He groans.
I groan.
He grunts.
I grunt.
The small room circles around the both of us. Around. Around. Around??
Some buttmunch opens the closet??s door, and we fall out, next to the circle of players. Shock at best. An invasion of our privacy.
My back and shoulders hit the Oriental rug, stinging. The cotton flaps of my dress shirt fly open, and my chest is exposed, nipples hard with bubbles of saliva from Nevin??s labor. At the same time, Nevin falls to his left and does a face-plant to my crouch. Although it should be quite painful for me, it??s enjoyable. The act is a crowd-pleaser for sure, entertainment for those around, what will someday be told as the queer antics between Brett Bett and the ginger bartender at that fun New Year??s Eve party at Tony DeAngelo??s flat. Do you remember? How can anyone forget? Such an exciting night.
Time??s up. Our seven minutes in heaven is over.
Maybe we are boyfriends. Maybe not. Honestly, it feels as if we are.
* * * *