Games People Play: Go Fish Part 3

Buy more fish.

And ice cream.

Eat ice cream while buying fish.

That was the ticket.

He was halfway through the door, in that never-never land between the jingling bell and the squawking macaw, his a.s.s pressed against the gla.s.s because his hands were full of chocolate milk shakes and greasy take out bags, when his phone rang.

Of course. It had a knack for doing that. Ian was convinced it was a trick phone that somehow calculated his exertion to annoyance ratio via sensors in his jeans, wired into his zipper, 'cause he kept a lot of anxiety in his pants, and rang when he reached critical ma.s.s.

And why, oh, why did he have it in his front pocket? Why did he have it set to vibrate? It wasn't like he was actually on set where he was supposed to be and had to worry about ruining a shot 25 with an untimely phone call. And why was he wearing those jeans with the extra deep pockets that went all the way to his... inseam? He was hanging a little to the right that day. He never really paid attention to that before. If he did the whole 'notes to self' thing, he'd have, Phone/d.i.c.k = YIKES tattooed on his thigh.

Yes, he knew what the slash meant. Google was his friend.

So, the phone rang, and Ian busted his a.s.s on the door trying to get away, get away, get away from whatever possessed thing was molesting him, and the chocolate milkshake under his right arm erupted over the front of his shirt. Cold, cold, cold didn't really help matters any. If he could've stretched his face any farther with the gasp erupting from his chest, his eyebrows would've actually left his forehead and bobbled around above his head like those teeny bopper antenna head bands from the eighties.

This would have been the worst day of his life, except for the little angel who swooped in and saved him.

Marcy darted in from nowhere and caught the half-empty milkshake, the full one, and the greasy bag before they could hit the floor. Working in a pet store must've been great for developing reflexes. Ian stood there, gasping, his stomach sucked in, arms stretched over his head like the Wolf Man preparing to eat a baby... or the cleavage the baby was nestled in.

"Holy... Nnnngggghh!" The phone rang again, and Ian crammed his hand into his pocket. He didn't even think about how obscene it must've look when he pulled the vibrating monster away from the treasure chest, his eyes rolling up into his head, lips trembling in ooh, ahh, ohh, nnngh.

There might have been drool on his chin when he fumbled around and put the phone to his ear.

When it vibrated against his face and he fell into a display rack, he remembered to hit the talk b.u.t.ton.

"Uh, hi, Cal," he said, panting. "What? Yeah, I mean, no. I'm fine, just caught me away from my phone." His head fell back onto plastic bags full of something and he just lay there amidst the spilled display items with his eyes closed, trying to catch his breath. "Sure, right. Bathroom... uh, bring matches. Lots."

Hand pressed to his forehead, he peeked and shrugged up at Marcy. "For you," he mouthed, pointing his chin toward the least crumpled bag and the unspilled milkshake.

"Huh?" she mouthed back. Then, "Thanks!" Her braces were really shiny that day, and Ian thought maybe her lips actually closed all the way over them now. She even had some kind of clogs on with wedge heels and glittery decals. They made her legs look really long, which of course, he noticed from that angle. He pushed out his lower lip appraisingly and gave her a thumbs up, nodding at Cal chattering away in his ear about business as usual.

"What?" he said into his shoulder. "No. Don't bring me anything. I'm... not really hungry." He pursed his lips and pressed a thumb and index finger into his temples, nodding. "Yeah... stomach 26 problems." He caught Marcy c.o.c.king a hip and putting a hand on her waist and gave her a lopsided grin. She looked like she just might kick him on Cal's behalf, and he was not liking the angle of ascent as he calculated it, spread-eagled on the floor.

He scooched back away from She of the Ball Squashing Glitter Clogs, bulldozing through the pile of aquarium plants in iridescent colors and nodding, "Uh-huh, uh-huh, yup, yeah," in perfect rhythm with Cal's monologue, right up until he took out another display rack.

Somehow, between the downpour of fake frogs, chew bones, and squeaky toys that were, apparently, motion-activated, he convinced Cal that everything was just fine at home and hung up. That done, he dropped the phone and sprawled flat on his back to reflect on just how f.u.c.ked up his day really was.

They had overhead fans with paw prints painted on them. And mirrors on the ceiling.

Huh. You learned something new every day.

Today, Ian had learned not to get out of bed without first making some sort of sacrifice to the G.o.ds of Gay Love. Ian had been in awkward relationships before, but never had they spilled into the rest of his life to the extent that this had. Banged noses and sensitive teeth, chin splooge and crusty sheets were all fine and good as growing pains went, so long as they stayed part of his private life.

You didn't get any less private than sprawled on the floor of a pet store with a ten-inch rawhide bone between your legs and a dozen motion-activated, vibrating b.a.l.l.s.

He really, really needed to get laid.

Marcy crouched beside him, her face looming above his. More makeup and less zits. Ian had to remember to ask for a graduation picture. She reached forward tentatively and pulled a plastic aquarium plant out of his hair.

"Faux seaweed," she said with a shrug. She gave him a hand up and helped him brush off the debris. Taking a long draw from the milkshake she said, "Let me guess. Girl troubles?"

Ian nodded. "Faux girl."

"Must suck," she said, all sympathy, with a French fry dangling between purple-painted fingernails.

"I wish."

Setting the drink on the counter, she twirled a stray piece of hair around and around her little finger, contemplating, before she shrugged. "Y'know, I could maybe help you with that. I might know a trick or two."

27 "Uh." He was afraid to ask. Seriously, b.a.l.l.s-drawn-up-inside-his-body afraid. But he was also wearing chocolate milkshake and a really stupid expression. "Okay, hit me."

"That might work," she winked, "but I have a better idea."

Ian shrugged and gave her his best hit-me-with-your-best-shot expression. Sure, she was a kid, but her geekly stash of random information hadn't let him down yet. Besides, things couldn't possibly get worse. Could they?

The next thing Ian knew, he and Cal were sitting on his bedroom floor with a handful of mismatched playing cards each, and the 'fish pond' cards divided up and tucked in the waistbands of their pants.

"Go fish." Ian smirked.

Cal huffed an exasperated sigh and laid his cards down at his side, fanned out on the floor.

"Should we really be doing this on the floor? You were home sick all day. You could develop pneumonia or something." Cal was so cute when he was mother-henning.

"I'm fine, Cal, all good, but if it makes you feel better, I'll keep my blankie close by." Ian tugged the comforter off the bed behind him and wrapped it over his shoulders. "Now go fish, already."

He grinned, tossing his arms above his head so his t-shirt slid up and exposed the cards tucked into the waistband of his sweats. Bottom lip rolled under his teeth.

"Fine." Cal shrugged off his outer shirt and tossed it into the hamper before leaning forward and drawing a card from Ian's pants. He rolled his eyes when Ian did a little belly dance roll to influence his card choice. "Seriously, Ian, Strip Go Fish? Tell me this was the result of a fever dream so I can put you back to bed and never have to admit to anyone that I've played a p.o.r.ned-up kids' game. I feel like Feds should be breaking in here and confiscating the cards as part of a child p.o.r.nography bust."

That actually sounded pretty good, the putting him to bed part, that was, but no. Also, the fever dream was actually a better explanation than the truth a" that he got the idea from Marcy. Why he was taking advice on s.e.x games from a seventeen-year-old pet store geek he liked to think of as virginal was beyond him, but it was a better plan than he'd had in weeks. And, in his experience, there was very little Marcy didn't know something about. She was, at least, a well-rounded geek.

Besides, he wasn't ready for bed yet. Except for his short but eventful excursion into the outside world, Ian had been in bed all day. He was not going to settle for just being tucked in again. Like so many other things, that had stopped being cool when he was six. Ian did not spend an hour discussing his 'girl troubles' while repairing store displays and picking faux seaweed out of his hair, then rush home and jump into bed before Cal got back, just to have his brilliant plan -- okay, Marcy's brilliant plan -- foiled before he could put it to a proper test.

28 Cal looked all kinds of tired, for which Ian was all kinds of guilty, but lemons into lemonade as they say. Or in this case, cream into cream pie.

Ick.

What he meant was, this was a win-win situation. Win or lose, one of them was getting naked before anyone was getting put to bed. And the Queen of Hearts shoved down inside his own boxer briefs, he'd showered since that morning, thank you very much, pretty well guaranteed he was never going to find the match for the Queen of Spades in his hand. Especially since he'd dealt himself the club and the diamond right off the bat.

"Hmmm," Ian pondered. "Do you have any... queens?"

Of course, that wouldn't stop him from asking. Cal couldn't possibly have any queens. Ian would have to strip and go fish. Like he said; naked. Naked was a good motivator. Sure, Ian would be naked first if he kept asking for queens, but in that case, a loss was definitely a win by default.

He could be persuaded to throw just about any fight if there was naked waiting at the end of it.

"Go fish." Cal didn't even look this time. He hadn't had it the last three times Ian asked for it.

He'd probably remember if he picked it up in the last... three seconds or so. Ian should've maybe worked on his subtlety.

If he got excited when Cal went fishing on him, he was downright giddy when it was his turn to strip and fish. Laying his cards down, Ian did his best strip tease, rib cage shifting left and right as he slid his t-shirt up, up, and over his head. He was trying for a sultry 'come f.u.c.k me'

expression, but as usual, his lips had a mind of their own, and he was pretty sure he looked like Donald Duck putting the moves on Daisy. He had to wipe drool off his chin before tossing the t-shirt aside. That was never a good sign.

He was not to be deterred, though, letting his fingers do the walking up Cal's thigh to the waistband of his jeans, and making a show of sliding over Cal's belly from one card to the next, to eeny, meeny, miney, and mo. Weren't many left. Pretty soon Cal was going to figure out there was one missing, so Ian had to move things along a little. He couldn't help the way his breath hissed in when Cal's tight stomach jumped under his teasing, and the card, when he pulled it out, was tacky with sweat despite Cal's complaints about the cold, drafty floor.

Ian didn't even look at the card, though he did manage to resist the urge to give a good long sniff, because that would've just been... freaky.

If Ian lied about not having the next card Cal asked for, it wasn't actually cheating, since he'd already stacked the deck against himself. It was just more... motivation. And yeah, Cal sitting Indian style, elbow to knee so his abdominals tightened, and pulled, and rippled just above his...

uh, belt... was pure motivation. The belt really had to go, though. He should've made Cal take it off before they started.

29 Cal was taking this way too seriously now, stupid compet.i.tive streak. He didn't even look up when he reached over for the card, entirely focused on his hand like he hadn't already memorized every card, didn't know exactly what he needed to win. He seemed completely oblivious to the way Ian's heart pounded with gradually increasing volume as Cal's hand drew nearer, didn't notice how Ian's eyelashes had suddenly gotten so heavy Ian could barely keep them open, and he definitely didn't feel the stab of loss in Ian's gut when he drew the card and leaned back, grinning because he'd made a match and starting to throw his arms in the air. He had to notice when Ian grabbed his wrist on impulse and caused the cards to flutter to the floor.

Of course he noticed. How could he miss it? Ian noticed, too -- after the fact and with a distinct kicked-in-the-gut roll of his stomach. He sure as h.e.l.l hadn't planned this part. That was painfully obvious when they locked gazes, nothing at all like the longing look of lovers in the moment before a kiss. They were both dazed and confused with a definite hint of 'what the f.u.c.k'

ricocheting between them. Ian did the only thing he could think of.

He licked the back of Cal's hand, and did his best Three Stooges eye jab, "whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop," cackling madly as he fell back against the bed.

Which. Ow. Bed frame.

He cracked his head. Again. Then, he got nauseous. Man, could he be any lamer? He was never getting laid. Ever.

He wished he'd gotten a taller bed so he could climb under it.

Cal must've heard the dull thud of Ian's head against the railing, or the hollow echo inside it, as he jumped to Ian's side instantly. "Ow, that sounded nasty," he said, pulling Ian's head against his chest so he could examine the back for cuts or bleeding.

"'It's okay," Ian said with a huff, looking down between Cal's pecs at the shimmer of sweat pooling in his belly b.u.t.ton. "Really." Ian's breath was suddenly shallow, chest tight. He slid his hands up, lacing his fingers between Cal's rib bones as a way of offering rea.s.surance, but Cal prodded against a knot in his hair and Ian dug in, Cal's muscles tight under his fingers.

Cal froze, and Ian couldn't help but notice Cal's nipples peaking under the tiny puffs of air from between his lips. With the last, waning ounce of self-control he could muster, he said, "You got any... queens?" He dragged out the sssss, watching in wonder as gooseflesh spread over the flesh stretched in front of him.

Cal's hands dropped out of Ian's hair, slowly caressing down his neck and too-gentle over his shoulder blades while Cal's chest heaved. Ian felt him swallow two, maybe three times, throat working around an answer as Cal's fingers started to curl into his sides. "G-go f-fish."

"Thought you'd never ask," Ian puffed, eyes closed against Cal's sternum. His hands slid through the slick channels between Cal's ribs and cut abs down to his waistband, plucking out the card right over the belt buckle. The card fell, and neither one of them looked to see what it was. Cal's 30 fingers flattened against Ian, arms sliding around to pull them closer together, and Ian didn't fumble the latch of the buckle at all. His eyelids were clenched tight, his stomach rolling with antic.i.p.ation. He got the belt open, undid the b.u.t.ton and then the zipper, one metallic tooth at a time.

When Ian pulled the jeans open, the rest of the cards fluttering to the floor around Cal's hips, Cal jerked, his entire stomach sucking back away from Ian's fingers, a grunt vibrating through his chest and against Ian's forehead. Ian chuckled softly. Ticklish. Good to know he wasn't the only one.

Ian wasn't sure if it was reflex or a defensive mechanism, but Cal's hands flew off his shoulders and settled on Ian's hips, could've pulled him closer or shoved him away in a heartbeat. Ian stilled, forcing himself to wait, and when Cal did the same, he whispered, "Uh, a little help here,"

canting his hips up into Cal's hands. The pants were next to come off anyway. Cal wouldn't forget a game he was about to win.

That could've been it. Finally. They were just about as close as they could get except for the very last articles of clothing.

And that was the thing. Ian was wearing his tightest sweats. The elastic on those babies could've been used for bungee jumping. And if Ian had just stood up and removed one leg at a time, it would've been no problem. But that would've meant stepping out of the moment it'd taken them forever to get into in the first place. Instead, Cal got a little hasty, pulling both sides at the same time. The elastic could only give so much, and it did, right up until the pants. .h.i.t the fullest curve of Ian's a.s.s, hung up, and jerked free of Cal's grasp.

"Ahh!" Now Ian knew why women shaved their legs before trying to pull on panty hose. The elastic bound up in his leg hairs, and when Cal let go, it started to roll back up his leg, yanking out every unfortunate follicle in its path.

Ian had heard that body builders waxed all the hair off their bodies.

They were f.u.c.king morons!

"Holy f.u.c.king h.e.l.l!" He bucked up, sending Cal sprawling backward on the floor, and lay back against the bed again, paralyzed with the pain, his eyes squinting as tight as they could go. When the burn started to subside, he opened one eye then the other, and was accosted by the unfortunate sight of his throbbing d.i.c.k pushed straight out by the constricting elastic b.u.t.ted up against it. No wonder the pants wouldn't come off. Road block... er, c.o.c.k block. He sucked so hard.

Beet red, his entire body thrumming with the heat of embarra.s.sment, Ian curled in on himself and shimmied the pants the rest of the way off. Wearing just his boxers, he drew his knees up to his chest. He was not whimpering, just... composing himself.

Again, he wished the bed were higher off the ground. Monster under the bed had nothing on the 31 menace of crushing humiliation.

The blood was pounding so hard in his ears that he didn't even hear Cal moving up beside him, but then Cal was there, his hand on the small of Ian's back, and Ian... snapped... or something.

You know what they say. You gotta hit rock bottom before things turn around. And right then, Ian thought he couldn't possibly get any lower. With nothing left to lose, he was d.a.m.n sure going to gain something from this day of h.e.l.l.

Ian twisted around, landing himself face to teeth with Cal's gaping zipper. He sucked in a deep breath, heard Cal gasp with surprise... and went in.

No way he was p.u.s.s.yfooting...err... tiptoeing around the subject anymore. He could do this. He could. Sure, his stomach was clenching, and he was drenched in nervous sweat. His stomach could just shut the f.u.c.k up. It took him all of two seconds to get Cal's d.i.c.k out. All of that was fumbling with denim and cotton, because it took no time at all to find it. Cal was... no slouch.

This would have been the part where Ian admitted to himself he'd never done this before, but he was way past the point of admitting anything. He did what any man would do when faced with a challenge. He sucked it up.

And then some. And then some more. And then... he gagged a little, because there was a h.e.l.l of a lot more to suck up than he'd counted on. He thought maybe the gagging spoiled the mood, but Cal's squeak and his hands clenched around Ian's ears said otherwise. Ian didn't really have any technique, but from his own personal experience, d.i.c.ks weren't all that choosy. At least, his wasn't, ask anyone about his choice in girlfriends. He just minded his teeth and went to town, relishing the way Cal's fingers tightened in his hair.

Ian gauged his success by the amount of pressure Cal applied and the amount of rasp in every panting breath. He figured he was doing pretty d.a.m.n good, too, because, to be honest, it was starting to hurt a little. Actually, Cal was pulling his hair so hard it reminded him of his long-haired days when one of the hairdressers on the set of his latest gig had gotten too close with the dryer and got some sucked into the fan. Ian ignored it, right up until Cal began to make that strangled "Nnnngghh" sound that Ian knew too well, and came in his mouth.

Um. Strangely enough, Ian hadn't really planned for that circ.u.mstance. His throat was raw from gagging, his eyes watering like whoa, and all he could think was, "It will hurt if I swallow. It will hurt if I swallow. It will hurt if I swallow."

He swallowed. It hurt. But the way Cal petted his neck and caressed his shoulders made it worthwhile. For that, Ian could even ignore the rumbling in his stomach.

Mostly.

Though it was getting harder to ignore.

32 He lay there, a little overwhelmed by the whole situation and trying to figure out how to tell Cal it was okay if he didn't want to, you know, reciprocate, when his phone rang.

For once, it had perfect timing.

He barely managed to lift his head, which weighed at least twenty pounds, he thought, and groped around on the nightstand for the cell.

He clicked it on, squinted through his watering eyes, and pressed talk. "Hey, Marcy. What's up?"

"Hey, um, Ian. I was just watching the news, and I saw where there's been an outbreak of food poisoning at that place you got takeout from this afternoon. You didn't, by chance, eat the chili dog, did you?"

He hung up. No way he was letting this moment be ruined by a chili dog. Really, only half a chili dog, not even, because he sc.r.a.ped most of the chili off, and...

"Who was that?"

"Uh, no one."