He has his dick in his hand when she barges into the men’s room. Startled, his spray jumps and he flicks his eyes to the entrance to see a flash of blonde disappear into the handicapped stall. He can’t decide if he’s excited or annoyed, the residual fog of this morning’s wake and bake still clouding his thoughts. It’s a reminder that he isn’t 20 any more, and he knows this, but his dick has developed amnesia. In the 30 seconds that have elapsed since she came in, he’s hardened impressively.
“David,” she calls sing songy from the stall. “You gonna stand out there holding it or bring it in here and let me ride it?”
Her giggles echo in circles, bouncing off ceramic to surround him in warmth. Smiling, he saunter-stumbles his way into the stall.
“I think I’m still high,” he says as he flips the lid down on the low-set toilet. He lifts her to stand on it. “I have no fucking idea what we just said on that panel.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replies, shedding his coat and draping it over the handicapped rail. “You owe me big time for that over-the-clothes finger fuck.” Shimmying out of her pants and underwear, she crosses her arms over the COTR on her shirt. “What was that all about?”
His pants and boxers hit the floor before he replies. “You put my hand there. What did you expect?”
Turning toward the railing, he spreads his jacket before facing her. For a second he’s frozen, taking in this moment, her beauty, the idea that he can have her like this whenever he wants and not out of anger-lust but lust-love and even the fog in his brain can’t stop the warmth from spreading to his limbs. He feels 20, he feels happy, he feels alive. It’s all her.
“David?” she asks, an even mix of concern and desire in her eyes. His pride is screaming “she’s mine.”
“C’mere.”
He lifts her gently, watching transfixed as she wraps her legs around him. Their foreheads touch and she watches as he enters her, but he’s glued to the contours of her face.
“Mmm,” she hums and he’s all the way in. She grasps his neck and leans back to catch his eyes. “Was it always this good?”
“Does it matter?”
She shakes her head no and he kisses her, turning to place her on his jacket for leverage. They move together languidly, enjoying the mix of fog and fear and lust and love, though neither is ready to admit the last one. She pushes his chest lightly and he leans back to catch her eyes.
“Do you think they know?” she asks, nodding in the direction of the exit.
“If they don’t now, they’ll catch on eventually.”
She starts to reply but he silences her with a kiss, quickening the pace of his thrusts. He can’t believe he’s at a comic con, with her, in a bathroom, fucking.
No, making love.
He’s at a comic con, willingly, making love to his costar in the bathroom.
He breaks the kiss to look at her and she throws her head back, smiling and grasping at his shoulders. As he adjusts his grip on her waist, he tries to remember the last time he was this happy. She catches his eyes and he knows.
Just Holding Hands 