Chapter 4: Morning Experiments
The first thing that registered was the warmth. Not the stale, trapped heat of the room, but a living, breathing warmth pressed against my back. Then, the weight. An arm slung over my waist, a leg hooked over mine. The soft, rhythmic puff of breath against my neck.
Omar.
Memory flooded back in a vivid, Technicolor rush. The show, the alley, his arms around me. The taste of him. His wide eyes looking up at me, his mouth full. The sticky, shared aftermath.
I opened my eyes. The room was bathed in the grey-pink light of early Los Angeles morning, filtering through the gaps in my cheap velvet curtains. It illuminated the chaos: the sequined gown tossed over a chair like a shed skin, the stack of Yaoi manga on the floor where we’d knocked them, the ashtray with the roach of last night’s joint.
And him. His scent was all around me—clean cotton and a hint of his own sweet musk, layered now with mine, with sex, with sweat. My cock, always an early riser, was already hard and throbbing, trapped against the sheets. I shifted slightly, and the friction made me hiss through my teeth.
That’s when I felt it. The perfect, plush curve of his ass nestled snugly against my erection. He was still mostly asleep, turned away from me, his body spooning mine in reverse. The soft swell of his cheeks cradled me perfectly through the thin fabric of his briefs and my own. I could feel the heat of him, the promise.
A slow, predatory smile spread across my face. My heart began to thump a heavier rhythm.
I moved my arm from under the pillow, letting my hand drift down. I didn’t grab him. I just splayed my fingers over the soft plane of his belly, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breath. He sighed in his sleep, a soft, contented sound, and pressed back minutely into me.
That was all the invitation I needed.
I shifted my hips, just a fraction, aligning myself more precisely against the cleft of his ass. The pressure was exquisite. I let out a slow, controlled breath, my eyes fluttering shut for a second. Then I began to move.
It was a lazy, grinding roll of my hips. No urgency, just a deep, building friction. The cheap cotton of our underwear was a maddening barrier, rough and thin all at once. I could feel every contour of him. My hand on his belly tightened, pulling him tighter against me as my movements grew more deliberate.
He stirred. A low, sleep-thickened murmur escaped his lips. “Mmm…”
“Shhh,” I whispered, my voice gravel-rough with sleep and desire. I nuzzled into the nape of his neck, inhaling his scent. “Just go back to sleep, chemist. Let me have this.”
My hips established a slow, relentless rhythm. Back and forth, grinding my hardened length against the sweet give of his ass. It was a selfish, primitive pleasure, claiming him in his most vulnerable state. My mind flashed to the night before—his analytical fascination, his clumsy, eager mouth. Now he was just softness and sleep and willing heat.
He was fully awake now. I could feel the subtle tension coiling in his body, the way his breathing hitched to match my thrusts. He didn’t speak. He just reached back, his hand fumbling until it found my thigh, his fingers digging into the muscle there. A silent anchor. Permission.
That undid me. The quiet acceptance. My grip on him turned possessive. My other arm slid under his neck, locking him against my chest. My thrusts lost their laziness, becoming sharper, more desperate. The dry humping was no longer just a tease; it was a destination. The friction was an exquisite fire, building low in my spine.
“Fuck,” I rasped against his skin, my accent thickening with each ragged breath. “Your ass… it’s made for this. For taking my cock, even through these fucking clothes.”
He whimpered, pushing back against me now, meeting my thrusts. The sounds were obscene in the quiet room—the slick slide of fabric, the creak of the bedsprings, our sharp, shared gasps.
“You feel that?” I gritted out, my lips against his ear. “That’s how bad I want you. Woke up aching for you. Hard for you.”
His only response was a choked-off moan, his hand clenching on my thigh like a vise.
It was enough. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated at the base of my cock, a white-hot shockwave that tore through me. I buried my face in his shoulder to muffle the raw, guttural sound ripped from my throat. My hips stuttered, grinding against him fiercely as the climax pulsed through me, soaking my briefs with a wet, hot rush.
For a long moment, the only sound was our heaving breaths. The room seemed to hold its breath with us. I stayed locked around him, spent, my forehead pressed to his damp shoulder.
Slowly, I loosened my hold. He turned in my arms, his movements languid. His face was flushed, his lips parted, his eyes dark and wide with a stunned kind of awe. He looked down between us, at the damp patch on my briefs, then back up at me.
“You…” he started, his voice hoarse.
“I did,” I finished, my own voice wrecked. I brushed a curl from his forehead. “You’re a hell of a catalyst, Omar.”
A slow, dazed smile spread across his face. He looked at me—really looked at me—in the clear morning light. No makeup, no performance, just David: sweat-sheened, messy, satisfied.
He leaned forward and kissed me, soft and deep. It tasted like sleep and salt and us.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine. “The reaction,” he whispered, “was spontaneous and highly exothermic.”
I laughed, a real, unguarded sound that shook through my whole tired body. I pulled him closer, the mess between us forgotten, and held him as the sun finally broke through the curtains, painting our tangled legs in stripes of gold.
The warmth of him was a tangible thing, a solid weight that anchored me to the bed in a way my own spinning thoughts never could. We lay there for an unknowable stretch, breathing synchronizing, the city outside our window beginning its distant murmur. The stickiness on my skin began to cool, a pricking, insistent reminder.
“We’re a mess,” I finally said into his hair.
He hummed, a vibration against my chest. “A productive one. Significant data collected.”
I snorted, pinching his side lightly. “You and your data.” I gave him a final squeeze before untangling our limbs. The morning air was cool on my damp skin. “Come on. Let’s shower.”
I swung my legs out of bed, the old wood floor creaking under my feet. I stood, stretching, feeling every muscle from last night’s performance and this morning’s exertions. Omar watched me, his head propped on his hand, his gaze tracing the lines of my body without shyness now. A raw, open appreciation that made my skin flush.
“You’re staring,” I said, turning and heading for the door.
“Observing the primary subject in a post-experimental state,” he replied, his voice laced with a new, playful confidence. I heard the rustle of sheets as he followed.
I pushed my bedroom door open and padded naked into the hallway, not caring about the noise. Omar trailed behind me, his steps hesitant on the unfamiliar terrain. The apartment was quiet, filled with the specific, dusty silence of a hangover morning after a show night. We turned the corner into the short hall leading to the bathroom.
And there he was.
Jerry was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by a halo of rhinestones and sequins he was carefully glueing to a new headpiece. He was in his old UCLA hoodie and boxers, a large mug of coffee steaming beside him. He looked up as we entered, his eyes sweeping over my nakedness and Omar’s rumpled, blushing state in one swift, practiced glance.
A slow, wide, utterly shit-eating grin spread across his face. He didn’t say a word. He just took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline.I stopped dead. Omar bumped softly into my back, letting out a small “oof.”
“Good morning, anak,” Jerry said, his voice cheerful as a songbird. His eyes flicked to the closed bathroom door just past him, then back to us. “You two look… well-rested.”
Omar made a small, strangled sound. I could feel the heat of his embarrassment radiating against my shoulder blades.
I sighed, planting my hands on my hips. There was no point in modesty, not with Jerry. “Do you mind? We’re trying to achieve basic hygiene here.”
“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Jerry said, waving a glue-covered hand. He leaned forward, his grin turning conspiratorial. “I was just sitting here, working, and I heard the most interesting rhythmic… creaking. From your room. Sounded like the bed was conducting a very enthusiastic physics experiment.”
“Jerry,” I warned, but there was no heat in it.
He ignored me, focusing on Omar, who was trying very hard to become one with the wall behind me. “And you must be the brilliant chemist! The Omar. I’ve heard so much. All good things, I promise. Well,” he paused, his grin sharpening, “mostly good. Scientifically rigorous things.”
“Hi,” Omar squeaked out. He managed a weak, mortified wave.
Jerry’s gaze softened, just a fraction. The protective scrutiny was still there, but the edge of his teasing dulled. “Hi, sweetie. Don’t mind me. I’ve seen David in far more compromising positions. Usually on a bar at three AM.” He picked up a giant magenta feather and examined it. “You two go wash up. I’ll start the bacon.”
He went back to his gluing, the picture of nonchalance, but that knowing smile never left his face.
The shower spray was a shock of near-scalding heat, slicing through the last fog of sleep and satisfaction. I stepped in first, pulling Omar in after me by the wrist. The water plastered his dark curls to his forehead instantly, beaded on his lashes.
He stood there, blinking, water sluicing over the generous curves of his shoulders and chest. He looked younger like this, vulnerable, a perfect contrast to the knowledge of what we’d just done. Steam began to fill the small tiled space, wrapping us in a warm, private cloud. I reached for the soap.
“So,” I said, my voice echoing slightly off the walls. I worked the bar into a lather between my hands, the scent of cheap sandalwood blooming. “I’ve got the day off. No shows, no rehearsals.”
I smoothed the suds over his shoulders, down the slope of his back. My hands moved slowly, mapping the terrain of him. His skin was so soft under my calloused palms. He leaned into the touch, a small sigh escaping him.
“Yeah?” he murmured, his eyes closed. His voice was muffled by the water’s roar.
“Yeah.” My fingers traced the dimples at the base of his spine. A plan, solid and clear, was forming in my mind. “I’m thinking we go on a field trip. An educational one.”
I turned him gently by the hips, so he faced me. His eyes opened, curious and dark. Water droplets clung to his plump lower lip. I swiped my thumb over it.
“Let’s go to the sex store,” I said, my tone casual, instructional. “We’ll buy the proper supplies. Lube. Condoms. Maybe some beginner-friendly toys.”
His eyes widened, the scientist in him warring with the Catholic schoolboy. I saw the flicker of anxiety, then the sharp, analytical interest.
“After that,” I continued, rinsing my hands before starting on his chest, “we head to your place. Away from pry--” I glanced toward the bathroom door, picturing Jerry’s smug grin on the other side. “Away from prying eyes and audiences. We can take our time. Do it right.”
Omar swallowed. He looked down at my hands moving in slow circles over his pectorals. “My apartment?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah. Neutral lab conditions.” I grinned, a sharp flash. “Your turf. Your rules. I’ll just be the visiting professor. Giving a very hands-on tutorial.”
He was silent for a long moment, thinking. The only sound was the drumming water and the hum of the apartment’s ancient water heater. He bit his wet lip, his mind visibly turning over the variables: the risk, the desire, the logistics of us naked in his sterile, quiet space.
“Okay,” he finally said. He looked up, meeting my gaze with a resolve that sent a jolt straight through me. “Let’s do it.”
My grin softened into something real. I cupped his cheek, my thumb stroking his cheekbone. “Good.” I leaned in and kissed him, a slow, wet promise under the falling water. “Now rinse off, chemist. We’ve got shopping to do.”
We emerged from the bathroom swaddled in towels, trailing steam. Jerry was at the stove, the smell of sizzling bacon cutting through the floral cloud. He flipped a slice without turning around.
“Field trip?” he asked, his voice bright.
I shot a look at Omar, who was desperately trying to wrap his towel tighter. “How the hell do you hear everything?”
“These ears,” Jerry said, tapping one, “are attuned to the frequency of impending bad decisions and post-coital revelations. It’s my gift.” He finally turned, holding up the spatula. “And I heard ‘sex store.’ So I’m inferring.”
I rolled my eyes, striding toward my room. “It’s educational procurement.”
“Uh-huh.” Jerry piled bacon onto a plate. “Just promise me you’re not buying that monstrous double-headed dragon thing again. It’s a safety hazard. It belongs in a museum, or a medieval armory.”
Omar’s eyes went even wider. I laughed, pulling him down the hall. “No dragons today, I promise! Just the basics!”
In my bedroom, we dressed in a comfortable, hurried silence. I pulled on black jeans and a simple grey tee, my drag persona packed away for the day. Omar, borrowing a shirt of mine that was slightly too tight across his chest, looked like a rumpled, delicious grad student. The normalcy of it, of dressing together in the muted morning light, felt more intimate than anything we’d done with our bodies.
“Ready?” I asked, slipping my wallet into my pocket.
He nodded, taking a deep breath. “Ready.”
Jerry met us at the front door, holding out two paper towels wrapped around strips of bacon. “Provisions,” he said solemnly. Then his expression turned serious. He looked at Omar. “You watch out for him in there. He gets distracted by shiny things and bad ideas.”
Omar took the bacon, a shy smile touching his lips. “I’ll be the control group.”
Jerry’s face split into a genuine, approving grin. He clapped Omar on the shoulder. “I like you.” He turned to me. “And you. Be good. Or be good at it. Whichever.”
We stepped out into the Los Angeles afternoon. The sun was a sharp, bleaching force after the dim velvet of the apartment. I slipped on sunglasses, the world snapping into cool contrast.
I reached for Omar’s hand. His fingers curled around mine, tentative at first, then firm. We walked down the sidewalk, the city swirling around us: honking cars, the scent of exhaust and jasmine, the low hum of a million lives.
He didn’t let go. We walked hand-in-hand toward the bus stop, toward the unknown store, toward his quiet apartment and whatever reaction awaited us there. His palm was warm and slightly damp in mine. The promise of the day stretched ahead, bright and terrifying and ours.