AN: So umm… instead of updating any of my stories which all I’m sure, desperately need updating, I started a new one? I kinda like the idea of this one, actually I really like it. So you know, you all are amazing reviewers and each and every single one of you deserves sexual ecstasy from my beautiful and gay male characters, or pick a female one… Whatever. Point is, continue reading and reviewing… I’ll hopefully have updates for everything soon. 1st semester is coming to a close, and I’m almost done with college apps… So we’ll see what happens, neh?

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Adam says throwing back another shot before slamming the cup back down on the table.

“Yeah, me neither,” I admit, closing my eyes and tipping my head back, pouring the alcohol down my throat wincing as it burns slightly.

Adam laughs and collapses backwards onto my bed, “No really, I mean, who would’ve thought it, Marc Antel, about to go and tell his impossibly wealthy parents that he’s giving up a four year scholarship to Princeton in order to attend Rhode Island School of Design?”

“It’s a good school,” I argue, glancing out at the July sunshine.

Adam shrugs, “I know. And it’s not like I have any complaints, after all, I’ll be right next door at Brown, able to keep a watchful eye on you at all times.”

“Stalker,” I mumble, taking a shot directly from the already half empty bottle of vodka.

“That’s a smart one Marc,” Adam teases taking my hand, and running his fingers lightly across my palm, “Get piss drunk, and then tell your parents that you actually want to spend your life doing art.”

“Shut it,” I groan lying down on the bed next to him. I’m on my side, head propped up on my left hand, staring downwards at him.

“Your parents will be even more pissed if you’re drunk while telling them.”
“Either that or they’ll figure I’m kidding.”

“Nope,” Adam shakes his head, “They’ll be pissed, they don’t even know you drink.”

“Damn you and your smartness,” I glare, but reach out a hand to ruffle his hair affectionately, pushing golden brown locks away from his pale forehead and pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I just have common sense,” He squirms out of my embrace, “Stop stalling,” He orders, pushing my already wandering hands off of his body.

I pick up the alcohol and take a long drink, “What if I want to stall?” I drop the glass container next to the bed, and take the opportunity to climb on top of Adam, “There are so many better things we could be doing than disappointing my parents.”

“Please,” Adam scoffs, his hands moving slowly up and down my thighs which are currently straddling his hips, “they wont be disappointed in me, I’m still going to an Ivy league school.”

“Jackass,” I glare, before grabbing both of his hands and pinning them firmly above his head.

“What are you doing?” He narrows his eyes, which only serves to make him look even more fuck-able, especially considering that maroon polo he’s wearing, I’ve always loved that polo…

I grin and place a series of kisses along his neck, he whimpers slightly as my lips, well trained after two years of solid, mind blowing sex, find a sensitive spot. I continue to hold his arm above his head with one hand while letting my other hand creep up his shirt, smiling as taught muscles flinch.

“Weren’t you about to tell your parents?” He inquires, freeing his hands and looping both thumbs into different belt-loops of my jeans.

“’Going to’ being the operative phrase,” I smile pushing his shirt over his head and sighing as his hands creep under my own top.

“Damn you,” Adam glares, as I cup a hand over his growing erection, “Why are you so damn good at seduction.”

“Practice,” I respond, taking one of his fingers into my mouth, sucking slightly on the tip.

He sighs, his eyes sliding momentarily shut, and then there’s a knock on my door, “Marc honey, you said there was something you wanted to tell us?” I barely have time to jump off of Adam and hide the vodka bottle, while Adam pulls his polo back over his head and sits up quickly, hands crossing over his crotch so as to hide any hint of our lewd activity, before my mother walks into the room.

Per the usual she’s immaculately dressed in a beautifully cut business suit. Her dark hair is in a neat upsweep. Pearl earrings dot her ears and a charmed chain sits around her neck.

“Yeah,” I sigh, its now or never my mother will be much more understanding than my father will be, that much is for sure.

Unfortunately as soon as my confession escapes my lips, my mother screams for my father, and suddenly I feel completely exposed.

Their screams at me turn into anger at each other, and I gracefully bow out, taking Adam with me as their shouts continue.

Slamming the door of my Audi, a present from my supposedly supporting parents, I wait for Adam to get in. He, is face unreadable, he’s absolutely silent as I back out of the driveway and slam on the gas. We’re headed towards the small apartment he rented when his parents kicked him out two months ago after he came out to them. Apparently having a gay son was not part of their master plan, and if 15 years of friendship have taught me anything about Adam’s parents, it’s that anything they haven’t foreseen gets thrown out. Apparently that went for their son as well.

We pull up in front of his building five minutes later, product of my angry and slightly inebriated driving, which in retrospect was probably a very dumb idea, and I slam the doors, not even waiting for Adam before entering the building.

He lives on the 17th floor, well it’s actually the 16th, but they skip 13, so it’s the 17th. He’s got a studio, but it’s spacious, with lots of window, and a nice bathroom.

I collapse on the couch, my hands as Adam leans over the refrigerator, “beer?” He inquires.

“Got anything stronger?” I ask, kicking my feet up onto the coffee table and closing my eyes.

“Nope, you and Val drank me out last time.”

“Right, sorry,” I cock one eye open as I feel I weight shift onto my lap to see Adam, concerned gaze resting on me.

There are some advantages to having a fuck buddy who’s also your best friend. Our arrangement started after sophomore year, when after two months of batting around the issue, we admitted we both desperately wanted to bone the other. It’s not like we’re in love or anything like that. Neither of us had ever been too big on that concept.

To love you have to have a model to base your emotion off of. And neither Adam nor I have ever felt any affection from anyone but each other. And I wouldn’t call what we feel for each other love, not even in a ploatonic way.

We co-depend. I trust him with my life, and he feels the same way. We need each other, but frankly, half the time I can’t stand his attitude. But we were bred to be best friends and so we continue to be.

I’d be the first to tell you however that I couldn’t live without him. I guess that’s the other reason I switched schools, the idea of being away from him terrifies me. He’s always been there. Running on a parallel line to my own cynicism, he’s just as jaded and bitter as I am, he’s just as angry.

When it comes to our physical relations, it’s no string attached. We fuck to get our frustrations out. We fuck because we can be completely free and comfortable with each other. But then again, we both shag tons of other people too and it’s not like there’s any sort of jealousy complex.

Essentially we fuck because we understand each other, we’re friends because we understand each other.

It all boils down to the fact that we’ve led similar lives and thus have some kind of unexplainable, yet essential connection.

“You look pensive,” Adam shifts his hips against mine.

“I am,” I concede, popping the top off of my beer and taking a drink.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t expect it,” His obnoxious blue gaze bores into me.

“Doesn’t mean it’s any less disappointing,” I stand abruptly throwing him off my lap.

He follows me as I stretch out across is bed, “You shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up,” He shrugs, and slips his palms underneath my shirt, his touch cool as his fingers trail across my stomach. “I’m really fucking horny,” He admits, rolling over so that he’s on top of me, grinding our hips together, “You feel that?” He wants to know, “That’s how badly I wanna fuck,” because it’s usually fucking, sometimes it’s banging, or boning, take your pick, every now and then it’s sleeping together, but never is it making love.

I sigh and close my eyes as he undresses me, skilled hands trailing across my frame, before I turn and grasp his body against mine. His remaining clothing slip off with ease, and I’m left to admire his naked frame.

Adam’s a cross country runner, now I don’t know if you’ve ever taken the time to appreciate what running several miles a day does to a person, but if you haven’t, I sincerely advise it.

He’s got these long gorgeous, lithely muscle toned, legs. His chest and stomach have some light definition, and because he’s a prima-dona he gets all his upper body hair, except arm hair that is, waxed off once a month.

He stretches his arms above his head, arching backwards beneath me, causing me to groan, which I assume is exactly what he wanted.

“Come on Marc, don’t make me wait. You want me just as bad,” he’s reaching over to the bedside table and pulling out a small packet, which he tosses at me.

“Lube?” I inquire, slipping on the condom, because I frankly have no idea where Adam’s been and I have no intentions of finding out.

“Oh right,” He smiles and hands me the half empty bottle, which I calmly accept, before lifting his legs over my hips. It’s with little preparation that I slid into him, eyes closing as my long grown is answered by his body’s shudder.

Neither of us lasts very long, ten minutes tops, but there’s something to be said for what anger does to sex, it makes it amazing. My world shakes as I come, hands digging into his hips so hard I’m sure it’ll leave bruises.

“Goddamn…” He trails off, as I pull out and toss the condom in the trashcan, before disappearing into the bathroom. He follows me, turning on the shower. “Why is it that no matter how good the sex is with someone else, it’s always better with you?”

He tilts his head back as he stands underneath the spray of water, rivers of water running over his shoulders, down his chest, across his legs, it’s a beautiful image, and my hands itch to draw it, but instead I join him, letting the almost burning hot water soak away any remaining tension.

I shrug, “Cause we’ve been doing it for two years?”

“Don’t you think it’d get old?” He asks, fingers coming up to encircle my forearm.

“No, it just means I know how to drive you absolutely insane.”

“Then again, I know how to do it right back,” And then he drops to his knees, and I just lean back against the glass walls of the shower, thanking whatever gods gave the boy a mouth that skilled.

……………………….

It’s later when he’s sound asleep, and when I’m rolling from one side to the other that I pull out my sketchbook, pencil posing gracefully in my left hand (damn straight, I’m a flaming homosexual and left handed). I let the lines of his sleeping figure appear on the paper. The blanket is wrapped around his waist, one leg kicked out from underneath it to the knee, the other completely covered. City lights flow through the window, casting fascinating shadows across his body. One arms is bent above his head, the other splayed out across the bed, palm facing up, fingers lax against the mattress. Adam’s head tilts to the side, effeminately long lashes falling across his distinct cheekbones, jaw-line solid but not overly marked, nose straight and narrow, straight down the center of his face.

I let the sheet wrap around him naturally, as my hand moves without my having to think about it. My thumb reaches out on occasion to blur, blend, mix the gray pencil together to create the illusion of a 3-d image, and the appearance of color. This is my medium, creation, design, art.

The sun rises slowly upon my drawing. It’s taken on a shape, I got up at some point and grabbed my colored pencils, I’ve brought his sleeping form to life.

His eyes are blurry as they open, “Drawing me again,” He taunts.

“Couldn’t sleep,” is my only response, as I glance back down at the sketch, before slamming the book shut.

“So when do I get to see all these portraits you’ve done of me?”

“Eventually,” I sigh, sliding the sketchbook into my bag.

The truth is I don’t want him to see them. They expose him in a light that I’m not used to seeing. A more innocent light, a light in which he’s, likeable, because normally Adam is not a likeable person, I suppose it’s a defense mechanism that he puts up; the cold slightly drawn back façade. The asshole, the self confident jerk, except that he’s so good at it, that I fall for it 99 of the time. Except when I’m drawing him, suddenly then, I see a much more vulnerable side to him, and it makes me feel weird, which is why I definitely wont let him see it.

Because the sad truth about Adam, is after 15 years of dependence I still don’t know him, and I doubt he knows me any better.