Author: xanthofile PM
Slash. We can't always have our first choice, because if we could, Mom wouldn't be the one in his arms on my eighteenth birthday. One Shot. REPOSTRated: Fiction M - English - Romance - Words: 5,070 - Reviews: 15 - Favs: 34 - Follows: 1 - Published: 01-17-09 - Status: Complete - id: 2623029
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this is a rewrite of something way old--rewriting seems to be pretty much the only thing i'm capable of finding enough energy for lately. i've got some health issues going on, and as such, my creative energy has been pretty nil. haven't really felt like writing much of anything, to tell the truth. but, i did manage to pull through on this one: not much has actually changed--actually, NOTHING changed--but i went through and reworded and fixed terrible verb tense issues. probably missed some, but i've been on drugs. :laughs:
hope you guys enjoy reading!
saturday, 17 january, 2008. 10:31 am.
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Cobalt nails with a matte finish peek from the slim-fitting black, soft-denim sleeves I made myself just a month ago--they're sewn together with a heavy-duty waxed, black thread, and go all the way to my shoulders, a slit done in the elbow for maximum joint movement. The sleeves hug my arms under my white Aqua Teen Hunger Force t-shirt, and they almost match the black of the dark jeans that easily cover the tops of my secondhand motorcycle boots.
Yes, I take pride in the way I look, thanks. Is it vanity if you acknowledge it? Maybe.
Arms crossed over my chest, I flicked my tongue against the slim ring delicately hugging the curve of my lower left lip--along with the lip piercing, blue and green studs dot my ear lobes, wherever I felt like placing them when I snapped them in myself. Been working on them since the seventh grade.
My naturally dark hair has the genuine case of bed head, despite the solid chunk of lime green running over my right temple. It's still pretty fresh, seeing as how I got it professionally done two days ago.
I stood against the brick wall of the a nondescript school building, enjoying the harsh sunlight as it scalded my eyeballs and baked my flesh into an eventual tan. I have a watch line already…I've checked. Kinda stoked about it actually.
Sweat ran in cooling tracks down the side of my face, and as I rubbed them out on my shoulder, a mallet of cigarette smoke hit my eyes and stung like a bitch, making me squint.
"Get out of my face with that shit."
My tone was congenial despite the words, and Brice snickered but obliged, turning his face away from mine on the next exhale, smoke curling from his nose and mouth in a way I know he's practiced doing in front of a mirror. Because he's just about as vain as I am, yeah.
His hair is natural, a platinum white-blonde most girls would probably kill to have--except he spikes it into unforgiving nail-points over his entire scalp. That hair could fucking cut you open. I know it could, because he was suspended beginning of the year for such a thing, but only because he laughed at the kid who had to get stitches, causing the bitter shrimp to call him a faggot. And Brice had then been obliged to kick that shit's ass around…repeatedly. So, he was suspended.
Glancing over as he coolly took another drag of his bummed cigarette, I noticed he's got a zit beneath his ear that he keeps picking at so it'll never heal. Lameass.
"You wanna go somewhere for your birthday, or what?" he asked, squinting against the glare of the sun form someone's car windows in the parking lot, but not missing the instantaneous negative shake of my head.
"Dude, you only turn eighteen once in your life, you've gotta live it up."
"Fine. What about tonight, though? We still on for it?"
I gave an ambiguous shrug as I yawned, and he took it for as much of an acknowledgement I'll ever give--just because I say I'll do something, doesn't mean I won't ditch those plans for something better. There's been instances of him stranded at the movies or arcade when we'd agreed on meeting up, just because I'd decided later on that I didn't feel like it. …If I were him, I'd probably gut me up or something, but Brice is too laid back to hold long-term grudges. I knew there was a reason I picked him to be my best friend…go me.
"Martin said something about cards. You still got cash from last time?"
I gave a short nod and then looked up at the dazzling white-blue sky overhead, leaning the back of my head against the warmed brick wall, voice dull as I queried, "Poker or blackjack?"
He shrugged, but I figured it didn't really matter--I kick ass at either.
Brice pulled out another cigarette from an inner jacket pocket, going as to chain smoke it by lighting the end with the dying ember of the last one, but I gave him a sharp elbow to the side to remind him of our time constraint. He issued a low sigh of exasperation, but dropped the used butt and put it out with his shoe, repocketing the unlit stick for later.
"Alright, DG…I'm done."
I let him turn to head back inside before slugging him as hard as I could between the shoulder blades, choking the breath from his lungs--DG is short for Dick Grabber, which he's called me ever since I had to grope his crotch to prove to him I'm really queer.
We'd been alone at his house sometime our freshmen year, and his stupid ass mouth kept spouting out derogatory remarks about fairies and gay boys, and I'd just…told him as calmly as possible that he needed to quit talking shit about me.
"Dude, Dex, shit like that ain't always funny."
"There's nobody here to impress, retard, I'm not shitting around. So shut the fuck up about people like me, jackass."
He'd gone skittish right about then, laughing a bit, as if unsure when the punch line was going to come. I hadn't meant to, but I lost it then, jumping up from the couch and advancing him to the wall, my hand snagging a firm grip of his crotch through denim once he was cornered.
And, serious as I can ever be, I'd leaned in close and asked, "Think a straight guy would ever be ok doing this, even to his best friend?"
Brice had gone rigid with shocked understanding, and I'd been this close to fondling him for a quick laugh, but I couldn't have pulled it off with a straight face. Instead, I backed off, making a show of wiping off my palm on my jeans even as I went and sat down again, sipping from a can of soda on his coffee table. Like nothing happened.
Took him a while, but he eventually got over it.
It was eight by the time I made it home to change my now-uncomfortable clothes for something to wear out late, and Dad's car was already in the driveway as I parked out front. He's home early for once.
I slipped up the stairs and into my room, already pulling my t-shirt from my back and over my head by the time I stepped inside, tossing the article on top of a pile of dirty clothes sitting beside the dresser. My hamper is still full of clean clothes I haven't gotten around to putting up yet…and probably won't until I need to do laundry again.
A short rap came at the door as I began the tedious process of untying the thread from the denim sleeves--knocking is the only brief warning he ever gives before entering my room, usually stopping just in the doorway as he leans against the jamb to talk to me.
Not bothering to look up, knowing he'd forgive me for being too preoccupied, I gave a "Hey, Dad."
"Girl called for you 'bout an hour ago."
"Toni…or Randi…something boyish like that."
"That could be it."
I finished the one sleeve and tossed it onto my bed before beginning on the other.
"Yeah, supposed to meet some friends for cards soon."
"Crazy Eights. …Or if things get really wild, Old Maid."
I looked up at him with that, an involuntary smile easing across my face at the warmth to his no-nonsense expression. He's such a faker and full of it.
He was gone by the time I finished the second sleeve, and I absentmindedly rubbed my elbow while walking over to that dirty pile, digging down near the bottom and finding a specific black tank-top--a quick sniff revealed that it didn't quite smell stale yet, and was thus perfectly fine to wear.
Really, it is.
I pulled the tank over my head and gave it another sniff before deciding that a short spray of deodorant couldn't hurt anything, just to be safe.
It was a bit more difficult shimmying out of my jeans without first removing my boots, but I managed both that and putting on a pair of olive green cargos without the sacrifice of untying laces--takes fucking forever, you know.
I did replace the ring in my lip for a chunkier one with a flashy lime bead--glancing in the mirror, I noted that it actually matched my hair, and I grinned, a dimple flashing in my left cheek.
A brief thought of applying makeup flashed through my mind, but I knew I'd be talking to Dad before heading out, and while he couldn't give a rat's ass about eye makeup, he draws the line at lipstick. And really, what's the point of going all out if my mouth is bare, right?
He used to get into some pretty serious arguments with Mom about lipstick too, so I know it's better to just let the subject die. Not that I actually care overmuch; he doesn't care about a lot of shit my friend's parents flip out about. Like, the what I wear out, who I'm hanging with, or how late I tend to stay out on weeknights.
There's only been two issues he's ever adamant about--drugs and alcohol (and lipstick)--and so, I just suck it up and go without.
Going through last minute routines, I shoved some cash into one pocket and my cell into the other, fishing my keys from the pocket of my jeans before leaving my room, boots heavily clunking down the stairs and into the living room.
Sport trophies take up space in the bookshelves near the television, along with pictures of Dad's college football team the year they went number one in the nation, and tons of paper clippings from the various years he played. He's a firm accountant now, but he was a pretty decent line backer in his younger days, before Mom, and then, me. Still runs three days a week and hits the gym a couple times a month though.
For someone in their forties, my dad is fucking hot .
"Aren't you gone yet, stud?"
He wore jeans and a varsity shirt with writing faded through age and wear, his hands on his hips as he flashed teasing eyes my way. He knows I only pretend to hate when he calls me that.
My arms crossed over my chest as I replied, "Nearly."
"Yeah, with Brice."
He moved closer, saying something along the lines of a good-bye before swallowing my reply as he placed his mouth over mine, a large palm gripping my upper arm as I forced him to tongue me, pushing forward and enveloping myself in his arms.
A moan came from somewhere…probably from me, and we slid apart a bit.
"I can stay…."
My voice was soft, but it made him remember himself enough to pull away, breathing a low, "No."
I nodded, licking my thoroughly kissed lips--I'm not eighteen, yet.
So, I left.
I kicked ass at poker, cleaning house three times before the pussies quit betting money and we moved on to gin rummy. There was alcohol being passed around, but nobody was looking to get tanked--still, as their buzz grew, they forced me into playing Snap and then Bullshit before we digressed to a new low…Go Fish.
Brice got black lipstick all over the rim to my glass of root beer and I punched him for it, initiating a small brawl between us before he dumped me in favor of kissing his long-time crush. She allowed the first two instances of tongue, but rejected the third, crushing his high spirits and buzzed attitude when she sat near someone else.
And since he's always grumpy whenever a girl rejects him, I took him out for some gorditas from Taco Bell, the two of us vaulting a fence of a nearby elementary school, sitting on the swings as we ate and he smoked a few cigarettes to mellow out.
It was nearly one-thirty in the morning by the time I made it home, and I went upstairs and straight to bed, not even realizing I was already eighteen.
I saw Dad was gone by the time I dragged my ass out of bed the next morning and into the shower, and afterwards, I stared at my reflection while I shaved and brushed my teeth.
I'm legal now. A consenting adult.
I decided to celebrate with a fluorescent orange shirt, black shorts, and my black and white checkerboard shoes, slipping green-tinted glasses over my eyes to shield against the morning sun as I locked up the house. Ten minutes later had me inhaling a fast food breakfast on my way to school.
I'm eighteen today.
Brice carried over the black lipstick from last night, painting up his face and nails the dark color, as well as dying the tips of those killer blonde spikes a sort of bloody red color.
"Dude, what time did you have to get up to do all that?"
There was a ring of black staining the filter of his cigarette when he pulled it from his mouth; "Five."
I didn't bother holding back my laugh as I shook my head; and he calls me the faggot.
As if hearing my internalized comment, he waved a condescending hand in the air, "Yeah, yeah, asshole. But…pubes: yes, or no?"
I absently scratched at my lip ring; "Yes."
"Yeah, me too. I mean…shaved cunts always make them look nine, or something."
My lips twitched, and he flipped me off moments before I cracked up, sucking in oxygen in spurts before sobering long enough to shoot off, "A guy with no pubes has a mini dick. A Vienna sausage"
His look of disgust lasted a mere heartbeat before he jumped at me, the two of us roughing around for a good minute or two before he managed to burn himself with the lit cigarette between his fingers. Fucking lameass.
He hissed and fanned his hand in the air, looking over and scowling at my smirk; "Shut up, dickwad."
My fist made a decent-sized bruise on his arm, and though he growled, there was nothing he could do besides pout for the next five minutes. Seriously, I'm the fag?
My usual mode of operation is to go out somewhere after school, but since it's my birthday, I head for home as soon as the bell let out, fingers tapping on the steering wheel to an internal song to beat the silence in my car.
I'm nervous, yeah--tonight is the night I make my move to get my dad to fuck me, to take my virginity and make me his. I mean…ever since I first kissed him over a year ago, he's been the only one I've ever wanted.
I'm in love with my dad, and I know he loves me.
He always says so when I'm planted in his lap, his hands on my hips as I plaster my face to his, arms wrapped around his neck as we devour each other. It's never gone farther than that, never inappropriate touching, nothing beyond first base.
He kisses me, but always lets me go again.
I wasn't eighteen before today.
I parked behind Mom's car in our driveway, and for a brief second, all I could taste was bitterness in my throat as I sighed, wishing she could have waited just one more day to come over, but it couldn't be helped. Even though my parents divorced just over five years ago, they're both an active part of my life. I spend time at Mom's sometimes, and there's been the odd occasion of all of us going out for dinner, but that's rare. They split on relatively good terms, yeah, but they still drive each other, and me, completely bat shit when they have to be in the same vicinity for any sizable length of time.
The door sometimes creaks when you open it, if you're not careful, but it was quiet this afternoon, and it was as I was pushing it closed behind me that I heard my parent's voices coming from the kitchen, so I silently worked my way down the hall towards the doorway.
"You're wearing that lipstick again. You know I hate how that tastes--"
Their laughter was quiet, intimate, and my chest clenched tight as I recognized those small sounds, that kind of sound.
They didn't see me where I halted in the doorway, even though I was in plain sight--they were too busy with themselves to notice me watching Dad lean Mom against the counter, his hands, those hands, bringing her breasts out into the air as they kissed the way they used to when they thought I wasn't around. …The divorce hasn't stopped that.
Upper chest flaring white hot, searing, I backed from the kitchen and out the front door, leaving as quietly as I'd arrived--and ended up frozen on the front porch, abruptly coming to the realization of just how stupid I am.
Dad would never have fucked me, he never will fuck me. I'll never gain that place in his bed. I'm his son, and maybe I'm just sexy enough for him to kiss and mean his words of adoring worship, but that'll never be enough.
Even if…even if I were a daughter, that will never change.
Never be enough.
Brice answered his door after probably the fiftieth time I knocked, raising his eyebrows at seeing me; "I thought you had plans."
If my uncharacteristically brittle voice surprised him, he didn't comment, instead letting me in and the two of us set out to make sure his eight-year-old sister wasn't trying to burn the house down before his parents could get home.
I even let the squirt remove the cobalt from my nails in order to apply a dark green with a coat of some sort of lime highlight over it, sitting still as she hunched over my nails, her tongue peaking from between her teeth as she concentrated. She got a bit messy around the cuticles, but I didn't let it bother me, giving her truthful praise on her handiwork and slipping her a fiver when her brother wasn't looking.
Like a bastardly older brother, he hates when I spoil the kid.
His family let me eat dinner with them, and I managed to pointedly ignore the curious glances he kept shooting my way, wondering why I still played mute on my reasons for showing up the way I had.
Turned eighteen today.
We eventually ended up going out to someone's house, a mix people I knew and others I barely recognized, and then quite a few I'm sure I've never had the previous misfortune of meeting.
Brice stood and watched in shock as I downed two cups of beer right off, and he could only watch as I latched eyes with a sporty type I caught eyeing me first. And even though I could feel his awkward concern at seeing me this out of character, I didn't care, too preoccupied with falling from my slightly-goofy-but-hard-as-fuck persona as I slid through the crowd with a vaguely bewitched grin on my lips.
When I asked, the guy told me he was Richard, and that's when I noticed his blue eyes.
And against my better judgment, I kissed him, tasting the sweetness of Sprite on his lips even while he faltered at the bitter aftertaste of my beer on my own.
Seeing that doubt in those blue eyes, I was awkwardly compelled to admit, "Don't normally drink."
His eyes didn't believe me, and I set aside my empty cup somewhere in order to lean in closer, kissing him again when he weakly allowed me to. Hands wound into my hair while his tongue found mine, and maybe it was the beer, but I was so fucking buzzed, mind swimming with every passing moment.
When I couldn't take anymore, I put a break between us, but it was comfortable and still intimate, his fingers lightly coming up and tugging against my lip ring, my smile natural as I rested my hip against his athletic frame, still wrapped up in his presence.
"This the only one you've got?" he asked, and I nodded, seeing a new spin on his grin, those blue eyes locking with mine, intensely teasing.
"Got one, too."
When my eyebrows rose in question, he took my hand, sliding my fingers from his neck and downward--I was surprised when I suddenly felt the bar running through his left nipple, the flush on his face when I rolled my thumb across the piercing making that dimple in my cheek stand out stark.
Sometime after my hand beneath his shirt and his tongue in my ear, we gravitated somewhere else, ending up alone, and he called me 'Digee', sighing out the bastardization of the DG I'd given him earlier as my name.
It should have bothered me, but it didn't, not while I grappled with him for a moment before finally pulling free and making my way across the empty room, heading for a dilapidated sofa pushed up against a wall.
"Um…are…we going to…?"
The uncertainty of his voice hit me hard, and my eyes went wide at what he said next; "I've never been with anyone before."
"…It's ok," I turned my face his direction after composing my reaction, another dimple coming forth with a smile, "Call me Dexter."
He fell asleep spooning my back to his front on the sofa, our legs tangled a bit as I absently thumbed through the photos he had in his wallet, my head languidly resting on his shirt-covered shoulder.
There were pictures of him with a lot of other people, probably friends, and then some were of him in what appeared to be school swim gear, the logo something different than my school's. He'd mentioned the swim team once or twice during our talks, and how he usually removes his piercing for practices and competitions--not many people even know he has one. Including his parents.
And along with those admissions came the embarrassing one of how he shaves his arms, legs, and chest for less water resistance before every meet, his reluctant tone daring me to laugh or make fun of him, but I didn't.
He's too cute.
Flipping and snooping enough, I came across his driver's license, not at all surprised to see that he'd turned seventeen just a month ago. Sex with him, then, would've been statutory rape…among other things.
Not that it mattered, seeing as how we were both still virgins.
It was nearly eleven before Brice came to find me, his face burning at discovering me as I was, but I didn't really care. It wasn't anything like the time I'd happened on him with some chick's hand down the front of his jeans--at least mine and Richard's clothes were still on and un-mussed.
My friend stood in uncomfortable silence, watching me shift a bit and then sit up, my torso turning before my hips, my hand cradling the kid's neck as I spoke his name into his ear, smiling when I saw his confused blinking gaze when he woke.
"My number's in your cell. Call me."
Those blue eyes clouded over with something akin to uncertain and shy happiness, and my smirk was practically fond and happy enough myself as I pushed up from the sofa and left with Brice, leaving the guy behind.
"Jesus, some dude, DG?!"
Brice was quick to lecture as he drove us back to his house so I could pick up my car parked there in the street. There was still a buzz tingling along my spine and nerve endings, my fingers itching against my cell phone, thinking of the new contact I'd entered there.
I couldn't be sure, but I figured there was a good chance he'd really call me.
"Fuck, are you even listening?!"
"Brice, it's my birthday."
And that was the extent of my side of the argument, my easy posture portraying how I'd just nailed the coffin lid down onto the demise of the lecture. He just didn't get it soon enough.
"So? Man, Dex, you're suddenly a fucking 'tard."
"I just want a boyfriend."
My somewhat flippant remark had him glancing over at me in surprise before he gave a quick snort, hand snapping out to change the radio station, turning up the volume but unable to drown out his mutter about having a queer best friend.
As soon as we hit a red light, my fist launched itself into the meat of his right arm, and he cursed and sent back retaliation, the two of us volleying punches back and forth until a green light put the end to it, but not before I could get in one last go.
Pretty sure he figured out he'd lost by that point.
I didn't go straight home after I left Brice's, driving aimlessly for a bit before ending up calling that new number in my phone and hearing Richard stammer as he fumbled to answer, voice confused and half-alert.
Nerves caught me upon hearing his voice sounding sleepy, but I managed to blurt out the one question on my mind, without even identifying who I was or where he'd know me from. But the quiet on the other end of the line was honestly contemplative, and the static that crackled over his reply wasn't enough to mask his words, and he caught the sound of the grin on my face, because he softly laughed.
The relief tingles my skin.
I eventually ended up with my car parked some two or three blocks away from my house, talking to him until he finally bowed out due to exhaustion. …But not before we made plans to meet up later, plans I wouldn't dream of blowing off for anything else.
My car's clock showed the time to be just past two by the time I finally pulled in behind Mom's car in the driveway, and it was odd to see lights filtering through the curtains in our living room windows, which put me on alert before I even left the car.
The first thing I saw once I walked through the front door was Mom asleep on the couch and Dad planted in his recliner, half-heartedly watching late night infomercials--clearly waiting for me to come home.
She woke when I shut the door behind me, sitting up and mumbling something unintelligible in the sudden silence of the muted television.
Dad translated for her; "We waited hours for you, Dex."
"Sorry, I was out."
"You were out?!" Her voice was stilted with disbelief and borderline anger, and I didn't mean to, but a genuine smile lit up my mouth and eyes.
"Yeah, with Brice and Richard."
Mom rubbed at her forehead, attempting to stall for time to think of something to say, but eventually settling on, "And…Richard is who?"
Dad's eyes said nothing and everything, clear in that he'd expected something like this to happen eventually, and maybe…maybe I should have expected this all along. It would have made things a hell of a lot less complicated, right?
They only let me go to bed when I gave my tenth yawn in as many minutes, and it wasn't hard to figure out that Mom ended up spending the night with Dad.
And I can't lie and say it didn't hurt to know he'd chosen her over me, that he'd always choose her over me. But it doesn't mean that he loves me any less. I know the man well enough to know he'd always been honest in things like that--he never once said he'd ever want something more with me.
And maybe Richard won't be the one I lose my virginity to, although there might come a day we become horny enough to fuck each other like rabbits, copulating our poor, young brains out for hours at a time.
Hell, for all I know, he'll break up with me in the morning, after he's had time to think on it more rationally.
But whatever happens, it'll end up alright, because I'm finally eighteen.
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A/N: all those of you who don't remember reading this before, or this was your first time...were you surprised? :laughs: