Why Walk When You Can Fly?

"One foot up on the dash, the other on the gass. One hand on the steering wheel, the other clenching a bottle of...what is that?" Mark Calloway asked his lover, squinting through the sunlight at his hand.
Jeff picked up his jug of juice by the rim of it's bottle, "Orange/kiwi/mango." Then he took a long drink from it, and turned back to Mark, "I'd love to hear how this sentence ends."
"I don't think it has an ending. I'm marveling at the way you drive." Mark explained, folding the dusty road map up and shoving it back into the glove compartment. He cursed quietly, having trouble with the latch. Jeff reached over, letting go of his juice, allowing it to settle between the gear shift and the bucket seats, and latching the compartment. He had just enough time to return his hands to the wheel before being cut off by a yippie in a Civic, then began to scream invective at oblivious business man.

Mark smiled fondly at him. The boy knew no fear.

It was at that moment that his misgivings about spending a long period of time traveling with Jeff Hardy by car vanished. Usually, it was the two of them on his custom Harley; with Mark firmly in control of the bike. He shivered, missing the pulsing grip of Jeff's thighs clenching his own as they puttered over the highway.

They had traded Jeff's brother Matt the bike for his huge, beat-up, green station wagon back in Dighton a few hours earlier. Matt wanted to use it transport himself and his fiancée, Amy, back down to North Carolina for their wedding. Jeff and Mark would follow them, leaving a respectable half-hour space between them so that the couple could have their privacy. Mark was apprehensive about letting his most prized possession go; he had designed and built the bike from scratch, painted it, and worked on it every Sunday, much to Jeff's disappointment. But he could sympathize with the romanticism of traveling the countryside on a hog and, frankly, he owed Matt and Amy his relationship with Jeff.

"I never get to see much of anything when I'm on the back of Harlot," He said, pushing his currently-violet and gold hair back. Harlot was Mark's nickname for the bike, "And if we fly, I'll see even less."
"I don't fit well into a car." Mark had informed his lover, Hefting blankets into the back of the wagon.
Jeff glanced up from neatly stacking their suitcases beside Mark's mountainous pile of sheets, pillows and blankets. A dazzling grin changed the contours of his face.
"You can ride with your head out the window," He teased.
Mark stopped fighting and caved with a smile. The close space could prove to be an advantage.

Hours later, as they crossed the Connecticut boarder and tried to make it out of New York, Mark rubbed his sore neck. He sat with his neck at an odd angle, pressed against the headrest to maximize what little comfort he had. Being two inches taller sitting down then the cab was a recurring problem for him. It was why he preferred his bike. But the pain was worth it.

He would do anything for Jeff. The boy had his heart.

The object of his affection started to hum to himself, his left hand rising to mop some sweat from his forehead. Jeff wore the blue bandanna Mark had given him for a four-month anniversary gift, and it, like Marks' own identical cloth, was saturated with sweat.

"Matty loves the heat," Jeff spoke suddenly, "That's why he picked July. He and Amy met at a Fourth of July picnic, you know. Poor Amy's going to have to be married in pasties so that she doesn't faint!"
Mark chuckled; Jeff shuddered visibly from the sound. He felt as if he had been endowed with an extra set of fibers inside of his ear especially equipped to enjoy the rumble of his lover's voice. In many ways, they were built to be with each other. He glanced at Mark's face in the hanging mirror, "Can you turn the radio on, Lover?"
Mark reached over and fiddled with the tiny knob, and the tiny unit crackled to life. Mark felt fortunate to have this small luxury in the ancient wagon. He winced as Jerry Falwell's voice spewed venom through the speaker before he could twist the knob again. Somehow, he managed to discover a modern station that came in clearly.
Jeff smiled again as he recognized a song. Mark groaned as Christina Agulliera's voice wailed through the speakers.
"The Genie song again?" He grumbled.
Jeff shook his head, "You've got to broaden your taste, baby." He said, wiggling a bit in the seat.
"I can live without a steady diet of teenyboppers, thank you." Mark intoned.
"It makes me feel sexy," Jeff sighed.
Mark licked his lips and placed his hand on Jeff's thighs, only to be slapped away.
"Not that sexy," Jeff scolded, "And not while I'm driving."
Mark grunted, withdrawing back into his own seat. In all the time they had been together, this was the only version of the act that Jeff had ever refused him. He had a good reason to do it; on their fourth date, he recounted a what had happened to a high school friend of his:
"His girlfriend was giving him head as they were driving into the mall parking lot," Jeff had explained, "He was rather lost in the moment...and unfortunately he didn't see the speed bumps in front of him." He made a snipping motion, "She bit down from the shock and half of him disappeared down her throat permanently."

Mark tried to convince Jeff that he knew how to properly muff his teeth in situations like that. After a year's trying, he still got nowhere.

An hour later the sun beat down on the roof of the car. Their stomachs seemed to grumble in unison, and, fortuitously, a rest area appeared on the horizon.

"Lunch!" They said together, and, laughing, Jeff pulled over.

Mark disembarked from the car and immediately began to stretch his aching muscles. Between his last match and sitting in the cramped car, he was dying for movement. He admired Jeff's arms and shoulders as he unlatched the cab door and pulled the ice chest forward. As he readied lunch, Mark took a sheet and carried it over the hilly, grassy land upon which the rest area had been made. He crossed the cement path that led from the parking lot to the Tourist Information building, nearly tripping over the potholed earth. Beneath a series of oaks that provided heavy shade, picnic tables sat. He spread the pink sheets upon which they had made love several nights before across the table. The once erotic object had been bleached to innocuousness making their sweet sins innocent once again.

He devoured Jeff's glorious body as he walked to him, then reached up and took most of the paper bags from Jeff's arms and laid the feast out between them.

It was a Matt Hardy special, Mark thought to himself. A thermos of canned Tomato soup kept in a paper sack away from the ice chest, doled out in plastic cups; ham and cheese sandwiches; carrot sticks and celery, wrapped up in foil and plunged into the icy cooler, and watermelon, previously cut into jagged slices with Mark's hunting knife. Matt had made the same meal for Jeff every for a school lunch and Jeff had learned to make it for himself. Mark was touched that Jeff would want to pass on his brother's nurturing to him, and he said so.

"It was nothing," He said, sipping thesoup from his cup, "I know that you can do better."
Mark was the admitted cook of their household.
"You've taken can take care of yourself for a very long time. If I ever go, you would be able to." Mark said, caressing Jeff's hand.
Jeff placed the hand in Mark's fist and squeezed, knowing it was a lie.

They ate at leisure, leaving a half-hour later. Jeff climbed behind the wheel once again, Mark allowing himself to become a misty-eyed sentimentalist to avoid boardom.

He had been raised a Hardcore Pentecost in Dallas, Texas in 1962. His childhood was very rough-and-tumble, filled with GI-Joes and toy soldiers. He was aggressive and assertive, but he has a quiet, affectionate, introspective side. And he was odd. Very odd, according to his teachers.

He soon discovered what his oddity was. After spending most of his teenaged years lusting after girls, on his sixteenth birthday his best friend took his virginity. It had been a very messy, very wild introduction to man-on-man sensuality, and by the time he had seduced a fellow classmate, he knew that he was gay. His one attempt with a woman, the homecomming queen, was quite a disaster. He'd never gone back.

Throughout College and his bouncing days, Mark allowed himself to experiment with everyone and everything that sprouted a cock between it's knees. He was fortunate enough to hit the peak of his sexuality during the late 70's and early 80's, when anything and everything went in bathhouses and clubs. He slowed down when AIDS broke, sweating his way through five years of testing before being presented with a clean bill of health. He had practiced just enough caution to survive. From that moment on, he was enormously greatful for his life and careful with his body.

Jeff had never known a sex act that didn't include a rubber sheath, Mark mused, watching his distracted lover in the waning sunlight. At least, until they had paired off.

They had met at a party Amy and Matt had thrown. He was altogether an enchanting picture of innocence that had beguiled Mark's senses, wearing one of Matt's extra suits, and plucking uncomfortably at the tie. Jeff had been attracted to him because he was the only other guy in the room who spoke Spanish with any sort of fluency besides his brother. For Jeff, it had been more than sex from the moment they touched. Mark had built on the foundation of desire. He had learned to want more after spending an hour talking to the rainbow-haired centurion.

Their first time had been in a hotel courtyard after a taping. They were both lust-crazed and bruised, drunken and needy. They came away with a deeper knowledge of each other. It had been an enrichment to their lives, more than a cheap thrill.

Four months after meeting, they moved in together. Matt was begrudgingly approving; by then he was happily tangled with Amy and looking to get his little brother settled. Jeff's father heartily approved of their couplehood; he was embarrassingly frank about their relationship.

They settled into a domestic routine too easily. But their relationship never lacked an excitement that fired Mark's blood.

He felt the car pull to a stop. He realized with a start that the sun had set; Jeff shut off the car and it's lights.

"It's 12," He said, pushing down the button on his glo-in-the-dark watch, "And we made Maryland."
Mark could scarcely believe it. He'd been driving for over twelve hours straight, but Jeff was nimble as ever as he sprung from his side of the car.

Mark dottering out of the car, hunched over and feeling ancient.

"I'll get supper," Jeff said, "There's a Burger King up the road. Four Whoppers?"
Mark nodded. Watching Jeff for the sparest moment, he bent to the task of fixing up the back of the wagon into a bed for the two of them, slathering himself in mosquito spray and setting portable lanterns up. He glanced quickly from side-to-side, ran for a spray of bushes, undressed, redressed, and scooted up on the air mattress inside of the car. He took his bandanna off, brushed his hair, and retied his hair in the bandanna. He needed a shower badly, but that would have to wait.

Jeff returned promptly with the food, and took a moment to devour Mark with his eyes. Mark smirked knowingly, and handed him his Pajama bottoms. He tried to sneak a peak over his burger as Jeff redressed himself.

"Thank you," He whispered while Mark continued to down his own dinner. Mark reached across the divide between them, brushing his lips teasingly with a French fry. Jeff smiled, nipping the fry from his hand.

"Tease," Jeff sighed.
"Always," Mark retorted, finishing the food and then emptying their leftovers into ta trash can.

Mark scooted up on the matters; he could almost entirely fit into the cab of the station wagon; lifting his knees, he managed to do so. Jeff pulled the station wagon's trunk door closed, banging his head and cursing. Mark pulled Jeff into his arms.

Jeff spooned himself cozily into Mark's front side. Mark's hand wandered southward, and Jeff's cock trembled and expanded.

"Mmmm..." Mark grinned, "Now that's more like..."
Jeff proceeded to let loose with a loud snore.
Mark groaned, releasing Jeff's sleep-induced arousal, "You're lucky, Nero," He muttered, calling Jeff by his middle name as he frequently did, "that I love you so much." And he pulled Jeff into the cradle of his arm and fell to sleep.



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