Dirt and desire

Will Gray dropped his towel and tippy-toed into the shower with Trent. “I think your cat sprayed me,” he confessed, vying for a wide berth. “Pass me the soap?”

“Aw, it just means he likes you.” Trent shimmied around Will’s body so he could wet himself down. “Nambla always marks his property.”

“Nambla should read Our Bodies, Our Selves.”

Trent hadn’t read that one either and accused Will of snobbery-which made him look down at his hobbit feet and the soapy run-off.

“I like your tub,” tacked Will. “It’s roomy.”

Trent drew lazy circles around his nipple with a bar of Irish Spring. “It’s a claw-foot,” he demurred.

Will filled his mouth with drops and squirted at the hexagonal blue and yellow tiles. “And I like the green ring around the bottom.”

“Me too!” Trent regarded Will with a broad eager smile. “It’s a pretty colour, don’t you think?”

Will nodded back, earnestly. “I’ve got a rubber ducky in my shower.”

“I love rubber duckies!” declared Trent. The boys stared at each other’s nakedness another appreciative moment, marvelling at the mirror-boys they had before them. Trent was an inch or so shorter, it was true. But their belly buttons matched up and their penises looked like two identical sausages, made at the same factory. The patch of hair between their pecs matched, too. And when they came the previous night (simultaneously, of course) their ivory offerings went pump-pump-drizzle with musical synchronization.

They were a marvel of physical connectiveness, as though opposite sides of a pattern, cut from folded paper.

“Can you start singing?” asked Will. “I have to get out and pee.”

“Just do it.” Trent slicked back his hair and gave Will a Monroe wink. “You can do it on me if you want.”

Will cringed and made a grab for the shower curtain but Trent, too quick, had him fast by the shoulders and held him in place.

“Dude, I can’t pee on you.”

“But you already came on me.”

“Cum is different.”

Releasing Will, Trent lathered his armpits and puckered his lips again. “You came on my face, you can piss on my leg.” (Was this logic he was batting with?) “You’re being really weird about this Will.”

“See, I don’t think I am.”

They stood off from each other-or stood back as far as the tub’s perimeter (ever shrinking) allowed. In the kitchen, Nambla meowed with aristocratic presumption for breakfast, having since retreated from the oppressive steam of the bathroom.

Will wondered: could two identical fags have totally disparate sexualities? The sun came dappling through an ivory shower curtain and the searchlight splintered, creating bars of light and shade. Will hadn’t considered, for example, whether perhaps his dick tasted different from Trent’s clove-scented member. There were innumerable tastes, he realized, within that one dull register-cock.

What’s more (here the internal monologue raced joltingly toward epiphany) if Will refused such shadelings as simple water sports, would he end up fucking a mere carbon copy of himself? Was he so picky? Or could his libido, rather, stretch to contain this affront?

And, more pressing an issue, could his bladder?

“Oh, all right. Do I aim it or just sort of grip my hips like Peter Pan?”

It came and came. After the damming, Will’s piss broke forth with awesome, golden vehemence. It splashed hot and salty against Trent’s poised thigh and raced in yellow rivulets around the knee. It fingered the apricot bone of the ankle.

This was amazing! This was release! And what was that, lit up at the back of Will’s mind?

Power?

“Nice,” was Trent’s only commentary. He turned to grab the loofah and shouted at Nambla to stop her yowling. Nice? But Will had produced his dirtiest dirty and could not remove the smile. He wondered what else he might pee on and aimed a squirt at the shampoo bottle. His aim was surprisingly accurate and Trent hollered out like a monkey,

“What do you think you’re doing?”