Fiction Friday #13

Thirst

"Ahh! Jesus. Dave! Christ!"

Jorge woke with a jolt, hitting his head on the wall, his heart beating hard against his ribs. He couldn't see anything the way he faces so he rolled over to look at his clock. It was just after two in the morning. His alarm would be blaring in a little more than four hours. He rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling.

"Dave, shit. No. Lower. Lower!"

Jorge's bed was against the wall across from the wall his room shared with Dave's room, but the walls were so thin and Anna, Dave's whatever, was so loud that he'd been woken up like this four out of the last five nights.

"Let me. Here. I'll... There. Yeah, there. Now, Dave. Now!"

That's when the squeaking and the groaning started.

Dave had to be drunk, Jorge thought. Nights Dave was sober things got off to a quicker, and quieter, start and usually ended faster too. What did Shakespeare say? That alcohol gives us the desire but takes away the ability? He obviously wasn't writing about guys like Dave. Guys like Dave get all fired up when they're drunk and go longer than usual after they get started, which was an annoyance to any roommates who had to get sleep.

Jorge had three choices: 1. Roll over, put his pillow over his head, and try to sleep. 2. Jerk off and hope Dave and Anna finished before he did so he could sleep. Or 3. Get up and watch some TV until they fell asleep.

None of the choices seemed appetizing. The first was going to lead to frustration and anger. The second would only work on a night when he was drunk or Dave was sober. And the third was just annoying. Still, the third was the best option.

He climbed out of his bed and wiggled his toes around the carpet, searching for the clothes he'd tossed down there since the last time he washed anything. First, he found a t-shirt which he grabbed with his toes and lifted to his hand. As he pulled it on, his feet searched for something to cover his lower half -- boxers, jeans, shorts, anything would do. A pair of pajama bottoms was what he found. Jorge couldn't remember the last time he wore pajama bottoms, but they'd cover him just as well as anything else. He pulled them on and headed toward the door, shuffling his feet so he wouldn't crush any of the crap that was on the floor.

The hallway was a little quieter than his room was, but the sounds of hot, sweaty lovin' were still there. Jorge stumbled his way to the stairs and headed down. It was much quieter down there and the light from the parking lot was streaming through the windows, making it a lot easier to move around without worrying about stepping on the silverware randomly thrown around the room.

Jorge grabbed the remote off the couch, trying to ignore the plates left there, and clicked the TV on. He stuffed the control in his pocket and headed to the kitchen and flicked on the light.

The kitchen was a mess. A pan of sauce and a pile of drying pasta sat on the stove. The counter had cheese sprinkled on it. Dirty glasses sat in and around the sink. Dave and Anna had also finished off Jorge's bottle of Baileys.

Jorge sighed, opened the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of Dave's beer. Dave'd never notice, and if he did he'd probably just assume he drank it himself, especially if Jorge left the bottle sitting out. He popped the top and took a pull. It was dark and bitter and cool and felt heavy as he swallowed the mouthful. He took another drink and lurched toward the couch, pulling the remote free.

He sat and flipped through a few channels. Nothing really interesting was on. He settled on an infomercial about some smokeless grill that was still supposed to give the meat a smoky flavor. The whole idea didn't make any sense to Jorge, but sitting on the couch, with crusty dishes, watching crappy TV while his drunk roommate was upstairs having sex didn't make sense to Jorge either. He put his feet up on the coffee table and put the beer between his legs.

"George?"

Jorge's head jerked around. Anna was standing at the bottom of the stairs wearing a t-shirt, probably one of Dave's since Jorge had never seen her in anything so loose before. She knew how much he hated being called "George" and did it when ever she saw him.

"Finished already?" he asked. "I thought you guys were in it for the long haul tonight."

"Yeah," she said, walking to the couch and pulling the shirt down lower around her thighs.

"Odd," said Jorge, sipping from the bottle, "I didn't hear Dave shout 'Kimota!' like he usually does, tonight."

"Yeah," said Anna, sitting at the other end of the couch. "He sort of fell asleep."

"Maybe Shakespeare was right," said Jorge, turning back to the TV.

"What?"

"Nothing, don't worry about it."

"'Kay," she said. "What are we watching?"

"This." He pointed to the TV with the bottle.

"Oh."

Her eyes were on him. He could tell, even though he was looking at the TV. He wanted to look, but he didn't want to see her. He knew who she was and what she was like. She was a predator and, as much as he might enjoy their time together, he didn't want to be her prey.

She moved the dishes off the couch over to the coffee table and slid closer to him, so close he could feel her warmth.

"George," she said.

"Yeah?" he asked, trying hard to watch the TV.

"Can I have a sip of you're beer, George." She touched his arm.

"There's plenty in the fridge. You can get your own."

"But," she reached for the bottle, "George, I want a sip of yours."

He pulled the bottle away from her.

"Please," she said, putting her hand on his thigh. Jorge immediatly felt blood rushing down below his waist. "Just a sip."

He looked at her.

She bit her lip and said, "I only want a little sip, George." She slid her hand up his thigh and felt how hard he was.

"You have to say my name right, fist," he said, looking into her eyes.

"What?" She blinked and looked away and bit her lip.

He put his hand under he chin and turned her back. "Say my name right and we'll go from there."

Her eyes darted around. She didn't want to look at him. Jorge knew that she didn't like having to give anything up to get what she wanted.

Jorge moved his lips close to her ear and whispered, "You know what it is. Just say it."

"Okay," she whispered, "Jorge."

He put the bottle in her hand.