By Pfantazm

If you've found this story, and you've read the other things I've written (Strings Attached, The Knight and the Thief, Knights of the Road), I will be returning to my series. I just had this lying around half-finished and I decided to complete it first.

If you've found this story, and the thought of two (or more) grown men having sex sends chills up your back, then boy, are you lost. Visit www.go-play-in-traffic.com and forget you were ever here.

If you've found this story, and you like what you see, then why not write me? My address, written backwards, just to make life that much more interesting, is moc.liamtoh@mzatnafp .

If you've found this story repetitive so far, it gets better, I swear.

If you haven't found this story, then what in heck are you reading?

	We were discussing areology, the study of Mars. Frank was trying to convince me that the famous face on the surface of the planet was evidence of a long-gone civilization. I was trying to convince him that some "scientists" had overactive imaginations. The discussion ended, as it always did, with the end of dinner. Neither one of us made much progress in dissuading the other from his viewpoint. This made me worry about Frank's sanity. But not seriously. We'd met about three months ago when I was researching an article I was writing: a slice-of-life piece for a community newspaper. It didn't pay very much, and the readership didn't quite break 1,000 people, but it was a weekly column to call my very own and at the tender age of 24, that's something to be proud of. I'd been stuck for a subject for my next column, and my editor suggested a karaoke bar. I gave her a dirty look, but took down the address. In the absence of better ideas, I sacrificed a Saturday night for work. Although I was expecting a night in hell, I steeled myself to spending the whole night. Where this was an evening's entertainment for everyone else, this was work for me and I wouldn't do it in half-measures. I parked myself behind a ginger ale (I don't drink and I don't sing; what was I doing in a karaoke bar?) and prepared to wince at the show. While I doubted anyone there that night could ever hope for a record deal, some of the singers weren't bad. Some were. But all of them got enthusiastic applause. I figured it out. The place wasn't about technical merit. It was for people who wanted to be Bruce Springsteen or Celine Dion or, God help them, Barry Manilow, but who would be laughed off the stage anywhere else. Here they can take the risk of stepping into the spotlight and be assured of getting approval. That was a nice feel-good message for my article. I could write that up. It still meant I had to get up and sing myself. Not only was it a house rule, but it fed into my style. My thing was not just to go out and watch the world (or at least that part of it called Kitsilano) but to amuse my readers with the things I made myself do every week. An "I have a life so you don't have to" sorta thing. Usually my best stuff got written when things went wrong. I got a better article out of the snafus that happened while trying to pay for an acting seminar than I did the day I was an extra on a movie set. One colleague at the paper described me as the only person he knew who looked forward to when things went wrong in his life. This means I usually have to involve myself in whatever subject I'm writing about. I've had my aura read. I've crossed a nearby very unsteady suspension bridge (and I've got the T-shirt to prove it). I've spent the day serving hot dogs at a concession stand at a sports stadium, before it closed down. I'll admit I did not indulge when I did the write- up of the tattoo parlor. And though I could argue singing in front of a roomful of strangers could leave a permanent mark on my psyche, I was going to do it anyway. After slamming back my Canada Dry I went up to talk to the DJ. I looked over the list of songs and picked out one that I was pretty sure I knew backwards and forwards, even though the words would be right there if I needed them. The DJ sensed I was a "karaoke virgin" as he put it and did his best to put me at ease. I took the opportunity to interview him, since he would have much better insight into the whole karaoke scene than I could get in one night. I told him who I was and asked for the interview between songs. He agreed. I didn't use a notebook; I find that makes people nervous. A tape recorder is ten times as bad, and with patrons belting out their idea of "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," it would be pointless besides. I relied on my memory and phone numbers for verifications. I'm an excellent listener, which I think is about ninety percent of my job. If you really listen and try to understand, the articles practically write themselves. I got the last things I needed for my article, including an anecdote or two. There was the one about the poor woman who was so nervous she threw up on the tables nearest the stage. Hilarious, but not something I could use. They'd never print it. The DJ and I kept talking as much as possible until it was my turn. Strangely, talking to him in between his other duties did help to calm me down. I took the stage and sang my chosen tune: an overplayed song from my university days. I heard a few groans from the audience, the sounds of nights (and hangovers) best left forgotten. I even nailed the yell that traditionally went with the last line. My voice cracked, completing the night. The audience applauded, as predicted, but some of them whistled and cheered, something I'd noticed had been reserved for the best singers. I went back to the DJ, Frank (betcha didn't see that coming), who told me I did good. He asked me if I wanted to go somewhere after he was done for the night. Intrigued, I accepted. We went to an all-night restaurant I knew and talked for most of the night. Once I got him out of the dark of the bar and into the dim light of the restaurant, I checked out my newfound friend. He was slightly taller than I was, at 5'11". Black hair, brown eyes. Smiled a lot, which is always good. Nice body. He was something of a weekend warrior, playing pick-up baseball whenever the weather favoured it. Like the singers all night, myself included, he'd never get a modelling gig, but he was pretty handsome. He had a great sense of humor, and, like me, was interested in pretty much anything and everything. Particularly science. Over the coffees and conversation, Frank noticed that I had something more than a professional interest in him. He asked me out. And that was the beginning of five great months. So, on this cold February night, while I was wondering whether Frank should be carted away for believing in little green men who clash with their red planet, and Frank was doing the dishes, we were both contemplating the end of the evening. I was willing to bet we both wanted to spend it the same way: naked. When the end-of-dinner limit is reached on the night's topic, it's often hard to get conversation going again. "I hear Alanis is going to be coming to town in May," Frank said from the kitchen. "You going to the concert?" "Aargh! No! She is way overrated. I wouldn't want to waste time or money on her." "You felt the same way about karaoke. And look how well that went," he said, winking. "Yes, but none of those people were suffering from the delusion that they were any good," I teased back. "I don't know. There was one guy who wasn't half-bad." Frank finished drying his hands and joined me on the couch. "You had them cheering, John. Not everyone can say that." "Including you, come to think of it. You never sang that night." "Why do you think I'm the DJ? I loved trying it, but I really do stink on ice. I applied for a job there so I can participate, but I don't drive everyone else away screaming." I laughed. "Why don't you sing again?" "There's no music," I said. "That's no excuse. Your voice is an instrument. Just sing." I thought about it. It was a sign of how much I liked him that I considered it. I was truly in love to actually sing. "Okay. But I'm really not that good." "Hang on. Stop right there. I'll make everything perfect for you. Don't move." He got up and started turning lights off. He went into the bedroom and got a couple of candles for the coffee table, reproducing the murky atmosphere of the bar. (Maybe to help me forget that I've got an audience?) He came back to the couch right next to me and took my hand. "Okay. What do you want to sing?" "One of my favorite songs. Now don't make anything of the title. I care about you very much." "And I love you. Go ahead." He rested his other hand on my arm. I took a deep breath. I sang "I Can't Make You Love Me", by Bonnie Raitt, originally. I've always liked female artists and that song is so beautiful. I don't know what I did. When I was finished Frank gave me a big hug. I hugged back and Frank kissed me. I stroked his back and started making out with him. He leaned forward, pushing me back onto the arm of the sofa. He climbed onto me and started unbuttoning my shirt. I reached under his sweatshirt and up to his chest, teasing his nipples and running my fingers through his sparse hair. Once he got my shirt open we paused to undress a little. I shrugged out of my top, and he pulled his over his head. He lay right on top of me, pressing his skin to mine and attacked my mouth again. As I wrapped my legs around him, our tongues wrestled playfully back and forth. Frank began humping into me as our passion rose. I broke the kiss and groaned his name. I gripped him tighter and nibbled on his ear. He licked at my neck. He worked his hand into my jeans and grabbed my cock through my briefs. I sighed into his ear and he shuddered. "Let's get these things off," he purred. He stood up. I could see his beautiful, trim body in the flickering light of the candles. He undid his jeans slowly and dragged them and his boxers down, stroking his sexy legs as he went. My rock-hard prick was pressing to get out of my own jeans. Though it was obscured in shadow, I know his cock was happily pointing back at me. He stepped out of his pants and kneeled at my side. He undid my button and drew down the zipper. I lifted my ass and he pulled my jeans down to the thigh. He reached into the leghole of my briefs and rested his hand on my hip. He put his lips over my still-covered cock and sucked me through my briefs. I reached down to touch him but he pushed me back. "Let me," he said. "That can wait until later. I want to do this for you now." He pulled down my waistband and kissed my cock. He looked right up at me with a dirty little leer before picking my hot pole up off my belly with his tongue and sucking it into his mouth. I sighed and let my head roll back. He took most of my shaft into his wet mouth and started riding it up and down. He rested the palm of his hand on my balls. I knew where he was heading, and it was getting me excited. He was getting me good and wet. I squirmed in anticipation. He released my cock and climbed back onto the couch and up my body, letting his own hard dick draw a line up my stomach. He leaned down and whispered in my ear, "Do you believe that I love you?" "Yes. Yes, I do." "Then you are one hell of a singer, as well as one hell of a fuck." He backed off and sank slowly onto my throbbing cock. I groaned as I felt the softness and heat of his chute take me in. He sat there, with all of me inside him and he gave me a squeeze. I twitched as I felt him grip me. Even after having been with him as many times as I had been, he could still thrill me with his touch. He pulled up off me and dropped back down again. I bucked my ass to meet him on the downstroke, plunging my cock deeper into his hole, driving the sex machine we created faster. I delved deep inside of him, massaging his guts and providing him with sensations so few humans dared to experience, while he captured my manhood, using the most secret part of himself to give me all the pleasure I could handle. He shifted angles to improve my aim on his G spot. It must have worked because he moaned aloud as my stiff rod continued to drill into his ass. He had his hands on my chest, my sides, and he hadn't touched himself once when he started to shoot his seed all over my chest and even up to my face. Seeing this and feeling the process from the inside out sent me over the top. I jerked to a sitting position and thrust my pelvis up once more, head back, fresh cum running down my body and more being added all the time. I blasted off into his bowels, coating him with my essence. Finally my arms gave out and I collapsed back onto the couch. Frank toppled forward onto me, falling in his own sticky mess. He wrapped his arms around me. "I do love you, John," he said, before licking his cum off my chin. "I love you too, Frank." I held him tight. We stayed like that for about ten minutes, just cuddling, until I heard a loud click come from his bedroom behind me. "What was that?" "I'll tell you later," he said. "Why do you do that?" I asked, curious. "Do what?" "You've always got some secret cooking. I don't know why I didn't see it coming when you planned that surprise party for me." "I like doing things for you." He kissed me on the nose. "And surprises are better because you don't know they're coming. You have no expectations. So whatever you get is better than what you think you're getting, which is nothing." He smiled. "Don't I get to be in on the joke just once?" I smiled back. "Okay. I was going to give this to you later. I can do it now." He sat up and climbed off me and the couch. I'd gone soft and fallen out of him a while ago. When he left, I felt the cold air on my chest after feeling his body heat for so long, even more so because I was still wet from Frank's cum. I looked down at my pants, still just far enough down for me to be considered indecent. Pull them up or take them off? I pulled up my undies and my jeans. If we're going to have a Round Two, we can take them off again. Frank came back to find me sitting on the couch. "Are you not going to shower with me?" He was still nude, his chest hair matted, but his arm was behind him. "Yeah, but I figured I'd better be ready for anything with your latest surprise coming and all." He laughed. "Well, get ready. Here it is." He brought his arm around. "Tada!" It was an audiocassette. "What is this?" "A recording I made tonight." I looked back toward the bedroom. I could barely make out a black wire leading under the couch. I got up and looked. There was a microphone. "You recorded us?" Was Frank getting freaky? "No. I recorded you. The rest just happened because of your song, spontaneous-like." "Hunh?" "You'll see when you play the tape. Do it after you get home. Now, we've got to get cleaned up." He led me into his bathroom, stripped my jeans off, and got me into the tub. From there we spent the night naked in his bed, in the dark, discussing philosophy, religion, life, and love. But not Mars.

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