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by Virg Vaughn

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Author's disclaimer: Petfly, Paramount and now I suppose Sci-Fi own pretty much everything. I just like playing with their toys.

I wonder if this means I'm gay. If maybe I have been all my life and just never knew it. Repressed memory does that to you, makes you unsure of everything you ever thought you knew about yourself.

The thing is, I think I would have noticed if I'd been turned on by guys before. I did the group shower thing through high school, college, the army and police academy. Never spent any time looking at another guy's equipment and thinking anything more about it than to feel smug or a little envious. But never in a sexual 'I want a piece of that' sort of way.

I've never experimented with a buddy, never taken part in a circle jerk, never felt anything but the pleasure of pushing myself to the max in the gym, on the court, on the mats. But now things have changed, and it's nothing I ever expected to deal with.

Sometimes I think maybe I should ask Sandburg. He'd know. He always has all the answers, even when he has to make them up. Except I know exactly what he'd say. He'd tell me that this is the way it was meant to be between us, that it was as inevitable as my senses. And I'd agree.

But I wouldn't be any closer to understanding.

The first time it happened, it was just a normal Saturday afternoon. Sandburg and I had been out shooting hoops, enjoying one of the half dozen rain free days Cascade gets every summer. We always have good time and stay within a few points of each other, though you'd figure we'd be mismatched big time. 'Spud' may be short, but he's damned fast -- sinks everything he throws and he knows every trick in the book to get past any advantage my senses give me. The game got a little hot, a little physical and we'd each spent some time face down, measuring concrete.

Blair had taken an accidental elbow in the cheek from me and I had twisted a knee trying to match his dodging and ducking. So we were back at the loft, happily commiserating and drinking our beer, waiting to cool down a little before hitting the shower. I had one of those gooey blue gel packs wrapped around my knee and Sandburg was holding a package of frozen berries against the side of his face -- going on about some holistic bullshit.

When I started to get off the couch, my knee sorta buckled and Sandburg went to grab me. He's strong and he's quick, but I have a good forty pounds on him, so I ended up flat on my back with him on top of me. That's when I felt it -- the guy was sporting major wood.

The surprise must have shown on my face. It was the last thing I was expecting, the farthest thing from my mind. Sure, we'd been having a great day and we'd gone all out pumping up the testosterone. I was completely relaxed and happy. Apparently it had a different affect on him. I turned so red my face felt like it would catch fire. Don't laugh, I've been known to get embarrassed a time or two and curse the fact that I'm not as dark skinned as Simon.

But Sandburg wasn't embarrassed. He just looked at me, his eyes kind of wild and intense, he growled out my name...then he kissed me. I mean, one minute there we are, two guys guzzling beers and belching and talking NBA stats, and the next he has his tongue down my throat.

I didn't know what to do. All I could think was, this is how a deer feels just before the truck behind the headlights plows it down. But I didn't fight him off, I didn't try to stop him. I never told him no.

I know I didn't zone. It was too weird, too unnerving for me to focus on anything long enough to trip off to LaLa-Land. I remember how strange and rough his razor stubble felt against my face. I remember thinking that maybe, just maybe, I'd actually taken a fall and hit my head or something. Because none of it felt real. Except that it was all too real.

Sandburg has this way of launching himself at things. He sees something he wants, his incredible brain clicks on and he goes after it, afterburners blazing at full bore. I've seen him do it a million times with women. The last one -- Pamela something or the other -- always had this shell-shocked look to her. Suddenly, I knew precisely how she felt.

He took my lack of struggle, my stillness, as compliance. And it was. I didn't have a clear idea of what he wanted from me, but I knew whatever it was, I'd give it to him. Because that's what I do. That's what I always do.

At one point, when I realized that I was naked and he was naked and he was still on top of me, fear finally kicked in and I tried to move out from under him, shoving hard against his chest to push him off me. Sandburg didn't flinch, didn't budge, just took my face in his hands and asked me to trust him. Told me how much he wanted me, how much he knew I wanted him too. much as I trusted him -- always trust him -- I couldn't ever remember wanting him that way.

I lay there staring up at the ceiling, getting a little lost in the swirls and knots in the wood, while he pushed and rubbed and grunted against me. I knew I should respond somehow, but I didn't know what to do with my arms, my hands. I tried settling them around his back, but the feeling of his skin and his sweat was too much. I couldn't do it, couldn't touch him, so I kept a grip on the cushions of the couch. It must have been a hell of a grip, because my hands ached for days afterwards.

He kept talking the whole time. I've never been able to talk much during sex, but I guess that's not so surprising. Sandburg kept up this monologue about everything he wanted to do with me, to do to me. The sound of his needy, breathy words, the friction and the motion finally got me moving too. Even if the parts are different, even if the smell, the texture, everything is different -- a dick is still a dick. With a mind all its own.

I was pushing up with my hips, searching for something...more, something familiar. The feel of his chest hair and the smell of his body were so different from what I was used to, completely strange and alien. He worked his hand in-between us and began pumping hard, rubbing our cocks together. That was good. That squeeze, that stroke was familiar and pretty soon I was riding the edge.

The feeling and the smell of his come pumping all over my chest, jerked me back to reality. Outside of porn films, I'd never seen a guy shoot his wad. Compared to me, Sandburg is pretty impressive, he spurted clear up to my chin.

Whatever bit of eroticism the situation might have had up to that point was gone. I levered him off me and struggled off the couch, stumbling to my feet. He didn't seem to notice, just sprawled back against the cushions with a pleased, sleepy smirk on his face as I high-tailed it into the john.

I stared in shock at the complete stranger in the mirror. I couldn't even meet my own eyes as I cleaned up the come that was running down my chest to my dick, which lay dead and limp against my thigh.

I scrubbed at my belly and chest until I was almost raw. No amount of soap and water seemed to eliminate the smell or the feeling... the feeling of another man's come on me, the heavy, peculiar scent of it. Maybe I was over reacting. I don't know, but I ended up in the shower.

Just when I thought I had things under control again, Blair pulled back the shower curtain. He stood there looking at me for a second and asked me if I was okay. I forget what I told him. Probably said I was fine. How do you tell your best friend, the one constant that keeps you safe and sane, that what he's done has confused and terrified you more than anything else in your entire fucked up life? How do the hell do you say that?

I couldn't look at him, not after a quick glance told me exactly how he was looking at me. The thing is, I wasn't afraid of him. I've never been afraid of him, just afraid of what he's asked me to do. So I stood there and nodded, repeated that I was okay. I didn't do anything but move over when he stepped into the shower with me.

He slid the washcloth out of my numb fingers and proceeded to soap me down with long gentle strokes down my back that felt damned good. Sandburg kept right on talking, telling me how good everything was going to be between us, how good he was going to make me feel. And he delivered on his promise; my dick stood up and took notice when he started stroking that too.

I struggled just a little when he worked a soapy finger between my ass cheeks and started probing. He murmured for me to loosen up, to relax. Hell, he can get me to relax and follow his direction under gunfire, so it wasn't any surprise that it worked this time. I can't not relax when he uses that tone of voice.

I'd never considered my prostate as anything but an uncomfortable part of my annual physical until that shower. With a few skillful strokes outside and in, he showed me something that gay men have known for millennium; with the right amount of pressure, just the right touch, you shoot off just like a damned firehose.

I came so hard I grayed out for a while. The next thing I knew we were in bed and he was finally quiet, because he'd fallen asleep. That's when the shakes started. Sandburg told me later it was only overload, and I suppose that must have been it. All I knew is that for about two hours while he slept, I couldn't get warm and I couldn't stop shaking.

I'm going to be okay with this new thing between us. I've been a little slow to get with the program, but Blair's being patient. Eventually, it will feel normal rolling over in the night and feeling his hairy, too-hard body pressed up against me. He tells me the soreness in my ass will fade and I'll like the things he does to me a hell of a lot more. That I'll want to do the same things to him.

And I want that. I want this to be right, to be right for him.

I still get the shakes sometimes, but it doesn't seem to worry Blair. Not that it matters too much. Because this is the way it's going to be. This is who I am now. This is what we are. Sentinel and Guide, bonded in every way two people can be.

Because in the long run, we both know I can't live without my guide.