|Prompt Three: Photograph
||[Mar. 20th, 2008|02:18 am]
George & Paul
My response to prompt three. This was a spur of the moment, just for fun, kind of thing. Enjoy!
Title: Prompt Three-Photograph
Rating: PG-15 (not a real rating, but the only one that fits)
Summary: A busy day by the pool.
“Can you swing your legs around?” A photographer barked at George. “Look, you know, happy,” The man babbled on in a muted mutter, snapping photos all the while.
George stretched his lips into what he hoped was an accommodating smile, but was probably a creepy grin. It was Saturday, for god’s sake. A day to lounge around and waste time reading cheap magazines, or catching up on work. It was a beautiful, sunny day, too. He had been just about to take a dip in the pool, when a gaggle of photographers had materialized in front of the house. Whoever had let them in was getting their ass fired.
“Is it only you?” One hawk-faced woman asked. She squinted from behind half-moon glasses, scrutinizing him unashamedly like one would an animal at the zoo. George shifted himself on his chair as he had been told. Looking her right in the eye, and making sure his expression was mean, he said: “No.” She blinked furiously and fiddled with her camera.
George opened his mouth to add that Paul was in the house, but changed his mind. He and Paul had been in the midst of a heated argument earlier that day. It was just after Paul had disappeared inside, slamming the door behind him, when George had decided to take a swim. He didn’t need an angry Paul on top of all these people. And, knowing Paul, the other man was probably still thinking about their dumb fight; he could hold a grudge for the longest time.
They were arguing about family; maybe friends. George didn’t remember the specifics. What was freshest in his mind was Paul’s red-faced look of frustration, his wild eyes, and that tense way his shoulders had hunched. It had been one hell of a fight.
“To the left,” someone ordered. He turned his head.
Ah, now he remembered; it was all coming back. Their spat had been so asinine, that the relationship they'd fought over wasn’t even real. Paul had read a book; he was fascinated by the strong dynamic between the two main characters. “George,” he had said, voice trailing off dreamily, as it did when he was deeply entrenched in his thoughts. “I wonder if that kind of friendship actually exists.” Then, he had stared into George’s eyes for a long time, expression very serious. “Think we have that?”
And George, the idiot that he was, had told the truth.
Not really, he’d said. We’re both a lot closer to John; you’re much friendlier with Ringo. It’s not as if we spend all that much time together, outside of work. Paul’s lips had tightened into a thin white line at his words. He’d made some passive aggressive remark about how George never wanted to communicate. About how he was the one holding back their friendship. Just come out and say it, George had thought. You want us to be closer. So do I.
Paul never came right out and said anything.
“Oh, good,” the squinty woman said. With a wave of her arm that jostled the camera around her neck, she yelled: “Paul! Over here!”
Uh-oh, George thought.
Hearing the other man’s padded footsteps behind him, George turned around. He was immediately affronted with the semi-scandalous image of Paul wearing only a pair of tiny little swim trunks. The article of clothing seemed to provide almost no barrier between Paul’s naked lower half, and the eyes of George and the crowd of photographers eagerly clicking away at their cameras.
Fireworks exploded in his head. Just as one of the main characters in Paul’s book would say: “BAM!” And that was it. George was done for. There was nothing that could pry his eyes away from Paul’s displayed body.
He could see everything; absolutely everything. The trunks were so tiny that they rode up Paul’s lightly furred thighs, and dark, wiry, pubic hair curled out and around the hem of the shorts. George’s eyes roamed from Paul’s dark-haired forearms, to his lean but soft-looking tummy, back to the coltish legs, and, finally, to the one, little pink nipple that peeked out from behind the towel slung over Paul’s shoulder. This was obscene; he was seeing way too much.
Paul, the centerfold that he was, ran the towel over his hair and posed. He fucking posed, just like the Playgirl model of the month-no, he was too grungy and unpolished for a rag as innocent as Playgirl. He belonged on the back page of some cheap, explicit, dime-store porn mag, with a number to call and hourly rates stamped at the bottom in big bold letters.
Someone was shouting at him. George forcibly tore his eyes away from Paul, and looked at the sea of photographers. “Yes?” He croaked. “Group shot,” a man said. “Move in together.” I don’t think so! George silently screamed.
The fold-out chair beside him squeaked as Paul sat down. Their heads drew together, and they turned to the cameras, all smiles. Finally, George pried himself away, sitting as far from Paul as he possibly could without having to get out of his chair. This was very, very fucking bad.
He chanced a glance at Paul. The other man had on a look of such ease, as if he had been born to be under the spotlight. Smiling smartly, he crossed his arms; the movement only drew attention to his cute little belly-button, and the darker, more sinister treasure trail of hair below it, that paved the road to the bulge in those tiny trunks.
“Smile for the camera, George,” Paul said with a big mocking grin and a knowing twitch of the eyebrows.
Goddamn you, George silently fumed. As soon as they were alone, he would have vengeance. Right now, however, all he could do was gape and stare. No matter how discreet he tried to be, George always ended right back where he started, with his eyes glued to every inch of Paul’s bare skin. All he wanted-even more than revenge, or a happy marriage, or world peace-was to bury his head between Paul’s pale thighs, and eat the other man out of his shorts.
Click. The last photographer took his final picture. Gradually, the stream of people trickled away from the pool, leaving the two of them alone and in blissful quiet.
Paul ruffled his hair with the towel, attempting to dry it.
“Hey,” George said. “Hey,” he said again, louder this time.
“What?” Paul asked, giving George a frowning, loose-lipped expression, completely different from his previous sultry look. Now his face was friendlier and more open. The face of a mate, not some untouchable model in a glossy porn photo. And, hell, this Paul was even sexier.
George reached his arm out and laid it over the armrest of Paul’s chair. He gave the other man a goofy smile. It disarmed Paul, just as it was meant to, and brought a similar smile to the other man’s lips. Now was the perfect moment to catch him by surprise.
“What’s that?” George asked, pointing at something off into the distance. Paul laughed and raised his eyebrows, but looked nonetheless. Just as Paul turned his head away, George stretched out his hand and twisted one dusky pink nipple between thumb and forefinger.
Paul’s head shot back, eyes wide, mouth slack-and he groaned.
George didn’t consider himself to be queer-he’d never had, you know, ‘real’ gay sex-and he was almost one hundred percent certain that Paul was as straight as they come. That didn’t stop him from stealing one biting, nibbling, kiss from the other man’s pouting lips. It couldn’t keep his mouth away from the soft salty skin of Paul’s chest and shoulders. That devious hand of his that shot straight down into Paul’s lap had done so against his will; he didn’t mean for it to find the hard, damp length of the cock nestled there.
George was sure Paul hadn’t intended his voice to come out all wobbly and breathy like that.
When Paul’s climax hit, it seemed to rip through him with all the subtlety of a carving knife. He jerked up in his seat, every muscle stiffening for one split second, then melted into a puddle of disheveled hair and disarrayed limbs. George’s erection ached painfully and cried out for attention, but he ignored it for the sake of reveling in the afterglow with Paul.
“I guess we are kind of like those guys,” George said after a while.
“Who?” Paul asked in a garbled voice. His head lay on his arm, mouth pressing into his shoulder.
“The guys from that book. The best friends.”
“Yeah. We’re close; we’re good friends.”
Paul smiled, but it was guilty, sorry-I-took-advantage-of-you smile.
No matter, George thought. They both took advantage of each other. He returned the smile with one of his own, patting Paul’s arm and leaning back in his chair for a short nap. Maybe they weren’t really as close as they pretended to be, but at least they shared this one, intimate, experience.