Free Finding North by Carmen Jenner

my pre-cum as lube to stroke us both in one fluid movement, he thrusts his hips forward in time with my hand.
    “Oh shit, that’s good.”
    “Fuck,” I say, slowing my pace to temper the sensations and fend off the orgasm that threatens to take me over. “Too good.”
    “God, don’t stop.” North pleads.
    “Have to. I’ll come otherwise.”
    “Isn’t that the fucking point? Come already,” he snaps, rocking his hips forward. His cock bumps against my own and I grasp our dicks with both hands and jerk us off. My orgasm slams into me, and with hard, shuddering breaths I come all over North’s stomach. A second later North’s soft cry fills the room. I squeeze the head of his dick as he shoots a wad of creamy ejaculate onto both of us.
    “Holy shit,” he says, when he recovers. “Where the fuck did you learn to do that?”
    “ Playguy .”
    “Jesus, that was fucking amazing.”
    “Yeah,” I pant, as I collapse on the bed beside him. I wipe sweat from my brow. The scent of sex is heavy around us. A smug smile of satisfaction turns my lips up in the corners, I hope he doesn’t see, because it’s only meant for the darkness. Satiated, I rest my head on North’s shoulder and feel sleep finally start to pull me under.
    “Will?” North says.
    “What?” I groan, mimicking his sleepy annoyance to a tee.
    “I’m gonna need to borrow that magazine.”

W ill pours us both another round of Bundy rum and doesn’t bother watering it down with Coke. The pub is dark, save for the neon signs behind the liquor shelf. It’s been closed for an hour, and the two of us sit at the bar like old times. It isn’t old times though, and I need to remember that, because I’m the one who fucked us seven ways from Sunday.
    “You know what’s funny?” he asks, shifting on the stool beside me. His knee rests against my own. He makes no attempt to rectify it, and I’m sure as hell not going to. Apart from that awkward-as-fuck kiss the other night, this is the closest I’ve been to Will in twelve years.
    “What?”
    “The fact that we’re thirty years old, sitting in a bar with nothing but liquor at our disposal, and we’re still drinking this shit.” He raises his glass in the air.
    “What’s wrong with Bundy rum?” I ask, feigning offense. Bogan rum-swilling meatheads who get shitfaced and then get into it at the bar have given it a bad name over the years, but for me, that burnt sweet molasses flavour holds a lot of good memories.
    “Come on,” Will says, smiling at me over the rim of the glass. “Nobody actually likes the taste of this shit.”
    “I do.” I chug the remainder of the amber liquid. “If you don’t like Bundy, why are we drinking it?”
    He shrugs. “Old time’s sake?”
    I chuckle. “Yeah, we had some pretty good memories of this shit. Or at least, I think we did; I never remembered a whole lot the morning after one of our benders.”
    Will’s lips turn up in one of his crooked smiles. God, I’ve missed that mouth . “You know all the pot we smoked might have had something to do with that, too.”
    “True,” I say, and push my glass towards him for another refill, downing the shot of liquid courage. “You ever think about what might have been?”
    Will scoffs and sets his glass down. “You’re seriously asking me this?”
    “What?” I say, getting pissy now, because he acts as though he’s the only one who lost something. “I can’t ask a question?”
    He takes another sip, avoiding my gaze. The humour has left his face; his mouth forms a tight line as he stares down into his drink. “You can’t ask that question.”
    “Okay then,” I say, agitated that he’s calling the shots. I ask a question I’ve been wanting the answer to for a very long time. “Why didn’t you leave?”
    “Jesus, not you too.” Will shakes his head. “You sound like Josh.”
    “Who the hell is Josh?”
    He slams back the rest of his drink and beats his fist against his chest. “Fuck