Dinner at Fiorello’s by Rick R. Reed Page A

shorts, pulled them down, and kicked them away. He yanked his T-shirt off. Kade shoved the coffee table back, spilling Henry’s drink, to give Henry room to kneel.
    Henry dropped to his knees, and his mind went somewhere else, taken over by an onslaught of lust. He reached out gingerly and wrapped his hand around Kade’s cock. It jerked in his hand, and Henry almost expected a quick eruption of come at only his touch. He didn’t want that.
    He had other things in mind.
    He stroked his own cock almost absentmindedly as he leaned forward, thrusting his tongue out to lave a long line of spit on the underside of Kade’s cock. Kade moaned. Henry reached up to grab Kade’s hips and pull him closer. He swallowed down the cock, almost to Kade’s wheat-colored pubes. He didn’t gag this time. He began moving up and down while stroking himself at the same time.
    Kade grunted and grabbed ahold of Henry’s head, holding it still while he thrust into his mouth. Henry shut his eyes and pumped his own cock, matching the tempo of Kade’s thrusting.
    It took only a minute, maybe two, before Henry was rewarded with a mouthful of come. Greedy, he gulped it down.
    He sucked every drop from Kade’s deflating cock, then pulled away to look up at his friend and smile.
    But Kade was not looking at him. He was gazing toward the kitchen and frowning.
    “That what you wanted?” Henry asked. He looked down to see his own tan thighs, dripping with his seed.
    When had he come?
    Kade didn’t answer. He hurried from the room and headed in the direction of what Henry knew to be his bedroom. In seconds, he was back. He had pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and was holding a washcloth out in front of him. His expression, for lack of a better word, was pained. Or maybe the more apt word would be disgusted….
    “Here, clean yourself up.” He handed the rag to Henry. He still refused to look at him.
    Henry felt dirty. Shame rose up. He wanted to ask what he had done wrong but was afraid of what the answer would be.
    Hands shaking, Henry wiped the semen from his thighs, balls, and pubic hair. He handed it back to Kade, who didn’t take it but shook his head.
    “Just throw it on the floor,” he snapped.
    Embarrassment and guilt caused heat to rise to Henry’s cheeks. He pulled his shorts up and sat back down on the couch. Nervously, he picked up what was left of his drink and took a sip. Kade hurried away, and Henry jumped at the slam of his bedroom door.
    For a long while, Henry sat on the couch, waiting for Kade to return. After ten minutes with no Kade, Henry heard the sound of music blasting from Kade’s room. It was some of the ancient shit Kade adored, Led Zeppelin, maybe.
    Henry tried to swallow more of the drink Kade had made for him, hoping the alcohol would help stop the trembling in his limbs, but his throat wasn’t cooperating, refusing to let the liquid go down. Frustrated, he set the glass back on the coffee table and got up.
    He went and stood outside Kade’s door. Other than the loud strains of “Stairway to Heaven” as it reached its crescendo, the room was silent. There was no noise that might indicate Kade was moving around inside.
    Henry tapped lightly on the door and, when he got no response, rapped louder. “Kade?” he asked. He shouted louder when his friend didn’t answer.
    Finally, Kade’s voice, sounding broken—was he crying?—said simply, “I think it’s time for you to go home now.”
    “What? Why? You invited me over, man.”
    “Just go. I don’t feel so good.”
    Henry stood outside the door, wondering what else he could say. He couldn’t really argue. He’d been asked to leave and told his host was ill. Henry had been raised too politely to not simply comply.
    He turned to go, then called over his shoulder, “Call me when you feel better, okay?”
    Kade didn’t answer, and Henry was sure it was because they were back in the silent zone. Henry waited a few minutes, hoping against hope that