Laney Cairo - Bad Case of Loving You

“Hey, Mattie!” someone shouted across the crowded bar. I waved a hand at the group of familiar faces, but kept on pushing my way through the crowd.

It was a good night; the bar was packed and loud, music booming down the far end, lights strobing in time with the music, but I wasn’t there to dance, either. This was my last night of freedom before classes started again, my last chance before the final semester of my medical degree to get really, thoroughly laid, and I didn’t plan to go home alone.

There were some hot guys there. I bought a lager and found a place near the dance floor to have a really good look around. I was wearing my cuff, just to make sure whoever I picked up knew.

It took a little bit of time, and I shook my head at a couple of the men who cruised past me, but the man with the goatee caught my fancy, and when he brushed past, I snaked my hand out and caught his wrist.

This was the test. If he pulled away and scowled at me, then he wasn’t right.

He didn’t pull away; instead he let me tug him across so he was pressed against me, his shoulder against mine, and I leaned forward and pressed my face against the side of his shaved head.

He smelled good, of beer and cologne, and he said, “Want to get it on?”

Outside the pub it was raining, and I zipped up my jacket.

“You got a place?” he asked, and I nodded.

“This way.”

It was only a couple of streets. He walked along beside me, solidly built in his leather jacket, and I said, “My name’s Matthew.”

“Jake,” he said, and I indicated with my head that the house with the booming stereo was mine.

The housemates were sprawled in the living room, draped over couches and on the floor, eating pizza and sinking lagers, and I ignored their craned heads and partly audible whistles, and led Jake up the stairs.

My room was stark, just a mattress on the floor, a pile of textbooks, and a wardrobe with my few clothes stuffed in it, but Jake didn’t say anything, just began to take his clothes off as soon as I’d slid the bolt on the door shut.

Jake stripped off quickly, revealing a solid body with close-cropped body hair which was pleasantly bristly to touch when I ran the palm of my hand across his chest. He was hard already, thick-cocked and tempting, and I dropped my jacket on the floor and dragged my T-shirt over my head.

He made a pleased sound at my nipple piercings, and I smiled knowingly and unzipped my jeans.

“Oh, yeah,” he whispered, dropping to his knees in front of me.

I had condoms in my back pocket, and I fished one out and ripped it open. It took a little bit of work to roll the latex over the beads of my apadravya piercing, but I’d had plenty of practice, and there was a knack to it. Top bead first, then hold the bar steady with my other thumb and slide the latex over the bottom bead, and then down my cock.

Jake was endearingly keen, taking all of me in at once, eyes closed, and I let him suck me for a few minutes, just until I was good and worked up, then I said, “On the mattress, on all fours,” as I kicked my jeans off.

There were latex gloves beside the bed, stolen from my clinical placement last semester, and I ripped a pack of them open and knelt behind Jake.

He was waxed, tidy and clean, and I ran an experimental fingertip down his crack, just to see him twitch. “How many do you take?” I asked, reaching for the lube.

“Three,” he said. “There’re poppers in my jacket…”

I reached across with my unlubed hand and shoved his jacket across the floor toward him, and slid my index finger in without warning.

He jumped, his body clamping around my finger briefly, and I could feel myself smiling as he gasped. I pulled back, pushed a second finger in, making him squirm, and then added the third. There was sweat beading up his back, and his shoulders were hunched over now, his face pressed against the mattress.

It was such a turn-on, finding a man who got off on being touched like that, and I watched Jake scramble to get the lid off the little brown bottle of poppers and shove it against his nose, timing the twist and jab of my fingers to his snort.

Jake slumped forward, gasping, and held the bottle over his shoulder with an unsteady hand as I pulled my fingers out roughly and slammed my cock into him.

The fumes hit me, and I turned my head away; if I had too much, I wouldn’t have the control I needed to fuck Jake through the mattress.

He was pliant, the bottle rolling across the bare boards of the floor, his mouth slack and eyes closed, gasping with each thrust of my cock into his arse, each drag of the big bead of my piercing through his body.

His hand was shoved under his hips, jerking at his cock, his shoulders tense, and I gritted my teeth and held back, waiting for his shouts and the thick smell of come over the amyl before I groaned and let go and fucked him hard, as hard as I could, until I came, too.

He left, ten minutes later, taking his poppers with him, and I stayed where I was, too fucked to move except to drag my sleeping bag up to stop from freezing. The housemates were partying downstairs, shouting over the pounding music, getting their last bit of fun in before semester started, too.

It was all work from here on, until after my final exams.

When the lift door eventually opened, it was five centimetres lower than the floor, and I helped the orderly lift the wheelchair out over the step, holding my breath so as not to get a noseful of the patient in the chair. Avoiding stench was probably the most important thing I’d learnt so far.

That, and how to lie about why I was late.

“Lift broke down,” I said apologetically as I slid into the only empty seat around the Formica table in the staff room.

Everyone muttered sympathetically. That was what made the excuse so useful; the lifts broke down all the time and we all got stuck in them. In fact, I was already late before the lift doors jammed, and it was entirely my own fault for sleeping in.

All right, not quite everyone was sympathetic. Dr. Maynard was looking at me dubiously, but I kept my innocent face on and took out my stack of index cards.

“As I was saying, before Mr. Blake decided to honour us with his presence, expect to be asked to give a précis of any of the patients we see on today’s rounds. Take notes, engage your brains. I’m not here to actually teach you anything; you have to do that yourselves. My only role is to stop the nurses from murdering any of you for messing with their ward,” Dr.

Maynard said, a flash of wry humour on his face. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been over here, but he hadn’t lost his American accent as far as I could tell.

All of a sudden, he looked human and kind of attractive, in a worn-out, entirely fuelled by caffeine way that I completely identified with. He stood up and led us med students out onto the ward, and there was a certain amount of jostling as we sorted out the pecking order.

The middle-aged woman with a buzz cut sitting at a PC at the nurses’ station said, “JesusfuckingChrist,” as Dr. Maynard walked up.

“Good morning to you, too, Jane,” Dr. Maynard said sweetly, smiling at her. “You’re the CN today? Ready for rounds?”

“Unfortunately,” she said, presumably not swayed by his charm. “Let’s do this. Just stop the kids from breaking anything.”

“What’s a CN?” the tiny Asian girl beside me asked in a whisper.

“Clinical nurse,” I murmured back. “Shift coordinator.”

Nevins, who I knew from anatomy labs, said, “She Who Must be Obeyed.”

We shuffled along behind Dr. Maynard, pens and index cards at the ready, then all packed into a cubicle around a bed holding a shrivelled-up old woman.