The Adventures of Boipussy Pt. 07

Author's note: Special thanks to Exluke1 who helped me proofread this chapter and the previous one.

*

Pete's phone alarm sounded at half past nine on Sunday morning. He stretched and looked at the ceiling. After visiting the bathroom for a backed-up post-sleep pee, he peeled back the curtain and looked out of the window. Of course, it was snowing.

Carlos blinked his eyes open. "Hola," he said, stretching luxuriously, like a sleepy cat in the sun.

"Hey," said Pete, coming back over to the bed to plant a good-morning kiss on Carlos's lips. "We head back home today."

"I know," Carlos replied. "I haven't enjoyed the never-ending winter, but it's been totally worth the cold to land a record deal."

"Yeah," agreed Pete, "but we can think about that later. Get dressed, it's time for breakfast."

Carlos pouted in mock-disappointment. "No time for some sneaky morning fun?"

Pete laughed. "I can hear your tummy grumbling from here, dude. I know you're hungry, and so am I. Besides," he continued, "I'd rather grab a free breakfast from the hotel buffet than buy something at the airport. Sure, we've got a record deal, but we aren't international rockstars yet, and airport food is still way out of our budget."

"Yeah, fifty bucks for a salad sandwich is a bit over the top," Carlos shrugged. He threw the sheets back, exposing his beautiful, brown Mexican prick. He was about to get up and get dressed, but Pete pounced. He couldn't resist the sight of Carlos's sausage.

"How fast can you cum, babe?" Pete asked.

Carlos felt Pete's unbelievable mouth wrap itself around his cock. His shaft immediately began to swell as his boyfriend cupped his warm balls. "Oh, fuck," Carlos whispered as his head slammed back down onto his pillow.

Pete's head and hands bobbed up and down like a well-oiled piston, and Carlos felt his boyfriend's long red hair tickling his thighs. Carlos remembered the time Pete bet him he could make him cum within a minute.

How lucky he was to have a boyfriend born without a gag reflex.

Carlos felt Pete's tongue wrap itself around his shaft. His balls began to tighten and pull up into his body.

Carlos lost control. "Fuck, man," he seethed as he painted the back of Pete's mouth pearly white.

Pete sucked hard until he'd gotten every last drop, but he didn't swallow. He scooted up to give his boyfriend a snowball kiss. They swapped Carlos's load back and forth a couple of times before Pete re-established law and order. "Get up, babe. Time for breakfast. We're heading home."

"I don't know if I can stand up after that," Carlos joked.

"Get up or I'll tickle you," Pete smiled, kissing Carlos on the cheek.

Carlos returned the smile and stood up. He wiped his wet cock on a used bathroom towel and got dressed. He was midway through pulling his pants on when he addressed something new. "Hey Pete," he said.

"Yeah?"

"You called me 'babe'."

"Huh? Did I?"

"Yeah, dude. Twice, actually. You've never called me that before."

Pete blushed, feeling a little uncertain. "I'm sorry."

Carlos quickly corrected the record. "Dude, I'm not complaining. Matter of fact, I really liked it." He finished pulling his pants on and buckled his belt before scooting across to his drummer. He tied his sexy Mexican hair behind his back and gazed deep into Pete's beautiful eyes. "Am I your babe, Pete?"

Pete nodded nervously. He felt like he'd waited his whole adult life for this moment, and he stumbled over the words. "Yes please."

Carlos gripped Pete's jaw and pushed his tongue into his mouth. Pete moaned, his eyes droopy with bliss. Carlos broke the kiss, and a thick strand of saliva connected their lips.

Pete's brain nearly seized up. A few stray neurons managed to fire, which was a good thing, because otherwise Pete might've been stuck to the spot forever. "Breakfast time," he whispered.

They headed downstairs. Carlos was wearing a pair of tight, faded blue jeans, his well-worn Judas Priest t-shirt, and a denim jacket with a Slayer patch stitched on the back. Pete was wearing jeans with holes worn through at the knees (appropriate) and the long-sleeved Sepultura t-shirt he bought when the Brazilian metal merchants last toured through Atlanta. They held hands briefly in the elevator.

A few short minutes later, they were downstairs at the breakfast buffet. The two other members of Ass To Mouth were sitting at a table. They'd already eaten, if the empty plates in front of them were any guide, but they were happy to linger over a second coffee while Carlos and Pete grabbed their breakfast. The roadies had already left for the airport -- they all knew it'd take additional time to check the band's gear onto their international flight back to the US.

Pete and Carlos dropped their carry-on bags at the table before heading off to search the buffet. Carlos came back with a plate of eggs, fried tomatoes, wilted spinach and hash browns, while Pete collected some cereal and yogurt. Pete went back to the buffet to seize two coffees.

Their other bandmates were curious as hell to find out what Carlos and Pete got up to last night in their room, but they were polite enough not to ask. The small talk around the breakfast table was all about their freshly-inked record deal, and what each band member planned to do with the rest of the week once they landed back home. Nobody wanted to head back into the rehearsal room; everyone wanted some downtime away from A2M.

But it was a nervous, edgy small talk, and everyone's body language was anxious and fidgety. Everyone now knew, finally, that an intimate relationship had formed within the band, which would almost certainly have an impact on the band's dynamic. For now, the bass player was content to let things be, but if the relationship between Carlos and Pete began making waves, it'd become everyone's concern. He talked about it last night with the band's other guitarist, who felt the exact same way.

They finished breakfast, grabbed their bags, checked out of the hotel and headed to the airport. They made their way through customs and immigration -- thankfully everyone had remembered to bring their passports. They were preparing to board their flight when an American TSA official, working out of Toronto airport, began checking the boarding passes of passengers waiting in line. Pete assumed the official was just double-checking that everyone was in the right line for their flight.

There was a special code on Carlos's pass. He hadn't even seen it, and even if he had, he wouldn't have known what it meant or what it was for. But the TSA official noticed it when he checked Carlos's documentation, and he knew what it required him to do.

"Come with me, sir," commanded the official.

Carlos was clueless. "It's OK, dude, I'm good. Just waiting for my flight."

"I can see that," said the official, "but you have been randomly selected for additional security screening procedures prior to boarding."

"Why?" asked Carlos.

"See this code on your boarding pass?" The official pointed to the code in the top right hand corner of his pass. "This requires the TSA to take additional security precautions with respect to your journey for the benefit of your fellow passengers."

Carlos was in disbelief. In a panic, the other three members of Ass To Mouth checked their own passes. None of them had the same code. "Fuck, dude, are you fucking serious?" asked Carlos.

"Deadly serious," replied the official. "And watch your language. Come with me, sir."

"But I'm gonna miss my flight!"

"If you co-operate, you won't. This way, sir. Now."

The look of fear on Carlos's face as he followed the TSA official made Pete's blood run cold.

Carlos was ushered into a small examination room. His heart was beating like a fucked clock. Two other officials opened his carry-on luggage, looking for prohibited or suspicious materials.

A small part of Carlos's mind wondered if he was about to be thrown onto a plane bound for Guantanamo, but he had no idea what -- if anything -- he'd done wrong. He looked at his personal belongings that had been strewn across a table by a bunch of officials who had total control over him.

"Dude, look, I don't understand, please, you've got the wrong guy ..."

"Listen carefully, sir," interrupted the official. "Are you refusing to co-operate? Because there are serious penalties for ..."

Carlos nearly emptied his bowels. "Dude, I'm sorry, just ... whatever you gotta do, I'm co-operating, I'm just ... feeling ... really scared right now ..."

"Your feelings are not the responsibility of the US government, sir, we're just doing our job to secure the safety of American airspace."

"But why was that code on my pass, sir?" Carlos asked. "I'm an American citizen, I'm travelling on an American passport, this was my first visit to Canada, and the only other place I've been to is ... Mexico."

The TSA official looked like he was getting tired of Carlos's lip. "Sir, as I explained, you have been randomly selected for additional security protocols, which is the process I and my TSA colleagues are now administering. I don't know the details of how the selection occurs, but as I understand it, flags are assigned to individual passengers on each flight manifest."

Carlos understood perfectly now. There was nothing 'random' about the selection process: he'd been racially profiled. He knew the TSA wouldn't find anything on him, so all he needed to do was to keep calm, and to keep his mouth shut. Even so, he worried that he'd miss his flight. He hoped Pete was smart enough to catch the plane even if he was still stuck in this room when it took off.

The TSA official waved the magic wand over his body, testing for metal. The other two officials tested each item in his carry-on luggage for traces of explosive material. None of them found any grounds to detain Carlos any further, but they weren't done yet.

"Sir, if I can ask you to unbuckle your belt and lower your trousers." It wasn't a question.

Carlos looked at the TSA official, his blood running cold. Silently, he obeyed.

He heard the sound of a tight rubber glove snapping around a wrist.

"Sir, we need to examine your anal cavity."

Carlos complied. He bent forward, leaning his forearms on a table as instructed.

The official forced his gloved hand into Carlos's rectum and rummaged around for a few moments. This was the part of the job he liked most: it was a monumental power-trip. He jammed his fingers forward a couple of times, almost as if he was fisting his suspect.

Needless to say, the official didn't find anything. He slowly pulled his fingers out of Carlos's ass and gave the glove a sniff before discarding it into the appropriate bin. "You're free to go," he said. "Collect your things."

In a mad panic, Carlos pulled his pants up, rebuckled his belt, repacked his bag, clutched his boarding pass and passport, and sprinted to the departure gate. The flight was just about to close when he arrived. Nobody else was waiting at the gate, so he assumed the rest of the band had boarded. He had no idea whether the flight was being held at the gate just for him, or whether he was just lucky that the timing had worked out. Either way, it didn't matter. He walked down the aisle with as much dignity as he could muster, threw his bag into the overhead bin, sat down next to Pete, and buckled his seat belt. Instinctively, he reached for the in-flight magazine in the pocket of the seat in front of him and gave it his full attention.

"Are you OK, babe?" asked Pete.

Carlos managed to hold it together. "No ... not really ... but I'll tell you later."

While Pete had no idea what Carlos had just endured, he could tell from his boyfriend's expression and demeanour that it had been confronting, and possibly invasive. The plane was full, and the flight attendants were doing their pre-flight briefing. Pete did the only thing he could do. He reached for Carlos's hand and gripped it tight.

"Te amo," Pete whispered.

"I love you too," replied Carlos. His eyes didn't leave the magazine.

The plane sped down the runway before throwing itself into the sky. As soon as the seatbelt light went off, Carlos asked the flight attendant for two double vodkas. He threw them back like water.

The captain announced that their arrival into Atlanta might be a little bumpy due to some weather systems lingering over the Caribbean, but as it turned out, their transit and landing were smooth.

Ass To Mouth disembarked, and as they walked up the airbridge, the bass player read a text message from one of their roadies announcing that their gear was being unloaded right now, and there was nothing to worry about.

The tour had been a complete triumph, but the look on Carlos's face was anything but triumphant.

Exiting the airport, the bass player and A2M's other guitarist waved goodbye before making their separate ways back home.

The temperature was warm and the air was humid. Pete and Carlos walked towards the taxis.

"What happened, babe?" Pete whispered.

The look on Carlos's face bordered on shock. "I ... I don't really know how well I remember it all, to be honest. It was ... it was ..."

Pete gripped Carlos's hand. "It's over now. We're home. If you want to talk, I'm here for you."

Carlos nodded. "Thanks, dude. Yeah, I think I need to talk about it. Can I come to your place for a while before I head home?"

Pete smiled, though the situation was tense. "Of course you can, babe, you never have to ask that question."

They stood in the taxi line, holding each other's hands, not caring who noticed.

*

They threw their luggage into the trunk of the cab before sitting on the back seat. After Pete gave the driver his address, they rode in silence.

Half an hour later, Carlos was sitting on Pete's couch. "Got anything to drink?" he asked.

Pete sat down next to him and produced a bottle of vodka. Carlos unscrewed the top and slugged it straight. Pete took a small sip just to be sociable. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to get drunk. He needed to listen.

"I don't really know how to explain it," Carlos began, "but I feel like that experience is going to scar me for life." He took a deep breath and another hit of vodka. "So apparently there's a code that gets randomly printed onto boarding passes for flights into the US, and it was printed on mine. I didn't know."

"Neither did I," said Pete. "The rest of us checked our own passes, and the code that was on yours wasn't on any of ours."

"The TSA guy said it gives them the right to do some extra security checks. My brain is missing a lot of detail, because I think I'm still fucked up from what happened, but they threw everything out of my bag and examined every single item I was carrying. I assume they were looking for something they could question me about or detain me for. And then, when they couldn't find anything in my bag, the TSA guy pulled on a rubber glove and shoved his fingers up my ass."

Pete's eyes went wide, in total shock.

"Yeah," said Carlos, "that actually happened. I told them I was an American citizen and I showed them my passport, but it didn't matter, because the code on my pass gave them the power to do whatever they wanted. Seriously, dude, even though I hadn't done anything wrong, I had this fear that they were gonna fabricate something and they'd pack me off to Gitmo and I'd never see you again. I was thinking to myself 'it'd be my word against theirs, and who'd believe me?'"

Carlos collapsed into fits of sobs, and Pete held his boyfriend as closely as he could, rocking him back and forth. Pete wanted to say 'it's over, you're home, we're together,' but he knew nothing he could ever say could ever erase this experience from Carlos's mind. Carlos would need to process it over time, but Pete was resolved to be the best possible support he could be.

"I feel completely exhausted," Carlos admitted. "I think I need to sleep." He looked up at Pete. "Can I stay here for a while?"

"Yes, babe. Of course you can. You can stay here for as long as you want."

Pete helped Carlos to his feet and led him to his bed. He helped him under his comforter, switched on the fan in the corner of the room, kissed him on the forehead and left him in peace. "Te amo," he whispered before closing the door.

Hours passed, and Carlos slept deeply. He didn't dream, his sleep was total blackness. Pete went out to the local supermarket to buy some food for when his boyfriend woke up. He closed the front door quietly behind him.

When Pete returned, Carlos was still sleeping. Pete had just started catching up on his social media when his bedroom door creaked open. Carlos, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a pair of socks, walked out into the living area.

"You OK, babe?" Pete asked.

Carlos looked at his surroundings, recognising he was safe in Pete's apartment, and the TSA nightmare was over. "Yeah," he nodded. "I think so."

Carlos sat beside Pete on the couch as they watched terrible Sunday afternoon television. Carlos's feet lay in Pete's lap. An old Sinatra film was on the screen, but neither of them were paying any attention to it; they were each lost in their own personal memories of the past week.

Pete removed Carlos's socks and began massaging his feet.

"That feels nice," said Carlos, closing his eyes.

The two metalheads sat on the couch for what felt like an eternity. Carlos's feet were in heaven as Pete's fingers rubbed his toes, soles and ankles, but Pete's mind was elsewhere. He knew he had a difficult conversation ahead of him.

"Hey, Carlos?" Pete asked.

"Hmmm?"

Pete gulped nervously, not sure how to frame his question. "Babe, I need to talk to Ace ..."

Carlos's eyes snapped open and he sat upright. "I don't want to lose you."

Pete was worried that Carlos's affection and attention might wane once they were back home, but he had the answer he wanted before he asked the question. He lay on top of Carlos and they kissed for what felt like forever.

"You sure?" asked Pete, gazing down at the sexy dude he never thought he could ever have.

"Más que nada," Carlos replied.

"I'm gonna need a translator," joked Pete.

"I'm sure, babe. More than anything."

Pete's heart nearly exploded inside his chest. He smiled so hard his jaw hurt. He'd never felt such a flood of sweet emotion in his life, but reality intruded as his mind quickly turned to Ace. "I need to tell him ... but not tonight."

Pete was due to return to the law office in the morning, while Carlos wasn't due back behind the bar at Eternal until Tuesday evening. They ordered some Chinese food which they devoured on the couch, eating straight from the takeout boxes with chopsticks, swapping and sharing their dishes while they watched a documentary about INXS.

"You can stay here tonight if you want to," Pete offered, hoping the response was yes.

"Thanks, dude. I'd really like that. If you're sure you're not sick of me yet?"

Pete felt as smitten with Carlos as he felt the first time he ever laid eyes on him. "I could live until I'm nine hundred years old and never get sick of you."

Carlos wrapped an arm around Pete's shoulder as they watched the movie. He kissed his drummer on the cheek. Later that night, they showered, washing Canada's snowy grime off their bodies. And even later, they stepped out onto Pete's balcony, inhaling the Atlanta air, each in their own ways glad to be home.

"I'm tired," said Pete. "It's been a long week."

"Me too," Carlos admitted. Even though he'd slept for an hour or two earlier this afternoon, it was part of the shutdown that necessarily follows a traumatic experience. It wasn't a restful sleep. He still felt exhausted.

"Come to bed with me," said Pete. It wasn't a question.

Carlos followed.

Pete opened his bedroom window and they climbed under Pete's comforter. The sounds of Atlanta wafted up from the streets below.