What It Means To Boogie Chris stops in the door and watches.
Mission accomplished, Justin leans back and says "voila!" and they promptly burst into laughter.
"What are you doing?" Chris asks and they both jump.
"Dude, don't sneak up on us," Justin says. "We're going out tonight."
"Dressed to kill," JC adds.
Chris quirks an eyebrow at Justin's see-through shirt and JC's mirror-shiny tank top. "To kill fashion, at least," he mutters.
They look up at him with identical clueless expressions, and he gives up. "Knock 'em dead," he says, and turns to leave. In the hall mirror, he notices that Justin is glittering suspiciously under his shirt. He pokes his head back into the living room. "Are you wearing glitter?" he asks.
"Of course," Justin says. He rises, and small sparks of light reflect off his skin through the pale blue mesh of his shirt. He is wearing black vinyl pants.
"We're going to that new club, whatsitcalled," JC says. The eyeliner makes his eyes look huge and dark, and gives him an odd serenity. Fucking Nefertiti, Chris thinks.
"The Moon Fly," Justin says, and he does a little shimmy right there on the floor, wiggles his hips and lifts his arms. The glitter sparkles merrily, little flashes all down his shoulders and chest. "You wanna come?" He bats long, black-painted lashes at Chris and dances a circle around him.
"And Salome," Chris mutters under his breath. He weighs his options. Empty house at home versus watching people rub themselves against each other on the dance floor. "Yeah," he says. "I think I will."
The Moon Fly is pretty much like every other club, loud and smoky and filled with beautiful people in uncomfortable clothes. The DJ's British and JC whoops with excitement and doesn't even get a drink before hitting the floor.
"I remember a time when it was cool to buy American," Chris says. "And I'm not buying you a beer."
Justin gets a beer anyway; he only has to smile at the bartender.
Chris can't help but worry about his sudden disinterest in clubbing. He used to be a party animal.
"I'm getting old," he tells his bottle of Grolsch. "How does that happen? You work like a slave, you do your thing, you surround yourself with sleek nymphets half your age and one day, you're pushing thirty, you're single and your dog's pissing on your shoes."
Justin's beer sits untouched next to him. On the dance floor, the pretty young things shake and shimmy and Chris sees Justin and JC bump hips and laugh.
"Here's to sleek nymphets," he says and takes Justin's glass.
After a while, he starts wondering if maybe he's turned invisible. "I'm but a faint shadow of the man I once was." His beer seems to agree, and he takes a sip. The Dutch sure know how to brew. He's fond of ordering stuff no one can pronounce. He can say "Grolsch" in Dutch five times in a row, fast. Even after two bottles of the stuff. "I'm out of date, I'm old and miserable. I'll die alone, I'm sure I will."
He takes a sip from Justin's glass. Down on the dance floor, JC's caught a tall, gangly girl - taller and ganglier than him; probably taller than Justin - around the waist and they're moving in perfect tandem. Justin's behind JC, laughing and following JC's movements.
"I don't even look good in glitter anymore," Chris says. "It's a sorry state of affairs."
A bartender shows up and Chris pretends he wasn't talking to his beer. "You want another one?"
"Enough with the Dutch," he says. "Gimme something Polish. No, Czech." One good thing about these obscenely expensive places; they had an impressive assortment of import beverages.
"Velkopopovicky?" She even pronounced that in a vaguely correct way. He's impressed.
"Sure." The empty bottle of Grolsch disappears, and is replaced exactly three minutes and thirty-two seconds later with a Velkopopovicky Kozel Premium Lager.
"Do you speak English?" he asks it. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch? You come here often?"
JC and Justin have forgotten about the girl and are dancing with each other. Chris watches and they dance, they're a little island of their own in the sea of sweaty bodies. Funny how the light finds them and bathes them in gold. Funny how they seem to be the only ones with faces in the whole crowd; JC's angular and intense, Justin's soft and guileless. Funny how they dance very close together, completely oblivious to the hustle and bustle around them.
He turns away from the light and watches the bubbles rise behind brown glass.
Justin sits in front of him.
"We're done," he says. Chris squints at him. A bright, white light flashes over his face, and his eyes are big, wide, very very blue. Sort of a pale blue, the colour of the sky on a perfect day.
Chris has seen Justin's eyes before. He's never thought they were the colour of the sky on a perfect day before. Blue, he's thought. They're blue. Blue eyes. I have brown eyes. Justin has blue eyes. JC has blue eyes.
"I called a cab," JC says. His eyes are a little darker, with a metallic tint - silver blue? Maybe the colour of that time of the evening the French call l'heure bleu, if one wants to be poetic about it.
"Please get me out of here," he groans and looks at JC's left ear instead.
"Didn't you have fun?" Justin asks. "Dude, you're a cranky mofo these days. Why'd you come if you were just gonna sit here and feel sorry for yourself?"
"I wasn't feeling sorry for myself," Chris says. They're up and walking. The crowd parts in front of them. He feels JC's hand on his waist - he's being escorted.
"How many beers did you have?" JC asks him when they're outside and shuffling into the cab.
"A few," Chris says. He's stuck between them; wedged between shiny, sweaty, exhilarated boys, double the fun.
Justin leans against him, probably leaving a smear of glitter on his shirt. "That was a good club."
"They had good beer," Chris says. Well, they did. He wasn't too impressed with the DJ, the sound was just that notch too loud - just past the comfort level, and the women looked vapid and plastic, the men slick and shallow.
"I could dance for hours more," JC says. He looks neither slick nor shallow; he's flushed, red blossoms crowning his cheekbones, and there's a shine to his eyes. He's not lying. Chris can feel the extra energy thrum in his body. He's sitting pressed against Chris' side. Dancing shakes JC out of himself, gets him jacked up, fired up, turned on.
"Let's go to my place," Justin says, "Chris, dude, come with us. If you wanna keep moping around, I got plenty of beer."
So he's back in Justin's house, back in the living room, and JC and Justin can't stop hopping around, they're fired up, they shimmy when they walk, they shake their hips when they talk, and Chris wants to sit down and watch them, but they pull him along, four hands on him and he does remember what it means to boogie, thank you.
Wasn't he grumpy today? He was grumpy just minutes ago, but JC's touching his sides and sliding closer, and Justin panting in his ear, very close, very close by. Chris can feel the heat radiating from him all along his back, and he's caught in their cloud.
Justin's living room is a dance floor, designed for big parties, and they roll around it like the last three wieners in the frying pan, but it works when they're all huddled up together; intimacy right there, and who notices that the ceiling curves up too high above and the walls are far away?
When Chris first saw Justin's house, he tsked and told Justin it was cold. Justin frowned and looked around and Chris said it wasn't so bad, he could always invite a dozen girls and have an orgy.
They don't need a dozen girls; they just need...themselves. Justin and JC and Chris, too; close up, pushed together and some music, swaying, grinding, as you do, slim hips here, firm abs there, arms, shoulders, perfectly pink lips - just this.
There isn't a specific moment he can pin down. The threshold between three friends dancing to a remix of a Craig David song and a three-man orgy, threesome, something with sex involved, at least - it's fluid, they passed it when he wasn't paying attention. Probably because he was too busy feeling JC's hot skin through the thin shirt, or feeling Justin's arm around his waist.
But it's passed, crossed, hopped over, and Justin's mouth is hot on his neck, JC's hands are moving from safe places to new territory, and they're still dancing but the music isn't important anymore.
He opens his mouth to ask them what the hell just happened, started happening, already happened ages ago, maybe, and Justin's big hand, long fingers touch his face and turns his head and Justin's mouth - soft, hot, wet - shuts the words in and smother them in a kiss.
Oh, okay, Chris thinks and closes his eyes. Nevermind. JC's singing softly along with the music and rubbing his entire body against Chris, but Chris thinks his hands are on Justin, bringing Justin closer. It's like Twister with sexy touching, one hand here, one leg here, and they might all fall and land on top of each other.
That would just be the beginning of the best part, though.
Chris is going to be thirty years old in not very long at all, but he's never been in a threesome, and he's never slept with his friends before, not these friends, not any other ones, either. He's thought, a few drunken times, that he might have waited too long to experiment, to experience, to do all the things he should do just to know what they're like. There were always so many things to do first. A lot of the time, playing video games and horsing around seemed like a much simpler, softer, easier option than the mess of sex and the risk of getting emotions involved.
He's got Justin's tongue in his mouth and JC's thigh pushing against his groin knowingly, and he wonders if they planned it.
"Oh, oh, you--" JC mumbles, his voice blurry like light through a rain-wet window, and Chris thinks they didn't. They're flying blind, just like him, caught by some moment, flung into this new orbit. Maybe there's a full moon and we'll wake up tomorrow in a heap, hangovers and stiff necks and not remember anything.
"No, you," he says, muffled by Justin's mouth, his wicked tongue, his soft lips. Chris has spent some time in the past considering Justin's mouth - what red-blooded American male wouldn't?
He could have been distracted there, by looping ruminations on the actual colour of blood - the opposite of red-blooded, what the hell? - but hands push at him, tug at him, and he stumbles along, tripping over someone's feet, falling against someone's chest, laughing along with someone's giggle, and finally land on the great fluffy ocean of white leather that Justin calls his living room sofa.
Distracting things aside, it would be hard to miss this, hard and wrong, too - so he opens his eyes wide and looks at them. There are hidden spotlights set in the ceiling, peeping over picture frames, hanging on steel wires - Justin and whoever designed this place went insane with the lightning fixtures - and the sharp points of light surround them and glitter in JC's damp curls and glance off Justin's fuzzy scalp and hit Chris' eyes and sting, make him blink and wish he could close them again.
It's not an option, though, because the shining creatures kiss each other, and that's something Chris thinks a lot of people would pay to see - he's thought about it before, in some abstracted way (wow, that would be hot) before going back to thinking everyday thoughts about them, playing a quick prank on JC-the-easily-fooled or tackling Justin-the-easily-entertained and stealing the Playstation controls.
Justin is easy, easy on him, light fingers and a little smile; JC is fiercer, unhesitating - do they do this? Chris thinks, suddenly, sudden thought that he should have thought before but didn't, do they touch each other like this when no one else is around?
Should have picked up the vibes by now, he tells himself and falls back, lets himself be covered by them, tries to participate, doesn't know where to go first. JC's mouth, half-open, and he moves it when Chris pulls a thumb over it, smiles.
There were no vibes. This is something new, just for tonight. Maybe only for tonight, one night only, one moonlit, lamplit, frenzied orgy night.
He would sing it, he would - orgy night, I met my boys at orgy night - if it weren't for kissing, which is more important, surely, and touching, tugging at thin, slinky, shiny silk and mesh, smiling into the kiss over how he can't decide whether he prefers skin or skin barely covered by expensive fabric.
"Crazy," JC whispers, and Chris sees his eyes - blue hour eyes, bright silvery blue eyes - widen even more, surprise or fear or excitement? Not fear, though, never fear when JC's shimmying closer; they really are in a pile, long, sleek limbs and Chris, less long and sleek but in the middle of it.
"It's the night," Justin says, "it's a sexy night."
"Orgy night," Chris says, because there seems to be a conversation going on in between the slide of hands and tongues and lips and hips. Justin laughs, damp breath against Chris' neck, hot, then cool, and he feels it all the way down, Justin's chest moving with it, little vibrations, and then JC joins him and they're bouncing around with laughter - bouncing together, rubbing together and Justin - he thinks - has a hand somewhere between their bodies, and it's not funny, it's just hot. Chris folds his laughter into a gasp and says, "we're gonna. Do this. We are?"
Justin lifts his head - he's squeezed against the back of the sofa, snugly fit between Chris and the welcoming white leather and JC's sprawled over them both like a bony blanket with hands and feet. "We are," Justin says.
"We are," JC says.
"Okay, we are," Chris says; it's like a pact. They don't cut their thumbs on shards of glass, but they promise, vow, make a commitment. Never to tell, he thinks, this is for their eyes only, not to be laughed about six months later when they're drunk and hanging out with other friends, or bored or looking to impress or just to shock. Not in six months, not in ten months, not in ten years. No one will talk about orgy night.
Justin pushes against his chest, pushes JC away, pushes himself up. His face is blank, his mouth a little open, his eyes shiny and dark. Chris wonders if he's high, for about two seconds, until Justin shakes his head and blinks and it's just Justin with smudged eyeliner and a glittery trace on his cheekbone, rubbed off JC, no doubt. His eyes - perfect day sky blue - aren't dilated-pupil dazed, just unfocused in concentration.
JC helps him with his shirt, ungently, and Chris hears cloth rip and they laugh about it and throw the shirt on the floor.
"These fucking pants are killing me," Justin mutters, "y'all will have to cut me out of them soon."
"I told you vinyl is no good if you're really gonna dance," JC says and they're fiddling with the belt buckle together, ineptly, and Chris feels left out, just a little left out, and pushes their hands away and gets the buckle unbuckled, gets his fingers in under the slick vinyl, gets heat and damp, gets too much bare skin.
"You're a fucking nut, man," he says, but slides his fingers along the damp line of skin he can reach, all around Justin's waist.
They have to realign, move around; Justin get up on his feet, stands on the sofa and JC pulls at his stubborn pants, and it would be absolutely fucking hilarious if Justin weren't pale-smooth-sleek bare-chested and glittery, if JC weren't shiny-silvery and kneeling astride Chris' legs, every once in a while pushing his ass back to say hi to Chris' groin and everything that went with that.
It would be hilarious, Chris thinks, if JC hadn't licked Justin's stomach in a quick movement and Justin hadn't opened his mouth to gasp. Chris doesn't laugh, but lifts his hands - they feel both light and heavy, like they can't decide what they want to be; receiving or giving? - and slides them down JC's sides, over his hips. JC has a beautiful ass; another thing he may have considered before, but not in the way he'll consider it now that it's within reach and available to his confused hands.
The music has looped, and it's back at the beginning with old Massive Attack - he doesn't think that's Justin's thing, must be JC's mix CD - dark, pulsing beat, perfect, perfect, and he strokes JC's back and waits.
"Ahhh," Justin sighs and the pants come off, and he sinks down and falls back; this sofa is endless, shiny-white, leather-squeaky and soft. Chris has never liked leather furniture, but this is so soft it almost doesn't matter, probably cost more than Chris' first car. More than Chris' first two cars.
Justin's feet slide over his legs, but he pushes them aside and claws himself up, follows JC's back, JC's beautiful ass, JC down and they're topsy-turvy, Justin spread out under them, bedroom-eyed and damp-skinned, beautiful, still glittery in places, his hands reaching for JC, for Chris.
We're a big happy family, Chris thinks, but that's maybe not the right vibe when you have nudity and wish for more of the same, more skin to touch. He pushes JC's shirt up, his hands under the silvery stuff, over skin, gentle slide and JC pushes back against his hand, pushes his ass back and Chris feels that all the way down and up again, can't help moving forward. His legs slide on the leather. He's wearing ratty jeans and a baggy t-shirt. He doesn't dress up.
He could undress, though. He thinks about it. Himself or JC. Or both. They should both undress.
He tells JC that, with his mouth but not his voice, his lips on JC's neck, with his hands on JC's ribs, chest, fuck this tight, expensive shirt. He wants to tear it off, and his hands meet Justin's there, under the shirt and Justin seems to wish the same thing.
So their hands greet and agree and tear at JC's shirt, four of them against one poor shirt. It really has no chance, and JC laughs - giggles growing into his mad cackle, endearingly goofy, a little roughened by, maybe, by Chris' hands and Justin's hand touching his bared skin, by his own hands touching Justin's bared skin, by Chris' groin pressed against his ass. Chris is only guessing, he's looking and feeling and guessing, his hands getting nowhere near their fill of touch.
"And now we fuck," Justin says, dreamily, and pulls JC down with eager hands, and Chris follows to see them kiss, not so languidly now, more aggressively now; he tries to come up with a good description of aggressive kissing, other than, that is "aggressive kissing", but why the hell is he thinking about describing it when he could, like, be doing it?
He waits until they come up for breath and gets JC, gets JC's mouth, wet from kissing, and aggressive kissing is where it's at.
He thinks he'll be sore in the morning. A sofa isn't really an ideal place to have the fuck of the millennium, but this is where it seems to be happening.
He'll ignore that. So far, the whole orgasm part of this has been something distant and hypothetical, so far it's been enough to fool around, make out, touch and taste in small measures. The orgasm part has loomed; now it looms closer. He's running hot with it, viciously hot, the kind of vicious hot that rips shirts and pants and wants to push a knee between someone's thighs just to get quick, easy access and just go for it.
He restrains himself, kisses JC so JC won't forget he exists and finds Justin's hand again, holds his wrist - don't forget me - presses his finger against the pulse there, feels it quick and feverish under thin skin.
Justin shakes himself loose and pulls his legs in, slides off the sofa. JC whimpers into Chris' mouth, but Justin is there, kneeling on the thick carpet - that carpet is thick and soft, sinfully so; Chris has spent many evenings sitting cross-legged on it, he knows - pushing at Chris, scrabbling for his fly.
Oh, oh. Chris moves, pulls JC along. Oh. The no-longer-hypothetical orgasm looms closer. JC presses close, rubs himself, catlike, against Chris. Justin is working on that fly, stubborn buttons and Chris wants to lift his hips, as if that would help.
He has thought about Justin's mouth in this context. Maybe, a few times. Mostly at night, mostly when he's lonely and miserable and angry at the world for not giving him things to distract him from things like Justin's mouth.
He knows he has a tendency to argue in circles, even with himself.
There are things that can push him out of it, though. Say, oh, maybe JC pulling his shirt off; say, oh, Justin getting done with the buttons and bowing his head.
Those things, maybe. JC nips at his mouth, teeth, tongue, little, sharp nips. Justin doesn't nip, doesn't nip at all. Chris' dick is in a happy place; all of Chris is in a pretty nice and cosy place, in fact.
"I'm in a pretty happy place," he says, because his mouth sometimes goes on talking sprees without his consent during sex. It's just one of those things.
JC smiles at him - a strange smile because JC's face has been caught in an expression half simply intense, half predatory, but the smile is gently amused.
Justin chuckles and Chris feels it and wonders if Justin would be put off if he just bucked like a maniac into his precious, pretty, lush mouth like he wants to.
Justin backs off - no! Chris thinks, just NO - but he looks up at Chris with his wide perfect day sky blue eyes and says, "go for it," in a perfect husky sex-drowsy voice. Did he practise that? Chris thinks and goes for it.
Justin's mouth, back on his dick, definitely where it belongs; JC's mouth, on his mouth, showing teeth again, and Chris doesn't know what to do with his hands so he twines them into JC's hair and lets him have it, all that Chris doesn't dare push at Justin, despite "go for it". Go for what? All of it, I think not, he thinks and pulls viciously at JC's wayward curls and bites JC's lip back when he comes.
He breathes, just breathes for one, two, three moments, and then he's sliding off the couch, damn slippery leather, still with a good grip on JC's hair, pulling him along.
Justin catches him, pretty, naked, lovely Justin with the eyeliner now hopelessly messy and his pretty mouth rubbed red and a little swollen. Chris thinks he might be smiling dazedly, stupidly.
"Oh, hey," JC mumbles and slips between Chris' fingers, slips away and his mouth is rubbed red, too, and meets Justin's. Chris sighs and leans to the side, expects to find the sofa there, something, instead finds nothing and topples over.
The floor is bigger and more comfortable to spread out on - there's more air between them, more space between them; he reaches out and his fingertips skid over Justin's leg, JC's hip. JC's shimmying out of his jeans and Chris decides to do the same, because it's not a proper orgy night without a tangle of naked people in a big pile. Now's his chance.
It occurs to him - finally, he supposes, about time, too soon - that this might be sort of a stupid thing to do. The whole oops, what happened last night? to the power of big numbers. Way to kill the post-coital bliss.
JC's on his back with his legs wrapped around Justin's waist. Chris thinks, almost says it out loud, does, actually: "Fuck it."
"What?" JC says drowsily.
"What?" Justin says distractedly.
"Nothing," Chris says and rolls over, crawls closer. Naked pile of naked people.
One reason why he never tried a threesome - apart from the obvious one: no one asked him to - was that he figured it'd be lopsided, somehow; someone always with their ass hanging out in the cold. It doesn't work like that, after all. He's happy to watch now; his ass is not cold. They touch in pretty, slow, happy ways and he's got that warm, damn-I-just-came glow burning in his belly, there's a slow Shola Ama song on and the carpet is the softest thing since his own bed.
They move against him; he's close enough to feel, touch, taste them if he turned his head. He touches himself instead, pets his happy dick - good boy, good boy. He hears JC whisper, "no, you, you," and Justin pull in a hissing breath.
The light's too bright here, but Chris can't find the energy to get up and dim them. He does turn his head, then, and kisses JC's shoulder, reaches up and strokes his hair. Justin leans over him and they really are a pile now, pushed haphazardly together. He doesn't know what part of whom is touching what part of him.
He tries to remember how many beers he had, back in the club, whatever it was called, but can't. A few. He remembers having some damn deep conversations with the beer, too, so maybe there were more of them than he'd like to think.
He's drifting off, he realises; what a strange thing to do in the middle of such a fascinating experiment. He's still not feeling cold, though.
Justin makes a short, clipped sound somewhere deep in his throat. Chris feels him shudder. He doesn't remember exactly when they did, but they've somehow turned around and Justin's next to him on the floor. Things seem to be happening just outside of Chris' perception, maybe because he keeps zoning out on the lights and his eyelids are heavy and want to fall closed, and there's the promise of a hangover waiting behind his frontal bone.
"Sleepyhead," Justin says softly, a little puff of warm air in his ear, and he smiles, mostly to himself. "Shoulda held back on the beer, old man."
"If I'd held back on the beer, I wouldn't have let you two trick me into this," Chris says lazily. He hears JC's slightly breathless laugh from somewhere. Justin gasps a little. Chris blinks slowly. Damn the lights. Dimmer switches should come with remote controls.
Justin probably HAS a remote for his dimmer switch.
They're sweat-damp and warm and wrapped around him; this is all fairly good. The damn light is still blaring straight into his eyes; this is bad.
"The light, man," he mutters, but he gets nothing but a grunt for that. "Fuck you too. Jeez," but he extricates himself from the tangle of limbs and stands, a little shakily.
"Well," he says to the room in general. "I'm up. If you think I'm gonna sleep on the floor, you're running up the wrong alley."
He finds the dimmer and turns the evil lights down. Ahhhhh. "Justin's bed is the size of a small European country. Liechtenstein, maybe, or Andorra. We were in Liechtenstein once, if you remember. Well, drove through it."
"Huh?" someone says. It's dark in the room now, but he sees movement; dark shadows against the almost glow-in-the-dark white of the carpet.
"It took like two hours - really not much of a country. I don't think our current stage would fit there. The catwalk would be in Austria."
"Dude, shut up and come here." That was definitely Justin. Chris scrunches his eyes shut and turns the lights back on again. "No, fuck, what?"
"I'm going to your bedroom. I'm going to lie in your Liechtenstein-sized bed, and I kinda expect company there. Common courtesy."
He switches the light off again and pads through the quiet, dark house, up the stairs and down the hall.
He waits until he hears light footsteps following him before he slips into the bedroom.
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