I – Dinner
The couple chatted cheerfully in the corner booth of the restaurant’s small, intimate dining room. Only a dozen tables and booths filled the space – each dressed with a single, freshly cut rose and plain, white tea candle. Over each booth hung a small, black pendant light, which gently illuminated the pristine, white linen tablecloths below. Across the room, a large bar covered the wall, boasting an impressive whiskey collection that sat upon stylishly uplit wooden shelves, in front of which two bartenders, clad in all black, hurried to and fro in their own sort of ritualistic dance that accompanied the Friday night dinner rush. Soft music played in the air, just loud enough to filter out the noise of neighboring tables without being too noticeable.
At the booth in question, which was set for a party of four, the couple laughed easily and sipped water from sleek highball glasses, silver wedding bands shining in the warm light. The man was in his early forties and boasted a muscular body and handsome face. He was bald, but in a way that suited him nicely, with strong facial features, a square jaw, and dark eyebrows. He wore a crisp, blue-and-white gingham shirt under a navy blue fleece vest, out of which his muscular shoulders and arms protruded. He was in excellent shape, a former highschool football star whose lifelong commitment to fitness now manifested in daily workouts, early morning trips to the gym before heading into the office. From a distance, he was a rather imposing figure – tall and broad-chested, with a thick neck and arms that looked as though they could bend iron – but this impression quickly gave way after noticing the smile that nearly always adorned his face. The soul of a teddy bear in the body of a grizzly. Even now, his laugh revealed a gentle nature and good humor to contrast his hulking silhouette.
Across from him, his wife was equally lovely, with wavy auburn hair that fell past her shoulders. She wore black jeans, ankle boots, and a flowy, pine green v-neck blouse. A simple gold necklace hung against her collarbone, atop an ample bust, and small gold hoops dangled from her ears. She told her story with an animated flourish, giggling through her own recitation of events, laughter which leapt across the table and quickly infected her husband. For any observer, they were a picture of love and marital bliss.
In fact, they were so engrossed in their own conversation they barely noticed another couple enter the restaurant. This couple hurried in the door, shaking off the cold night air. They were in their early thirties and had a healthy and attractive air about them. The woman was tall and elegant, with a slender frame, silky blonde hair, and a classically beautiful face. She wore a sand-colored trench coat over a white sweater, wide-leg gray slacks, and red stiletto heels. Her appearance was right out of a fashion magazine and tended to make an impression in any room, beauty that could’ve taken her very far in life if she hadn't been such a gifted and motivated student.
Her husband was equally attractive. He had the same tall, athletic build, with narrow shoulders and the long legs of a runner. Atop his head sat a mop of chestnut brown hair, which he combed back away from his face in a casual, Ivy League coif. He wore jeans and a periwinkle cashmere sweater that, in the right light, brought out the blue of his eyes. His features were soft and youthful, his smooth cheeks ruddy from the cold, dimples dotting each as he smiled at his wife.
Their eyes adjusted to the dim light as they scanned the room for their friends. The hostess, a girl of seventeen with stylish glasses and a sleek, blonde bob, greeted them just as they spotted the inhabitants of the back corner booth. They politely declined the hostess’s offering of assistance and began to weave their way through crowded tables to accompany their friends.
“Well look who it is,” the other man said as they reached the back booth. The seated couple looked up and beamed, excitedly shuffling out of their seats to greet the newcomers with warm hugs and friendly kisses on the cheek.
“Sorry, we're late,” apologized the blonde woman. “Broke a heel on the way out the door and had to change the entire outfit.”
“Yeah, it was a real emergency,” her husband teased playfully.
“Oh stop, be nice to your wife!” Scolded the brunette. “Broken heels are no joke.”
“Amber broke a pair of heels one time and I thought she was going to take the week off for bereavement,” the bald man joked, his voice deep and warm.
“Oh, you two are awful,” the blonde woman lamented.
“Why did we ever introduce them?” Amber, the brunette, asked with playful regret.
They finished their hugs, shed their coats, and slid back into the booth. Amber switched to the other side of the table so that one couple filled in on each side. They chatted energetically as they settled in, a cacophony of how-are-you’s and it's-been-too-long’s. Normally, the four friends tried to get together every other week, but the hustle and bustle of the holidays, as it so often does, quickly consumed their respective schedules and left them catching their breath as one year rolled mercilessly into another.
A few minutes later, a waiter approached the table – a fit young man in his twenties, with olive skin and raven hair – dressed in all black. He had a simple stud piercing in his nose and a forearm tattoo that disappeared beneath the rolled-up sleeve on his left arm. He was just the right kind of waiter whose cool aesthetic was a credit to the restaurant, that reassured patrons they'd chosen somewhere fashionable to take their evening meal.
“Good evening,” he greeted them with a friendly smile, pouring water into the two empty glasses from a frosty silver pitcher. “Would anyone like something other than water?”
“Yeah, we'll do a bottle of the Chateau Boutisse,” interjected the bald man confidently. “Oh, and an order of the champignons for the table.”
“Excellent choices,” the waiter nodded approvingly. “I’ll go put those in and bring us a couple fresh baguettes momentarily.”
“Thank you,” they said in unison as the waiter strolled off.
“You'll have to forgive Mike for taking charge of the drink menu,” Amber apologized playfully. “He's been dying to show this place off for months.”
The bald man, Mike, grinned and waved a dismissive hand. “I don't know what you're talking about, the Boutisse is for me. I don't care what you losers are drinking.”
Everyone laughed playfully.
“We ordered that the last time we came here and I haven't stopped hearing about the Boutisse ever since,” Amber rolled her eyes, an affectionate smile on her face.
“Hey, I trust your opinion,” said the other man. “I'm not much of a wine connoisseur, so I wouldn't even know where to begin.”
“Scott isn’t the most decisive person at a restaurant,” the blonde woman laughed, smiling warmly at her husband. “I feel like I do most of the ordering.”
“It’s true,” Scott confessed. “I normally ask Melissa what her top two options are on the menu then just order whichever one she doesn’t get. The fewer decisions I have to make, the better.”
Mike laughed, a deep, warm hum, and turned to his wife. “See, honey. Scott is glad I ordered the Boutisse.”
“We went to Paris for our tenth anniversary,” Amber explained. “Since we got back, I think we’ve both been trying to find anything and everything that reminds us of our time there. This one's decided to become an amateur sommelier,” she nudged Mike. “I've heard more about red wine in the last two years than in my entire life before that trip.”
“I took up wine, she took up egregiously expensive handbags. We called it a fair trade,” Mike teased.
“Well, in my defense, you probably could have ordered Welch’s grape juice and I would have guzzled it down with a smile on my face,” Scott joked.
“Not really sure how that's in your defense,” Melissa, the blonde woman quipped, a bewildered smile on her face. “Not sure your lack of taste is something to brag about.”
“What can I say? I'm more of a beer guy,” Scott shrugged.
“How did you find this place, anyways?” Melissa asked.
“Amber actually found it,” Mike admitted, giving his wife the floor.
“I came here one morning to meet a girlfriend for coffee. She comes here to work on her remote days and asked one time if I wanted to join her.”
“Oh, I didn’t think they were open during the day,” Melissa mused.
“They are. Sort of. They open in the morning as a cute, little cafe. Espresso, pastries, things like that. It’s all counter service, so you just order at the bar and sit wherever. And the servers are in white aprons and black vests, just like you were at some cafe in the Latin Quarter. It’s adorable, really. Then they close down around two, I believe, and reopen for dinner as this fancy, French steakhouse.” She gestured to the room around her.
“Oh, how cool!” Melissa exclaimed, delighted. “I guess that explains the name.” The restaurant was called Soleil et Lune in the spirit of its complementary daytime/nighttime identities.
“We should come for coffee one of these mornings, Melissa,” Amber suggested, dumbfounded that she hadn’t thought of that before.
“I’d love that!” The girls beamed with excitement about their new plans and the conversation lulled.
“So how were the holidays?” Scott asked.
Mike and Amber answered with the usual recapitulations – lamenting the busy schedules, bemoaning the amount of food and wine consumed, listing out their indulgent and unnecessary gifts, and, most of all, mourning how quickly it all came and went.
“We usually do Christmas with Mike’s sister. She's got two small kids, so that's always kinda fun,” Amber added.
“Aww, no kids this year?” Melissa asked.
“No, not this year,” Mike answered. “They were with her husband's family this year so we all got shuffled around.”
“Family schedules can be so demanding,” Melissa observed. “I'm glad you two got some time for just you amidst all the chaos!”
About this time, the waiter returned carrying a white towel, wine bottle, and corkscrew. With an air of pageantry, he presented the bottle – label up, of course – to Mike for approval before removing the cork with a satisfactory thunk and pouring just a dram into Mike's glass. Mike swirled the wine and sipped it noisily, visibly savoring each burst of flavor as the small sip of liquid spread across his tongue. His smile returned to his face and his wine glass returned to the table.
“It's excellent,” he reported with glee.
“Glad to hear it, sir.” The waiter gracefully poured into each glass without dribbling so much as a speck onto the white linens. He sat the bottle on the end of the table and asked whether they might need some additional time to peruse the menu – they would. He also asked whether they might be interested in the evening’s special, smoked duck with a tart cherry compote served with shaved Brussels on a bed of parsnip puree – they absolutely would. “Well, I'll leave you with a minute to think things through while I go see a chef about some champignons.”
“Okay, seriously, what should I order?” Scott asked.
“Well, Amber and I split the chateaubriand. The duck sounded wonderful and I hear good things about their coq au vin,” Mike explained.
“I think I might get the duck, honey,” Melissa added. “Sounds delicious, and how often do you find good duck on a menu?”
“That did sound good,” Scott agreed, poring over the menu. “If you’re getting that, I may go with what Mike suggested. After all, I’d hate to pass up a good coq.”
Scott looked up with a devilish grin as everyone laughed at the risque joke. His eyes met Mike’s, which briefly flashed with something besides humor, but the conversation quickly moved on to the next topic.
Before long the waiter returned with a plate of picturesque mushroom caps stuffed with all sorts of cheesy, gooey goodness and baked to perfection. Entrees were ordered – including the coq – and the conversation flowed as freely and generously as the wine. Everyone agreed that Mike’s selection was exceptional and that his taste in bottles would henceforth be trusted without question or debate. His face flushed with the praise and also, at least in part, with wine.
As the entrees were brought out, everyone was stunned into silence. The chateaubriand, which looked like enough meat to feed a football team, was sliced into medallions and laid across a black slate serving tray. It was cooked to perfection, the center of each slice an inviting pink, and drizzled with a house mustard sauce. Melissa’s duck was equally attractive – two thick slices of medium-rare duck breast, each a beautiful maroon, sat atop a bed of velvet smooth puree. Even Scott’s coq au vin, a generally rustic and unimpressive dish, made quite the splash. It was served in an individual dutch oven and came with its own loaf of freshly baked French bread to soak up the delectable broth. The sights and smells that suddenly filled the booth lulled everyone into a sort of dizzy reverence.
“Everything look alright?” the waiter asked.
“I think we are good,” Mike answered politely.
“Perfect,” the waiter smiled. “In that case, bon appetit.”
II – Drinks
As plates were cleared and appetites were satiated, the waiter returned with a pleasant and knowing smile on his face. “How was everything?” he asked in his casually cool demeanor.
His answer was provided by four full-mouthed moans of pleasure.
“It was excellent, really,” Mike finally said, the only coherent reply at the table.
“Wonderful, I’m happy to hear that,” the waiter beamed. “Can I get you anything else or are you ready for the check?”
“We'll take the check,” Mike informed him.
“Will that be all together?”
“No!” Scott and Melissa interjected just as Mike answered with a confident and decisive, “Yes.”
The waiter hesitated for just a moment, but sensing the air of authority surrounding Mike, not to mention his role as Speaker of the Table all evening, sauntered off to retrieve a single bill.
“Mike,” Scott huffed. “You really didn’t need to do that.”
“Of course I didn’t,” Mike said dismissively. “We wanted to. Consider it a late Christmas gift.”
“Well, thank you,” Melissa smiled graciously. “That was very kind of both of you.”
The bill squared away, the group ventured out for Part Two of their evening which was to be live music at a swanky jazz bar just off the town square, a short walk from their dinner. It was cold out, thirty degrees and dropping, so they moved hurriedly along, collars of their coats turned up against the icy breeze, huddled slightly together, chatting enthusiastically as they went, until they came to the flashing neon sign for Second Line Cocktails & Jazz.
It was an upscale place, the kind of bar that functioned more like a true jazz club, with intimate booths bordering an open floor, which sometimes served as a dance floor but more often than not contained closely packed tables, each oriented towards the sizable stage that graced the club’s back wall. A second-story balcony bordered three walls of the club, looking down over the stage and main floor, protected by an intricate ironwork railing right out of the French Quarter. The whole atmosphere was reminiscent of the iconic New Orleans neighborhood, hence the club’s namesake and its affinity for New Orleans style jazz, big and bold and brassy music that often drifted out the windows and floated through the night air like some benevolent spirit. The drink menu reflected this inspiration as well, with a whole section dedicated to variations of the hurricane and a general preference for strong, Southern cocktails like the Vieux Carre, the Sazerac, and the La Louisiane.
They had purchased a four-top table at the front of the floor, off to the right of the stage, and they were shown there by a beautiful, young hostess who chatted amicably as they walked. As they got seated, she filled water glasses from a crystal carafe and wished them a pleasant evening before returning to her post at the club’s front door. The tables were small, just big enough to hold a handful of cocktails, and fairly close together, meaning that seating was a rather cozy affair. Melissa and Amber occupied the chairs to the left while Mike and Scott took the two on the right, a noticeable change from their seating arrangement at the restaurant. Just as they got settled, Mike and Scott determined to make their way to the bar for drinks, politely taking the ladies’ orders before they left.
The room buzzed with conversation and excitement as showtime drew nearer, tables filling up quickly on both levels. A short line had formed at the bar, and Mike and Scott fell in behind an older couple who chatted energetically.
“I’m glad we were able to do this,” Scott said above the noise. “We really missed you both over the holidays.”
“Same,” Mike agreed warmly. “We thought about reaching out to you a couple of times, but it was going to be so last-minute, we didn’t want to throw more commitments on your calendar.”
“Honestly, we would’ve welcomed it,” Scott mused.
“Well then,” Mike smiled amusedly. “We’ll remember that next time.”
“Next year Melissa wants us all to go see The Nutcracker together. She thinks it would be fun to have a holiday tradition with you guys.”
“I’ve never been to a ballet,” Mike said after a moment’s pause.
“I hadn’t gone before I met Melissa,” Scott confessed. “But to be honest, I like it more than I thought I would.”
“Really?” Mike sounded surprised. “You’re not just being a good, supportive husband?”
Scott chuckled. “Well, it started out as that, for sure. But they’re pretty enjoyable. The music is great; the sets and costumes are all ornate and grand; and, while I’m no expert on dancing, everyone on stage is just so beautiful and graceful. It’s pretty impressive. Reminded me of watching gymnastics at the Olympics or something.”
Mike pondered this for a moment. “I could see that. Sometimes it’s nice to watch attractive, talented people be talented and attractive.”
“Exactly,” Scott laughed.
The conversation was halted when it was their turn to order – white wine for the ladies and two Sazeracs for themselves. Drinks in hand, they wove their way back to the front of the house and arrived at their table just as the lights began to dim.
The music was fantastic – a jazz quintet made up of saxophone, drums, piano, upright bass, and – the most surprising addition – clarinet. They played a mix of music, from the well-known standards to original riffs and jam sessions. The energy of the musicians was infectious, and the crowd fell into that special trance that only live music seems able to cast over a room full of strangers. The table of friends listened attentively, their proximity to the stage discouraging conversation and providing amazing intimacy with the performers. Beads of sweat were visible as they trickled down the musicians’ foreheads; neck veins bulged as new riffs, each more impressive than the last, emanated from the unassuming instruments.
At the little table, Amber and Mel huddled together in that conspiratorial way girlfriends so often demonstrate – their shoulders touched and their heads leaned inwards unconsciously, as if pulled by some secret gravity of their friendships. Across from them, Mike and Scott also snugly together, Mike’s broad frame taking up a disproportionate amount of airspace amongst the four of them. Scott didn’t seem to mind. He leaned against his friend’s shoulder with an unbothered ease, sipping his Sazerac and whispering observations occasionally into Mike’s ear. Their demeanor was refreshingly affectionate for two men, not a trace of self-consciousness or defensiveness between them; their torso and knees touched without the slightest hint of embarrassment or shame, and they seemed perfectly relaxed in each other’s presence. Their proximity was noticeable, if not noteworthy.
By the time the band took its first break, Mike and Scott were positively buzzing from their drinks. Scott lauded the music, speaking animatedly and – truth be told – a little loudly for the distance across their table. Mike nearly matched him, though his inebriation manifested itself as a loose posture and a lazy smile. The girls were a bit more composed, but still thoroughly energized from the music and talking about the performance with great enthusiasm.
After a few minutes of chatter, Scott leapt to his feet and announced he had to go to the bathroom. “Would you ladies like another drink while I'm up?” He asked.
“I'll take another,” Melissa answered.
“I would,” Amber obliged.
“That's the correct answer!” Scott exclaimed, grinning. “I shall return soon.”
“I'll come with you,” Mike said, standing. “I don't trust you carrying that much glassware.”
Scott opened his mouth to protest but then paused. “Nor do I,” he conceded.
The boys wandered their way to the restrooms where a small line had formed, conversing amicably while they waited. This was an obvious contrast to the other men’s quiet guardedness in the restroom, that automatic, somewhat stilted refusal to acknowledge another man's presence in what may be interpreted by some to be such a private or intimate space. They, however, did not notice this contrast, they were too engaged in conversation.
“I actually played the violin when I was younger,” Scott said as they sauntered up to the urinals. Two had just opened next to one another, and, much to the dismay of the other patrons, did not feature the usual laminate dividers. They unzipped their pants and started to relieve themselves, both standing what some might call a bold distance from the privacy of the cold, white porcelain.
“Really?” Mike sounded impressed. “Were you any good?”
“I was alright,” Scott said with an of casual modesty, suggesting he was far more talented than he liked to admit. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mike's cock protruding from the open fly of his slacks. He angled his head to get a better view. “I was first chair in eighth grade, actually. Had a pretty big solo in the Spring concert.”
“Holy shit. Good for you,” Mike muttered, impressed. He looked at Scott with an earnest smile, showing a kind of pride one feels for their friend’s accomplishments. Scott raised his eyes, aware he'd been caught peeking but not the least bit embarrassed. He saw Mike's eyes drop a few degrees in response.
As Scott finished, he gave his cock a few squeezes before zipping his fly, aware of Mike's eyes on him all the while. This interaction was brief – no more than a few seconds – and subtle enough as to be imperceptible to the line of other men waiting patiently behind them, but they both felt a thrill in their slightly drunken haze.
“What made you quit?” Mike asked as they washed their hands.
“When I got to high school I had to choose between orchestra and cross country. I chose cross country.” Scott said this with a hint of sadness.
“Do you miss it? The violin?”
Scott thought for a second while they dried their hands and exited the restroom. “I do. Don't get me wrong, cross country was great. It got me a college scholarship, a lifelong commitment to fitness and basically zero percent body fat,” he chuckled. It was true; even as an adult his lean, runner's build and hyperactive metabolism gave him the body of a fit college athlete. “But I miss those orchestra days from time to time.”
“Well,” Mike mused as they reached the bar, “I guess it's never too late to rekindle an old flame.”
“Yeah,” Scott agreed, taken back by Mike's sentiment. “I guess you're right.” He smiled to himself as they ordered their second round of drinks, which, like the first, Scott insisted he pay for. He enjoyed this side of Mike, this contrast – this intimidating hulk of a man who liked live jazz and knew way too much about French wine. He imagined this was a side of Mike not many others got to see, a side he reserved for those closest to him.
They settled back at their table just before the break ended. Somehow, the space around their table seemed to have shrunk even further while they were up, and the two huddled closely together as they took their seats. Mel and Amber hardly noticed their return, they were so deeply invested in a conversation; something about vitamin supplements, Scott didn't really care to follow. Instead he and Mike chatted about music genres while the lights flashed and the band returned to the stage.
“Thanks for staying with us,” the saxophonist, the band's frontman, said in that overly casual way musicians often have. “Here's Part Two.”
The band’s second set came alive with even more flash and energy than the first. The whole room felt it, that kind of indescribable eclectic charge that pulses through the air when the music is really hitting. The songs were bigger, bolder, louder, allowing people to chat at their tables without interrupting or overshadowing the tunes, including Scott and Mike. They sat with their heads together, whispering and giggling with boyish enthusiasm.
A strange kind of intimacy hovered between them – their physical proximity, emotional warmth, and not infrequent physical contact drew the eye of more than one person sitting near them. Several times, as Scott leaned in to whisper an observation or comical anecdote, his arm drifted behind Mike’s back, his hand resting on Mike’s shoulder; Mike, eager to hear the remark, leaned his ear towards Scott’s lips, a hand rested lightly on Scott’s knee. It was endearing – the kind of carefree affection shown usually by boys before that ugly machine of society grabs hold of them and begins to sharpen their soft edges – if a little off-putting to see such intimacy between two men, especially given that their wives sat at the same table meer feet away.
It was a glaring juxtaposition to the stiff-backed stoicism exhibited by so many other men around the room. Even those enjoying themselves did so independently or in the presence of whatever women they accompanied for the evening. These men in particular noticed Scott and Mike’s easy rapport, and they viewed it with a convoluted cocktail of confusion, suspicion, and, though they would never admit it, a strange kind of insecurity. Between Mike and Scott, an undeniable tension buzzed, though what kind of tension these other, suspicious eyes could neither categorize nor define.
Totally unaware of their enigmatic presence, Mike and Scott enjoyed the evening, sipping their drinks and savoring one another’s company while the band played on.
III – Dessert
“That was just wonderful!” Amber exclaimed as she passed through the front door of their home. “I am so impressed. Not that I expected it to be bad, I just didn’t expect it to be that good!”
“I know what you mean!” Melissa agreed emphatically. “I just didn’t expect that much talent on the stage. Who knew we had such a cool little venue like that?”
The girls stepped into the foyer and kicked off their heels. The boys followed closely behind, still wobbling a little as they sobered up. Coats were hung on hooks and keys were dropped in decorative bowls on the console table and the group meandered into the kitchen, still reveling in the night’s festivities.
Already the formality of the evening was slipping away and a kind of casual comfort stepped in gamely to take its place. Plastic cups were pulled from kitchen cabinets and filled with ice water. These were greedily accepted by all.
“Okay,” Amber announced as they all gathered around the kitchen island. “You all have to try one of these truffles.” She gestured to a fancy-looking, navy blue box that rested on the island. “Mike’s company gave them as part of a holiday basket and they are to die for.”
“Chocolate? Sign me up!” Scott exclaimed.
“Yeah, you’ve convinced me,” Melissa agreed.
Amber removed the silver elastic band which secured the box and gently separated the lid from the base. Inside, four truffles sat nestled in paper cups. The hard chocolate shell shone in the overhead light, an open invitation to be eaten.
Each of the four friends grabbed a truffle and looked to one another for permission to take the first bite.
“Well,” Mike finally said. “Cheers!”
They began to eat, Amber and Melissa nibbling daintily at the small spheres. Mike took out half a truffle in one bite, while Scott, ever the enthusiast, popped the whole candy into his mouth in one fell swoop.
“Jesus,” Mike laughed at Scott, whose cheeks now resembled those of a greedy cartoon squirrel.
“WHA?” Scott attempted to ask through a very full mouth.
“God, babe, this isn’t a tequila shot!” Melissa laughed.
“I GAH EXAHTED,” he mumbled, blushing.
“I’ll take that as a sign of admiration,” Amber laughed. “Like slurping Japanese food.”
“Such a classy man,” Mike rolled his eyes, popping the second half of his truffle into his mouth.
They proceeded to enjoy their truffles – what was left of them, anyways – as they relocated to the living room. It was a large space, tastefully decorated and cozily furnished. A tv hung over the mantle; a large, leather sectional took up the majority of the room, while a linen loveseat occupied the opposite wall.
Amber and Melissa took the loveseat. Melissa relaxed against the plush backrest while Amber tucked their feet beneath her in a classically “girl talk” posture. Mike and Scott took the couch, settling on the side closest to the chaise. For a while, they continued to praise the evening, swearing their intention to go back for the next show at Second Line and postulating about how jazz might be the most exciting, if underappreciated, genre of music. Eventually, the room split into two halves as Melissa and Amber became engrossed in something on Amber’s phone. They huddled intimately over the tiny screen, staring intently at its contents.
“Look at them,” Scott said, leaning into Mike. Mike could still smell traces of alcohol and chocolate on his breath. “It’s like they don’t even know we’re here.”
“Seems that way, doesn’t it?” Mike laughed, nudging Scott’s shoulder. “What a damn shame, too, because I do love their attention.”
They stared at the girls until Melissa finally looked up.
“What?” Eyes narrowing in a mischievous smile. “You boys talking about us?”
Amber looked up from her phone, too. “Oh don’t tell me you need our permission to get started.” She sighed and turned to Melissa, who rolled her eyes and laughed. “You grab the prosecco out of the fridge and I'll go start mixing our masque.” Amber and Melissa both rose from the couch and split off in their respective directions – Melissa to the kitchen and Amber towards the master bath. “Boys,” she complained loudly from down the hall. “They’d get absolutely nothing done if it weren’t for us.”
“You boys have fun,” Melissa crooned as she crossed the room and disappeared down the hall, a prosecco bottle in one hand and two flute glasses in the other.
Scott and Mike sat on the couch for a moment, silence hanging heavily between them.
“Well,” Mike spoke first. “Shall we?”
Scott met his eyes. “We shall.”
They walked quietly up the stairs and into one of the guest rooms, where Mike closed the door behind them. It was large for a bedroom, with room for a queen bed, nightstand, loveseat, recliner, and full-size tv. It boasted its own en suite bathroom and a walk-in closet, making it the perfect guest suite, though usually it doubled as Mike's very own lounge space whenever Amber took over the living room tv.
Scott stood by the foot of the bed, looking around at the familiar space, an expectant look upon his face. Mike waited by the door, quietly observing.
“So,” Scott spoke first. “You want to settle in while I freshen up?”
Mike smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”
As Scott ducked into the bathroom, Mike stepped into the room and pulled off his fleece vest. He began unbuttoning his shirt, which he hung nearly over the back of the recliner, along with his pants and dress socks.
Once undressed, he crossed to the bed and took a seat, legs extended before him, back resting against the headboard. His foot shook with anticipation as he waited, wishing he'd remembered to get his phone from his pants pocket. He was just about to get up and retrieve it when the bathroom door opened.
Scott stood in the doorway wearing nothing but a black and turquoise jockstrap. It was a decorative garment, likely from one of those specialty gay men's underwear sites, and it left little to the imagination. It was cut low across his pelvis, accenting his narrow hips and the graceful lines of his obliques, allowing tufts of pubic hair to peek out over the elastic, noticeable against his otherwise hairless torso. The thin fabric of the pouch perfectly hugged and accentuated the plump head of his penis underneath.
Reflexively, Mike barked out a quick laugh. A flicker of embarrassment lit Scott's face, disappearing as quickly as it arrived. “What?” He asked casually.
“Nothing,” Mike smiled. “ Just surprised, is all.”
“What do you think?” Scott asked, cocking a grin.
“Let me get a better look at you,” Mike said warmly.
Scott crossed into the room and turned slowly, allowing Mike to appreciate every inch of the site bared before him. He had bought the underwear on a whim, and he hadn't expected how sexy it would make him feel when he first donned it. It showed off his runner's physique, his long limbs and lean muscles, and gave his ass an extra boost, which he certainly needed. Plainly put, he looked great in them, and he knew it. He felt the same now, sexy and powerful, especially before Mike's appreciative eyes.
“Fucking love it,” Mike growled.
“Good,” Scott smiled smugly and crawled onto the bed. He straddled Mike's legs, sitting over his thighs and appreciating the sight before him – Mike's bare torso, rippling with muscle, his black Calvin Klein briefs tightly hugging his groin. “God,” Scott exhaled. “I've been looking forward to this all night.”
“Me too,” Mike agreed, his hands finding Scott's bare thighs. “When you were checking out my cock earlier I thought I was gonna have to take you right then and there in one of the bathroom stalls.”
“Mmmm,” Scott purred, feeling Mike's hands slide up his thighs to his hips. “Well, it's like I said earlier: I hate to pass up a good cock.” Mike rolled his eyes, but that didn't diminish the blush that flowered across his cheeks. “Speaking of,” Scott said, his hand reaching down and cupping Mike's crotch. He was already a handful while soft, and he responded almost immediately to Scott's touch.
“You think I have a good cock?” Mike asked, hoarse.
“Oh, I know it's a good one.” Scott said, massaging the black fabric, feeling Mike lengthen and extend beneath his touch.
Mike sighed automatically. “You're just saying that.”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather I showed you?”
Mike narrowed his eyes and smiled. “Now we're talking.”
Scott gently peed back Mike's briefs, letting his cock spring free. Hard, it was even more delectable than when he'd seen it earlier. It rested against Mike's smooth groin, about six inches long but thick. A bead of moisture sparkled at its tip. Scott ran his palm along the underside of the shaft before wrapping it in his hand, stroking slowly.
Mike released Scott's hips and put his hands behind his head, his biceps bulging, his pecs stretching tightly across his chest.
“Jesus,” Scott observed. “If you get any more ripped, people are gonna think you're juicing.”
Mike smiled at the compliment. “You know, you could just tell me you like my muscles.”
Scott laughed and shifted his body over Mike's, careful not to stop stroking as he did. He placed his free hand just under Mike's armpit and hovered over his torso, looking into his eyes with a smug grin.
“Fine. I like your muscles.”
He held this new position, maintaining eye contact as he stroked with more intensity.
“You like my muscles. You like my cock. Sheesh, I'm starting to think you might be into me,” Mike teased.
“Well I couldn't go that far.”
“No? Well how about I get into you then?”
Scott grinned. “Now there's an idea.”
He adjusted himself again, sliding down Mike's torso and resting his forearms on Mike's thighs, his face hovering above Mike's cock. Not breaking eye contact, he lifted Mike's cock and placed it next to his face, rubbing it against his cheek.
Mike looked on in a type of awe, which Scott relished. He stuck out his tongue and dragged it along Mike's shaft, feeling Mike shudder beneath him. Mike's breath hitched and gasped as Scott took him in his mouth. Scott bobbed up and down, wetting his cock with his spit, sucking and slurping with glee.
After a few minutes, Mike reached down and grabbed Scott's shoulders. Scott looked up, his eyes curious. “Turn around,” Mike said.
Scott grinned and obeyed.
He flipped around and straddled Mike's shoulders. Mike cupped his ass firmly, squeezing greedily as he leaned up and licked a long, slow line across Scott's hole. Scott shuddered and returned to work on Mike's cock. They stayed like that for some time, tongues and mouths busy exploring and savoring. Mike spread his knees and began to rock his hips, bucking into Scott's face. Scott relaxed his jaw to accommodate the extra speed, moaning around Mike's cock as Mik’s tongue probed his hole.
Finally, Scott kept up.
“I need you inside me,” he uttered desperately.
Mike reached behind him and pulled a small bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer, applying some to his cock. Scott reoriented himself over Mike's waist and lowered onto Mike. They both moaned as Mike entered him, slowly, allowing some time for Scott to adjust.
“Christ, you're so tight,” Mike observed.
“I oughta be,” Scott said breathlessly. “I've been saving this hole for you.”
“That's what I like to hear.”
As Scott adjusted to Mike's cock, he began to ride him slowly, steadily, hips gyrating against hips. Their movements became faster, looser, more rhythmic and frantic as the tension built within them. They surrendered to it, their minds giving way to their bodies in this long-awaited, lust-fueled escape from their everyday lives. All their routine responsibilities dissolved in this mix of sweat and pleasure.
Mike grabbed Scott's hips and rolled them over, placing Scott on his back and hooking his legs on Mike's shoulders. Scott looked up at him desperately while Mike began to drive harder and deeper into him. Gasps and moans escaped Scott's lips. He reached up and gripped the back of Mike's neck, pulling their forehead together. Their eyes burned into one another as Mike rocked his hips and thrusted frantically, grunting as he did.
As he reached the point of no return, his face contorted in a grimace of ecstacy, and he spilled into Scott. Scott reached down and took hold of himself, stroking desperately and quickly bringing himself to climax. Mike dropped onto his forearms, their torsos pressed together, Scott's legs gripping Mike's sides.
Their breathing slowed, and soon they found themselves laying side-by-side. Scott rested his head on Mike's sizable bicep.
“Shit,” Scott exclaimed. “That might've been our best one yet.”
Mike chuckled warmly. “We do seem to be getting better.”
Scott turned and looked up at Mike, who met his gaze with a warm smile and a curious brow. “What?”
“Nothing. That was fun.”
“It was,” Mike agreed. “Always is.”
Back downstairs, cleaned up and fully clothed, Mike knocked on the door to the master bedroom.
“Come in,” voices rang from the other side.
Melissa and Amber sat on the comforter of the king-sized bed, their faces glowing from recent skin treatments, toe spacers separating their freshly painted nails.
“All done?” Amber asked cheerfully.
“Yeah,” Mike nodded, a little self-conscious. “Mel, Scott's in the kitchen.”
“Perfect, I think my toes are just about dry.”
She gathered her shoes and followed Mike back into the kitchen, where Scott stood at the island. She strolled up and kissed his cheek.
“You're all shiny,” Scott observed playfully. “And you smell nice.”
“Thanks! Amber got a new moisturizer she let me try.”
“Uh oh, why do I feel like you're about to get a new moisturizer now?” Melissa laughed, and they made their way to the door.
“Well, thank you both again for dinner,” Melissa said as they stood in the foyer.
“Yeah, for real. You didn't need to do that. We'll make it up to you next time,” Scott promised.
“Don't mention it, I'm just glad we got to show the place off,” Mike said casually.
“We had such a lovely time tonight!” Amber exclaimed. “Melissa, I'll call you about coffee next week?”
“Yes! Looking forward to it.” The girls hugged and exchanged goodbyes.
Mike and Scott also shared a warm hug, muttering their see-ya-later's. Cheeks were kissed and thanks were repeated and goodbyes exchanged as Scott and Melissa made their way out the door.
“Well,” Amber said as they returned to the living room. “Have fun?”
Mike smiled more freely than before. “I did. It was great.”
“Good,” Amber smiled. “You two were really cute together tonight.”
“Were we?” Mike's brow furrowed.
Amber just smiled. “You were.”
“Well,” Mike began, unsure what to say. “I really like Scott. And it was a fun night.”
“It was,” Amber sighed contentedly. “We're lucky we found such good friends.”
“Yeah,” Mike pondered this. In his mind he pictured images of the four of them laughing, of the musicians sweatily jamming away on stage, of Scott hungrily eyeing him in the bathroom, of Scott staring into him while they fucked. Lucky didn't begin to sum it all up. He was beyond grateful for these newfound and coveted relationships, for this freedom to explore and exist in a way he never dreamed imaginable, a way he'd always craved but never dared to claim for himself. “Yeah, we really are.”
Amber yawned. “Well I'm gonna go out on my pj's and get to bed. I'm worn out.”
Mike smiled, wrapping his arms around her waist. He leaned down and kissed her deeply. “Me too,” he said when they broke apart. “I already know I'm gonna sleep well tonight.”
Amber raised an eyebrow. “That good, huh?”
Mike's cheeks grew warm but he didn't say anything. Instead he watched Amber return to their bedroom, feeling a fresh wave of gratitude for her, knowing this was all his because of her understanding. Fragments of tough nights and tense conversations flashed in his mind, but he dismissed them, choosing instead to savor the positivity of the evening. When she reached the doorway, Amber paused and turned around.
“Coming?” She asked.
Mike came back into focus and smiled. “Right behind you.”
A few weeks ago I attended a show at a jazz club downtown. It was an excellent show, but my attention kept being drawn to a table at the front of the room where two couples sat, obviously on a double date of sorts. The women sat comfortably together on one side of the table while their husbands huddled together on the other, and these men obviously adored each other. They went to the bar together, went to the bathroom together, and seemed generally enamored by each other all night. It was such an interesting thing to witness – this fondness and, dare I say it, tension between two married men – I knew I wanted to explore it in a story, to imagine their evening and what happened before – and certainly after – this jazz show. Whatever the nature of their relationship, I wish we got to see more men showing affection for one another. The world would be a friendlier place.
