"What?" Chris laughed, looking down at himself. He was wearing a gray tee, non-descript save for the way it fit, which was tightly and shortly -- it refused to be tucked and bared a brown strip of belly whenever he moved. It was something he was aware of, but nothing he'd ever suspect Bam of even noticing. He looked into his friend's eyes, trying to figure out if this was more of that fucking with he had been talking about. Bam stared back.

"Cut it out," Chris said, laughing again. He drank down his beer and reached for the pitcher just as Bam was going for it to fill Chris's glass, and their hands touched, and it was like something in some lame-ass movie, but Chris felt something improbable, like a spark. He pulled his hand back.

Bam laughed. "You feel that?" he said. He had big white teeth that were perfect. He grinned so that they all showed. Somebody played The Dixie Chicks on the jukebox, and Bam kept time on the table with the flat of his hand. Chris emptied the pitcher and brought it down to the bar to be refilled, looking back at Bam, who was staring at him.

When he got back to the table, Bam took the pitcher out Chris's hand. "We're getting the hell out of here," he said, and he started drinking from the pitcher. He knocked back a near third and handed it over to Chris, saying, "Come on, let's do it, man; we ain't got all night."

Chris took the pitcher and sipped a fair share of it and gave it back to Bam, who finished it up. He stood, sliding his chair back, grabbing his sweatshirt.

"We're going to your place," he said, resolutely, giving Chris a hard nod.

Bam laid himself out on Chris's bed. His shirt was off. He put his big arms behind his head and looked at Chris over his cheek-tops, struggling with the fastenings of his pants, kicking off sneakers, and trying to elbow out of his too-tight shirt. He stumbled and fell on the bed between Bam's legs.

"I think I need some help," he laughed, and Bam said, "You fucking need something, buddy." And he leaned over to help Chris out of his shirt before applying gentle pressure to Chris's neck, bringing the man's face into his crotch.

Chris gnawed on the front of Bam's pants and nosed into the zipper, wanting more than anything to undo it with his teeth. He snorted from the effort, but was unable to gain any toothsome purchase and had to suffice manually. He found, though, that his efforts were not wasted, that Bam's prick was erect and straight-standing once free from the confines of his jeans. Chris wasted no time getting the thing into his mouth. He went down on Bam with a hunger usually saved for the starving. He chewed the head and licked the shaft and got the whole thing down into his throat, feeling it catch on his uvula playfully, his spit going thick quickly, taking on the consistency of honey -- it hung between them like a slack line of rope when Chris backed off for a little air. And all the while, Bam played with his hair, fingering Chris's scalp, rubbing down the back of his neck with his thumbs.

"You're my boy," Chris heard him say, again and again, and Chris throbbed with the words and managed to free up his own dick to rut against the sheets between Bam's knees.

"Let me see your ass," Bam said, and Chris got his pants down and turned around for Bam, mooning him. He felt Bam's warm hand exploring between his cheeks, fingers rubbing into his moist cunt.

"You ever take a dick back here?" he was asked, and Chris laughed.

"Fuck, yeah," he said, looking over his shoulder. Bam was jerking off absently, staring sweetly at Chris's butt.

"You ever fuck a guy?" Chris asked.

Bam shook his head.

"You want to?"

Chris watched Bam shake his head again and squeeze up a mess of precome from his strangled pecker.

"How about sucking? You ever blow a guy?"

Bam shook his head again, this time a sly smile on his face.

"Fucking liar," Chris laughed. "Who was it?" he wanted to know, because they'd gone to high school together and were taking classes at the same community college.

"You don't know him," Bam said, licking the finger he'd played around his dick-hole, lapping up the ooze, and wanting to brag: "New coach down at Youth Services, the dude from St. Vincent's."

Chris stiffened his spine, snapping his head up like a pointer. Brandisi! No fucking way, he thought, NO FUCKING WAY! He shook his head and smiled. What the fuck ever! There was plenty of time for the Padre. What he wanted now was some Bam-bam. He wriggled his ass and brought it close to Bam's face, backing up like a dopey puppy. He wanted to be Bam's first, if he could even believe the bastard at this point. He moved close enough to feel Bam's breath in his crack.

"C'mon," Chris said invitingly. "I want you to fuck my brains out."

"Like there's any left," Bam said, the thought of it tilting his head. He pushed his pants farther down his legs, baring his thighs. He pushed them down to his ankles and got up on his knees, positioning himself behind Chris, taking the man's hips into his hands. "This isn't gonna hurt, right?"

"Me or you?" Chris asked, looking back.

"Either-or," Bam said, and they both laughed, and Bam dropped some spit onto his dick-head and slowly pushed himself into Chris's gash.

"Me. Me. Hurts ME," Chris moaned, and Bam stopped, his cock half-stabbed. He started to pull out, but Chris yelled more. "No. NO!" he said. "You CAN'T go back now. You're in, pal. Finish it!" He pushed his ass back so that it butted up hard against Bam's hard, hairless belly. He dragged his ass-lips down the fat shaft, to the button-capped head of it, before forcing himself back up against the taut and rippled gut. He felt Bam's hand wander his back and then under to his chest, to his nipples, and he let himself be played with like a radio until his twisting turning became excruciatingly wonderful, until he felt the unbeatable urge to beat off, and he pushed off one of Bam's hands, getting it on his slippery, singing prick.

"Just like that, man," Chris breathed, turning his head right and left, getting it like a dog and wanting it worse.

"Aw, sweet," Bam grunted, throwing his shoulders back, giving Chris the whole of it, all seven fat inches, getting ready to toss off. "I'm coming," he said; "Where do you want it?"

Chris's mind went blank, whited out. He was too busy unloading himself, spraying his sheets with short, hot squirts. "Right there, right there," he said, and Bam, happy to stay where he was, shot off inside Chris's tight and tiny supernova.

Lights out, Chris put his arm around Bam's shoulder and got close to him. Who knew what the next day would be like, what the light of day would bring. Bam would probably disappear before it came, the morning, would probably stay away until he was ready for more, if he would be ready for more. Until then, Chris had him and was holding on. He got Bam's hand in his own and he fell asleep thinking, "Mine, all mine."