The Gambler
Copyright © 2000 Em

It is The Gambler's favourite fantasy.

Wide, striking nose. High forehead. Full, soft lips shaped almost like a perfect pink bow. Deep, thick, dark waves of hair. Eyes a fierce, glittering sea of chocolate. Broad, broad shoulders. Strong, solid biceps. Powerful hands that could bring him to the brink and leave him suspended there for eternal seconds before he was allowed release.

And a hot wet mouth, here, now, engulfing him, its owner unaware that The Gambler's thoughts are not on her.

He will not let himself come in her mouth.

"Um," he pants, pushing her back by the shoulder although his hips are defying him by continuing to shove forward. He almost winces at how close he is; a grimace of pleasure-pain.

"Sorry," he continues, ignoring her look of bewilderment. "Sorry, I can't do this. I've got a lot on my mind." He watches her eyes drift from his flushed face to his crotch and can almost read her thoughts -- Give me five more seconds and I'll make you forget. She probably could. She'd make him forget himself and that what he says could be used against him. And he would probably end up moaning the wrong name -- not her name, nor that of some random ex-girlfriend, but the wrong damn name, wrong on so many levels, the least of which is that it is a man's name and not a woman's.

Rising to his feet, he turns (a little too late for bashfulness, isn't it?), gritting his teeth as he attempts to get just one button on his jeans fastened without dropping to his knees. Deciding that tugging his t-shirt down a few inches will do just fine, he sees the owner of the mouth out, exchanging platitudes (ever the gentleman, aren't you; only you'd apologize for not letting a girl suck and swallow) with his best fake smile before he closes the door behind her. A mad, crippled dash to the bathroom while he tugs on that stubborn fly button, and a few strokes finish him off, leaving him shuddering as he sits weakly on the edge of the bathtub.

He's never had to do that before.

The stream of girls to his room had become such a part of the routine; his defiant method of deluding himself (see? i can get play, too. don't worry about me when you screw those fans; i'll be so busy getting mine that i won't be bothered. you just go right ahead). Go to club; pick up girl; take girl back to room. Then wait for the knock on his door.

The whole fucking mess had been his idea in the first place. He, who had been struggling with doubts about his sexuality, his burgeoning feelings toward the same gender rather than the opposite one. He had approached the only one of them who he felt could be of genuine (physical. tangible) help. Curious? Yes, he was. What was it like? Would it hurt? Would it disgust him? Would he learn to love it, to crave it, to need it?

He had gambled, and the only one who would be open to his proposition had willingly become his Dealer. Conditionally, of course. The Dealer, after all, was the one who held the cards. "I mean, a fuck's a fuck, right?" The Gambler was told. "I mean, you fool around, it feels good, you get off, and it's over. We're friends and all, but there're no feelings involved here. I'm just helping you out, right? 'Til you get things figured out?"

The words were cold, but were spoken with affection. It couldn't be easy for a straight man to agree to having gay sex, could it? The Gambler was not offended. It was even some time before he could admit to himself that his choice of Dealer had more to do with sexual attraction than logistics. It was longer still before he realized that he enjoyed The Dealer's tenderness when they were together more than he'd thought.

As for discovering that no, a fuck is not just a fuck, and that a woman's mouth, however pleasant, simply will not do.... Well. He'd only found that out tonight. He isn't sure what that means exactly, but it probably indicates that he isn't unsure of his sexuality any longer.

Which means that the charade should come to an end.

Suddenly feeling heavy, The Gambler composes himself, rinses out the bathtub, and lays back on his bed to wait for The Dealer to come to him.

The timid knock comes some time later, and he rises wearily to answer the door. He does not bother to force a pleasant expression to grace his face as he turns his back, leaving just enough space for his guest to enter and close the door behind them.

The Dealer smells of sweat and women.

So does he, but he didn't enjoy it, and that should count for something.

He feels fingertips brush against his shoulder and steps away, heading over to his bed (bed? thought this was what you didn't want) and stopping less than a foot away. Shoulders are slouched. Arms are crossed. It would be nice if The Dealer would ask him what was wrong. He wouldn't have an answer, but it would be nice nonetheless.

He can practically feel the confusion coming off of the other man's body in waves, as sure as he can feel the body heat as The Dealer approaches.

"Lance..." The voice is hoarse. Needy. An invitation, a demand, a plea.

The back stiffens. The neck bows, the head ducking just out of the reach of questing lips.

Don't DO that. Don't stand there and... and... say my name like THAT.... the way you say it when I kiss the crease of your elbow, and the small of your back, and stroke your thighs, and sit back and give myself over to you. Don't say it the way you say it when you come. Don't do this to me. Not when you've just come from some woman, not when you liked being with her more than you like being with me. Not when I like being with you more than I like being with any of them. Not when I--

Suddenly, all at once, in a swift blinding rush, it is very clear.

He has feelings for this man. He always has. And somewhere, deep down, he supposes that he'd hoped for something approaching a relationship of sorts. A mutual affection. Something.

He has broken the rules of their engagement. He cannot continue this. He cannot take advantage of their deal and lay in this man's arms and enjoy it and know that his level of adoration is not returned.

"Lance?" Now a question. There is uncertainty. A fear of rejection.

It is as though time slows for a moment, seconds dragging impossibly slowly. The hands on the clock may well be twirling backwards.

"Joey, I don't think I can--"

The words die on his lips as The Dealer reaches out again, this time tentative, to touch The Gambler's shoulder. He flinches, only slightly, before giving in to the soft touch, and then the first tender kiss is permitted to dust the nape of a trembling man's neck.

I was kidding myself, he thinks, pressing himself back into the length of the body that envelops him. The friction of denim on denim stirs flesh that hardens against his buttocks, and his own body responds in kind. I'm so weak. I'm so stupid to think I could say no to this. Suddenly tenderness is eschewed in the face of desperation; strong hands grip his shoulders tightly, slide down over his chest teasing already erect nipples to tenderness. They press against his sucked-in stomach, hitching up the shirt that barely grazes his belt. The belt, easily dispensed with, takes its place on the floor, button-fly easily slipping open and hands delving inside to nurse a re-awakening arousal.

The Gambler would assist with the disrobing, but it's all he can do to support his weight with both hands on the end of the bed. He reaches back blindly with one arm as if to pull the other man closer still. The Dealer's fly is already open, jeans already lax upon his hips. One good tug and they pool themselves around his knees. Clothes will not be fully removed tonight. They rarely are; usually both Gambler and Dealer alike find their passions too rapidly aroused to allow for the time.

Hands are removed, then; the familiar rustling of a condom wrapper fills the room, then the faint snap of rubber, and he is entered with one slow stroke. Closing his eyes, he sighs, pushing back against the hand that rests its weight upon the small of his back. Their rhythm is an easy one; neither frantic nor leisurely, it is comfortable, and the pleasure builds rapidly.

There is a slow warming of his blood and the flush he knows is taking over his body; a coolness where he knows a faint sheen of perspiration is dotting his forehead; a tingling that travels up his spine.... With impeccable timing The Dealer reaches around his body to grip his hardness with sure fingers. He tugs on him. Once. Twice.

The Gambler cannot stifle his gasp then, arms suddenly too weak to support himself. He collapses, cheek pressed sloppily to the bedspread beneath the Dealer of his sweet torture. His thoughts -- his self-examination, his self-condemnation, his self-recrimination -- are given up for a mantra, squeezed out in a haze of ecstasy.

Oh God oh God oh GOD oh GOD oh GOD is this how it feels for him when he's with a girl it can't GET better than this I am definitely missing something

The Dealer is kissing his neck with barely-restrained passion and lust, stifling a grunt in his ear, thrusting the point home rather fiercely. He is close. He is groaning. He slides his hands up underneath The Gambler's arms, reaching backwards to grip his shoulders, and buries himself deep within the younger man. And then, he is spent.

As for The Gambler... he is exhausted. And sated. And angry.

He is angry with himself for giving in.
He is angry with himself for enjoying it.
He is angry with himself because this will be the last time, and because he was naive enough to believe that there would never be a last time.

"I think... that maybe... maybe we should stop doing this."
He sits on the floor beside his bed, jeans pulled up and refastened. His breathing has slowed, but his face is still red. His hair is limp. He is probably glowing that post-sex glow that he has heard about.

Beside him, The Dealer answers him with surprise. "What do you mean, stop? I thought this was going well." A brief look of panic flashes in dark eyes. "None of the guys have caught on, have they?"

"No." The panicked look stings. He interprets it as shame.

"Well..." A helpless shrug. "Are you saying that because you think I wanna stop? Because I don't. Really. I don't mind this at all. 'Cause... I gotta admit, Lance, I liked this more than I probably let on half the time." A shaking hand is run through sweat-dampened hair. "I mean, sometimes you just want something different, you know? And you're not someone who'll go run to the press, and you don't want anything from me in return, and... I dunno. I thought you were getting something out of it, too. I thought maybe you liked it as much as I did."

The irony is that if The Gambler had laughed then, The Dealer would have thought that the younger man was mocking him.

"...Fuckin' around doesn't change things between us, you know? We can still be the same friends we were before..."

No, we can't.

"...And I liked that. Like we wrestle..."

We fuck.

"...we joke around..."

We have sex.

"...we hang out together..."

We make love. I hoped we did.

"...that kind of thing. But if you think you're over that curious stage or whatever... if you've decided you don't wanna be with a guy anymore..."

Wh... what? Joe... my God. You could not be more wrong...

"...I mean, that's fine. You don't have to worry about hurtin' my feelings about that."

Hurting YOUR feelings!

"I'll miss what we had and all that, but I wouldn't want you to feel you had to do something that bugged you. Hey... wait, you--" The Dealer is suddenly concerned. "You weren't... like, grossed out by... the sex, just now, were you?"

A feeble, wide-eyed, shake of the head.

"Well... God, Lance, say something! Just... lemme know if you don't wanna do this anymore, and I'll be outta here."

I don't want to do this anymore. But not for the reason you think.

It takes a moment before he is able to say the words. When he does, he forces himself to hold the sad (sad! he's sad? he doesn't even know) gaze of the older, unattached, oblivious man until the latter nods slowly, climbs to his feet, and leaves the room. A murmured apology is thrown over a shoulder as the door closes behind him.

The Gambler shrugs to himself then, attempting to view the situation lightly; attempting to calm the tight, aching feeling that grips his chest like a vise.

He has gambled, and he has lost. And still, The Dealer holds the cards.

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