Mark and Barry Ch. 01

He'd thrown himself into his schoolwork. His parents were hard-working if a little distant, and by their example he discovered he was good at research. His family wasn't well-off. They valued work. A stint on the debate team brought him a handful of friends, and the first mature pride from his parents, which was surprisingly unsatisfying. None of the friends became particularly close.

The high school swim team was glad to have him: thin build, long arms, and the perseverance of a student who didn't see slacking off as a viable option. He liked his fellow swimmers, they got along, but the other nine months of the year he didn't really see them. Mostly what he liked was the solitude of the water, the bubbling quiet that left him alone with his thoughts every day at practice. The coach could yell and blow the whistle, at a meet the crowd could cheer, but as soon as he pushed off, he flew solo.

Scholarships, medium-sized, landed in his lap and he realized he was really going to be one of the few family members to attend college. Somehow this left him feeling more estranged, a black sheep of mild success.

Then the waning days of his senior year brought him a crazy-sexed high-school dropout. He'd asked her out because of her curly dark hair and enigmatic smile. Her quiet voice in harmless, playful conversation over coffee turned, in bed, into loud, ferocious, marathon fuck-sessions. She was barely older than him, but Mark lost his virginity in a whirlwind. Even without any experience, he'd guessed it was unusual to have been screwing for exhausting hours (excepting the brief recharge time of an 18-year-old boy) and still have her bouncing her cunt forcefully onto his cock, shouting and snarling.

He'd been entranced by her hair sweat-plastered against her shoulders, lit by the street-lamp outside, when she ground herself onto him and came, time and again, in a shaking yell. He'd grinned all day, the morning she informed him that while his cock was on the thin side, it felt really good inside her because it was her longest ever. And he'd gratefully left his innocence far behind the day when she, mid-afternoon, handed him her bag of toys, spread wide, and insisted he grow acquainted with her sex by vibeing her for 45 minutes until she allowed him to fuck.

But when she began a doggy-style session by presenting him her rump and barking, he knew their relationship was over. He talked himself into going ahead with fucking her that time, and the time after that, and every chance he got for the remainder of the summer, but when he went off to college, that was it. She nearly kicked a dent into his car, but really, she'd understood. She wasn't happy, but she wasn't surprised..

His first year of college, he again threw himself into his studies. He was thoughtful, introspective, but liked talking to people and wasn't afraid of difficult emotions: he was good at psychology.

His third girlfriend, the graceful and beautiful blonde who'd dumped him the night before, was a loss hard to bear. He'd liked the candlelit dinners and cultural events (in fact, her affinity for plays was the reason he had auditioned). He liked discussing philosophy with her friends at small wine-lubricated gatherings. And he'd been proud in an odd way to meet her family over the holidays, and be a real boyfriend.

He'd even liked her measured bedroom pace. Their informal arrangement to partake in sex only on weekends introduced him to the anticipation of denial. Slow kissing as foreplay was a revelation for him, as was the stripping of clothes made into an event. She made him feel special, and by comparison, experienced.

Most erotic of all was watching a beautiful girl cling to her inhibitions through the loving act of intimacy. Seeing her tuck her hair behind her ear while she gave him a methodical blowjob turned him on in a way he couldn't quite explain. He enjoyed fucking her face-to-face, so he could watch her try to control her expression as she humped him back in her elegant way, as though trying to pretend she was doing pilates, as though she were merely slow-dancing at a wedding.

As though she wasn't as turned-on as he was.

Seeing her face and body gradually betray her as she approached climax gave Mark immense satisfaction. It would begin when he slipped himself deep inside her and heard only quiet, stifled whispers. The grand reward was the moment she came and thrashed like an animal -- and her gratitude afterwards when he said nothing about her undignified loss of control.

And now she'd dumped him and was seeing someone else. The sweetest kiss, become the cruelest absence.

As he closed his eyes, he mentally pushed the images of the traitoress away. Their last intimacy only a week ago. Their last intimacy a long, long week ago.

Drifting off, his arousal diverted. He felt the play's kiss against his mouth again. His muscles tensed, he felt his thoughts grow rough and sexual, felt Barry's strong body yield under his hands.

He was only dimly aware of his confusion as he twisted the sheets, knees bent, biceps flexing as he turned from side to side in the dark and gripped the pillow's edge. As he drifted off into dreams, his mind left his stiffened penis behind, to vainly protest its lonely state. Visions of women's bodies and men's, of his friends watching him nude, of a crowd of strangers touching him, of... raw sexuality unconstrained by gender.

And just like that, in his dream, he was on his knees, just in the act of gripping a stranger's cock and sliding it into his mouth. Mark woke up slowly, the feel of the flesh so real, then fading, to leave just the dark bedroom and a familiar need grown strange.

It felt like forever before he fell back asleep.

Barry had a similar problem. Sitting in front of the TV playing some movie, he found himself scrutinizing its men for attractiveness, as well as its women. But Barry, though also as straight as could be, was a little less frightened by this unusual new condition. He was a man confident in himself, sure of his place, untroubled by labels. He had even been to Europe.

He explored the idea, the idea of looking at men, as he flipped channels. He thought it over as he got ready for bed.

And, as he stared at his grim features in the mirror, he came to terms. He was still straight. Or at least he was pretty sure he was. But the guy-kiss had turned him on. There was no doubt about it.

But he was probably just horny. He'd gone from a healthy sexual routine to zero a couple of weeks ago. He was just horny. That must be it.

Yeah, Barry thought in bed, as he fell off to sleep, I guess the hard-on is just because I'm horny.

-----

At Wednesday's rehearsal, the real trouble started.

The other parts of the show were the focus to begin with, and both Mark and Barry relaxed a little as they worked on their roles and exercises.

When the kiss came to the stage again, as they stepped close again, neither of them ever really understood what began to happen.

As Mark's hand slid up the back of Barry's neck, as Barry sighed and pressed his chest into Mark's, there it was -- Mark felt the rising, Barry felt the swelling.

The casual, long, loose clothes they had worn, thankfully, disguised the bulges.

Listening to the director's feedback, trying to think of other things, casually repositioning themselves, working to make the play purely mechanical, they held each other again. And again.

And Ms. Mahoney was becoming frustrated. "What is going on? You two need to be more intimate and you are getting less. Don't stand back like that, you are lovers, you embrace!"

Mark had been standing back because he knew what would happen if he stepped forward; Barry'd been doing the same.

Then it was inevitable. They had to risk the close embrace or rehearsal would never end.

Their dicks had each grown firmer as they worked the scene. Both of them had positioned their hardons pointing straight up.

Feet planted, thighs touching thighs, hands caressing their bodies slightly smelling of sweat, lips just-pushed against lips, and eyes were locked... when their cocks, through their pants, bumped.

As they realized their arousal had become known to another man, each of them knew sudden sharp embarrassment. God -- he'll think I'm gay --

Shaft pressing shaft --

Then Mark's eyes widened as he realized Barry was aroused too, and erect, and holy crap had just pressed into his crotch what felt like a rock in his pants.

Barry set his jaw as he felt the pressure of another man's rod touching him for the first time.

Men who have sex only with women expect that their sexuality is for women. That arousal is experienced in the context of women. And that the charge they have felt at the sight, smell, and feel of a woman's arousal is a passion only triggered by women.

Men who have had sex only with women become surprised, and confused, when their own sexual desire is matched against a man's, and they discover that the erotic energy, reflected, enhances their stimulated state in the same way a woman's would.

For that brief second, before intellect arrives to quash emotion, such men experience what it is like for their lust and another man's lust to grip each other, to promise each other flexed muscles, moans and cries, strength matched with strength, and the excitement of gasping, guiltless, wordless pleasure.

The two looked at each other for a split second, lips touching, and the kiss that followed, that had to follow, was mechanical, and timid, and the most awkward to date. They couldn't even look at each other when they separated.

Which is probably why Ms. Mahoney suggested that they practice the kiss at home.

They left rehearsal pretty sure no one had noticed the bulges. They were the only ones who knew. They were pretty sure about that.

-----

Mark showed up at Barry's apartment the next night with the script in one hand and a pair of beers in the other.

They didn't start rehearing the kiss right away. And they somehow found time to watch TV and talk about quite a few other things before it even came up.

Then it did.

"Look," said Mark, "OK, the thing is, is that I'm -- I'm not gay, but I am -- physically -- aroused by the role. That's all."

"I think it's the kiss itself," said Barry. "We're used to kissing girls, and now any kiss is probably enough to set us off. I'm not excited or anything just being here with you now."

"Me neither! Dude to me you're just a guy, you know -- I don't find you, I mean you look fine and everything, but you're not attractive to me, that's all. I mean --"

As Mark tried to find the words to express his non-attraction to Barry, he found himself looking at him again with a closer eye. The incongruity struck him. The brow overshadowing his eyes, the jaw like a challenge, the wide cheeks and small ears. Barry should be tackling quarterbacks, not looking at any moment like he could break into a gentle smile. Not thoughtful and kind. And not talking the way he was talking now -- smart, confident --

"Either way, we're going to have to figure something out," Barry interrupted. "We can't go on stage stretching out our costumes. In costume it'll be totally obvious. It's not even right for the piece. We have to solve this."

Mark grimaced and thought. Barry was right of course. This wouldn't do. But what was the answer?

Barry sat in silence and looked Mark over. Long limbs, big hands, broad shoulders. But not a big man: he was lanky, his muscles stretched around his bones, moving as he moved. Did he walk a little like a dancer maybe? He might go places as an actor with that face, handsome with a bit of a rogueish youth, dark eyes that sometimes twinkled, hair falling everywhere in moppy curls. Soft-spoken and serious, Mark could have the drive to good at whatever he wanted, Barry thought, if he wanted it badly enough.

"I have an idea," said Mark.

"OK," said Barry.

"We have to get it out of our system," said Mark. "Uh -- OK this is embarrassing -- you know -- jack off beforehand. That's all." Barry had furrowed his brow so he pressed on. "I mean this is just a physical thing, so really, we just need a physical solution..."

"What we really need are girlfriends."

"Well that might happen. But don't count on it. Especially with the tough schedule."

"...I don't really do that," said Barry, meaning masturbation. "That's just not for me, you know?" He wasn't being coy -- the last time he had masturbated was months ago.

A pause. "Well, I guess I don't know if it would work anyway," said Mark. "When you... masturbate, I mean, the relief only lasts so long, you know?"

"You get horny again right away?"

"Not right -- well, yeah, it didn't take too long." A pause. "When I did... that... before my last girlfriend... that's what I remember anyway. I mean, being with her, you know fucking her, it was satisfying, you know? I guess it, uh, relieved the pressure or something.

"One time she was away for two weeks and I jerked off twice. Like in one day. It didn't even help for that whole day... maybe even just a few hours. Then it was right back to thinking about pussy again." Mark grimaced a little at the thought of her beautiful face, framed by her hair falling past her cheeks as she would...

"So that's really not going to work then, is it," said Barry. "I mean, we can't jerk off before each show. And each rehearsal. For one thing I'd want to take a shower. For another, no privacy. And who even has the time for that, I mean come on."

They thought, then Barry added, "and again, that's just not something I do."

"Me neither, but..." Mark tried. Then silence again.

Finally Barry finished the last swallow of his beer, stood, and said: "OK, let's just rehearse."

Gentle kisses.

Separation, then slow embraces, then separation again.

Murmured words -- scripted words, the same words repeated, but loving words nonetheless -- into ears unwilling and, maybe just a little, confused.

In Mark especially, the urge to recoil from something too-much wanted. The body learns its own knowledge, and it soon knows that a warm man in your arms is warm, that his soft skin is soft, and that his body, like yours, can yearn.

They didn't even try to hide the evidence of their sexual ignition anymore. They both sported hard-ons and they both knew it. They'd stopped being shy. They came together, pressed stiff dicks into each other's bellies and groins, and parted, and said their lines with the passion they could muster, and came together again.

And maybe one's dick rubbed against the other's, through their pants. Just a little. Who's to know? They didn't grind. They just happened to touch.

Maybe they told themselves that experiencing this different physical lust would make them better actors. Maybe the words of love, repeated, brought familiarity to this new world. Maybe they grew, in those minutes, to think of themselves as inevitably sexual beings.

Whatever it was, somehow, they became matter-of-fact about their bodies having led them into betrayal..

And maybe that's why, after a decent night of rehearsal, after nuances explored and pacing practiced, Barry's suggestion wasn't immediately rejected.

Or maybe Mark was just horny.

"So we should call it a night, but we have rehearsal again tomorrow," said Barry. "And neither of us wants to walk around stage with our dicks sticking out of our pants. And masturbation isn't an option."

Mark nodded. The two boys stood facing each other. Barry didn't even pause.

"So, I'll stroke you off," said Barry, deep voice, manly as could be, "and you stroke me. It's weird, but really not that weird, to me anyway. And I'm pretty sure since it's another guy -- since it's someone else I mean -- it'll relieve that pressure you were talking about. How about it?"

Later, Mark didn't even exactly remember how he agreed to this. But it wasn't much longer before Barry was standing before him, standing close as if coming in for a kiss. Except he wasn't -- he was unbuttoning Mark's jeans and, as Mark stood with something not quite like fear holding him in place, sliding the pants down to his knees.

Mark's boxers went too, and then his long cock stood finally in the air.

Barry's right hand grasped Mark's penis before he could think better of the idea, and gently began a slow up-and-down motion.

A nest of dark hair encircled the root where it left Mark's body. His cock, when stiff like this, was slender, or maybe just looked so because it was long. His cock-head, purple, looked just like a large, hard, ripe grape.

A gentle upward curve, not so much you might even notice, had helped lift his erection to a quite remarkable angle, in fact, standing tall an inch from his navel.

Barry reached down and, overhand, began stroking it.

His palm grazed the top, and his fingers wrapped around the soft underside. As he stroked out, his pinky rubbed gently over the unbearably sensitive skin just behind and under Mark's cock-head. His whole palm rubbed the stiff upper side of Mark's dick, as he loosely slid his hand up and down, grasping and releasing.

Barry had never stroked a long cock before, and his big hand had plenty of room to slide up and down. Instinctively, he knew not to rub the skin raw. He worked Mark's cock-head with flicks, squeezes and gentle rubs.

Mark was carried away in an instant, and working not to show it. Neither of his earlier sex partners had ever shown his penis this kind of care. Handjobs from his first lover were a fast, hard fist; from the second, a restrained, mechanical languor.

Instinctively he knew not to give in to his first impulse: groan and shout with pleasure.

Barry had at first stroked the shaft loosely, running his hand over it. But soon, he held it firmly, no longer sliding his fingers over the skin, but sliding the penis skin itself up and down, up and down. The down-strokes pulled the skin taut, pleasuring Mark's sensitive head with the mere pressure and tension, the brief agony of touch gone missing as Barry's hand pressed against his pelvis.

Then the up-strokes, with the older boy's hand sliding the skin back up over the long, stiff shaft, replacing the torture of a cock straining at nothingness with the sweet joy of strong fingers caressing a bulging cock-head.

Each time he slid his hand up, his fingers brushed the pink skin under the head, every man's most sensitive spot. Brushing at first gently, lightly, just a flick. Then a little more boldly. Fingers grasping and releasing as his hand worked.

A nice, steady pace. Up and down. Fingers grasping the shaft. Pinky, tantalizing, brushing that soft, folded, pink skin.

The situation was slipping away from Mark. Control gone, he stood with arms uselessly at sides, afraid to touch anything, as the suddenly-roaring pleasure of his sex overwhelmed him. It had been too long. Such unexpected stimulation.

The hotness, the heat of the friction, the heat of his blood, was so much to take. He summoned all his strength. Now he was the one inhibited, struggling to conceal how badly he needed.

Had he really worried about Barry being so masculine? It was lost for now. It would be back, but in this moment, as the firm hand stroked his cock a little faster, and then a little faster still, Mark knew only sex, and lust, and his need, becoming urgent, to cum.

It had only been a few minutes, he knew. It seemed Barry had just started. Mark's belly tightened and he knew it would not be much longer.

Barry had stepped in close to Mark, to grasp his penis from above. Head lowered to watch his work, his forehead nearly rested on Mark's chest. Mark had resisted the urge to reach up and gently place a hand on Barry's neck.

Now Barry stepped back and lowered to one knee. Not to suck, but just to get a better grip. And just maybe, to see his handiwork better. Barry was curious what he would see. After all, this was going to be the first time he'd made another man cum.