incoherent mode of existence. Billy knows everyone, but he's on the outs with most of them. From the things some of these angry strangers say, George realizes a fair number of people put up with Billy's shit because they like to fuck him. There seem to be a hell of a lot of people who like to fuck Billy, and not just women.
Watching how Billy runs up against the world kind of freaks George out because Billy can't get along with anyone or anything for any length of time. He can't pet a dog without getting snapped at. He can't sit on a chair without the joints squeaking ominously. He can't fuck a girl more than a time or two before she's slapping his face on the street and calling him a motherfucking lying cocksucker asshole, her cheeks streaked gray with mascara. He draws fists like shit draws flies. And yet, George and Billy can spend a whole day together talking about nothing, just hanging out, passing a bottle back and forth or getting high, and everything flows smooth as glass.
Billy's not afraid of anyone though he probably ought to be from time to time. His cockiness is a form of stupidity. He's like a little dog that will never understand that there are bigger dogs. He's a wiry guy, and strong for his size, but he's just not built to behave like such an asshole and get away with it. George has taken a beating for Billy a time or two because Billy bit off more than he could chew and George had to step up. Not that George is much of a fighter, but Billy is his best friend, and they've got to stick together.
Billy has a too-handsome face, very blue eyes, and from some angles he's as pretty as a girl. People notice him, and he looks right back. He makes willfully aggressive eye contact, giving everyone, men and women both, the same knowing, amused stare. There are only three real responses to that look: fight, flight or fuck, and Billy doesn't seem to have any particular preference.
The Camaro is Billy's prize possession. The flat black paint job is nothing temporary; he carries around spare cans of paint for touch-ups, keeping it perfectly matte except for the pinstriping, which he does himself, occasionally adding curlicues or changing the width of lines. The obsession with the car's paintjob is kind of strange, actually, but then again Billy's whole aesthetic is a little weird.
Billy has taken to wearing his shirts tucked, his pants tightly belted, making him look both slight and sinuous. He takes up the space of a much larger man, swaggering, waving his long monkey arms around, and making a lot of noise when he doesn't think he's getting enough attention. Since they've met, George hasn't been inclined to look at anyone else and maybe that's why Billy sticks so close to him.
When he's nervous or angry, Billy tries to keep his hands in check, tries not to hit anyone or break anything. He fidgets, adjusts his clothes, paces. He reaches back, thumbs under his belt, adjusts the waist of his pants, and tries to calm his breathing. He might be able to keep himself from lashing out for a good while, but he seems to always get around to doing the damage in the end. George tunes out whatever insult or slight Billy's hollering about, because it's usually something that sounds like it's Billy's fault anyway. When he's angry like this, which is a lot of the time, Billy smells like a hot engine. If it's a hot day, or if he's on a long rant, there will be a wet, growing patch of sweat soaking through his shirt at the small of his back. George idly imagines licking Billy there at the end of a pissed-off day, how salty he'd be, his whole skin lubricated with sweat and the greasy metal smell of well-used tools. George stays out of Billy's tantrums as long as he can, lying back on the hood of the Camaro blowing cigarette smoke up at the stars, or leaning on a barstool out of the fray.
George has never known anything quite like Billy's temper. When he's mad, Billy does amazing, idiotic things. He smashes windows, hits people, starts bar brawls, insults women, kicks cats. He does these things when he's happy, too, just because he can't contain his strange, contrary energy. He's been in jail a few times, the longest being four months in juvie at age 16. He only went to school through the end of junior high and the teachers were glad to see him go. From the stories Billy tells, George thinks that eventually everyone is happy to see Billy go. Still, him and Billy are getting along just fine.
Even with his rage, the anger practically oozing out of his pores, Billy is never mad at George, or not for long. "You're my best friend in the world," Billy will croon in a raspy whisper over and over, impossibly drunk or high. He'll sling an arm around George's shoulders and breathe into his ear, staggering and slumping and grabbing onto whatever part of George is handy so that he doesn't fall all the way down to the ground. "If I ever did anything to piss you off, I'm sorry, 'cause I don't never want you mad at me, okay?" George always reassures him, and Billy eventually calms down, sometimes petting George's hand or the side of his face, which makes George blush because he likes it and doesn't want to have to make Billy stop. "I'd do anything for you, George; you know that, right?"
Without any specific educational or professional goals on the horizon, the boys take every opportunity they can to get at least a little bit fucked up. Their staples are cheap beer and strong pot, with the occasional bottle of Wild Turkey. Billy comes by in the Camaro and picks George up and they drive around Savannah, looking for parties or going from bar to bar. They turn up the music loud, usually playing Skynyrd, Zeppelin or AC/DC because those are the records everyone's playing. If all else fails, they go to Old Bonaventure Cemetery and get stoned lying on stranger's graves.
When they do pick up girls, Billy always gets the backseat because it's his car. George can't explain, even to himself, what he's feeling while Billy's banging some girl just behind his back; meanwhile he's trying only semi-successfully to work around the gearshift to get at his designated date. Because it's Billy's car, he also gets first choice of the girls, and usually he picks the one George wants, too.
Tonight the girl who's supposed to be with George drinks too much and ends up out in the grass on all fours, throwing up. She pukes, then lets her head hang, drooling, until she pukes again. George thinks about going to try to help her, but he can't stand the smell of vomit, and anyway he's so high he doesn't think he can move. He's pretty sure the pot they're smoking is dusted, the air thick with ribbons of golden taffy. Without the distraction of a girl in the seat beside him, George turns his attention to the activity in the back seat. Whispers, snick of zippers undone, the girl saying, "Wait--let me," and then Billy hissing as he sinks into her. George closes his eyes to moist, sticky, sucking sounds and heavy breathing, the car rocking with Billy's thrusts, as the girl gasps, "Ah ah ah ahahah," something between pleasure and fear. George knows he should get out of the car and make sure the sick girl is all right, but he can't leave now; he's part of what's happening in the car, part of the fog of breath and sweat and wet crotches that condenses and runs down the windows in rivulets. He is compelled to lick the glass, but he can't sit up...God, he's so fucking high! He slumps sideways in his seat, letting his breathing sync with Billy and the girl, his hand resting, just lightly, on his hardening cock. The seatback shifts and George opens his eyes. Billy's holding onto the headrest, white-knuckled, and he's leaning over a little and craning his neck to look at George. George pushes himself awkwardly up so that he's halfway sitting and can keep watching Billy's face as he comes. Billy lets him watch; Billy wants him to watch.
Billy hasn't had a permanent address since he dropped out of school at age fourteen. He's lived with girlfriends in tiny, sleazy apartments, and he's lived in some of Savannah's most gracious homes--or at least their guest houses--but he always manages to get kicked out for doing something stupid and impulsive. He breaks stuff, hits people, or steals, and then has to find a new place to crash. He lived with George for a while, but George's Momma kicked them both out after Billy fell asleep with a lit cigarette and burned up her drapes. Now George has a room with a hot plate and a shared bathroom in an old hotel downtown. Billy stays with his friend Chablis, a transgendered "showgirl," when she's not pissed off at him. He's also got keys to Jim Williams' house and shop--Jim is a rich guy who fixes up old houses and sells antiques. At first Billy said he had the keys because of the refinishing work he does for Jim at his restoration shop, but other than a bit of sanding it doesn't really sound like Billy is all that much help in the antique business.
George has known for a while that Billy is a whore of sorts. For a long time, he was under the impression it was with women, those lonely older ladies living in the houses off the squares. Then there were some hints, which evolved into more-or-less statements, letting him know that Billy goes with men, too. Mostly men, as it turns out. George is pretty okay with this, actually.
Billy's clear on this: He is not Jim Williams' boyfriend. But not only does he have keys to Mercer House and the antique shop, he's also got the Camaro and car insurance, and all the Wild Turkey he can drink. At first, Billy says that he only lets Jim suck his cock, but then he hints and implies and eventually just starts telling George about all the things they do together, explaining along the way a lot of things George had wondered about. Billy does enjoy himself; the sex isn't the problem, it's Jim. Jim is a lot older, a lot smarter, and tends to get amused when Billy's pissed, and Billy hates thinking someone is making fun of him. He's envious of all the money Jim has, and all the things he knows. Jim tries to tell him about the antiques and the art, but Billy really can't keep it straight in his head; the only reason he wants to know is to impress people with the information; he doesn't really care about remembering the details.
Late afternoon, and they're sitting in a patch of sun on the floor in Chablis' living room. George leans back against the wall, knees up, bong in hand, holding his breath. Billy sits facing him. There's a litter of paraphernalia in the diamond-shaped section of floor between their sprawled legs: ashtray, cigarettes, baggie of pot, a disposable plastic lighter, and Billy's car keys.
Billy is pushing to fix George up with some older lady for money. "You're a good-looking guy, George," Billy tells him, holding George's jaw and tilting his head side-to-side. "Pretty eyes, pretty hair. You've got a good body. And you're nice." He lets go of George's face and takes the bong out of his lax hands. George watches, dazed, as Billy holds the lighter to the pipe and takes a long, bubbling hit. Exhaling a cloud of brown-streaked white smoke, Billy continues, "Me, I'm more the dangerous type."
Dangerous type? That's an understatement. George shakes his head, blushing. "I can't do that, Billy. I'd be too embarrassed. I told you that already." He's pleased, though, that Billy keeps asking.
Billy lurches to his feet, turns around, and slides down the wall next to George, sitting almost on top of him. "You've got nothing to be shy about." He holds the bong for George, lights the bowl and watches him inhale. When George lets his head fall back against the wall, Billy puts the bong down, slides an arm behind George's neck, and pulls him into a lean. The air is really too hot to be touching anyone, but Billy's thigh is hard against his own, and the arm against the back of his neck is comforting, even if the skin is damp and sticky. He can smell Billy's strong sweat, but it doesn't bother him; that's comforting, too. He thinks, maybe, that Billy just kissed the top of his head. "You're so high, Georgie; you are so fucked up," Billy says, sounding happy about it.
George wakes up later, his head in Billy's lap, being petted like a cat, while Billy smokes and stares at the opposite wall. When he sees George is awake, Billy smiles and keeps stroking his hair. It's easy to just fall back to sleep.
George actually met Jim before Billy did, back when he still had the job bagging groceries. George was placing cans into a sack and the customer, a man with graying hair and intelligent dark eyes, was talking to him in a low voice like you'd use to calm a skittish horse. He told George that he was having a "small party" at his home, Mercer House, and that George could stop by if he wanted. The way he looked at George made him want to piss his pants; a challenge with a very few possible responses, and George's answer was flight.
Later, when Billy took him to Jim's house, he remembered the encounter in the checkout line, but Jim didn't seem to recognize him, or even notice him, and George has never said anything to Billy about it. Jim probably makes those offers a dozen times each week and George would only be memorable if he'd taken him up on the invitation.
George doesn't even know what happened or why they're here, now, parked in front of Mercer House, with Billy throwing a tantrum and taking it out on the landscaping. It sort of doesn't matter: Jim and Billy fight all the time, usually over money or something that Billy has just taken without asking.
"Fuck you, Jim! Goddamn fucking bitch!" Billy shouts. He's stomping plants to pulp so deliberately and gleefully that it's making George feel a little ill to watch him. Billy takes long swigs from a bottle of Wild Turkey, but that's okay because George has the car keys. Billy raves for a long while, and George just waits for him to either get tired of it or for someone to send the cops. He's seen Jim's face in an upper floor window, small and blurry, and lights have come on all over the square, so it should be no time at all before they're being asked to move along.
"Billy, come on. Get in the car. The cops are gonna be here any minute."
Billy turns and stabs him with furious eyes and it frightens him a little more than he'd ever admit. But then Billy recognizes him and his face softens. "Hey, Georgie. Yeah, all right; let's go home."
They're standing on the landing outside Chablis' apartment. The porch light is burned out, and George fumbles with Billy's keys, stabbing at the lock in the dark. When the latch finally clicks, he feels Billy's hands on his skin, under the hem of his shirt. He holds his breath, letting the door swing open in front of him, and says, "What're you doing, Billy?" The apartment is dark and quiet; Chablis is out doing her show at the club tonight. Billy's hands move around to the front of his waist and it's as though there are streams of fizzing air flowing off Billy's fingers and down George's hips, thighs and cock, and he can't move.
"Let's go inside," Billy says, breath tingling on the back of George's neck. He gives George a little push, and as soon as they're past the door, he slams it shut and backs George up against it. Billy leans into him, hands on his shoulders, cheek brushing cheek, bodies almost touching. "We're friends, right, George?" Billy's voice is low and husky in his ear. Moist breath makes George shiver, and the shaking just builds because he's frightened but he doesn't want Billy to step back. "We take care of each other, don't we?" Billy asks. He leans his head back so he can look George in the eyes. "Don't we?"
George swallows. "Yeah, we do. Always, Billy." He puts his shaking hands on Billy's hips and groans when Billy responds by leaning against him. He can feel Billy's cock big and hard pressed alongside his own and he's never even imagined feeling a thing like this (well, maybe once or twice), but it's exactly what he wants--this and nothing else.
"You stick up for me, George. You're a good guy. You keep me out of trouble." George could practically ignite the bourbon on Billy's breath, but Billy's been this drunk so many times before that George doesn't think just the alcohol is talking, or pressing against him, or touching his cock through his pants. The first kiss is delicate, a surprise, and Billy's lips curve into a smile against his own as George whimpers for more.
Billy's mouth tastes of bourbon and the barbecue they ate hours ago, and his flesh is hotter and silkier than George would have ever imagined, a sharp contrast with the rough stubble that's burning his cheek. Billy's very drunk and George is sober, yet it takes him forever to figure out that the moaning he hears is coming from his own throat.
"Stay here," Billy says, putting a hand in the middle of George's chest and pushing him back against the door. He unbuttons George's jeans with his other hand and struggles to pull them off his hips, until George remembers he can move, remembers he has arms, and helps as best he can. Billy's rough fingers close around his cock and George arches up against the hand that's spread like a star over his heart. "You like that, don't you, Georgie?"
"Oh, god, Billy. What are you--"
"Just let me do it, okay?" Billy drops to his knees on the worn carpet and looks at George's cock, touches it, breathes on it, and George keeps swelling harder and harder until he's near pain. Still, all he gets are feathery touches, hot exhalations, and the barely-there sweep of a rough cheek against the length of his shaft.
George is going to shake to pieces; it's just a matter of whether they'll be huge bloody chunks or brittle flecks. "Jesus, Billy, just do something!" he moans.
Billy laughs and swipes his tongue over the head of George's cock almost carelessly, sloppy with spit, and George's knees buckle. He catches himself with his hands on Billy's shoulders, regains his balance, and watches as his cock is swallowed up.
"Oh, Jesus, Billy! Fuck!" He buries his hands in Billy's hair and twists, causing Billy to make a sharp grunt of pain around his cock. Billy wrenches his head free with a jerk, letting George's cock slap out of his mouth.
"Fuck, George, haven't you ever been blown before?" But Billy is laughing. "Let go of my hair, man. That hurts."
"Sorry," George says. This time Billy's looking up at him while he sucks the head of his cock, and it's that fight, flight or fuck look, and George decides he's going to stay put. He puts his hands on Billy's head, careful not to yank, and lets himself melt back against the door, just riding along with the movement of Billy's mouth and tongue, listening to the wet, greedy slurps of Billy's mouth around the shaft of his cock, the stuttering suction over the head. Tension gathers, bunching up at the base of his spine, and he can't keep his hips from moving, harder, deeper into Billy's throat, but then Billy takes his mouth away.
Billy has one hand against George's hip, fingers splayed out across his groin, the other pumping his spit-slick cock. "George, I'm gonna let you come in my mouth, okay? I don't usually, but...we're friends." He leans in and kisses George's belly just above the base of his cock, then sucks in the head again, tonguing through the slit and groaning in sympathy when George shouts.
Contradictory sensations of wet velvet and silky hot fur envelop George's cock, the occasional scrape of teeth like lightning. Billy's hands squeeze his ass hard, pulling George deeper into his throat. When he looks down, Billy's looking back up at him, still daring him, almost laughing at him now, and George gets the joke, too. The corners of Billy's mouth turn up and he takes George all the way in with a smooth, gliding suck, and George comes with force that knocks his head hard into the wall behind him.
George starts to sink down to the floor, but Billy stops him midway, pulling him back up to his feet, and kisses him hard with a mouthful of come, tongue slippery as a fish. Billy's still hard, but he won't let George touch him; just keeps kissing his mouth and touching his body with deliberate, rough hands.
As his heart rate returns to normal, George can't help but start to think, in general terms, about how this episode is going to play out. "Billy?" he asks tentatively.
"Don't start, George. Don't even ask. I don't even know why, okay? I know you liked it, so...just shut up and don't worry about it." Billy lets go of him and walks away, begins pacing. He finds a pack of cigarettes, lights two, gives one to George, and stalks up and down the room trailing smoke like a locomotive.
George is shaking again. He smokes the cigarette and huddles on the couch, thinking maybe Momma was right, that he needs more church and less drugs and Billy. But then Billy stands still in front of him and says, "Georgie? Come get some sleep with me," and leads him down the hall to his little room and twin bed. They lie down fully clothed and Billy curls around behind him, an arm around his waist, breathing bourbon against the back of his neck. Billy falls asleep after a few minutes, and eventually George sleeps calmly, considering.
Waking up sticky and sweaty, with Billy's awful breath, a mixture of bourbon and come, blowing in his face, George untangles himself from his friend and staggers to the bathroom. He looks at his face in the mirror while he pees; he's wiped out and haggard, but otherwise the same as ever. He scrubs at his teeth with a finger wrapped in toilet paper and gargles with some of Chablis' mouthwash.
Billy's rumpled bed is empty. George can hear Billy and Chablis talking, follows the voices to the kitchen, where The Doll, wearing marabou mules and a negligee, is graciously pouring coffee and jumping to conclusions.
"Two pretty white boys...MM-mm! The Doll wishes she'd been home to see that." Both Chablis and Billy are laughing at George, which isn't the best feeling. "I like your taste in men, Billy," she continues. "There's nothing like waking up next to a pretty blond boy in the morning and knowing he's all yours."
"I better go," George says, scanning the floor for his shoes.
"Boy, you have him runnin' scared," Chablis says, laughing and poking at Billy with a long nail. Sometimes George hates Chablis.
"You sure you got to go?" Billy asks. "Okay...but you want to do something tonight?" He asks like this is just another day.
George just stares at him for a moment, then slowly says, "Sure...later on."
"I'll come find you," Billy says. "I know where you haunt."
He's in the bar down the street from his dingy little room when Billy catches up to him.
"Gimme one, too," Billy says to the bartender, gesturing at George's glass. "Hey. Are you okay, George?" Billy slides onto the stool next to him, leaning close, slinging an arm across his back.
"I'm all right." George's shoulders stiffen under Billy's arm.
"No you're not. C'mon, George. What happened, happened, all right?"
"Yeah, I know; it's fine."
Billy sits upright on his stool, glaring at George through narrowed eyes. "Shit, Georgie. You're acting like a fucking girl."
"Fuck you, Billy. Drink your damn beer." George can feel that he's blushing.
They sip in silence, then Billy nudges George with a knee. "Acting like a fucking girl," he mutters, snickering. "Acting like a goddamn bitch."
"You're the bitch," George drawls. "Run on home to daddy's antique store."
"Asshole." George drains his beer, sets the glass down heavily, and turns to look at Billy.
Billy turns that smile on him. Fight, flight or fuck? "You want to get out of here?"
"Sure." George shrugs. "Let's go."
Billy says, "Wait here," and leaves George standing just inside the door. He disappears into the dark maze of bulky, sheet-draped shapes in the restoration shop.
George hears Billy calling, "Jimmy? You in here? Jimmy?" without getting any response and he relaxes a little. He hears footsteps, then Billy's back beside him.
"What are we doing here?"
"What do you think?" Billy is being sarcastic. "We could wreck some shit, or steal it. Or we could fuck. What do you want to do?"
George can't make his mouth move.
"Don't be a chickenshit." Billy is up in his face, a mean edge on that smile now. "If you want something, you just ask for it."
"Christ, Billy, I-I've never done anything like this before."
"Like what?" Billy asks. "Wreck shit?" He kicks a little table, knocking loose a piece of carved wooden trim.
"Stop it, Billy."
"I know you've wrecked shit, George. I've seen you. Fuck. Shit. Up." Billy pushes the table over with his foot. It lands on a heap of canvas tarp so it isn't all that loud, but it makes George jump. "What? Are you all scared to wreck shit now, Georgie?"
"No, Billy. Jesus, I don't want to wreck anything. I-I want to...we can fuck. Okay, Billy? Let's just fuck." Except he's just kind of pissed off now, and maybe he doesn't want to after all.
Billy smiles and walks over to George, closing in with that crazy, angry smell of his like a gun barrel or a hammer, metallic and hard, and puts a hand around the back of George's neck. It's a rough kiss, picking up right where they left off last night, and George does want this.
Billy steps back and holds out his hand. "Come on. Let's go in the back." George lets him lead the way to a little office with a desk and chairs, then through another door into a storage room that holds stacks of boxes and an old-fashioned bed with a high mattress. It's made up with dusty sheets and piled with heaps of musty-smelling barkcloth and brocade draperies, which Billy unloads onto a stack of boxes. He leaves the door open to let in the light from the office. "Take off your coat. We'll be here a while." Billy starts undressing unselfconsciously.
George has his coat and shoes off when Billy, already naked, pulls him onto the bed, pushes him down on his back, and straddles his hips. He's got a big cock, half-hard, that George is trying not to look at, but Billy says, "Go ahead and look, man, 'cause I'll be fucking you with it later on."
"Jesus, Billy!" George tries to squirm out from beneath Billy's body. "What the fuck? You can't just--"
Billy tries to reassure him. "George, hey, I'm sorry," Billy's hands are in George's hair, his mouth touching George's as he speaks. "I didn't mean to scare you. Don't worry, this'll be fun."
"Fuck, Billy. Let's just see what happens, okay?"
"Okay. Hey, Georgie, um...you've never...?"
"But girls, right?"
Blowjobs and fingerfucking in the Camaro aside, George hasn't had a lot of experience. "A few. Denise, of course." Denise, who almost doesn't count because everyone has been with Denise.
"Well, shit, George. I didn't know...I would have brought flowers or something."
"Fuck you, Billy. Don't you make fun of me."
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry." Billy looks at George who is pointedly not looking back at him. "Maybe we should stop."
"No. I want to. I've wanted to."
"You could just ask me, you know." Billy rolls off George's chest, stretches beside him propped up on an elbow. "Anytime, seriously." He strokes George's hair, and says, "It's okay. I don't want to hurt you." He leans in for a kiss that George pretends he doesn't know is coming, but he turns his head to meet it full on. A nice kiss, soft, followed by open-mouthed, determined feeding. George's hands slide across Billy's back, tracing the furrow of muscle along his spine but stop just short of his ass. Billy starts to roll on top of him, but George tenses up and Billy eases back again.
Billy says, "So, do you ever wonder how come I can get along with you but not anyone else? 'Cause I do. Wonder, I mean."
George laughs. "Yeah, all the time." He rolls onto his side, facing Billy, and puts his hand on Billy's naked hip. His thumb strokes the crest of bone and Billy's indolent cock reawakens. George can look at it now; it's easier from this angle, more equal.
"Maybe I just like you better than those other people. I can't figure it out, either." He slides a hand under the hem of George's shirt, flat against his belly. "Why don't you take your shirt off?" George peels off his T-shirt and lies back as Billy runs a hand along his torso, then bends to lick his nipples. George arches up against Billy's mouth and Billy throws a leg over him to hold him down. "You're really sensitive," he says, looking up and giving George a quick kiss on the lips.
"I guess," George says. "I don't have anything to compare to."
"I'm sensitive, too," Billy offers; George is quick to take the hint and dips down to circle his tongue around a nipple. Billy groans and reaches around George's back, pulls him tight against his legs. His cock paints slick trails across George's lower ribs, then nudges against the dip of his navel. He wants weight, pressure; Billy rolls onto his back and pulls George on top. They kiss, and George does everything Billy likes, sucking his tongue and biting his lip and grinding into him while Billy clutches his ass hard enough to bruise. "George..." Billy whispers, "Hey, Georgie."
"Hmm?" George is licking and sucking at Billy's throat, and he's just as salty as George ever imagined.
"This is even better if you take your pants off." He gives George's ass a squeeze for emphasis.
George laughs, lifts his hips while leaving his head resting on Billy's chest, and wriggles out of his jeans. He's not wearing underwear; he keeps forgetting to do laundry. He kicks his jeans to the floor and hesitates just a fraction of a second before sinking down on top of Billy, feeling the wet head of Billy's cock slide against his own. "Jeeesus...." he hisses, and Billy laughs, then sinks his teeth into George's shoulder and pushes his hips up against George's weight, feet braced but slipping on the sheet.
It doesn't take George long to figure out how he wants to move. He has one hand under the small of Billy's back and is braced on the opposite elbow, a knee bent up under Billy's thigh for leverage, and thrusts hard with his hips, his wet cock sliding against Billy's. They're both groaning, making a lot of noise. Billy's got hold of his face with both hands, kissing him deeply, sucking his tongue and panting into his mouth.
"Georgie, god, you're gonna make me come..."
George laughs. "Isn't that the point?" He licks a lazy swipe across Billy's mouth and squirms on top of Billy's cock, which flexes against his belly.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck...Not yet, please." Billy wraps his legs around the back of George's, holding him still. "We'll get there, I promise...but slow down."
"Show me, then," George says, heaving over onto his side and dragging Billy with him. He squirms to pull Billy halfway on top of him. "You show me, Billy."
Billy sways upright to kneel between George's thighs, hands stroking knee to groin, watching George's cock bob against his flat belly. George stretches out long, arms overhead, and Billy takes a good look at him. He's skinny, but so is Billy; they're all ribs, long muscles, and jutting pelvic bones. George has a thick, pretty cock that arches up under Billy's hand, and he moans each time Billy's thumb slides over the head. George has his eyes closed, neck arching back each time Billy touches him somewhere new. Billy watches his face: jaw clenching then soft, mouth slackening into a sigh, then turning his to rub his cheek against the flesh of his own arm before arching back again, exposing his throat for Billy's mouth. Billy leans down to kiss him, tasting George from earlobe to collarbone, biting and sucking so that blood blooms under his skin, only to fade with the next pump of his heart.
"George," Billy says, low voice, right into George's ear. He bends to bite again, this time to leave a mark, in the muscle above George's collarbone. He can almost taste blood and licks the purple marks left by his teeth, sucking a bruise into the same spot. George writhes beneath him, frantic, his body short-circuiting on pain and what it's doing to his cock.
"Oh, god, Billy." George speaks in a harsh whisper, voice quavering. "You...this is...fuck, Billy!" His hands have come down to rest on Billy's back, pulling against his shoulder blades, and his feet dig for purchase against the mattress.
"I want to make you come." His hand moves over George's slippery cock with slow, hard strokes, working the wet head between thumb and palm with pressure and a twist before sliding to the base and beginning again.
"Oh, god, yes, Billy..." George's hips are coming up off the bed with every stroke, fucking into Billy's fist.
"I want to make you come so hard."
"Please, oh please, yes; do it, Billy."
"Can I, George? Will you let me?" He slides a hand down between George's legs, stroking the sensitive skin between balls and asshole, and George freezes for a moment, then pushes into the touch with a strangled groan. "What do you think, Georgie?" Billy's hand moves up over George's balls, strokes the shaft, thumb over the head and through the slit, and George arches up, hissing, as Billy bends to take a nipple between his teeth and pull.
"Christ, Billy!" A heavy wave moves through his balls, spurting out his cock, and George wants something, something harder; not really pain, but some sexual equivalent of being hit with a sledge. He knows what Billy's asking and it doesn't sound so frightening at the moment, but still..."Aw...fuck, Billy...I-I don't know..."
"We'll stop if you want, Georgie..." Billy kisses him again, then slides off the bed. "I need to find something," he says. "Wait here."
"I'm not going anywhere." George laughs, throwing an arm over his eyes. Is he really going to do this? What the hell; why not? He lies on a stale bed in the dark, throbbing cock wet and sticky, his legs sprawled wide, and he's waiting for his best friend to come fuck him. It's funny as hell, actually, if he doesn't think on it too much. He strokes his cock idly, listening to Billy scramble around in the office, opening and slamming drawers and cupboards.
"Found it!" Billy calls from the office. He takes a couple of springing steps into the room, then pounces onto the bed, landing on all fours and pinning one of George's legs. Uncurling his fist, he reveals a crumpled metal tube of K-Y jelly, paint falling away in flakes. Dropping the tube on the bed, Billy crawls up over George's body, letting his cock drag along George's thighs, leaving a faint moist trail that tingles like cool licking when air moves over wet skin. George grabs his ass and pulls Billy down to grind on top of him, their bones meshing hard enough to bruise.
Billy's kisses taste of tobacco and bourbon and George's own skin. Their faces are rough with stubble and they smell of sweat and smoke. The sensation of their cocks sliding against each other on slicked skin, hair matted flat and slippery, is making George's pulse roar in his ears. Billy slides down, kissing his chest, and bites his nipples hard, harder than he could ever have imagined he'd like, but George could come from this alone if Billy would just let him.
"I'm going to suck you," Billy murmurs, kissing his way down George's belly. "I need to make you come; it'll make it easier."
"Okay, sure," George breathes. What else is he going to say? Billy's licking his balls, sucking them into his mouth, as he holds his thighs apart. Tongue wet on his cock, tracing the circumcision scar under the head, then lapping at the slit, which makes him arch up off the bed with a groan, but Billy gets him down again, leaning an elbow into his hip. It's actually hurting him, but George can overlook this when the head of his cock is enveloped in scorching wet flesh and he's melting, wearing all his nerves on the outside of his skin. He's got a hand wrapped in Billy's dark curls, damp with sweat, the other hand skimming over Billy's neck and the side of his face. Billy moans encouragement and George pushes up with his hips and down on the back of Billy's head, fucking into his throat. Just a few strokes, and George feels all the joints in his body lock tight, straining, and he's frozen as his orgasm pulses through him. He's dimly aware of Billy swallowing around his cock, hands stroking his belly and chest, then Billy's mouth on his, Billy's hands in his hair.
Billy rolls off of George and looks around for the lube, which has been kicked down to the bottom of the bed. Kneeling between George's legs, he asks, "You still okay with this, Georgie?" and gets the nod. George has a forearm over his eyes again, but his limbs are limp, he's still breathing hard, and he doesn't tense up when Billy rubs his lubed finger over the whorl of muscle at the opening to his body. Billy increases the pressure and his finger sinks in and George hisses, more in surprise than pain.
Still working his finger deeper, Billy says, "You all right?"
"Yeah, I'm okay; keep going."
Billy puts a hand on the back of a thigh and George gets the idea, drawing his knees up so that Billy has a better angle. Billy twists his finger, making George shudder, then pulls it out. More lube, then two fingers, and this time George does feel pain, but it's a good pain, a burn that he'll feel for a while. Crooking those two fingers makes George wail and arch up off the bed; more lube and another finger and George is biting his lip and whimpering.
"It'll be easier if you get on your hands and knees," Billy whispers. He slides his fingers out and helps George roll over, hands gripping his hips, then pushing him up to all fours. He leans a hip against George's ass, stroking the long sweep of his back with one hand and lubing up his own cock with the other.
"God, Billy, just fuck me," George sighs. "Let's do this already."
Laughing, Billy sinks the wet head of his cock into George's body; George gasps, but says, "More, god," so Billy keeps leaning into him, pushing, feeling George's body take him in increments. When his hips fit snug against George's ass, George's cock is hard again. Billy drapes himself over George's back, reaching around to stroke his chest and his cock, kissing the back of his neck. "You feel so good, George; you're so tight."
"You're...big," George laughs. "God, Billy, I...this hurts, but I don't care." Billy laughs then, too, and slides a kiss up George's spine. He kneels, holding George's hips; a slow, deep pump makes George suck in a sharp inhale, but his body relaxes enough to let Billy move again. A few more thrusts, and they're in a slow rhythm, half a heartbeat, and George is rocking back onto Billy's cock with each thrust. "Mmm, Jesus, Billy--harder," George urges.
"Fuck, George, you're gonna make me..."
"Then do it," George says. "Fuck me hard until you come." He arches his back, lifting his ass, and Billy just about comes right then because this is not what he expected from shy, inexperienced George and it's fucking hot. Then George starts making noises, little pleading grunts with each stroke, and Billy has never been so glad that George is his friend as he is right now.
He can't get deep enough; he can't move fast enough or hard enough. He can't get out of his skin or past control no matter how hard he thrusts. It's always the same: never enough, then suddenly it's plenty. He can feel the whole shape of his cock, sensitized and almost painful, held tight in the grip of George's body, and he falls hunched, helpless, over George's back, hips jerking as he comes in long, hard spasms.
When he can speak, he says, "Jesus Christ. That was...fuck, George." He leans forward, kissing as much of George's face as he can reach. They slide apart, lie side-by-side and Billy kisses George's mouth, face, shoulders with affection so sincere it makes him shake. "You're hard," Billy murmurs against George's lips. "You're still hard."
"You felt good," George says, his face pressed to Billy's chest. He has his arms around Billy's neck, Billy's leg thrown over his hip. He has some dim understanding of why Billy is shuddering in his arms and he wants Billy to know it's all right; it's good, and they're still friends.
"Do you want me to--" Billy starts to ask.
"No, it's okay. I just want to stay like this." He holds tighter and Billy draws him in close. "We could sleep," George suggests, and Billy purrs assent, shifting to get comfortable while staying entwined.
"It's different with Jim; it's like business."
"He knows you see other people, right?"
"He knows about the girls. He doesn't know about you."
"He'd be too jealous. He doesn't think girls are any competition."
"That's funny. I never worry about him; I just worry about the girls. I worry about Corinne, or maybe Bonnie."
"You're my best friend, George; not anyone else. Now can we please go to sleep?"
Jim's having a party and he's asked Billy to attend. When Billy asks if he can bring a friend, Jim just assumes it's Bonnie, since she's the girl Billy's been seeing the most of these last few weeks. When Billy shows up with George, it's clear that Jim isn't happy about it, but there are too many people standing with them in the hallway, then too many people on the patio, then too many people wanting Jim's attention, for him to say anything to Billy about it.
Jim had never paid much attention to George before, but now he's riveted. When he can get away from his guests, he watches George's every move; it's actually quite creepy. Billy's playing a game and George is apparently his decisive maneuver.
"I don't think this was a good idea," George says, leaning back against the bar. Jim is standing next to an older couple and an animated woman, all talking at him, none of them realizing that he's not listening at all, just watching Billy stand slouched with his arm around George's shoulders, drinking up Jim's liquor.
Billy slips behind the bar and grabs a bottle of Wild Turkey. "Come on," he says, and takes George's hand.
OCTOBER 31, 1981
They went to a Halloween party and Billy drank too much on top of too many pills and who knows what else. George didn't know what else to do, so he called Jim Williams from the Emergency Room. Jim asked a few questions and then simply hung up the phone. It was probably a half hour before he arrived, during which time George's heart leapt every time the doors to the treatment area swung open. He kept flashing back to church, feeling guilty and praying that Billy be all right.
Jim spoke to the women at the reception desk, then came to sit beside George. They didn't speak, though when the doctor came out to tell them Billy would be fine they both asked questions and listened politely to the answers as though their interest in Billy's case made them allies and not enemies. For his part, the doctor imagined he was speaking with perhaps an uncle and friend of the patient.
Jim told the doctor he would take Billy to his home, and George didn't argue. He left the hospital on foot before Billy was discharged, but after the sun had come up, letting Jim, the grown-up, take over.
DECEMBER 19, 1981
George wakes up alone, remembers Billy had a date with Bonnie last night, and hugs a pillow in lieu of a warm body. It smells like Billy--a little too much like Billy, maybe; the sheets need changing. It's already after noon; George throws on yesterday's clothes, grabs his cigarettes and heads for Clary's Caf to get coffee, biscuits and gravy. Later on, he realizes he probably passed a dozen newspaper boxes without seeing the headlines, finally reading them on the pages that are scattered across the caf counter. Last night while George slept, Jim shot and killed Billy.
Momma sits up straight next to George on the pew. She's proud to have him here, considers it a triumph for her and, of course, God. She had never liked that Billy, and she had reason, it seems: that boy's lifestyle sent him straight to Hell and fiery torment. There are special rooms in Hell, she informs her son, where the gays are tormented with red-hot pokers. "You don't want to end up that way, George. I didn't raise you to be a gay."
He's back in his old room, and she likes to come in and lecture him while he's trapped in bed. He smokes with a forearm slung over his closed eyes, and doesn't particularly care if he's getting ash on the sheets.
It's not like him and Billy were in love or anything. He just misses him; misses having Billy around.
Momma is full of ideas about how George can improve his life, and is pushing a program at the community college teaching refrigeration and A/C repair. She's given him a new Bible full of bookmarks printed with inspirational sayings, each marking a passage that she believes will encourage him to give up the gay lifestyle, "for good, and for God."
Whenever George gets ready to go out, Momma frets and points out that the church has a Youth Group full of single Christian ladies; there's no need for him to go downtown to meet up with Temptation. As he pats his pockets to make sure he has cigarettes, lighter, wallet, she reminds him, "Think about what happened to that boy, Billy. Please, George! Remember your promise."
He can't stand to be in the same house with her. She's wrong; Billy is not in Hell.
Besides, George never made any such promise.
NOTES: Lexual Healing issued a challenge for the "missing X-rated scene" in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, with her only requirement being that there be some sweaty, dirty man-sex. It turned out to be a much harder task than I'd expected, because neither character has much to recommend him in the book, and they don't fare much better in the movie. They also have no interaction in either book or film. My intention was to do fanfic, but they're more like OCs playing in a fandom framework. I've been looking around to see what others have done with these characters, but I appear to be the only one to have tossed them into bed together. I'd love feedback, of course (of course, of course!), but if anyone knows of another Billy/George story, I'd very much like to read it and would appreciate a url or link.
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to gila
|Home/QuickSearch + Random + Upload + Search + Contact + GO List|