The Tin Box by Kim Fielding

found it hard to concentrate on them. It was simply too difficult to remain an objective observer as the darker model clambered on top of his partner so that they were in the sixty-nine position, as each man sucked the other’s cock, as the man on the bottom crept his fingers between his partner’s butt cheeks and then carefully slid one fingertip inside. And beside William, Colby was breathing hard. His hand moved faster, covering and then revealing the slick red head of his dick.
    The noises of sex echoed through William’s apartment: the actors’ moans and grunts, Colby’s sharp little gasps, even William’s own rapid breathing, which sounded as if he’d been running fast. His hands were bunched into painfully tight fists on his lap. He wished he could touch Colby. Just his gel-spiked hair, maybe, or that tender spot on his neck where his pulse fluttered. Colby probably wouldn’t mind—after all, he’d been the one squeezing William’s knee not long ago. But William didn’t have the courage for it and only watched.
    The lighter man on screen came first, crying out hoarsely and arching his back. His partner followed soon afterward, pulling out of the bottom man’s mouth to spurt semen over his face. And right after that it was Colby’s turn. A surprised little noise escaped his throat and he thrust very quickly before slumping in his chair with a satisfied groan. William, of course, didn’t climax at all, although he had the feeling it wouldn’t take more than a few firm strokes to send him over the edge.
    With a goofy, unashamed smile, Colby stood. He stretched his shoulders a little and clutched at his shorts to keep them from falling. He walked out of the room, toward the bathroom, flip-flops squeaking as he went. Water ran briefly. When he returned, his clothing was in place and fastened. “Sorry. We didn’t actually get very far in today’s lesson, did we? We still haven’t figured out what you like. Do you want to surf some more?”
    William closed the laptop and stood, holding his hands awkwardly in front of his crotch. “Uh, no. This was fine, thanks.”
    “You know, if you wanted, I could add a more tactile portion to the lesson.” Colby licked his lips. “I don’t claim to be as talented as those guys we just watched, but I’m willing to give it my college best.”
    “I don’t— No thanks.” The more primitive parts of William’s brain—the parts he’d have called his id, if he was at all Freudian-inclined—protested, as did the neglected parts of his anatomy. His superego told them to shut the hell up.
    He expected some awkwardness between him and Colby, but apparently Colby didn’t do awkward. Probably he was used to situations like this. He just gave a half shrug. “Cool. How about that tour then?”

Ten

     
    B Y ALL appearances, Colby loved the tour of the asylum. He skipped and bounced through the spaces, reminding William of little kids who could never quite manage to simply walk anywhere. William might have expected to be annoyed by this, but instead he found Colby’s enthusiasm endearing. William smiled more than he had in years and even attempted a couple of lame psychology-themed jokes that made Colby cackle and thump him on the back.
    Keeping in mind Colby’s aversion to anything blood-related, William avoided the medical wing entirely. And for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate to himself, he also skipped the little room where he’d found Bill’s box full of letters. But he showed Colby most of the rest of the building—even the crammed and dusty records room, which William hadn’t yet felt the desire to explore. They went outside and toured the grounds, the sun beating down on their heads.
    Colby became slightly subdued when William pointed out the cemetery. “Not even any headstones? That’s sad. It’s like these poor people never even existed.”
    “I think with a lot of patients, their families wanted to forget them.”
    Colby shook his head.