I Am the Walrus

Shay Sheridan

Ray tensed, his head straining back so far that the tendons of his throat went taut. Behind him Kowalski grunted and thrust one more time, his balls jammed up behind Ray's ass so tight he thought for a second maybe they were inside him, too, along with Kowalski's long, thin cock. The similarly long, thin fingers of Kowalski's hand clenched around Ray's dick, and that was all she wrote. Suddenly he was coming all over Kowalski's hand, jets of come shooting out of him to the soundtrack of his own guttural moan. He could feel Kowalski shuddering behind him, around him, in him, wrenching through his own orgasm.

For a long moment they stayed in their contorted position, both breathing harshly. Then Kowalski's arms went limp, releasing him. Ray collapsed face-first onto the bed, Kowalski on top of him.

"Jesus," they both said together.

"Fuck this," Ray and Ray said.

"Stop that," they both answered

Ray gave a frustrated moan. "No, I—"

"—mean it," Kowalski finished.

Ray shoved backwards and rolled to his feet.

"Shit," they said, glaring at each other.

Kowalski opened his mouth to speak and Ray put up a hand to stop him. "Christ, Stanley, it’s bad enough you took over my life, do you have to have steal my lines, too?"

Kowalski frowned, scratching his genitals in a manner Ray found both repellant and fascinating. "Hey, you're in my house, Vecchio, so I get dibs on the lines. Know what I mean?"

"Says who?" Ray protested.

"Says me."

"And who the hell do you think you are, Stanley?"

"You," Kowalski said, sneering.

Too much, Ray thought. This is—

"Too fucking much," Kowalski finished, sliding to his feet. Ray stared after him. Kowalski moved toward the kitchen, pulling on a sweater as he did so. "You want some pie?"

Ray gaped at the half-naked figure. This was getting seriously strange. Spookily strange. True, he'd just had the best sex he'd ever had, even if it was with a guy he hated with every bone in his Italian body. Which was weird to begin with. In fact, he really couldn't remember how he came to be having sex with Kowalski, but anyway, what was up with the talking thing?

"So? Pie?"

"Yeah, sure," Ray said. "Hey, that's my sweater you're wearing!" He felt a headache start at the back of his eyes.

"Yeah? So what? Mi sweater es su sweater, know what I mean?"

"No, I don't, Stanley. I spent a lot of dough on that sweater. It's pure cashmere, it's Armani, and I don't need you getting it dirty or—"

"Here," Kowalski said, handing Ray a huge slice of pie and crossing to sit on the bed. "Here," he said, in a completely different way, beckoning to him.

Ray followed him. "Coconut crème?"

Kowalski grinned around a mouthful of custard. "Yup."

Ray took a bite, felt the satiny texture of the pie filling on his tongue. Too bad about that headache; everything else was – "Greatness," he said.

Kowalski choked. "That's my line."

"Says you," Ray answered. "No, I guess says me."

"Hey," Kowalski said, looking at Ray's mouth. "I like the way you eat that. The way your lips look wrapped around that filling."

"Do you now," Ray said, putting the pie on the nightstand. He wished the headache would go away.

"Like to see those lips filled with something else." Kowalski's voice was a sandpapery whisper in his ear.

Ray's dick jumped back to life. "Would you now," he said, sliding to his knees.

"How'd you know I want you to do that?" Kowalski breathed.

"I am you, remember?" Ray said, as his hands slid down Kowalski's thigh to touch the thickening cock. His own erection throbbed in sync with the pounding in his head.

"Yeah," Kowalski said, thrusting slightly, and, bizarrely, still holding his pie. "But if I'm you and you're me, and I'm in you and you're in me—"

"Shut up!"

"--and we're fucking each other, and we are each other, then who are we?"

Who are we, who are we, who are we, who are we –

"Jesus!" Ray grabbed his head, which was killing him now. "I don't know. I don't know, I don't fucking know—"


"Ray! Ray! Ray?"

"Shit!" Ray Kowalski sat bolt upright, which was a bad thing to do. The slice of pie he'd been eating last night slid off his lap and fell face down on the carpet next to the sofa just as his head began to implode. "Aagh," he said, clapping his hands to his temples.

"Ray, are you all right?"

He unglued his eyes enough to focus. Fraser was standing above him, looking down at him with a mixture of concern and, he thought, distaste. "Jeez, Fraser. What, did you bust in here?"

"I've been knocking for five minutes. I, uh, decided to let myself in when you didn't answer."

You broke in, Ray thought, but he wasn't in the mood to argue, not with Fraser, not with – "Vecchio! Is he here?"

Fraser's face shifted. "No, Ray, of course not. You know he's still undercover."

"Oh, I thought. . ."

Fraser frowned. "Are you hung over?"

"Yes. Very." He became aware that he felt a bit sticky, but not from the pie, and when he looked down at himself, he saw the telltale wet spot. Oh, Christ. A dream. A fucking wet dream.

"Ray?" Fraser was politely not looking at his lap.

Funny, Ray thought, he could still feel the long, thin cock up his ass—

--No, no, that was Vecchio—

--No, no, he was Vecchio—

--Which meant Vecchio was him, which meant he was Vecchio, no, no, he was—

"Fucked, I am so fucked!" He turned to see Fraser's worried face. "Don't worry, Fraser. Never again. No more vodka for me. Not even if it's Polish."

redchance @ aol.com
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