Dance

So what if some guy wanted to watch?

He had pretended not to notice, even after Hutch pointed the guy out. After all, it wasn’t any of his concern if some guy wanted to watch; he moved to the dictates of the music, nothing else, brushing himself up against Lisa’s slim form, gripping her curves. He was there with her and with Hutch, and Hutch’s date. They were dancing, drinking, having a good time.

So what if some guy wanted to watch?

He’d brushed it off, pretended that to be irate, then proud, that his date attracted so much attention. He had good taste in women. And when the three of them begged off for a dance, he went up by himself – it wasn’t that often they got to go out without the beeper, without having to worry that something or someone was going to call them in. He wanted to dance, and he was going to dance.

And if the guy wanted to watch, so be it.

The beat changed, mid-stream; some new tone crept in. It was more sensual, less frenetic. He should have stopped; the floor was covered with couples again, but he didn’t want to stop.

And if his eyes happened to catch those of the guy who was watching him, it was just a coincidence. It wasn’t like he was doing anything.

Hutch ordered another pitcher of beer when he came back to the table, and just the thought of it hit him right in the bladder. It was okay, though; they’d left the Tomato and the LTD at home, cabbed it here, would cab it home. They were having fun, no stress, no fear, no designated drivers tonight. Hell, they’d probably stop somewhere else, afterwards, maybe an all-night Italian place and have some more beers over a double-cheese-pepperoni pizza with the girls.

He excused himself, went to the men’s room. It was empty inside, all the stall doors open, no-one at any of the urinals. The door didn’t open until he’d started to piss, head back, eyes closed. Whoever it was went into a stall.

He washed his hands, eyes flickering over the mirror. The detective in him noticed that the stall doors were all still open, but there was one set of boots visible at the far end.

He thought maybe the guy needed help – was sick, or something. It was what he did, in the helping profession. He could have called out, asked him if he was all right. He didn’t have to walk over.

He might have said something when the guy took a handful of his favorite dark-blue shirt – the one Hutch gave him for Christmas, last year, the one that matched his eyes – and pulled him into the stall, shoving him back against the now-closed door with a bang.

And then, there was nothing to say, because he was being kissed – devoured, by a hungry, needy mouth and a tongue that pressed down into his throat. He didn’t make a move when his belt was opened, when his jeans were unbuttoned, when skin-tight denim was shoved unceremoniously down his thighs. He didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything – couldn’t – and told himself it was because he was too startled to react, even though all his professional life had been a training ground for dealing with unexpected situations. Dangerous situations.

If there was any situation he’d ever been in his life that was more dangerous than this one, he couldn’t think of it.

But he couldn’t think at all, and all of his motor functions seemed to be tied in directly to his cock, currently in the firm grip of this stranger. This strange man. He wanted to ask something, but the tongue in his mouth, the tongue that was not his own, wouldn’t let him. His own tongue was pushing against the invader, not quite trying to repel it. Not quite.

And then, he could breathe again – as suddenly as the ability had been taken away, it was returned to him. Eyes – brown eyes, he realized – were looking at him, questioning him. He couldn’t speak, was gasping in air, trying to clear his brain, trying to figure out why he wasn’t trying to get away, why he wasn’t saying something. Something appropriate.

The guy smiled at him, and he couldn’t breathe again. And then he was staring at the back wall of the toilet, peeling gray paint and scratched-out phone numbers, still not breathing. His eyes shut, hard, red flashes against black representing the feeling in his entire body as his cock was enveloped in warmth. Wetness. Heat.

A tongue, no teeth. Lips that dragged their insistent softness over the length of him, and then back. He didn’t question his own hardness; it was just there, separate from him. It didn’t obey his brain, but when had it ever? He may have been led around by it somewhat less than most, but it didn’t make him completely immune.

His hands were another story; he buried them in masses of hair – soft, dark blond hair, almost brown, like late-summer wheat – and pushed that head forward and back, to match the rhythm of his hips. This dance was different than the one out on the floor, and it was the same. The music was still there, in the background.

He came fast, without warning other than a tightening of his grip, but the guy never attempted to get away, just took him in deeper and wouldn’t let him go until it was all over. And then he was being kissed again, a wet tongue in his mouth that tasted of sweat and semen – both his own – and a hard cock that pushed against his stomach again and again until he was covered with more sweat, more semen. Not his own.

They breathed together, a harsh, sucking heat against his ear, hands still gripping his wrists. And then, they were strangers again, not meeting each other’s eyes as they cleaned themselves up, buttoned themselves up, straightened themselves up. He wiped himself off, washed his hands again, splashed cold water over his face, stared at his own image in the mirror, and asked himself those questions all over again.

Why he let it happen? Whether or not it was his fault. When it would happen again?

He had to leave, quickly, before Hutch came to find him, see if he was all right or if the beer buzz had turned sour. He could beg off, go home, lie in the dark and relive this sordid little encounter, jerking himself off a couple more times to it, until the images and the feelings they engendered faded away. He knew he’d do that, anyway, until the next time he needed more than a memory – until the next time he danced with some guy’s eyes on him.

After all, if they wanted to watch, it wasn’t his fault.

The end.