One unseasonably warm Saturday evening at the end of March, we decided to have a Mission Impossible film marathon—so we could ogle Tom Cruise—from the first one through the most recent. Dressed in nothing but shorts, we were on movie number three, drinking beer, when Brandon’s head suddenly dropped into my lap. Not that I minded.
We’d been adding little intimacies over the past few weeks. Things like a touch on the forearm, or a kiss on the nose. I was getting tired of jacking my d**k off every night, sometimes twice. At my age, I’d thought my libido would be slowing down. Maybe it was Brandon, but I was as horny today as I’d been as a teenager screwing Bobby Jones in the woods behind the park.
Brandon was a lightweight when it came to alcohol. He got tipsy after one bottle of Coors, whi
