Dark Wild Night

“Maybe just lie down or—” I stop abruptly as his words get processed. Shit. “Or sit. Sitting is fine. I mean, whichever.”


He gives me his tiny mysterious smile and goes to the rug in the middle of the room and lays down in a giant sunbeam.

The panel shows the girl, staring at the boy, her skin covered in licking, blue flames.

Oliver tucks his hands behind his head, crosses his legs at the ankle, and closes his eyes.

Cock.

COCK.

It’s all I can see.

It’s there beneath his boxers, half-hard, obviously uncut, following the line of his hip. My God, it’s thick. And if Oliver is a grow’er, he could knock a woman’s teeth out when he fucks her.

I tilt my head, my hand hovering over the paper. Why is he half-hard? Is this a guy thing that happens when they’re being drawn? Probably. Is that awesome or totally embarrassing?

Obviously for Oliver it’s awesome because look at it. I mean him. Look at him.

“Lola? You okay?”

That’s right. He can hear my lack of scribbling. I sit on the couch and begin furiously drawing every tiny detail of his body: the dark hair on his legs, the corded muscle of his thighs, deep grooves beside his hips, and yes, even the shape of him beneath his boxers.

I’m flipping through dozens of pages, determined to get every detail down and color it later. My hands are a mess of charcoal, my fingers cramping with the speed and intensity of my work.

“Roll to your stomach,” I say.

He does, and I catch his hips flexing, pressing down once hard into the rug: an unconscious thrust.

Every muscle in my body clenches in response: a pleading wish thrown out to the Universe.

I catch sight of a long scar running up his left side, bisecting a few of his ribs.

“What’s the scar?”

“Fall on the first bike trip,” he murmurs, referring to his Bike and Build involvement, where he met Ansel and Finn and they biked across the U.S., building low-income housing on the way.

The scar is big—half an inch wide, maybe four inches long—and I wonder how long Oliver was off the bike after that.

“I never knew you crashed on that trip. What did you do about the biking and building part?”

He shrugs, readjusting his head on his arms, and I marvel over how easy he is in his skin. “Got stitches. I took maybe two days to recoup. Wasn’t that big a deal, it just looks nasty.”

I hum, listening to him talk about biking as I work to master the muscular curve of his calf, the arch of his foot, the protruding bone at his ankle. “Canberra is flat,” he says. “We rode our bikes everywhere. It’s a perfect city for it. Nice tracks. Good roads. Even though I rode all the time, my mates and I were idiots a lot, so of course I fell a lot, too.” I love his voice, get lost in it as I count the vertebrae of his spine, the way his hair curls over his ear, the dark shadow of stubble cutting across his jaw. It’s one thing to see all of this, and another thing entirely to imagine touching it, knowing it as well with my hands as I now do with my eyes.

I have a lifetime’s worth of fantasies on these pages, and I am convinced Oliver has just helped me create the sexiest thing comics will ever see.

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, sighing. “I think this is good.”

Oliver rolls to his side, propping himself on one elbow. Seriously it’s absurd. On the white rug in his blue boxer briefs he looks like he’s posing for Playgirl.

“What time is it?” he asks.

I glance at the cock—CLOCK on the cable box. “Eight nineteen.” I need to get out of here.

He stretches: muscles shaking, fists clenched, head thrown back in the relief of it. After an enormous happy groan, he asks, “You gonna show me what you did?”

“Not a chance.”

“So it’s quite pornographic, then?”

I laugh. “You’re in your boxers.”

“That’s a yes? Now I really want to see what you drew.”