By Tom
The sun hung low over the horizon; it was late in the day, but the air remained swelteringly,
desperately hot.
Paul sat on the concrete steps, a cigarette between his lips as a drop of sweat made its way
down his nose. More sweat pasted his sticky, clingy undershirt to his body; he thumbed the drop on
his nose away as he watched the other body across the yard, slumped in a sun chair and glowing pink
with over-sunning. A few empty bottles were buried in the yellowing lawn around the chair.
Deciding he had had enough of warm beer and hot air, Paul lifted himself of the stoop and
went into the house. What a day for the air conditioning to blow, Paul thought miserably. The air
inside simmered, just as bad if not worse than the outdoor conditions, and Paul wrenched open the
freezer with slippery hands, his only intent to stand nearby and let the cool air drift out over his
wretched, heat-wracked body. It was the most miserable day Paul remembered in a long time.
As he stood there, revelling in the icy vapour that poured from the freezer into the room, his
eyes scanned the contents of his friend’s icebox. A soggy, half-frozen, half-empty box of popsicles
caught his eye; he felt quite sure Eric would not mind as he pulled one from the box and tore the
wrapper off. Orange.
He put it in his mouth and went back outside. It offered some slight relief from the heat, and
the artificial fruit-and-sugar flavour was welcome after the bitter warm beer and sour-tasting heat of
the day. Paul felt as though he had reverted to the days when he ran around barefoot, gulping down
ice cream and not giving a shit about what happened in the next twenty minutes.
Eric was heaving himself out of the chair, upper lip curled. “Ow.” He groaned.
“Use sunblock, dumbass.” Paul rolled his eyes, nibbling absently on the flavoured ice.
“Yeah…but I was in the shade before.” Eric sat down on the stoop next to Paul, his own
undershirt as soaked and sweaty as Paul’s. His hair straggled damply with perspiration and he raked a
hand through it, tousling the jet-black locks. He looked very redneck in his undershirt and cutoff
shorts, but it was too hot for more clothing than that.
“Can I have a bit?” he asked after a moment, and Paul handed Eric the Popsicle. The dark-
haired man licked at the melting treat, smiling in relief at the coolness of the ice and the sugar-
sweetness. Paul watched him with a mild sort of curiosity as the keyboardist licked at the orange ice
pop; Eric caught his eye, and Paul looked away quickly, his face flushing. It might have been the heat,
Eric supposed. He grinned around the ice pop caught between his teeth. Paul was watching him
again, and Eric pretended not to notice.
It was still so hot that the ice pop was melting. It dripped, at first unnoticed as it fell on the
leg of his cutoffs, but then it traveled further down, sliding down the stick and dripping onto his
exposed knee. It trickled up his thigh, deliciously cold, and Eric watched Paul. The flush in his face
was deeper than ever.
Maybe Paul just wanted the Popsicle back. Somehow, Eric didn’t think this was the case, and
he let another drop trace its way up his thigh, a strangely seductive little orange river.
Paul’s hand shot out and intercepted the drip before he could stop himself. His fingers slid up
Eric’s thigh, wiping away the juice; then the hand withdrew as sharply as it had come, and Paul sucked
his fingers contritely, unable to look at Eric.
Eric, on the other hand, was watching Paul with shock. He hadn’t expected anything quite
that blatant. He had assumed there would have been some mild flirting, then Paul would go home, but
instead he found himself offering the popsicle to Paul, right next to his lips. Paul looked up at him
and, reaching up, he wrapped his hand around Eric’s and licked at the proffered treat.
The ice was melting all over Eric’s hand, a sticky mess of sugary orange juice. Rational
thought left Eric when Paul lifted the dissolving popsicle from his hand and slipped two of his syrupy
fingers into his mouth. “P-Paul,” he muttered awkwardly.
Paul looked up, the popsicle finding a momentary home in his mouth, before Eric found his
own lips covered by sugar-sweet coldness. A cool tongue traced his lips, and Eric was lost. He parted
his lips to the seeking tongue, icy and sweet, warming gently between them. It was a terrible effort to
break away. Eric wasn’t even sure what happened, but he knew that he liked it.
Paul bit off a corner of the ice pop, and it happened again. A cooled mouth covered his, lips
and tongue questing and querying, a sticky hand finding its way through his hair and a rapidly
dissolving mass of ice passing between battling mouths. Eric mimicked the action, unable to do
anything more, his own hand finding its way into slippery, silky blonde hair.
Eric found himself fighting for breath, such was the seductiveness of the moment, of the
probing tongue that sought the secrets of his mouth. Something cold touched him; he realised vaguely
that the popsicle was melting on him, trickling down his chest in little rivulets.
But then Paul’s hand left his hair and began forcing its way underneath his sticky undershirt.
Eric half-panicked, unable either to halt Paul’s progress or encourage it. He groaned into Paul’s
plundering mouth as fingers slid over his chest, as the popsicle dripped onto him, as the crotch of his
cutoffs became slowly, uncomfortably tight.
“Paul,” Eric gasped as their lips parted for a moment, sweaty and sticky and hot. Paul
looked at him, curious but otherwise unconcerned. “Paul, what are…” he fell silent, and Paul came
down again; Eric closed his eyes, but Paul’s mouth did not attack his; instead, it moved down to his
throat, sucking and nibbling inquisitively, tasting sweat and heat and flesh. It felt so incredibly good,
like nothing else. Paul would drive him crazy doing this.
A thought hatched in Eric’s brain as his undershirt came over his head. He shouldn’t be
doing this on the doorstep of his house in full view of the neighbours. He shouldn’t be doing this at
all. Not least with Paul Banks. He wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn’t make his
mouth work.
Then Paul’s mouth covered his as his fingers found a nipple, and he didn’t really care about
what he should or shouldn’t be doing.
Paul’s hand slid down, down over his flesh, through the arrow of hair that began at the dip of
his navel and vanished into the frayed waist of his cutoffs. The button came undone, then the zipper;
Eric couldn’t ever remember feeling so relieved in his life.
Paul lifted his mouth off Eric’s and instead crammed the Popsicle between his teeth as his
hands worked busily on the keyboardist’s shorts. Eric groaned as Paul coaxed his rigid cock out with
his fingertips, gripping lightly enough to drive Eric mad.
“You want the Popsicle, Eric?” Paul smirked maddeningly, removing the orange ice pop
from his mouth. The dark-haired man groaned again in response.
Paul slurped at the frozen thing for a moment, holding Eric’s cock in one hand and the
Popsicle in the other. He remained motionless, and Eric leaned against the railing, trying to catch his
breath.
It eluded him. Paul’s hand moved suddenly, somewhat uncertainly, and Eric’s breath came in
a rush.
“P—Paul…” he whispered as the pads of the singer’s fingers rubbed up and down his length,
teasing and torturing him sweetly. Paul was slurping on the Popsicle and bit off a corner, and as Eric
tried to say something—maybe in protest—Paul forced it between his lips, effectively silencing him.
Eric snatched the ice pop from his mouth just as Paul licked his lips and started to lower his
head. “Paul, no, d—” he began, unsure why he was protesting. He was cut off from all thought by a
cool tongue tracing his cock, though, and he thought of nothing but the cold-hot sensation of Paul’s
wet mouth as he plunged onto Eric’s rigid cock.
This is ridiculous, Eric thought wildly. Paul was licking and sucking with ardent skill, a little
too much skill, in Eric’s opinion. But he wasn’t complaining. Who could argue with a good blow
job? Eric was not one to.
His belly was collecting ripples from the rest of his body, harsh desperate twitches that shook
his entire body of their own accord. He groaned as Paul sucked him completely in, making soft wet
groans that drove Eric higher and higher, hungrier and hungrier. He ran his hand through Paul’s damp
blonde hair and over his sweaty shoulders; his body gleamed a wet gold in the setting sun.
A final judder made its way up Eric’s spine as he pushed his hips forward unconsciously into
Paul’s insistent mouth; and, with a mewling moan, he came hard in response to Paul’s ardent
ministrations.
The popsicle had melted all over his hand, Eric realised as he slowly came down from the
high of his orgasm. Paul lifted himself off Eric’s slackening cock and smiled at the keyboardist:
covered in sweat, a trace of cum, sticky orange trickles of sugar. He grinned even wider.
“Damn, Eric, you are a sight. I think you need a shower.”
He took Eric’s hand and licked the tips of his fingers. Eric blushed, and Paul pulled the dark-
haired man to his feet. He stood, weak-kneed, swaying for a moment, but then grinned.
He was definitely going to enjoy this heat wave.