Notes: Well, it seems strange to respond to my own challenge, but Blair and Jim came back from the Christmas holidays raring to go, so who am I to stand in their way? JaC -- I'm sooo glad you had that party. Wish I could have been there.
Summary: Jim. Smashed Blair (!!). The kitchen table. 'Nuff said.
Email address: JBonetoo@yahoo.com Rating: NC-17 Pairings: J/B
Pulp Friction - The Kitchen Table Challenge [NC-17]
Home sweet home. At least I think it's home. Looks like home. So what if the 307 on the door keeps transposing itself to 037, and the key doesn't even want to fit in the lock. Maybe if I stand here long enough, Jim'll get a whiff of me, or wonder what those scratching sounds are, and come investigate. I can hear the TV inside. Sounds like Dickie Vitale, so it must be ACC night on ESPN. Cool. Wait a sec, I got it; the key slid right where it's supposed to, and I'm in. Feels like a minor victory in my condition. My cheekbone hurts like hell, but the rest of me's just flying.
"JIM!" Ow, ow, don't yell, Blair. Wait, that's supposed to be Jim's line. Maybe this is how Jim feels when he's got his hearing dialed up. It's weird -- my lips are numb, but I can hear, like, everything. Freaky. Jim's on the couch in those fuck-me-now sweatpants and a flannel shirt. He's looking at me like I'm from Mars. No, big guy, I'm from Venus, you know that.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asks, and he sounds half disgusted and half curious. Like he's not really surprised to find me like this, but he can't help wondering how I got this way. "Please tell me you didn't drive home."
"I didn't drive home." I didn't. I know that. I'm not stupid. I'm sure tomorrow morning I'll remember how I got home. I remember the door. The 037. That's a start. The rest'll come back. It almost always does.
I'm sure there's still a coat rack somewhere, but you know what? I don't give a flying fuck where it is, so I just carefully lean my jacket against the door. That way I'll know right where it is and I won't forget to put it on the morning. This seems like a very sensible plan, but I can hear Jim sighing behind me, hossing himself off the couch and grumbling his way over to me.
"Here, Sandburg," he says, putting out his hand. Whatever, man, you want the jacket, you can have it. See? I'm feeling completely magami ... magnnan ... fuck it. I head for the kitchen table, which looks much more solid than the couch and besides, it's a critical five steps closer; and sit on the edge of it. My feet look like they're about six yards away, which doesn't make any sense, because if you take a good look at me, you'll see my legs are actually really short. I'm what they call long-waisted. Jim and I are close to the same height when we're sitting down because he's long from the waist down and I'm long from the waist up. So I can't figure out why my arms are having such a hard time reaching my feet. This is why tribes in the wilds go barefoot -- for just this reason. Maybe I should just start wearing Birkies year-round; screw laces altogether. Of course, that would mean wearing socks with them half the year. Socks with sandals. Yeah, right. Maybe when I'm sixty.
Finally, one boot sort of lunges up, and I grab it by the laces and manage to get it off, then the sock. By this time, the other foot's figured out the game and helps when it's his turn. Finally. Bare feet. That's better. Much better. They managed to avoid the fun and games, so they're even clean. Cool. One less place to wash.
That took an awful lot out of me. I think I'm just going to rest here for a minute; lie back on the table, let my feet dangle. Feels good to wiggle my toes. Feels good not to be trying to walk, or talk.
Of course, the table's moving around a little, or maybe it's the room, but I guess that can't be helped.
That is one tipsy boy over there. He looks like he went swimming in whatever it is he's been drinking. I can smell his breath from here -- wine, oranges, lemons. Sangria. The kid's been drinking sangria, and in vast quantities, if his motor coordination is anything to go by. The whole left side of his shirt is covered in the stuff, and he's got it in his hair. There's a big pulpy piece of orange rind buried in his hair and part of his face is stained red, except for a spot that looks almost purple, like a bruise. He looks like he lost a fight with the produce department.
You know the real kicker? It looks good on him. Here he is, three sheets to the wind, barefoot, covered in stuff so sticky I'm surprised he's not glued to the table, and all I can think about is getting in his pants. Clean, dirty, it doesn't seem to make a difference to me. I'll take him as he comes. And yes, you can make of that sentence whatever you want.
I walk over to him. He's trying to unbutton his shirt. I watch that for awhile. He's all thumbs. He's got his eyes half-open and he's got that look. That horny toasted Blair look. That look that means I could get real lucky. If he can manage not to pass out, I bet we're going to have a good time tonight.
"Blair, what happened to your face?" Seems like a reasonable question, don't you think?
"It's a long story," he mumbles, patting his cheek.
"Give me the short version," I tell him, reaching over to help him with his shirt. He's smearing gunk from the shirt and his hair on the table-top. Yuck.
"It was an accident, I swear."
Do you know how many of Blair's stories start with that line?
"This NFL-sized asshole grabbed my ass at the punch bowl. He thought I was a girl. A girl. Like that would have made it all right. So he's saying he's sorry, because, you know, he thought I was a girl, like if I'd been a girl it would have been just peachy to have this Neanderthal grope me, so I sort of accidentally on purpose spilled a glass of sangria on him."
That doesn't explain the bruise. Or how he came home wearing a quart of sangria. Of course, you realize with Blair there's really no such thing as a "short version" to any story.
"Then what?" I say, finally pushing his hands out of the way and unbuttoning the rest of the shirt myself. I basically wrestle the shirt off him and toss it in the sink and pour some water on it. Red wine. How do you get red wine out of stuff? Don't you put white wine on it? I go to the fridge and get the half-bottle of chardonnay we didn't finish last night and get it out.
"None for me, Jim, thanks anyway," he pipes up. "I think I might have had enough."
"You think?" I ask him, and he snorts at me. Patience is the key with Blair when he's drunk. Patience is rewarded. Trust me on that. "Come on, Chief, spill it."
"Where was I? Oh yeah, so I might have said something to him then, I don't really remember, but he clocked me, right here," he says, and he points to his cheek. He's going to have a shiner tomorrow. He'll probably be really proud of that. My Blair, in a drunken brawl.
"Well, I didn't appreciate that, as you can imagine. Fucker hurts. I didn't really mean to do it, but the next thing I knew, the whole dang punch bowl got involved and people were screaming "FOOD FIGHT" and it kind of went downhill from there," he says, like it's just another night in Blair's social life. It probably is just another night in Blair's social life.
"So what's the other guy look like?" I ask him, and he smiles, this totally wicked smile. It's a whole new look for Blair. Cute as hell, mean as sin.
"Ah, that's the beauty of it, see. I got this guy's balls in a Kung Fu grip and told him to keep his fucking hands to himself from now on. You'd have been proud of me, cuz that sucker was big. He'll be singing soprano for a week."
He's laughing to himself, wiggling around on the table. He's got his knees up now, and his feet flat on the table, and his hands down in his crotch. I go back over to him and stand at the end of the table, where I get the best view. He's rubbing his index fingers down either side of the seam in his jeans, stroking his balls. He's ready, willing and able. I look over at the couch -- it's a nice big couch, with nice soft cushions. I look back at him. He's showing no signs of moving this party anywhere else.
"Sandburg," I say.
"We eat on that table."
"You want to eat me? Go right ahead. I was sort of hoping you'd fuck me, though."
He's unzipping now, taking his dick out, wagging it at me. How he could even walk with that thing sticking up, I can't tell you. He's pushing at his jeans, which also have big sticky wet sangria patches on them, trying to get them off. They're fighting him and I just watch the battle for a while. In about two minutes, I declare the jeans the winner. He's panting and starting to sweat a little and now he looks a little pissed off. And he's still hard. Of course.
"Help me, man," he says, and he does look sort of pitiful there, with his jeans tangled up around his knees. So I help him get those off, too, and toss them in the sink with his shirt. Now he's butt naked on the kitchen table, wriggling around.
I hope I remembered to put Clorox on the store list.
I'm coming around. The room's stopped spinning. It helped to get my clothes off. Of course, that usually helps, whatever the problem is. I'm thinking I might even get my way this time and get him to do me on the table. Do you know how long I've been picturing this? I suppose you could make a case that I'm taking advantage of Jim. He's downright malleable when I'm drunk. It's not like it's a weekly occurrence, or anything. I'm an easy drunk, cuz I don't do it very often. Give me a few glasses of sangria and that's all it takes.
I'm reaching for him now, getting him to come up on the table with me. That's right, Jim, get your ass up here. We're going to have ourselves a good time. Buttons are still beyond me, so I just grab the tails of his shirt and start pulling them up. He's game now; he's with me. He's helping, jerking it off and he throws it over to the couch, in a very un-Jimlike way. Oh yeah, we're having fun now.
"You got stuff nearby?" he asks me, and I can tell neither of us really wants to go all the way upstairs. Actually, he doesn't want to and for me, I think it's probably a physical impossibility.
"What makes you think I carry that ... oh, all right. Backpack. Inner pocket."
He grins at that and slides off the table just long enough to grab a condom and a sample-size lube tube I got at Student Health. I've got them stashed in strategic places all over -- my desk drawer, the whatsits drawer in the kitchen, the end table by the couch. You just never know.
He's leaning over me now, holding his weight off me with his arms, nuzzling in my hair. Feels like he's looking for something, and when he brings his head up, he's got a piece of orange clenched in his teeth.
"Oops," I say to him, and I can feel this big grin come over my face. Makes my cheek hurt.
"Yeah, oops," he says and he spits out the orange, right on the floor. I like Jim like this. Of course, I like him most ways, but Jim when he's playful is about the cutest thing you've ever seen. "Got anything else in there?" he asks.
"Not in there," I say, and I wiggle my hips at him.
"Flirt," he says into my neck.
"Tease," I whisper back to him.
He's making his way down my chest now, grabbing mouthfuls on the way. Just when I think he's going to eat me after all, he rears back up and jerks his sweatpants down as far as they'll go. Then he puts his hands under my thighs and lifts them up on top of his legs. I've only seen pictures of this position. It takes some kind of strength to do this. So he's kneeling there in front of me, kind of sitting back on his heels, with only his sweatpants for padding and he's looking at me.
All of me.
Just laid open there for him. Everything. My doctor doesn't know me this well. I really want to move, really want him to move, so I'm rocking a little bit, rocking up on him, tensing my thighs on top of his. He runs his hands down my thighs, like he's petting me. Then his hands go right for my balls, and lift them up and roll them around, and I can tell he's breathing me in, smelling me. He holds them up with one hand and sends the other down farther, playing on that ridge there, pressing in.
"That feels fantastic, man," I tell him. "Come on, come on, do it already."
Patience is his virtue, not mine. I'm ready to get fucked, okay?
He rolls on the condom and lubes up, then squirts some on his fingers and opens me up a little. He's got big hands, and big fingers, and if he just did this, I'd come in about a minute and a half, but I want more, so I'm begging now. No shame. I have no shame whatsoever. I want it, and I want it now.
So he caves and grabs hold tight and pushes in. It ain't easy. This position's not all it's cracked up to be. It looked good in the pictures, but I think maybe it's one of those cases where it's better for the top than the bottom. I've got no leverage, and the angle's all wrong, and this seemed like a good idea, but frankly, it's just kind of uncomfortable.
I'm not saying a word, though, because Jim is happy as a clam. He's into this in a big way. He's even groaning out loud, which he doesn't always do because it embarrasses him to hear how loud he gets. I love that. Talk to me, buddy, talk to me.
Let's see if I can't just get off on what a good time he's having.
Holy shit, this feels good. It's a trip, a power trip I guess, which I'm sure I'll be ashamed of in the morning, but it feels incredible now. He's draped over me; he can't even move, so it's all up to me. The angle's all different and he feels even tighter than usual, so I'm trying not to lunge too hard, trying to go easy, but oh my God, that's hard to do.
I want to just pound him, spread him open even farther and disappear in him. He's got one hand on his dick now, which isn't doing a thing for my self- control. He's looking down at it, watching his hand sliding up and down. Usually, he's watching my face. Hmmmm.
"Blair? You here?" I ask him, and I'm sure it sounds strange to you, but he gets it.
"Right here," he answers, but he's not. If he's here, he doesn't answer right away. He gulps, or breathes out or sighs and then he moves to answer me. Nope, he's not with me. Not too surprising. He looks like he's on a rack. I slip a hand down to hold the condom on, and pull out of him. He yelps at that and reaches for me, but I'm already sliding off the table and flipping him over.
"Hands and knees, Blair," I tell him, and he does it, presents himself, just spreads himself open and looks back over his shoulder. Now he's with me. I come up behind him again and slide back in and now it's good, now he's there. He's pushing back against me and I can really pound him now because this angle I know, this angle I'm intimately familiar with. I know just how far to push him this way. He's the one making the noise now; it's rumbling out of him, so I grab his hips in both hands and I fuck him as hard as he wants me to, as hard as I can and I can feel him clench around me.
"Perfect, Jim, yeah, yeah, just like that," he pants out in between lunges. I can feel the muscles inside trying to hold me in while I'm trying to pull out. I can see the muscles in his back seizing up and see his arms start to shake.
"Jim, Jim, oh man, almost, almost," he's chanting now, a steady stream of my name and instructions.
His head drops down and he shouts something I can't understand, and I can see globs of semen jumping out and mixing with the orange pulp and wine smears on the table. The smell comes up to my nose and then I'm there, jabbing in as far as I can, holding onto his hips hard and leaning over his back because my knees just went straight out from under me.
He collapses in a heap under me, and brings me down with him. That can't be good for his nuts, so I roll a little and now we're side by side on our own kitchen table, covered in semen and pieces of fruit and sticky, half-dry red wine.
How does he do this? And how does he get me to so enthusiastically participate?
I'm picturing eating cereal standing up at the counter for the next ten years.
I'm thinking that next time, I want to be one on my hands and knees.
I'm thinking that before I met Blair, it never occurred to me that you could have sex on the kitchen table.
I'm thinking all these things, and thinking about saying them out loud, but when I look at him, he's crashed. Fast asleep, with one hand tucked under his chin. I tug myself away from him and he murmurs something, then drops right off again. I get a beach towel from the closet and put it over him. No sense getting the sheets dirty.
He can just sleep it off right here, in the evidence. Tomorrow, we'll dump him, and his clothes, and the towel, in the shower and give them all a good scrubbing.
And who knows what else might happen in the shower, when he's awake and sober and clean. I've had this idea for a while now ...