– Horny Scene IV: Movie Night –

It’s a chilly 68°F in the beach house rec room, in spite of the fact the temps outside have been in the triple digits since breakfast. I lower myself into my spot on the end of the sofa—its requisite seahorse pattern looking a little worse for wear after God knows how many people have spent similar evenings here, covered in sand, oil, sweat and chlorine. I bring my knees to my chin, the feverish glow of my sun-crisped face intensifying as he sinks into the other end of the sofa and swings his legs up, taking his half out of the middle. 

I hardly notice of the din that arrives with everyone else—the raucous laughter, the thrown popcorn, or the staccatos of aluminum cans cracking open—my eyes fix on the sinewy calves stretching toward me, terminating in immaculate white Vans classics slip ons.  His thin navy socks bunch haphazardly about his tanned legs, a pattern of pink stitched whales encircling them.  I’m envious of them.  I’ve been staring at those bronzed legs beside the pool all day, fantasizing over those feet. And even though they are now literally within reach, only the jaunty threaded humpbacks get to touch them. 

As the movie is selected and the lights are lowered, he finally glances at me and—as if noticing me crunched on my end of the couch for the first time—asks if I’m okay with his sprawled position.  I feign surprise over the question, like his overwhelming presence hadn’t occurred to me, and mumble something affirmative.  He grins, welcomes me to reciprocate, and observes that I look cold. I nod as he reaches over the back of the couch and unfurls a battered fleece throw over us.  I shiver delightedly as I unfold my legs and snake them between his and the back sofa cushions. 

Beneath the blanket, I feel the rubber rim of his sneaker press against the outside of my thigh.  My cock raised its sleepy head in my swimming trunks, which I haven’t shed from the afternoon.  I wait until the previews are over before shifting my position, sliding my right leg over his until his casually crossed ankles are nestled in my private cove. His face never turns from the screen as our legs warmly brush each other, but I see his brow arch in the flickering light, and feel the gentlest probe of a waffle gum sole between my legs.  I plunge my hand under the blanket and draw the canvas clad foot close, so there can be no mistake. 

For the next hour, he gently grinds the bottom of his sneaker against my trunks.  When I begin to squirm with impatience, I feel him ease one shoe off with the other.  A warm sock presses the sticky nylon of the shorts around my head.   During a noisy club scene, the beat of the soundtrack thumping in our chests, I spring out from under my waistband.  I am caught in the fork of his first and second toes, the damp cotton sliding rhythmically,  vigorously along my length. Nobody else hears me cry out, but his eyes briefly flit to mine as I coat his pink whales in a silvery oil slick.

We remain still beneath the blanket, its undulation from my heaving chest easing as I catch my breath. The credits begin to roll, and I ease the slip on back over his sticky foot.  Tomorrow night: hot tub.