Like in the Movies

~1100 words :: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay :: Sammy/Joe :: 10/10/05
He can see the way their lips move together, just like men and women kiss. Just like in the movies, but there aren’t any movies like this, at least not that Sammy’s ever seen.


Sammy is standing in the butler’s pantry (or what his mind tells him is the butler’s pantry, though it doesn’t look anything like the one at Longman Harkoo’s) and he is watching the two men kiss again. He watches for a long time, not the few shocked moments he’d watched them last night, and they don’t notice him standing there, caught up in each other as they are.

One of the men has his hands on the other’s hips. Sammy knows they’re there despite the jacket in the way, and as soon as he thinks that, the jacket is gone, and he can see long, thin fingers that look like Joe’s. Never still, they slide over fabric, catch in belt loops, thumbs caressing hip bones. The other man runs his hands up his friend’s chest, palms flat, and Sammy knows that the nipples underneath his fingertips are hard as if it were his own hands feeling them.

He can see the way their lips move together, just like men and women kiss. Just like in the movies, but there aren’t any movies like this, at least not that Sammy’s ever seen. He knows their tongues are touching, sliding together, and he feels the rush of warmth to his groin as he tightens his grip and grinds his stiffening dick against the other man’s hip.

There is a hand on Sammy’s cheek now, the rough pad of the man’s thumb brushing over his skin even as the other hand still lies warm on his chest, fingers toying with his nipple through the thin fabric of his shirt. When the one man disappeared and Sammy took his place, he doesn’t know. Maybe it was always like this. It feels right, like this is how it should be.

When he breaks the kiss, breathless, and looks up, the other man is Joe, and Sammy is not surprised. That, too, feels right. His dick twitches, straining against his pants. As he reaches up, hands shaking, to fumble with Joe’s tie, Sammy’s eyes snap open.

The room is dark and he’s sweaty, the sheets tangled around his legs. There’s no Joe, no other men, no kissing, just him lying on his belly, his dick so hard it threatens to poke a hole through the ratty old mattress.

He stares at the wall, unblinking, and tries not to think about his dream. If he doesn’t think about it enough, maybe it won’t have happened at all. If he just lies here quietly and doesn’t move, maybe his erection will fade. He could plot out that next story he’s been meaning to work on, but instead when he closes his eyes he just sees Joe. Joe smiling down at him, Joe reaching out to cup his chin and tip his face up for another kiss.

His eyes snap open again.

This is ridiculous. He’s had a million hard-ons before, jerked off at least once a day for the past five or six years, and he’s never once thought of Joe, not like that. He ignores the voice in the back of his head that says that’s only because he’s very careful not to, because if that voice is right, then what does that make him?

But it doesn’t make him anything because it’s not true. Sam Clay is no fairy. It’s just the shock of seeing those two guys like that, Sammy tells himself. And of course he can’t get it out of his head; it’s not something you see every day, after all. That doesn’t explain the business with Joe, but he’s not dwelling on that.

He’d like to just get back to sleep, is what he’d like. It’s nowhere near morning yet, still so dark that even now that his eyes have adjusted, he can’t see much of anything, not even his hand if he holds it out at arm’s length like this to check. He’s got a little alarm clock on the nightstand, but it’s on the other side and he’s trying not to move right now, though sometimes his hips move of their own accord and it’s only when he notices what he’s doing that he goes rigid and forces himself to stop even though it feels so good, just like that, just like it would feel rubbing up against someone’s thigh and-

No!

He’s not going to do this. He’s not. “Get a hold of yourself, Sammy,” he mutters, and his voice sounds so loud in the dark he worries he’ll wake up Joe in the next room.

Of course he doesn’t. Though he holds his breath for a few minutes, keeping as still as he can, there’s no sound from Joe’s bedroom, and Sammy’s almost disappointed. Of course if Joe had come in, then what? The very idea makes his gut twist even as a surge of blood to his groin makes his dick jerk against the mattress.

This is ridiculous. Maybe if he’s on his back it won’t be so bad, but as soon as he turns over, he’s uncomfortable, can’t find a good place for his arms or the right way to turn his head, and he remembers why he never sleeps on his back. But at least his hard-on’s not gouging a hole in the bed.

He does manage to drift off this way. Must have, because he blinks his eyes open a little while (or has it been longer?) later to find his legs spread and his hand down his pajama pants, wrapped around his aching dick, and the dream of kissing fresh in his mind again.

Okay. All right, fine. If that’s the way it’s going to be, then he’ll just do it and get it over with.

His strokes are rough, almost too rough, and his mind is carefully blank. His arm is thrown over his eyes and he’s breathing hard through his nose and when he comes he makes a choked little sound in the back of his throat that’s more noise than he’s ever made before.

He wipes his hand on the sheet (they’re not clean to begin with) and though he wants to curl up on his side and go back to sleep, he rolls out of bed and pads over to the window for a smoke. No use dwelling on it; it’s not going to happen again. Sam Clay’s not a fairy. He even says it out loud, but his whisper’s not quite loud enough to drown out the tiny voice that says maybe Sammy Klayman is.