||[Feb. 14th, 2008|02:35 pm]
George & Paul
Is this really the first fic on here? Wow. Well, I hope I make a good first impression.
Wordcount: Almost 2,000
Summary: Two men have equally troublesome problems.
There it was-that stray piece of string-hanging from the generous curve of Paul’s backside, taunting George. It was an eyesore in comparison with Paul’s otherwise impeccable appearance. Every hair in place; every wrinkle ironed; every note tuned to perfection, and that one little string ruined everything. From between his squinting eyes, the studio appeared as a somewhat blurry watercolor, with Paul as the focal point of the painting. He was lively and energizing in his off purple suit, doing a little dance as he sang into the microphone and tapped the beat with the heel of his shoe. With every tap of Paul’s foot came a shifting of his legs, and, in turn, a shake of his ass. Unbeknownst to the other man, George was getting quite a show.
‘Goddam you,’ George thought in contempt of the string. All it would take to remove it was a flick of the wrist. Paul was only a few feet away and completely preoccupied with his music. However, such an action was completely evasive of one’s personal space; George blanched at the thought of its consequences.
These past few months had been rough. Things between Pattie and him had become inane and just plain boring. In fact, George’s sex life was now nonexistent. Sure he missed it, being male and naturally hormone-driven. He would have given anything to be able to satisfy his wife, but every time they went to make love something stopped him. A little voice would say ‘this is pointless’ and ‘you’re wasting your time; you should be songwriting’. And to add to all his problems, George had been developing infuriating habits-hence the annoyance at the string on Paul’s bottom. Little things from nail and finger biting, to bigger things like rearranging furniture and not being able to sit still for more than a few minutes.
Paul reached a particularly high and warbling note and, as he cooed out the lyric, he put a hand on his hip and leaned all his weight on one leg. The palm of his hand was a mere centimeter from the string. ‘Come on,’ George inwardly encouraged. ‘Find it; it’s right there!’ Those snug purple trousers molded perfectly to the shape of Paul’s ass, and George was reminded again of all the sex he’d been missing out on.
“What do you think?” Paul asked out of the blue.
“About the song.”
“Great. Really brilliant,” George said to the backside so prominently displayed in his line of view. This was bad; he was getting horny watching Paul wriggle around. Strange-no one had incited any such reaction from him until now, and this was Paul, a man, and an old friend. True, he wasn’t stranger to being attracted to men. It was this particular man he was surprised to find desirable.
‘Oh for god’s sake,’ George thought. He looked around the empty studio, instinctually paranoid they were being watched, and reached out his hand. At the last second he pulled back. ‘There is no way you’re going to grab his ass just to satisfy your OCD.’ But his face was so close to said bottom, and surely the other man wouldn’t notice.
With the reflection that he was usually stronger than this, George plucked off the string.
“Oh,” Paul said, sounding as if he had just been awoken from a deep reverie. George jumped, skidding back in his chair. Paul looked at him from over his shoulder, his eyebrows arched dramatically and his mouth in an inquisitive ‘O’.
“For a moment I completely forgot you were here,” he said with a laugh.
That was close. George smiled, but his heart pounded away with the ferocity of a pair of beating wings.
“You look a bit peaky. Is something wrong?” Paul asked.
“Yes,” George replied.
‘What do you mean ‘yes’?’ A voice-the same that rose up before sex-rang in his head. ‘He doesn’t want to hear about your problems!’ It said. ‘I need someone to talk to,’ George reasoned with it. ‘Maybe he’ll understand.’
‘How would he understand? Remember: It’s all sex with Paul. Unlike you, he has no trouble in that department,’ The little voice drawled. George had to agree. Unfortunately, the damage was done; Paul wore a very serious expression and he had put on his psychiatrist’s face.
“I can’t fuck,” George stated flatly. He was surprised at what had come out of his own mouth. But, perhaps bluntness was for the better.
“You mean you’re-“Paul paused. “Impotent?” He lowered his voice as if it were a swear word.
“No.” George chuckled; it was an understandable mistake. “I mean-well, I’m not sure what I mean. It’s hard to explain.”
Paul took a seat at a nearby stool and crossed his legs. He looked ready for a lengthy conversation. “Tell me about it,” he said. George fidgeted in his chair and tried to clear his head. Everything was muddled into one big ball of yarn inside his head, and the fact that the other man looked positively edible in purple wasn’t helping him think clearly.
“I want to have sex, but my mind won’t let me.”
“Excuse me?” Paul asked.
“I’m not attracted to my wife anymore.”
At this, Paul nodded factually and leaned back in his seat. “That’s not good.”
‘That’s right, genius,’ George thought. “I bet you have loads of great sex,” he said.
“It’s not all peaches and cream,” Paul replied. George just barely refrained from snorting.
“Yeah, right.” He said.
“No, seriously. I have a problem.”
That was the first time Paul had ever spoken negatively about his sex life, and it sounded like he was claiming an addiction. George knew he should have been sympathetic but, at the moment, he was so horny he couldn’t have cared less.
“You don’t want my problem,” Paul continued, sounding forlorn.
“I’d kill for your problem.” George said. He wasn’t expecting the nasty look he received, and it sent a guilty twinge down his spine.
“I miss it, man.” He said, silently begging for Paul to avert his gaze; that look was killing him. “Intimacy.”
“You can have that without sex.”
“What do you want that a hug can’t give you?”
Paul bent forward at the waist, and his eyes held George’s in an unrelenting stranglehold that dared him to disagree. This only further aroused his argumentative side.
“It’s not the same.” He said.
A shadow passed over George’s face, darkening his world for a fraction of a second. When he could see again, he was engulfed in the warm, bittersweet-smelling, familial embrace of Paul McCartney. Inside this alcove all was quiet; George heard nothing but the rustle of fabric and the beating of Paul’s heart. Suddenly gripped with fear, George grabbed on to two very real, tangible, shoulders. God, he had needed this-needed to be touched. He continued to hold on to Paul, afraid the other man was a phantasm, and that he would soon dissipate into thin air, leaving George all alone.
“Thanks,” George said into the lapel of Paul’s suit.
He let go, expecting the other man to do the same, but Paul held on. In between Paul’s arms it was dark and secretive-like a separate universe only the two of them inhabited. So relaxing was the climate of this universe that George felt himself dozing off. He rubbed fondly against the other man as a kitten would its owner, and came eye to eye with the bulge in Paul’s trousers.
At first George was only mildly surprised-after all, Paul had admitted to being some kind of sex addict-but then something seemed to click on in his head, like a defense mechanism, and he jerked out of the other man’s arms. Paul was red-faced and refused to meet his eye.
“Um-I…” George searched wildly for words. That annoying little voice had vanished; there was no longer anyone to tell him when to stop and what, or whom, to do. He had been liberated, and from a mere hug.
With exuberance, he set about unbuckling the belt of a seemingly confused Paul. The opportunities were boundless; he could do anything-provided it was consensual, of course.
“Hey, George.” Paul backed away. In his haste, the back of his knees hit the stool, and he tumbled on top of it. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“Why not?” He asked.
“You have a wife!” Paul yelled.
‘That’s right,’ George thought. He was in a blind furry, and so anxious to get laid, he had forgotten all about Pattie. Now that one obstacle had arisen, others took their place alongside it. He had a wife; Paul was a man; they were band mates; they were in the studio, of all places. Defeated, George slumped back in his chair with a heaving sigh. He heard a similarly weighty sigh from the other man.
“Sorry,” He ground out, torn between embarrassment and desire. Sex was still the first and foremost thing on his mind, but the warm body in front of him was protesting.
An awkward silence ensued, in which George stared pointedly at Paul’s obvious and persisting erection, and Paul stared at the floor between his legs.
Paul squeezed his legs together and folded his hands in his lap. “I told you: I have a problem.”
George was fed up. “So do I,” he said. “If I don’t fuck something, I’m going to fucking explode. Do you fucking get it?” The second the words were out of his mouth he regretted them; Paul was giving him the wary look of a prisoner thinking only of the nearest escape route.
“Fuck your wife,” Paul said.
“I can’t. Haven’t you been listening?”
“Just-goddam it, George, you’re scaring me!”
Paul certainly looked afraid, but his wide eyes and slack mouth were only turning George on, rather than jolting him into reality as they should have. It was too late to turn back; he was too far gone. He needed release-and fast.
“Please,” George murmured. He knelt before the other man and dove in for a brief kiss. “Please?” He asked against squirming lips. With each kiss Paul grew quieter and quieter. Soon he was slack beneath George.
For a man, Paul sure was soft. His hair was downy, as was the dark hair on his forearms, and his skin was pleasing to the touch. He felt better than Pattie-that much George knew. Unlike his wife, Paul didn’t mind if he was bitten, rather than caressed, or if George was less than gentle. Even the accidental slip of teeth along his cock didn’t faze Paul. In fact, he arched into the sensation rather than recoiling in pain.
Paul trembled beneath him one last time. George swallowed everything without hesitation. The taste, surprisingly, wasn’t as offensive on the tongue as he had suspected.
“I’m fine,” George replied, holding the sticky hand between his own legs several feet away in disgust. He was going to need to find a towel. With one hand, he disjointedly tucked Paul back into his briefs and zipped, buttoned, and buckled up the purple trousers. Paul, equally as clumsy, helped him out when he got to the button.
“What are you going to do?” Paul asked worriedly.
“I don’t know,” George confessed. The future of his marriage, and the prospect of facing the other man in the morning, seemed hazy and very far away.
At the very least that voice, both the angel and the demon on his shoulder, had disappeared. He hoped it was gone for good.
“Thanks, again,” George said.