Tell me again

Porn sex it is, thought Will Gray as the other guy crawled into bed. wearing nothing but white socks.

He didn’t mind though. If there was one thing classes at UBC had taught him, it was that everyone learns differently. Some guys learn from watching porn.

“Did you finish the reading for class?” White Socks had a talent for nibbling on ears whilst whispering into them.

Executing an inspired body-flip, Will pinned the guy by the elbows. “Course not,” he answered, “nobody reads Firbank.”

White Socks raised a knee between Will’s legs, forcing him off. “I read Firbank,” he protested.

“You’re drunk, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

White Socks wrestled himself out of Will’s arms and made his bare way over to the bookshelf. Hand on jutting hip, he scanned the titles.

“Come back to bed, jackass.”

“Wait. I have to read you something.”

“We can do Dead Poet’s Society afterward.”

White Socks pulled down the Faber Book of Gay Short Fiction. Flipping to the chosen page, he returned and laid Will onto the pillow with the weight of a tawny arm. “Listen.” One hand holding the book, one hand under the roasting chestnuts, he read: “Men in their natural lives, pursue the concrete no less than the ideal-qualities not seldom found combined in fairy childhood. . . Oblivious of sliding mantle the Primate swooped.”

At which point, the book fell out of reach, a victim to Will’s impromptu enactment of the passage.

“I like that,” he said.

White Socks returned. “That’s Firbank.”

“Still not reading the novel for class.”

White Socks made a grab for Will’s cock. Too slow. He was hit against the wall as Will bobbed busily below. “You’ll have nothing to say in class tomorrow.” This, wheezing upward.

“Bull,” said Will, wiping his mouth with the backside of his hand. “English Lit is carried forward by people like me talking about things they haven’t read.”

White Socks narrowed his eyes as he dolled out the lube. “You couldn’t have gone on about Foucault like you did in class today, without reading him.”

Will groaned and pulled away the insistent hand. “Never read the guy in my life.”

“Fuck!” growled White Socks.

“Oh!” went Will.

“Foucault by osmosis, eh?” White Socks slid a digit into Will, who fell backward over the rez bed, gurgling.

Straining to regain the bed, Will once more pinned White Socks and countered with a digit of his own. “You know,” said Will, sketching an outline of the insides, “not everything can be read in a book.”

“I see your point. But reading the book can’t hurt.”

With two fingers up inside, Will rephrased his argument. “Books are not experience.” The Primate swooped, he thought to himself, pitching over the body.

White Socks tightened a muscle and shot back, “but reading is.”

The two of them, pushing so forcibly together, found themselves rising onto their knees, their feet.

Thrust. “Yes!”

Nibble. “Exactly!”

Fuck-Fuck-Fuck.

“You are so right!”

“You’re right!”

“No, you’re right!” Rocking, faster.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

The slick, pink cylinder!

“We’re . . both . . right!!” they hollered in unison and immediately dissolved onto the damp bedding, doubled over with laughter.

“You don’t know my name, do you Will?”

“No.” Pause. “Not as such.”

“You know all about Foucault; you know the plot of every Shakespeare play. But you don’t know my name.”

“Tell me.”

“I told you at the beer garden.”

“Tell me again.”