Vanilla
by Helen
When he was sixteen, Chris took him out for a beer and told him stuff. They sat at a tiny table in a german Biergarten, full of portly older men, and Chris said, "I don't need to do the condom thing, right?"
"No," he said, since Joey had already shown up in his room with a box of condoms and said
"Dude, I don't care what they say, or how clean they look, or whatever, okay?"
"Okay," he'd said.
"Because you don't wanna knock up some German chick."
"No."
"If you don't have one," Joey had said, "do other stuff." and he'd put the box on Justin's bedside table, and ruffled his hair and wandered off.
"Okay man," Chris said, and took a long pull of his beer. Then he told Justin how to fuck a virgin without hurting her, how to give head, how to tell if a girl wasn't turned on even if she was lying to you, to stop if they cried, not to pull a girl's hair or shove at her head while she was giving you a blowjob. By the end Justin was so embarrassed he could barely move, but it was good advice.
He went all the way with the next girl, who made exciting soft noises against his shoulder, so he did it again, and pretty soon he took a girl back to his room as often as Joey did, got teased for showing up at breakfast with suspicious marks on his neck, although not as much as JC did, felt up a girl in the back of a limo and in their dressing room and thought he was in love for a while, except that it turned out he wasn't.
He didn't get blowjobs very often, because it seemed plain rude to ask, especially since girls usually did pretty much anything he asked them to do, which made him think that they wouldn't refuse even if they didn't want to, and how could they, really, want to suck on his dick when they'd just met that day? He didn't really want to go down on them, either.
By the time he was seventeen, he was lying when they played 'I never', because he just felt weird about it. Chris had done almost everything at least once, and tended to elaborate after drinking "yeah, like, senior year, this chick wanted to tie me up," he'd shrug. "Her name was Josephine—she was cool." Joey and JC had done a bunch of stuff, too, and even Lance held his own. It wasn't that he didn't do stuff, but just plain sex was pretty great. He still felt a vague sense of wonder that a girl would let him sleep with her, and it just never really occurred to him to do really weird stuff. He was sick of Joey smacking him on the back and saying paternally, "you'll get there," or Chris shouting "Vanilla." at him, though, so he lied, drinking occasionally for things he hadn't done.
The worst was the time that he'd been pretty sure he'd seen JC checking out a guy at a club, so he'd said, "I never did it with a guy," watching JC intently. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chris shrug and drink, and then Joey and Lance drank too.
"Define 'do it'," JC said.
"um," he said, watching Lance lick his lips and then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand with the careful gravity of the very drunk.
"D'you mean fucking?" Chris said. He was the drunkest.
"I guess, um."
"I want to take mine back, then," Joey said. "We never fucked."
"You guys fucked guys," he said.
"I didn't," Joey said.
"Why'd you drink then," Lance said.
"We both came," Joey said, "so I thought that counted."
"I think it does," Lance said, frowning a little.
"Oh, okay," JC said, and drank.
"You guys did it with guys?" Justin repeated.
"1995," Chris said. "My junior year of college. Matt Stinson, my best fucking friend ever, thinks he might be gay. He thinks I'm hot."
"What was he smoking?" JC muttered.
"Shut the fuck up," Chris said. "This is a romantic story."
Joey snickered.
"We got drunk and fucked," Chris said, sounding mostly dreamy, but also a little woozy. "And then he wouldn't do it again, and that sucked. So, y'know, I went back to dating girls."
"okay, okay, okay," Joey said, "I got one. I've never done it with two chicks at once."
"Oh, fuck you," JC said, as Joey drank and no one else did. "Are we gonna have to hear about your night of forbidden passion with Marie and Tiffany for the rest of our lives?"
"Her name was Tanya," Joey said.
They didn't play 'I never' again after that, which was a relief. "Boring," Chris said decisively. "I already know way too much about you perverts."
"no kidding," Justin muttered, because sometimes the game made him think about things, weird messy dirty fucking, in the dressing room, or in the back of bus, with Lance or JC, maybe, reading on the couch while he held his hand over the girl's mouth to keep her quiet. The thing was, he didn't really want to do those things; the girls he liked were too nice to do that anyway.
"You did it with a guy," Justin asked JC again, a few days later.
"Once or twice," JC said. "Not like—just kissing stuff."
"Why?"
"I dunno," JC said. "I was curious."
"Did you like it," Justin asked.
"Sure."
That wasn't very helpful, but he mostly forgot about it, forgot about the casual way that Lance had tossed back his drink, because Lance mostly slept with girls anyway. Lance slept with really really pretty girls. He'd be on the dance floor or getting a drink and get back to the table and see Lance leaning back in the booth, a girl curled adoringly into his side, and it wasn't as though Justin didn't know how it happened, because it happened to him, too, but at least he talked to girls. smiled at them. Lance didn't do anything except sip his drink and gaze out at the dancefloor and drape one arm over the back of the booth.
The first time was an accident. He had gotten a Coke from the machine on the landing, which was probably a bad idea, since he already couldn't sleep, and it was one o'clock in the morning. He'd come back down the hallway and seen a girl leaving Lance's room, sandals held loosely in her fingers. He'd nearly bumped into her.
"oh—" she said, startled, stepping back and dropping one shoe.
"sorry," he said. "sorry, uh—" and he stooped down to pick up the shoe, catching a confused glimpse of a dark, snug grey dress that looked soft to the touch, and long legs, and
"Oh," she said again, when he stood up. Her hair was chin-length and pale blond, and a silky mess, and she had a dark hickey about two inches below her collarbone, cut in half by the neckline of her dress. She seemed like possibly the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.
"I was getting a Coke," he said.
"mm," she said, smiling a little. "well—"
"Did you maybe want to, um, talk or something," he said, gesturing vaguely at the door to his room. He hadn't meant to say it.
She shrugged. "Sure," she said.
He couldn't remember much of what they talked about. Dumb stuff. She had a pretty voice, an incongruously funny laugh. He gave her half the Coke, pouring it into the glasses he fetched from the bathroom. She curled her legs underneath her on the couch, and they talked a little bit about roller coasters they'd been on, and he wasn't sure how long it took, except that he knew that they'd both finished their drinks, the glasses empty on the coffeetable, when he leaned over and kissed her, tilting her head back with two fingers, feeling her open her mouth against his lips.
"You too," she mumbled, when he eased her back on the couch, when he slid his hands over her breasts and down her hips, and kissed her neck again and again, gently though, because he didn't want to leave a mark.
It wasn't his fault if Lance kept picking up really hot girls.
So he started taking the room that was next to Lance's, because from there, he could hear the door swinging open. He learned how to open his door at the exact same moment that the girl was walking by, to act a little surprised, to ask her in. Almost no one said no. Sometimes they just kissed a little, but mostly they had sex, and it was interesting to do it with a girl who'd already been warmed up, who was already into it, pulling at his shirt, sliding her thighs around him, these girls smelled like sex, and often faintly of Lance's cologne, and it was the kinkiest thing he'd ever done, and he was sort of proud of himself.
Part of the reason it was nice, he realized, was that the girls were all faintly tired, more bemused than screamy most of the time. "Justin Timberlake," one of them said once, more to herself than to him, tangling her hand in his hair while he was kissing down her body, "goddam."
That was another thing: he went down on them a lot more. They were already doing it with two guys in one night, he figured, so it was already sort of weird and dirty and kinky. Sort of. not really. maybe a little. They went down on him sometimes. He still didn't like to ask.
He worried, once or twice at the beginning, that he wasn't as good as Lance, but no one complained, so he stopped. He wondered, sometimes, if Lance tasted different, or did different things, but he didn't like to ask about that either.
It wasn't about the girls, probably, he thought, after it had been happening for a while. They were pretty, and they were hot, and he liked them, but he wasn't stupid, and he thought it might be, maybe a little, about Lance. It was just because he remembered Lance being really uncool, this geeky kid with a stupid haircut, who'd known all these dumb songs, and moved like a dork. A nice guy, but not cool.
Joey was cool, with the carelessness of someone who's never really been disliked, and Chris was cool, left over from years of pretending he didn't give a shit about wearing ugly clothes and being short and kind of funny looking, and even JC was cool, because he was geekily intense about music and didn't really care if anyone thought that was uncool. Justin knew that he, himself, was pretty cool, but then, while he wasn't paying attention, Lance had turned into this cool guy, this guy who lounged back in his chair at clubs and didn't really give a shit what anyone thought of him, this guy with a cool low laugh, and girls loved that stuff, and Justin sometimes wondered if it was less about the kind of kinky sex he was having and more about trying to learn how to give less of a shit.
He had a routine by now, killing time with the tv on mute, so he could hear. He had all these goofball Pavlovian responses to the muted sound of hotel doors now, habits he was going to have to break eventually. He had just opened a soda when he heard Lance's door open, perhaps an hour earlier than it usually did. He put the can down and moved quickly across the room, heard the door close, but he didn't hear anybody going past his door, so he eventually stepped into the hallway, and saw Lance, standing in the shadow outside his door.
"Lance," he said, and Lance smiled, slightly.
"You weren't expecting me."
"Of—well, that is your room, so it's not—"
"Cut the crap," Lance said, and walked towards him, putting a hand in the middle of his chest and walking him backwards into his room.
"Hey—"
"What?"
"I already sent home the girl I fucked," Lance said, and then Justin noticed that Lance's hair was tousled, and his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He took a step backwards.
"I wasn't—um."
"right," Lance said dryly.
"Why do you care, anyway," he said.
"I don't," Lance said, but he took another step forward, and Justin stepped backwards and hit the wall.
Lance was shorter than he was, and he'd always thought his height was an advantage, made him seem older or tougher or more together, but Lance's mouth was just the height that he could feel his breath high up on his neck. Lance smelled like sex, and like his cologne, and like nearly every girl that Justin had fucked for the last six months.
"Um," he said. "I didn't think—I'm sorry," he said, although he wasn't quite what he was apologizing for. Lance didn't seem to be paying attention to what he was saying, sliding the hand that was still on Justin's chest down to his waist, snapping the waistband of his trackpants like you might snap a girl's bra. They slapped back against his skin, "hey—," he said, but something about the sudden aggressive tilt of Lance's jaw made him stop.
"You want to know how I fuck," Lance said calmly. "You want to know how I touch them, and what kinds of pretty things I say to them—"
"I don't. I'm not—"
"And the closest you can get is fucking them after I'm finished."
He felt his face flame, because Lance pressed him closer to the wall, one hand grazing his hip, and gave him a crooked feral smile, and he felt his dick twitch, but only because he'd been ready for sex since the beginning of the evening, when Lance had leaned back in the booth, one arm draped loosely around a curvy asian girl with spiky hair, and said, "Justin, this is Lisa." Just like he always did, lately, lips pulling back over sharp looking teeth, watching while Justin shook their hands: hot, soft, tiny in his. Later, when Lance was dancing with her, he'd watched them, talking distractedly with JC about a new song he was writing, watched Lance's hand in the small of her back, slipping a little lower before they turned, and could see the sliding movement of Lance's thighs against hers, and now Lance's thighs were pressed against his, and he was still ready for sex.
"uh-huh," Lance said, as if he'd said that out loud. "Come over, if you want," he said. "Tonight. whenever."
He pushed himself away from Justin, and left, closing the door silently behind him.
"Oh," Justin said softly after the door closed. "Oh," he said. His voice sounded funny: cracked, pained.
Lance's door was unlocked, and he was sitting in bed, frowning at some papers in a manila folder, but when Justin opened the door, he looked up and smiled.
"hey," Justin said, and Lance gathered the papers into the folder and put it on the bedside table before leaning back against the headboard, expectant.
"um—" Justin said, and took a step forward. Lance was naked to the waist, sheets and blankets pulled up over his legs. “um,” Justin said again, faltering a little.
“c’mere,” Lance said, and his eyes were clear and cool. Justin sat down awkwardly on the edge of the bed, noticing that there were freckles on Lance’s shoulders and upper arms. Lance tugged sharply on the hem of his t-shirt and said “take this off.”
Justin nodded, and pulled it off over his head, holding it uncertainly for a moment before dropping it on the carpet,
"mm," Lance said and kissed him, moving sideways and easing him down onto his back, kissing his mouth and then his neck, his shoulder, slipping Justin’s pants and underwear down off his legs, hands gentle on his thighs and then his calves, making a pleased noise when Justin reached for him, putting a hand on his waist. Justin settled back against the bed, head on a pillow, and Lance followed him, moving on top of him, nudging his legs apart with one knee before sliding in between them.
Lance didn't leave his mouth alone for very long, kissing him again and again, sometimes rough, sometimes soft, sometimes hovering just above his mouth and muttering softly, close enough that Justin could feel his breath against his lips, "sugar," Lance called him. "darlin'," husked against his mouth, and maybe it should have been lame or cheesy, but it wasn't, quite. "Your legs," Lance said, running his hand up Justin's thigh and hooking his fingers behind the knee, tugging, until Justin wrapped his legs tightly around his waist. "ah, that's right, that's good," Lance whispered, and he knew what that felt like, a girl's thighs pressed up warm against your sides, and Lance slid his hips up, cock riding heavily over Justin's, digging into his belly a little, and Justin tossed his head back on the pillow, because he could barely move, pinned down by Lance's chest. He tightened his legs around Lance, panting now. "yeah, you like that," Lance murmured softly, impossibly low, against his throat.
Lance slid one hand around his ass and squeezed, gently, and then a little harder. "I'm gonna fuck you," he said, and when Justin stiffened underneath him, he kissed him again, kissed him pliant, easing Justin's legs down a little, smoothing his hands along Justin's hip and stomach, until Justin was twisting desperately underneath him, ducking his head to catch Lance's mouth. Lance's fingers were deft against him and then inside him, slick, warm, he must have had this planned, Justin thought, put the stuff under a pillow or something, and he wiggled anxiously, closing his eyes in case Lance looked at him. When Lance pressed his thigh firmly back and slid into him, he made a strange throaty cry that sounded more like panic than passion; it must have, because Lance stilled, and said,
"hey," and "hey," again until Justin opened his eyes and saw him there, said "hey," back, and his voice sounded normal, a little soft. Lance jostled against him a little which made him gasp and grab at him, and then Lance grinned at him, intimate and lazy, his eyelids sliding down slowly, and kissed Justin's nose and circled his hips, and he was gone because it felt so good, made him shake and scream a little, even, not supposed to do that he thought dizzily, why? right. the voice, bad for the voice, but Lance nipped his lower lip and said "pay attention—," Lance biting his lip in concentration, moving quickly now, one hand jerking at Justin's cock, one arm braced by his head, and when he couldn't stand it anymore, he turned his head and bit Lance on the forearm, a few inches above the wrist, flicking his tongue over salty skin, and Lance gasped "fuck, Justin—" and he came. He guessed Lance did pretty soon after. He wasn't not paying too much attention, even a bit later when Lance toweled him off, kissed him again on the mouth, rolled him sideways, kissed his shoulder, stroked his waist a little. Justin thought, perhaps, that Lance said something, murmured "baby," or something, but he fell asleep before he could be sure.
He woke up when it was still dark out, the uncertain grey light of early mornings that he knew too well from stumbling through hotel lobbies and onto the bus on the days they had to leave early. They didn't have to be on the bus until nine o'clock today, but he was startlingly wide awake, staring at the ceiling, barely visible in the dim light, Lance's soft breath against his shoulder, his hand heavy on Justin's ribcage. Lance sighed, and Justin shifted gingerly under his hand. The fourth time he moved, carefully, Lance's hand slipped off his stomach, and Justin rolled out of the bed, carefully, carefully, grabbed his clothes off the floor, pulled on his pants in the narrow hallway by the bathroom, staring apprehensively at the bed, where Lance had turned onto his stomach, one hand in the dent on the pillow left by Justin's head, the sheet slipping down over his back, the round shoulders, the deep crease between his shoulderblades. Justin swallowed, and slid out the door, still clutching his t-shirt and shoes in his hand.
The hallway was dark. The light in his room was on, the sheets drawn up smoothly on the bed. The can of coke he had been drinking while he was waiting, before, had gone flat. The bed was cold. He slept fitfully and didn't dream.
"You left," Lance said, standing next to him as he leaned on the kitchen counter on the bus. Not quite an accusation, but more than a statement of fact. The others were in the back, hungover but cheerful, Chris' voice loud as he announced his intention to sleep until they hit the Mason-Dixon line. Justin started to duck his head guiltily and tried to stop the motion, so it came out like a strange curt nod,
"yeah," he said after a moment, voice hoarse, and Lance was close on him, one hand on the counter in front of him. He waited for Lance to leave, choking down another bite of cereal, but Lance kept standing there, breath calm, waited until Justin finally flicked his gaze up to see what he was waiting for, and then Lance was looking at him and he didn't look quite as cool as Justin had thought he'd be. He pressed his lips together and lifted his hand briefly, as if he might touch Justin’s face, and then put it back down on the counter.
"You could have stayed," he said.