FINISHED: 3-01: That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be

Big Booty Hoes
With his eyes clenched, mouth agape and barely breathing through his nose, Wade is close to a much-needed nut. It’s one in the afternoon, and he should be writing, but instead he’s spread out on the bed, his boxer briefs shoved down his legs, and his right hand doing double duty as his dexterous lover. Since Noah started working on his “Big Fucking Deal” script two and a half months ago, sex has been the last thing on his husband's mind. At first, Wade didn’t mind--he was being the “supportive husband.” But this whole no sex thing was getting tired. Shit, he was able to work on his scripts, work at Alex’s clinic on the weekends, and tutor young writers on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons at a South Central community center. So what? He still got horny; that never stopped, no matter how hectic his life became. Besides, he’d been spoiled by all the honeymoon sex they’d had, which had spilled over into their post-honeymoon life.

They’d been getting it poppin’ up to three times a day—a messy blow job out on the deck when Noah was feeling adventurous; a quick morning fuck in the shower; a long, sensual session of mutual massage, incense, and Maxwell on the CD player usually ended their night. Now…now it was just him, some lotion, and his laptop in the afternoon sun.

He takes a quick peek at the laptop screen, and his stomach tightens and knees tremble. A delicious heat travels up his thighs, past his hips, and spreads up to his chest. A familiar warmth centers itself over his engorged genitals, and he cries out, “Yeah, baby!” Every muscle in his body tenses. His breath comes in spurts. This is the part he loves: the build up is almost as rewarding as the release. This is where he likes to challenge himself. It was something Dre had started, a game where they would mutually masturbate and see how long they could hold off. Dre always won because right when Wade thought he had everything under control, Dre would say something dirty and drive Wade to the point of no return. He could never try the hold-off game with Noah; their sex life was too intense. Noah had a way of looking at him and making him weak; a way of fucking him with his eyes that no other being on this Earth could do to him. With Dre, they would light up a joint and jerk off for hours, talking and kissing and letting the mood lead them to relaxing, satisfying orgasms. But with Noah, it was something primal about his husband that made him lose all control of his body. Sure, they’d had their tender, romantic moments, but they’d done way more of the hair-pulling, grunting, and groaning--all leading to a howling end that would put wolves to shame.

Make it last, he thinks. He uses long, slow strokes to pleasure himself, but the fight is getting harder. Soon he finds himself pumping up and down his rigid shaft so fast, his hands become a blur. “Oh, oh, uh!” he shouts, as a blast of pleasure shoots through him, forcing his upper body to raise up off the bed. “That’s what’s up,” he whispers, falling back to the bed. One more look at the image on the laptop, and he can’t hold out any longer. His head falls back, crashing into a doughy pillow. His free hand grips the sheets as his hips buck up and down. “Fuck!” he screams, finally letting the victorious orgasm seize his convulsing body.

“Wade! Again?”

Standing in the doorway of their new Silver Lake home’s master bedroom is a Burberry-clad Noah. Though at the point of no return, Wade manages to quickly slam his laptop close before shooting his load all over his hand, thighs, and stomach.


Rolling his eyes, Noah pulls his pink Burberry scarf from around his neck and tosses it on the nightstand. He marches into the bathroom, snatches a towel from the hook, and tosses it to Wade. “The coffee shop was too noisy to write, so I came back home. What were you watching on your laptop?”

Wade wipes cum from his body and dabs at the tiny drops that landed by his feet. “Nothing,” he says, sitting up and checking the sheets for any other spots.

“Really? Nothing?”

Wade stands up, stomping past Noah, and throws the towel in the hamper. “And don’t keep asking me, either.” He grabs a rubber band off the dresser and starts gathering his curly hair into a sloppy ponytail.

“I’ll just see for myself,” says Noah, reaching for Wade’s laptop. Wade dashes across the room and snatches up the laptop before Noah can grab it. “What are you hiding, Wade?” Noah asks, plopping himself down on the bed, on his back. He throws his legs up in the air and pulls off his Burberry rain boots and throws them in the middle of the floor, barely missing Wade’s shins. “Big Booty Hoes?” he asks calmly.

“That’s it!” shouts Wade, slamming his greasy fist on the dresser. “I’m not doing this, Noah. I’m not going to play into your little games. Not today. I’m going to the gym.” He quickly stuffs himself into a pair of jeans and a white wife beater, and beats out the bedroom door, his laptop tucked securely underneath his arm. The door slams behind him.

Noah throws a gold lamé pillow at the door. “Real mature, Wade!”

The Arc
“Bitch, you’re late!” says Alex as Noah bounces into Basix Cafe.

“I know, Alex,” says Noah, taking a seat. “Wade and I got into it again.”

“About what this time?” asks Chance.

“I caught Wade masturbating to something on his laptop again.” Noah grabs a menu and starts scanning it. “This is the third time this week I’ve caught him.”

“Uh-Oh!” the ARC says.

“What?” Noah says, peeking over the top of the menu.

“What is really the T, bitch?” asks Alex.

“The T is Noah isn’t handling his business in the bedroom,” says Ricky, his face buried in his cell phone.

“Damn, y’all ain’t even been married a year and already Wade is choking the fuck out his chicken?” says Alex, rolling his neck. “I done told y’all fools y’all gots to step it up. But you ain’t hearing me.”

Noah shrugs. “Alex, you know I’m working on my Big Fucking Deal script. I’m writing almost eight hours a day. Wade is just going to have to be patient with me. I barely have time to have lunch with you guys. I’m sorry but this is just too important.”

“Wade ain’t trying to hear about no damn patience,” says Alex, snatching the menu from Noah’s hands. “Honey, if you ain’t scratching that itch, pretty soon someone else will. And y'all know them pretty ones be itching harder than most.”

Noah snatches the menu back from Alex. “I trust Wade, Alex.”

“Do we have to hear about this right now?” asks Ricky, smiling at the nude photo some trade sent to his phone. “You hens have no idea what you’re missing out on.”

Chance snatches Ricky’s phone and looks at it, turning it upside down, then back up again. “Is that even...possible?” he asks, mouth open. He hands it to Alex.

Alex screams, clutching at invisible pearls. “See, all that ain’t even necessary!” he shouts, throwing the phone back to Ricky. "Whatever happened to ... decency?"

Ricky tucks the phone into his jean's back pocket and smiles. “It’s called flexibility. Don’t hate.”

“Guys, can we order?” asks Noah, motioning for the waiter. “I’m starving.”

Lead Parasol Redux
After lunch, and a quick stop by Trade Analysis, the guys are lounging around Chance’s living room, drinking a bottle of pinot noir. Chance pours himself a third glass, gulps it in one go, and exhales audibly. “Eddie’s in a band.”

Noah looks up from his laptop. “Wow, Chance, that’s great.”

“No,” replies Chance, shaking his head, “they’re terrible. Really, really terrible. They’re calling themselves Lead Parasol Redux.”

“Chance, you said yourself Eddie loves making music when you guys first dated. He even played his guitar for you,” says Noah, tucking his head back into his laptop. “And I think that is so romantic.”

“Let me just say it wasn’t the guitar playing that kept me coming back, okay? Anyway, I wish this was music he was making. No, this is…this is something alien sounding.”

“They can’t be that bad,” says Ricky, returning from the bathroom. He joins Noah on the sofa, reads a line from Noah’s script and sticks his tongue out. “Can’t be as bad as what Noah is writing.”

“Shut up, Ricky,” Noah says, scooting away from him. “You’re no one to impress.”

“They take classic poetry like Tennyson’s ‘All Things Will Die’ and put it to music” Chance pours his fourth glass of wine. “And I'm being generous when I say music. Oh, god, they practice every Saturday in the basement. For Christ’s sake, I grade papers to Lead Parasol Redux's version of ‘I Sing the Body Electric.’”

“I honestly don’t see the problem, Chance,” says Noah.

“The thing is I don’t want him to get hurt. Trust me, they are not good. Pretty soon, they’ll start trying to book gigs. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. Eddie really thinks a bunch of 40-plus men are going to be the next rock gods.” Chance grabs the wine bottle again to start on his fifth glass. “And then when it falls flat…it will somehow be my fault—that I wasn’t supportive enough. It’s just a can of worms, Noah, that I would rather not open.”

Ricky snatches the wine bottle from Chance and swigs the inch of wine remaining. “Then tell them they suck already. No need to turn into a drunk over it.”

“I know, right?” says Alex. “If Trey call himself making some shitty ass music, I’d let his ass know in a minute. Communication, people! Damn, do I gotta school y’all on everything?”

“That’s easier said than done, Alex, " says Chance. "Eddie says this is his dream. I can’t just go up to him and say, ‘Eddie, your band sucks.’ I tried that once, and he slapped me.” Chance quickly covers his mouth.

“SLAPPED?” says Noah, Ricky and Alex, in unison.

Chance takes a deep breath. “Calm down," he says.  "It was harmless.”

“Unh-Uh, bitch. When did this happen?” asks Alex.

Chance stands up, takes the empty bottle from Ricky, and heads for the kitchen. “At Martha’s Vineyard. But, look, we worked through that. Seriously. Alex, don’t make a big deal about this.”

Alex follows Chance to the kitchen. “Chile, let me had seen that shit pop off…OOH! Eddie knows better than to pull that shit!”

“It was just an emotional knee-jerk, Alex,” Chance says, pushing the kitchen door open. “They're very powerful. Humans are the most violent and emotional beings on Earth….”

Noah quickly closes his laptop and gets up to join them, but Ricky stops him by grabbing his wrist. “Still can’t be alone with me?” Ricky asks, smiling.

Ten Seconds
“10. 9. 8. 7,” counts Alex and Chance, standing behind the kitchen door. When they reach 1, they both step back. The door swings open, and in walks Noah.

“Hey, I thought I’d join you guys,” says Noah, walking past Alex and Chance. “I just can’t write another word,” he says, sitting on a stool at the kitchen island.

“Umm-hmm,” says Alex, cutting a look to Chance. Chance raises an eyebrow and nods.

Ricky pushes open the kitchen door. “I‘m jetting,” he says. His brows furrow and his jaw clenches.

“What?” asks Chance. “I was just about to order dinner.”

“I’m meeting this hot fuck tonight." Ricky smiles.  "A thugged-out chocolate brotha with an ass you can bounce a quarter off.”  He glances over at Noah, who refuses to look at him. He swallows. “Okay, yeah. Later, hens."

“Bitch, don’t forget we’re taking Brandon to see a movie tomorr…” Alex calls after Ricky. Before Alex finishes, Chance’s front door slams. Alex smacks his lips, and waves his hand at the swinging kitchen door. “Ricky ain’t got time for nobody but Ricky.”

“Ooh, I think it’s so cool you two are playing Big Gay Brother to Brandon,” says Noah.

“You mean I’m playing Big Gay Brother to Brandon, ‘cause that hoeish bitch done canceled more shows than NBC. And when he does show up, they can’t keep their hands off each other. Got my ass feeling like a damn chaperon.”

“Really?” asks Chance. “I thought Ricky was done with chicken.”

“Chance, please. A hoe is taking whatever the menu is offering,” says Alex.

“Sure, but it’s not the healthiest of situations; at least not for Brandon. I mean, coming out is a difficult process, there is so much to deal with, and having his heart trudged upon by the…the quintessential gay lothario can’t be good for his fragile psyche.”

Noah and Alex look at each other with a where-the-hell-did-that-come-from look, then back at Chance.

Chance shrugs. “What? I’m just saying.”

Alex chuckles. “Ricky ain’t thinking about no damn fragile psyche. And from the looks of things, neither is Brandon.”

“Guys,” Chance says, pulling open the menu drawer and shuffling through colorful delivery menus. “Can you imagine if we were in Brandon's situation at 19-years-old?”

“I can!” shouts Alex. “And I didn’t give one damn about my psyche.”

“Ugh, why do I even bother?” says Chance, locating the menu he was searching for. “Greek?” Alex and Noah nod.

“Hey, Alex, didn’t you say Brandon is so good with Oje?” asks Noah.

“Yes, he is. He’s over my house almost every weekend, but I don’t mind because I know exactly how it feels to be a gay teen with nobody giving one shit if you live or die.”

“Alex, you’re like a surrogate mother,” says Noah. “I think it’s marvelous.”

Alex leans on the counter, resting his chin on his knuckles. “So many young ones come into the clinic, and they are so destructive when they think no one gives a damn about them. They usually end up testing positive. It’s like they believe that if no one gives a damn about them why give a damn about themselves. I ain’t tryin’ to have that happen on my watch. I always say, you can’t save everybody, but you can save somebody.”

Chance pats Alex's back. “You’re a great man.”

“Ain’t I though? Watch out, Mother Theresa,” says Alex.

“Hey, speaking of watch,” Chance says, “Noah, you never told us what Wade was watching on his laptop.”

Noah taps his fingers on the counter, bites his lower lip, hesitates for a second, then starts. “I think he…”

“Spit it out, gir,” says Alex.

“I think…okay, I think he was watching straight porn.”

After a brief pause, Alex says, “Boy, please,” and gives Noah a light shove.

“Why on earth would you think that?” asks Chance.

“It’s just I can’t shake the feeling that Wade isn’t completely over that part of himself.”

Alex sits down next to Noah. He grabs Noah by the shoulders and turns him to face him. “Noah, booboo, Wade dated another man after y’all broke up. Don’t you think he would’ve gone back to the orange roughy if he was still straight?”

“Alex is right,” says Chance.

“See, that’s the thing, guys. If you were once something, aren’t you always a little bit of that, regardless? Like an alcoholic is always an alcoholic, right? They’re just not indulging the addiction.”

Chance sighs. “It doesn’t work like that, Noah. Wade probably was never straight. People do lie to be accepted by society, especially black men. Down-low ring a bell?”

“I guess.”

“What you need to do is make sure he wasn’t looking at another guy on the Internet,” says Chance. “I read somewhere that something like 70% of gay men meet their hookups online.”

“Ooh, bitch, you better nip it, zip it, and clip it before it gets out of hand. You know me and Trey had that little issue with the Internet. Had my black ass online showing off the Devil’s Food and er’thang.”

Chance and Noah gasps.

Alex stands up. “What?” Turning around and patting his ass he says, “You know a bitch got cakes.”

Noah cell phones rings. He checks the number. “Guys, this is Brandy. I’ll take it in the living room.”

Alex scrunches up his face, turns and faces Chance, and says, “Fuck all that. What I wanna know is why them two bitches can’t be alone in a room for more than ten seconds. If I didn't know better, I’d say something is definitely the T.”

Chance nods. “Definitely.”

That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be
“My father sits at night with no lights on
His cigarette glows in the dark.
The living room is still;
I walk by, no remark.”

Noah sits on the living room floor, in the dark, immersed in his fourth hour of writing. He hears Wade’s keys opening the front door. He shuts down Final Draft and closes his laptop. Wade comes in, pauses in front of him for a second, then walks past him without saying a word. Noah jumps when the bathroom door slams shut. He takes a deep breath, opens his laptop and starts up Final Draft again.

“I tiptoe past the master bedroom where
My mother reads her magazines.
I hear her call sweet dreams,
But I forgot how to dream.”

Relaxing in his home office, reading the New Yorker, Chance cringes at the jarring sound of Eddie tuning his old guitar just outside his office door. Eddie then joins the rest of Lead Parasol Redux in the basement. A few moments later, the band kicks into a sonic butchering of Edgar Allen Poe’s “Dreams.” As the terrible music pumps through the vents, Chance bites his knuckles to keep from screaming. Before he even realizes it, he is screaming.

“My friends from college they're all married now;
They have their houses and their lawns.
They have their silent noons,
Tearful nights, angry dawns.”

Ricky has his thugged-out chocolate brotha bent over the arm of his chocolate brown sofa, thrusting away into his ass. His hard-on is deflating faster than a needle-pricked balloon. Sweat runs off his forehead into his eyes, stinging them. He’s afraid to close his eyes because he doesn’t want to see the beautiful face that looks back at him. He would see those doe eyes, the beautiful lips, the soft hair. He wipes his forehead and thrusts harder and harder until the chocolate brotha pushes him away. “Man, this ain’t working; you're not even hard.” says the brotha, grabbing his clothes off the floor. “Call me when you can really hang.”

Ricky collapses on the sofa, breathing hard. He grabs a baby blue colored pillow and gives it a hard punch.

“You say that we can keep our love alive
Babe - all I know is what I see
The couples cling and claw
And drown in love's debris.
You say we'll soar like two birds through the clouds,
But soon you'll cage me on your shelf -
I'll never learn to be just me first
By myself.”

After his shower, Wade stands at the top of the stairs, listening to Noah still typing. He starts to yell goodnight, but he stops himself. He decides to spend the night in the guest bedroom. He pulls the sheets back and climbs into the cold bed. He situates his laptop, then reaches under the bed and grabs a bottle of lotion. He turns off the lights and slips under the covers.

“Well O.K., it's time we moved in together
And raised a family of our own, you and me -
Well, that's the way I've always heard it should be,
You want to marry me, we'll marry,
We'll marry.”

- (noahsarcfanfiction @ gmail . com)

Lyrics used in this work belong to Carly Simon, and are used without permission. Removal by request will be honored immediately