Kyle grits his teeth, holding the controller with outstretched arms as if thrusting the thing out in front of him would set off some sensor that was maybe plausible if not for the ancient condition of the Gamesphere. My hands rest comfortably on his tensed chest, relaxed and calm under his weight. His bright orange head shoots up without warning from its place on my shoulder, lithe body flinging itself down in frustration with nowhere for the force to go, except, of course, me.
And there went any chance of me ever having children.
I watch as Kyle's character is caught in the middle of a giant bloody explosion. His soldier gets blown into little gory bits of camouflage clothing, me having nonchalantly infiltrated his base and planted a bomb inside, him having unwittingly detonated the thing.
"Stan, you bastard!"
I shrug. "Dude. That was suicide, man." I 'suggest' my argument in a tentative way that makes sure he doesn't crack and kill me.
"Yeah? I put the bomb in there? Huh?"
I cringed underneath him, scared to death if not just a teensy bit about to come in my pants. "You set it off," I say feebly.
"Damn you, Stan!"
I press A to start the next level, deciding to let him win and save various body parts of being chopped off by way of machete. Fucking Kyle. What a crazy little hot shit.
We're both set back in our respective bases on different sides of the split screen. I fire randomly into the air, not even trying to injure him. Kyle's character is stalking me on the other half of the TV.
Oh my. There happens to be a bomb set to go off right next to me. Next to all my ammo. I halfheartedly search for one of the little first-aid kit things that increase your health. Kyle squirms in his spot curled up against me, turning his head to glare daggers at me.
"What the fuck, Stan."
God have mercy! What could it possibly be now? Not like I ever do anything wrong, of course!
"Stan," he says hotly, teeth clenching and audibly grinding together. "Your belt is killing my back. It's driving me the fuck crazy. Do something."
"'M not wearing a belt," I muse, flicking and pressing controls in search of that elusive health pack. Medal of Honor is a bitch to win.
"Then what is that, your fucking---"
He exhales loudly, tensely rolling over so that he's on his hands and knees over me, absolutely fuming. I don't know how someone can get this worked up over a stupid videogame. I consider telling him that he looks adorable when he's pissed off out of his little angry mind, but that would score any Super Best Friend points, not today.
He looks accusingly from my face to my crotch, increasingly scandalized with each downward glance. Highly unimpressed, his pretty eyes lock unforgiving on my face, flushed with embarrassment, and he speaks in a deadly tone.
"You'd better be fucking kidding me, Marsh."
Uh-oh. There goes the last-name-calling. That, in Kyle speak, translates into 'you're screwed, buddy boy.' He gon' shank yo ass.
"You---better---have---a good---fucking---reason---for me---in---three---seconds."
His teeth are gritted and gnashing, eyes narrowed. This kid has one hell of a temper.
Thinking carefully, I decide that I have nothing to lose (save maybe my life and reproductive organs) so I might as well just…not even try. Kyle always wins, and there will be hell to pay for whoever he loses to.
"Three. Two. One."
"Well," I explain, laughing nervously. "That's…my hairbrush."
"Stanley fucking Marsh! That is not a hairbrush! Or any other plastic item! Asshole!"
I raise an eyebrow in feigned innocence. "Why, it's just the stuff in my pocket!"
"That, Mr. Marsh, is a dick!"
"I beg to differ."
Kyle looks ready to implode. I can't fathom as to how I remain so calm in the presence of a violent red-headed maniac, but I just kind of laugh and keep talking.
"You're such a retard!" Kyle exhales tersely. "Oh my gosh!"
"PENIS!" He yells, pointing at the named object.
I refrain from busting out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation: Kyle clutching a Gamesphere controller and yelling 'penis' at me, me trapped underneath him and his rage with a raging erection and nothing left to say.
Except, maybe, "Hairbrush," I reply calmly, watching his reddened face grow reddened-er.
"No way! Fag!" He brings himself to his knees so he can cross his arms in defiance.
"Then it's a freaking hairbrush for all you know."
He looks like he's going to say something but doesn't, roughly pushing up my blue---yes, you guessed it--t-shirt. I shudder, the ridiculously kinky part of me enthralled by his forwardness. With angry haste and a determination to be right, he unzips my tighter-than-they-usually-are-tighter-than-tight-tight-as-fuck-jeans, yanking them down to my knees. And he narrows his pretty fucking green eyes.
"I sure don't keep any hairbrushes in my underpants, Stan."
Kyle becomes noticeably less stiff and angry, namely because he's winning now. He pulls those down too, if violently, and he smirks.
"Interesting hairbrush you've got there."
"It is," I say stubbornly.
He reaches a hand forward, unbelievably, roughly jacking me off and grinning like a madman. I faintly hear the controller clack to the floor, deafened by the blood rushing past my ears, eyes squeezing shut and hips rolling up into his curled fingers. I moan softly, legs spreading provocatively and body pressing forward. I know Kyle will stop any moment and want more, enjoying the attention while I can.
He smirks menacingly, sliding his hand away and leaning down to kiss me chastely on the lips before sliding off the couch. I assume (stupidly) that he's off to get lube or something, but instead he just picks up the stupid controller off the floor and resumes the game. "I have characters to unlock," he says stiffly as if in response to my undignified gawking.
Mouth hanging open limply, pants caught around my knees, I practically run into Kyle's bathroom, slamming the door closed and leaning against it. As if instinctively, my familiar palm wraps around my throbbing cock, stroking in desperation as I close my eyes too see that image of Kyle's pissed off smirking face when he was doing the same as I am.
I practically come all over myself in seconds, whining quietly and standing there for a moment. I can't even process what's just happened.
I guess it's just that Kyle and I were playing videogames, he realized that my dick had been sticking into his back his entire life, and we argued about whether it was the obvious, and then he went ahead and touched it. What? And then he stopped and played Medal of Honor some more and I went and jerked off because I was so achingly turned on that I was about to just do it then and there? God. Kyle.
There's a knock on the door, and Kyle walks in before I can answer, sceptically sizing me up. I blush furiously at what I must look like, incriminating sperm cooling over my dick and thighs. In a stroke of luck---no, a miracle---no, a sign that the world itself is ending, Kyle slowly lowers himself to his knees, grinning up at my hardening cock---a sure sign that there will be hell to pay.
"My hair was messed up," he tells me seriously. "I need to brush it."
I reach down and ruffle the fiery curls as I step forward so his lips are touching my thigh. "That's what a hairbrush is for."