Slices of Pi

Strip Poker
200 words, PG-13.

“Whose idea was this?” Dom slouches in his chair, glaring at Billy over his cards.

“I believe that would be Elijah.” Who is sprawled half-dressed under the table, crisps in his hair, eyes closed, snoring blissfully. Billy lifts one eyebrow. “And now I believe you’d better show me what you have.” The eyebrow waggles obscenely.

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a. First time.

“I didn’t think it would be so…” Dom stopped, partly to recover his breath, partly to search for the word.

“Good?” Billy licked Dom’s collarbone.

“No. I knew it would be good.”

“Did you?” Billy’s eyes flicked up to Dom’s face, stayed there. “I didn’t. First-time sex… first time with each other and first time with a man…” He made a face, shuddered, laughed. “I thought it might be awful.”
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A is for Attitude

“The orientation of an–object relative… to its direction of motion.”

“What?”

“Attitude–that’s–one of its… meanings.”

“So if I do this–” Billy shifts, pulls, pushes— “then have I changed… unh… my attitude?”
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I woke refreshed, relaxed, a giant among men. Well, perhaps not a giant; Bloomers did have it right when he pegged me at a tad on the shorter side of the whole spectrum of human development. However, it has always been my considered opinion that the air up there must be rather thin, since so many of the longshanks I’ve known have been as short in the brains department as they are long in the leg department. Bloomers being a prime example, with Bean running a close second. Whereas we more compact types… I stretched to my full five-foot-seven… were generally quite quick on the uptake. Boyd being the prime example, and no other needed; he was perfectly ideal both mentally and physically, and no taller than I. If not even a mere hair shorter.
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His mouth opened in startlement, and for a moment–five heartbeats, not that I was counting at all, mind you–he responded. His hands came up to clasp my arms, his lips went soft and pliable, he sighed and I drowned in warmth, moisture, heat.
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So there I sat in the dark with a lapful of softly snoring Scotsman. The same Scotsman I’d loved and lusted after for lo, these many years, the selfsame man who had cared for me, rescued me, advised me, and haunted my waking and sleeping hours with his adroit grace, brilliant intellect, and exquisite arse. He had quoted Oscar Wilde. He had heard me break the silent habit of years to call him by his Christian name. He had kissed me–firm, certain, gentle and commanding, and my mouth still tingled with the taste and pressure of his–and he had called me Dominic.
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Luncheon was a bust, the sad ruin of a thousand fruitful hopes as the cove says. The spread was fine, no doubt about that, but I couldn’t really get my nose down to it properly, what with Liv and Wood simpering at me and Miranda glaring at me and Lord Ian sighing without looking at me and Bean trying to kill me, apparently, with his bare eyes. Bloomers was the only one of the lot I could stomach at all–he didn’t take his eyes off Doodle even once, and occasionally jabbed himself in the chin with his fork.
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I can attest to the truth of the supposition that those upon the brink of death see their lives pass before their eyes; indeed, mine did so, and was only remarkable in its sad unremarkability. I had no time to ponder on this, however, beyond a brief flash of chagrin that I had never managed to get my hands into Boyd’s flawlessly pressed trousers or his into mine, because Bean, having got so far, shook me in much the same manner a terrier shakes a rat. My musings upon Boyd’s unattained charms, therefore, were cut short due to my head rattling alarmingly back and forth.

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“He’s incredibly sick!”
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Now many men of the more or less heterosexual type might see Liv Holm and say “Dommie, you are a poofter of the highest degree.” And they would be right. But besides all that. I can objectively say that Liv is, indeed, one of God’s better-wrought works upon the earth, as birds go–sleek black hair and luminous white skin and glowing eyes and a sweet melodic voice and curves in all the right places. If you like that sort of thing, which I do as a sort of study in aesthetics but otherwise it’s frankly wasted upon me.
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