Post-coital Panic

Becoming a blot of color on a big, beautiful picture.

"Kit! You goin' out there?!" Henry shouts near my face, leaning in.

Glancing at him, I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a wash of affection. What a solid, great guy. Handsome, Ivy League educated, kind, supportive. It doesn't get better than that. Wringing his neck playfully, I pull him in close: "I love the shit out of you, man! I'm so happy for you and Sarah! You're my best friend, dude! Charlie's a piece of shit, but I'm glad I didn't miss out on this with you! Thanks for always having my back!"

Henry returns the casual embrace, laughing: "Always, man! You know you're my best fuckin' friend, too! I love you, go have fun! I'll be at the bar!"

With his blessing, I do.

I wade into the crowd, and nearing the center, the denser it gets. Body to body, close enough that inflating my lungs has my chest and back touching those around me. It's not remotely unpleasant, because tactile sense is the most important of the five. Or, it is now. My clothes tickle over my skin as it becomes hypersensitive. Skin on skin? Now, that's the shit. The bee's knees. The cherry on fuckin' top. I want to touch and be touched, and it seems everyone around me is of a similar mentality. Personal space doesn't exist here. Still, I've got enough sense to keep my hands to myself until whoever's closest initiates an intimate tangling of the limbs.

Like I said, I get by, and there's no shortage of strangers willing to pair up in a place like this. There's a girl in front of me who turns, and we're eye to eye. We're rocking the same boat, as her pupils threaten to swallow a sweet, honeycomb iris. Her jaw works against an ascribed tension, and her dopey smile reflects mine. She's as tall as I am in a lethals set of heels, a sequined dress riding low and high in all the best places. There's no need for an exchange of words or verbal consent. We melt together like we've known each other our entire lives. Her hips twist erotically against mine, bare arms coiling like snakes around my neck. I slide my hands up the slope of her back until I find naked shoulder blades, and our damp foreheads thunk together.

It's the type of shit to make you think you've fallen in love at first sight, even though she could be any girl in the room and I'd feel the same.

If you ask me, there are only two things in this world to unify a mass of strangers: disaster and drugs. Most of these people, were I sober, I wouldn't look twice if they were in need on the side of the street. Now? I'd give up my shirt, shoes, and every last bill in my wallet for anyone who asked. There's this profound sense of love for your fellow man. Community, belonging. You want everyone to feel as good as you do. Euphoria overrides inhibition.

God, her hands feel so fucking good. Her pliant body feels so good in my hands. I tip my head back, bathing my face in the technicolor lights. It's difficult to tell where I end and she begins as we roll into each other. So difficult, I barely register the body that fits against my back, only: "oh, fuck, more contact, that's perfect, fuck—"

But, it's soon a presence that won't be ignored. Before long, the stimulation creeping up from behind overtakes the lukewarm effort of the narcotized girl at my front. Not that I'm one to judge. It's persistent, aggressive. They're demanding to be recognized. It's a man, without a doubt. He's bigger than me by a healthy margin, with a chest that feels never ending in either direction. It completely eclipses my back. Hard, defined. Like I could rest all my weight against it, and it wouldn't teeter or collapse. So, I do. He's taller than me, and the telltale indication is an unmistakable bulge digging into my lower back.

The dude's packing.

Huge hands anchor at my hips, puppeteering their movement. When they become exploratory beneath my clothes, there's texture and temperature. Cold, like ice packs on my scalding flesh. Roughened. I swear, I can count the callouses. The disembodied appendages slide across my stomach, and the muscle there flutters in greeting. My ribs, my upper chest, until one hand has me loosely by the throat underneath an unbuttoned collar. The other makes a descent, dipping beneath the waistband of my shorts. There's a thumb smoothing over my hip bone, chapped fingertips dangerously close to a trimmed patch of pubes. It retreats, only to reappear at my thigh. The inside of my thigh is gripped so tightly, so close to my balls, I can't help but snap my hips back into the guy's dick.

Before I know it, I'm strung the fuck up in these hands. Breathing is a labor, and those heavy breaths become noises. Embarrassing, slutty noises. Like, the kind of noises I should be wringing out of a pretty girl.

Ecstasy's a helluva drug, because I've never once experienced an iota of sexual interest in a man. I've never felt aroused by a man. Granted, even drunk or on drugs, I didn't actively seek out a dude to grind against. But, this is Europe, and inclinations are all over the spectrum. I'm not complaining. Not in the slightest, actually. In fact, I've never felt this physically good in my life. I'd know. Because MDMA is a vasoconstrictor, erections can be difficult to maintain. That's never been the case for me, and right now, my dick's pounding. It feels like every bit of blood I need to function is trapped between my legs.

Tomorrow, that'll be a little alarming.

The huge cock burning a line against my back isn't uncomfortable. It's...insanely, motherfucking hot. I do my best to return some of the generous attention, dragging my hands up a set of thick, strong forearms. Squeezing, scraping the skin lightly with my nails. I can feel the subtle bulge of veins. I'm not sure when his face dropped towards mine, but there's an appreciative breath warming the shell of my ear. I shouldn't be able to discern a person's pitch through a mere breath, but I can tell this guy's voice carries a bass. It's confirmed not ten seconds later:

"Ты всегда так легко заводишься?"

My Russian isn't great, but it's a question. I recognize 'you' and 'easy'—

This bastard just asked if I was easy.

In a voice so painfully attractive, it's impossible to work up any anger. There's no chance he knows I know the language, if only two words of a sentence, so he must be thinking: "ah, I'll just insult the guy in my stupidly deep, sexy voice and he'll be ready to bend over in the bathroom. Americans, so ignorant."

I mean, I'm not not ready to bend over in the bathroom, but I'm chalking that up to good ol' recreational drugs. No if's, and's, or but's about it. Sober Kit would never. Groping on the floor is one thing, but I'd expect a swift rescue from Henry if this guy tries to cart me off for more than that. Still, I'm not offended enough to part ways, because goddamn, he's good with his hands. I drop my head against a firm pectoral, turning towards his ear.

Blinking against the lights, as my eyes had slipped shut without me noticing, I see an ashen, faded hairline. There's an attractive vein climbing upwards from the crisp, white collar of his shirt. Cauliflower ear, lobe poked through with a diamond stud. Behind his ear, a birthmark barely darker than the complexion of his skin. With my nose turned towards his throat, he smells good. Rich cologne—drywoods, leather. There's one phrase I know in more than a hundred languages, and there's never been a better time to use it:

"Cпроси свою маму!"

Ask your mother.

He goes rigid at my back, and the lack of movement is jarring when surrounded by nothing but. It's difficult to become properly alarmed in this state, but I'm lucid enough to recognize potential danger. This guy's bigger than me. Strong. Sober. Russian. The latter detail is something to be wary of, in my mind. He still has a hand squeezing into the sides of my throat. For all I know, he doesn't have the slightest sense of humor.

There's shuddering against my back, then a rhythmic, throaty sound jumping in my ear.

He's laughing.

"Или я могу просто утром спросить тебя."

You, morning. That's all I got, but it's enough. Despite the insinuation of taking me to bed, or maybe because of it, that hypersensitivity kicks into overdrive. I'll milk this guy for all the attention he'll spare me, then slip off during the crash. Leaning in, I snag the shell of his ear between my teeth, grinding it gently between the flats. I bring my arms up and around to grab at his neck and scalp, raking my nails through a soft buzz. "Обними меня—"

Hug me.

Short, sweet. He's sure to get the point.

"С удовольствием!"

I'm suddenly plastered so tightly to his chest, I can't tell us apart. It feels like I'm melting into him, and I'm left to smother a groan behind the fold of my lips. "Mmph!"

What was previously an intimate, albeit handsy, gyration, it's now become full-on foreplay, no longer acceptable contact for a public space. Instead of my throat, he's replaced his hand at my breast. Gripping the muscle, pinching my nipples until they're at attention and definitely bruised. His other hand is no longer playing coy with my dick. Over my shorts, he's rolling the meat of his palm against it with a damning pressure. While I should be putting a stop to the excessive fondling, I push onto my toes to better feel his cock against my ass. It's an absolute monster, and Sober Kit would be jealous instead of—this. Horny.

He's chuckling in my ear again, but it doesn't last. He puts his mouth to as much use as his hands, working what's sure to be a hideous bruise into the underside of my jaw.

There are no words to describe it. Simple skin on skin is already so much, but this kind of direct, aggressive stimulation? I'm on the fucking moon, man. It's so, so much, I might die from it, but it's also just shy of being enough. My toes are hanging off the edge, and I'm aching for the plunge. Rationality only teases a return when his hand fully slides into the front of my shorts, wrapping my cock with a punishing grip.

"Nngh! Shit—!"

My body tries to fold forward, but there's nowhere to go. The bracket of his other arm is unyielding, and he keeps me drawn into an arch.

Blinking wetly, my eyes snap around. Someone has to be seeing this, right?

Wrong. We're packed in like sardines, effectively hiding anything beneath our waistlines. If they've noticed, no one's sober or uptight enough to care. Or, they're borderline fucking each other just as we are. He's stroking me with a hard, quick, twisting rhythm that doesn't falter. His thumb pinches over the wet, swollen head on every upstroke. Jesus fucking Christ, does he make a living on handjobs? How is it possible that he's beating me off better than I can beat myself off? Sure, I might be tripping on ecstasy, but his technique is insane. Even Sober Kit would have to admit that much.

I tug weakly at the column of a thick wrist, but it doesn't budge. Eventually, I'm just clinging for dear, sweet life. I've yet to actually see the guy's face. I don't even know what he looks like. I know next to nothing about him, but he's got my brains blended and dripping from my ears. Or, my dick. I haven't even cum, but it's uncomfortably wet and sticky where my shorts cut into my thighs. Flinging my head against his chest, I beg into the side of his jaw:

"Don't—! Nngh, please, don't make me—!"

When he responds, his mouth is moving against mine. I should be able to see his face, but my fringe has come loose in my eyes. Through my hair, the multicolored lights are blinding. He's either twisting my nipple harshly or flicking it like a paper football across a desk, and it shocks straight to my gut.

"You want to feel good."

No way.

No fucking way.

He's...he's gonna make me cum on myself, in the dead center of a club, literally surrounded by people. Is this because of the 'ask your mother' comment? Petty revenge? It's almost too good to care. What I'll absolutely never live down, however, it's a kiss that throttles me over the edge. Me, swept away by a kiss. He slants his mouth over mine forcefully, sucking my lower lip between his teeth. Breath is a harsh clash from our nostrils, and he seduces my tongue into twisting with his. He even tastes good. Who tastes good in a place like this? It's the hottest, filthiest kiss I've ever participated in, if it can be called that.

I'm easily overpowered, eaten alive.

Shreds of confetti flutter down from the domed ceiling, catching in hair and clothes like sweet, fresh snow. Smoke erupts from strategically placed machines, and the crowd is blurred out. There's uproarious cheering, phones raised overhead and set to record. The synthetic music is swelling, then plunges on a wicked drop. I'm in no position to appreciate any of it, only as an atmospheric background.

Whimpering into his mouth, I tremble violently through one of the most powerful orgasms of my entire fucking life. Spots flood my vision. The enormous knot in my stomach is ripped apart. My legs threaten to fold under me. I've been around, okay? I enjoy sex, and I've had a lot of it. Back in the day, I had my fair share of sex under the influence, too. I've busted nuts on 'E' before, and this wasn't that. No stimulant can account for what this man just did to me. I can feel myself dripping between my thighs, and when his hand comes out of my shorts, he smears cum across my exposed stomach.

Fucking asshole—

"Kit!"

Ah, shit. Or, hooray? It's Henry, throwing knees and elbows to get through the crowd. He must've seen something that alarmed him, but it's a little fucking late, dude. I'm already covered in my own jizz, courtesy of—

"До скорой встречи!"

Then, he's gone.

With the space behind me suddenly empty, I wobble. Wow, what a fucking asshole.

Henry finally gets in next to me, and we both work to extricate ourselves from the dense collection of dancers. I have to lean on him, because I'm tripping over my own feet. My legs are fucking numb.

"Bathroom!" I shout at him, and he nods.

Of course, once in the relative quiet of the bathroom, Henry's never been one to shy away from the hard-hitting questions:

"Dude, did that guy make you cream your pants?"

He was sworn to secrecy upon threats of making Sarah a widow. After scrubbing myself down in the sink, we agreed on the believable story of a spilt drink. One giant wet spot looks the same as any, not that anyone's sober enough to question it.

By the time we get everyone wrangled up, it's thirty minutes to sunrise. The party's still going just as strong as when we arrived. Charlie and Dakota are blind drunk, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, but Cam's got enough coke coursing through his veins to power a small metropolis. I'm betting he'll be wide-eyed and off the walls for at least the next twenty-four hours. We leave him in charge of herding the other two back to the boat to sleep off their poor decisions, whereas Henry and I decide to wrap up a memorable night with an equally memorable morning.

Cool sand crusts into the back of my clothes, hair, and the bare parts of my skin. Nary a cloud in the sky, only a sprinkling of stars that are soon to be chased away. Close to the equator as we are, the sun's a menace. The Mediterranean churns up the shore, and its push and pull makes for idyllic white noise. Henry's laid out next to me with his hands pillowed under his head, legs propped and crossed at the knee. It's a feeling similar to when we were lounging under the gazebo, but there's more depth to it. Alone, in the tranquility of another day's coming, we're allowed to feel it properly.

We're really here.

Couple of kids from shit beginnings, and it would've been so easy to let things end the same. Born to a couple of kids themselves in Jackoff, Nowhere. It's a miracle we weren't responsible for the next generation of teenage pregnancies, strapped down by good intentions or child support payments we'd have starved to afford. If I hadn't come, I would've missed out on these little moments with him.

Of course, there are other moments I'm now doomed to remember in perfect fucking detail. For the rest of my life. That's one of the bigger drawbacks. If there's an emotional impact attached, some memories crop up on their own. Humiliations, heartbreaks, personal victories. They're stamped on my mind like they happened five minutes ago. I can feel that guy's cold hands on me like they never let go. His chest hasn't left my back, more real than the beach I'm laid against. It's not like I'm...regretful, necessarily. Just, floored. One homoerotic encounter isn't enough to have me reevaluating my sexuality or preferences, but for a first experience, it was a powerful one.

Also, fuck that guy.

Clearly, he was trying to humiliate me, because who in their right mind would take it that far?

I wanted to take a dip in the ocean, but my nipples ache and itch. No girl's ever fucked with them like that before. I can't bring myself to look at them. I know my throat's marked up, but as tightly as he was grabbing me in some places, I might find fingerprints.

If I recognize him, it's on sight.

—

38:23:15

That would be how many hours, minutes, and approximate seconds pass before I'm eating those words. Less than two days later.

The ship was departing from Ibiza that afternoon, and I had to be forcibly escorted back aboard between Henry and Cam. The closer it came time to return, the more convinced I was that I'd just start a new life in Ibiza. Or, I'd book a plane ticket home on my own dime instead. Another night's sleep in a wobbly room, miles and miles from land, felt no different from being dragged back into...whichever circle of Hell cowards are condemned to. Dante wasn't specific about cowardice.

Alas, the boys wouldn't leave me behind.

I confined myself to the suite, already feeling the inevitable churn of my guts in time with the sea. Henry, bless his heart, bummed a handful of Xanax off Charlie for my sake. After regurgitating my intestines, I effectively put myself in a coma. It worked out for the best, as I slept through the night and most of the morning, only stirring to Henry letting himself into my room at a quarter to noon.

We're docked in Marseille, France, but just for the day, departing again in the evening. Rinse and repeat. Any time away from the boat is a much, much better time. Thankfully, no one's in the mood for hustle and bustle or a guided tour.

Charlie booked two VW Beetles, and the afternoon's spent cruising the route des cretes. From Cassis to La Ciotat, it's a narrow, winding road that's on some bucket-list shit. Starting at street level, we accelerate up railless cliffs until sparkling, scenic bays peek out between the foliage and jagged walls of rock. Henry got stuck in a car with Charlie and Cedrick, poor bastard.

Meanwhile, to Dakota and Cam's chagrin, I drew the longest straw for driving privileges. Soft-top drawn back, wind ballooning our shirts and tying knots in our hair, I try to leave permanent traces of my presence on the byway.

Rubber tracks scorch the road from a drift or two, acrid plumes blasting back into Charlie's face, and all's right with the world. The three of us hang our heads over the side of the car, disrupting the countryside's peace with screaming laughter. Of course, I do reacquaint myself with the brake when passing the herds of bikers and busy overlooks. God forbid I get booked in France, of all places.