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His girlfriend calls from her cell phone, on her way to her job at the mall. He drinks a coke and tells her he's going to the gym. "Callie's shower is tonight," she says, reminding him he has a night free. They haven't fucked in a week, and she doesn't seem to mind any more or less than Kevin. "We'll be late," she says, and he wonders if she's fucking someone else anyway. And then he wonders if wondering and hoping are the same things.

He does not know what it is about Jake, the thing about him that keeps him calling and coming back. He sits in the corner of Kevin's mind, cross-legged, patient as a yogi. Kevin sees him in the lacquered reflection of fenders he's pinstriping, recalling odd moments: bent over CDs, standing on the bed of the motel room in Edison, trying on Kevin's jeans in yet another motel room. He calls, leaving quick messages, embarrassed. "Hey, it's me," Kevin says, not wanting to say his name and have it recorded. "It's me." He often does not know what else to say.

Jake goes to his bedroom, and Kevin follows. He looks at the pictures on Jake's walls, mostly photographed nudes, mostly Jake. Kevin does not look closely; the images still make him uncomfortable. He hides himself under a blanket, covering his unwieldy and shameful erection. It isn't until after a kiss or two that he begins to relax. His skin flushes, his forehead perspires. He becomes hungry, more than hungry -- he is starved and needy. He rolls onto Jake, who is not soft; he does not give, but will yield when he's ready, knees flanking Kevin's hips, hands holding Kevin's head still for a long kiss. Jake makes a belt of his legs around Kevin's waist. Kevin works his cock in the rut between balls and thigh, and Jake humps up against the soft dark hairs of Kevin's belly. He lifts and tilts his hips, allows Kevin to roam the crevice of his ass. It is warm and rough there, a bushy crack that rasps the tender glans of Kevin's ruddy prick.

On the walls, there are close-ups of Jake's body, like what Kevin is seeing now. The sharp curling crease of Jake's closed armpit; the feathering dark hairs surrounding his navel and going nowhere. Jake twists himself, getting on his knees, keeping Kevin's dick between his ass cheeks.

"Spit there," he whispers, as if someone were in the next room, listening. Kevin drops a gossamer thread of saliva just under Jake's tailbone. He wipes his cock in it. He slips between the white dunes of Jake's ass, and then he catches the softened plush hole and hears Jake sigh.

At first, it is just a kiss, a peck from a friend, light and a little moist. The hole blooms then, the lips become full and easy, and Kevin finds himself leaning into it, his cock-head being enveloped, sucked in. He enters Jake dryly, but slowly, thumbing the untanned cheeks, staring hard at the back of Jake's head, the moment tinged suddenly with regret: "What am I doing?" He thinks about his girlfriend, his mother and father, his twin. He feels pulled in, as though slipping into a fevered pitch. It burns his shaft and is grainy. He does not hate it, though, or stop.

Jake makes noises, his face pressed into a pillow. He turns his head and looks at Kevin, who stops moving, arresting his own slow-motion fall into Jake. He cannot imagine how his hips will feel against Jake's ass, to have filled him like that. His cock pulses with the force of his blood, the thrust of his heart. He watches Jake close his eyes and turn to the pillow again, and he makes his slow descent again into Jake's tight bud.

"Doesn't it hurt?" he asks Jake's rippling back.

The voice he hears is muffled. "No," it says.

When he is almost all the way in, he stops again and asks, "Are you sure it doesn't hurt?" He doesn't want to believe it doesn't.

But Jake nods, rising up on his elbows, looking over his shoulder. He looks at Kevin's chest, maybe at the necklace he's forgotten to take off; Kevin can't be sure. He massages Jake's lower back, fingering upwards toward the fluttering muscles across Jake's shoulder blades. Jake comes up off his elbows, pressing back against Kevin's body. Kevin holds onto him, in him. Jake's cock is hot against his wrist.

"Fuck me," he says quietly.

"Shut up," Kevin whispers. Jake's stomach is warm and hard. It is paneled with muscle. He leans back in Kevin's arms. He moves his ass, away but not far, and then back. Kevin tightens his embrace, but he cannot stop what Jake's insides are doing to him.

"Shut up," he says. "Shut up. Shut up."

Jake fucks himself, stabbing himself again and again. It's the tightness that almost scares Kevin. So tight. And the heat. Jake's ass-lips pull on the flanged head. He plunges in again, and before he's actually aware of it, he's pushed Jake forward again, getting his face into the pillow and holding it there, pumping into the little brown pinch, the tiny mouth. His hips slap up against Jake's ass; sweat blurs his sight. Jake moans, stifled. He is jerking off fast, tearing at his prick, beating it. Kevin watches it all like a fuzzy dream or something under water, and his own prick stiffens and he straightens his back, pulling out of the hahahaha he's made of Jake's ass, and pumps his semen all over him, and Jake cries into the pillow and when he's done, he shows Kevin his handful of come.

They trade places. Kevin lets him put his cock up inside him. It is not at all what he expected. Yes, it hurts and feels strange. He feels full, invaded, maybe a little sick to his stomach. He does not care for the way Jake plays with his nipples. He endures Jake's gentle thrusting, preferring his own finger to Jake's long stab of a cock. Once, Jake pushes too far, and Kevin gasps, injured, he's certain, wounded internally.

"Enough," he says, pulling himself off Jake's telescoping prick. There's music today. The windows are open. Someone is mowing his lawn. Kevin's hole burns. He rolls onto his back, bringing his knees up, away from Jake.

"I love this," Jake says; "Right here." He touches the back of Kevin's closest thigh, up near his ass. "That's my favorite part of you."

Kevin covers his eyes with his arm. "You have a favorite part?" he says.

"Don't you?" Jake asks. "Of me?" He strokes the spot on Kevin's thigh, where the hair becomes dense and suddenly ends.

"It's pretty," he hears Jake say, and he almost laughs.

"Pretty?" he says, uncovering his eyes. He can't see Jake clearly -- his eyes are unfocused. He sees his white shadow. The lawnmower stops. The music from the other room. So many songs Kevin's never heard before. He's always saying, "Who's this?" shaking his head at the reply: "Never heard of him." Or her, or them.

He gets up on his elbow, pulling a hair from his mouth. "That shit hurts," he says.

Jake laughs. "I guess you get used to it."

Kevin rubs his eyes. "But does it ever feel good?"

"For some," is the reply.

He looks at his hands, the hairy backs, the finger that should by now be ringed.

"You like it," he says, and he watches Jake smile.

"I do," Jake says.