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them to notice Tom and stop what they were doing.

    “Oh, hey,” Cal said, and Tom knew immediately that Cal was drunk. “This is… Sorry, what’s your name again?”

    “Barney,” the guy said, apparently not offended by the fact that Cal had forgotten his name.

    “Right, right. Like Neil Patrick Harris’s character on that show!” Cal snapped his fingers. “I can’t remember that either.”

    “ S’okay ,” Barney said. “I forgot your name too.”

    They laughed like that was hilarious and went back to kissing with a lot of tongue, their hands exploring each other’s bodies with a complete lack of inhibition. Tom, watching, frozen with embarrassment, thought with a detached part of his mind that it was like a documentary on the sex life of the octopus. When Cal deftly unzipped Barney’s jeans—complete with a designer label to underscore that they weren’t just any jeans—and shoved his hand down the front of them, Tom snapped out of it.

    “Could you take it upstairs?” he said, pitching his voice loud enough to get over the sound of the slurping.

    Barney turned his head, the sunglasses he’d shoved up to rest on top of it miraculously still in place. “That depends, honey. Is the bed big enough for three?”

    “What?” Tom was still holding on to the pencil he’d been writing with. He felt it against his palm—smooth, cylindrical—and became aware that he was gripping it tightly enough to hurt. He addressed Cal, not Barney. “I don’t know. Why, did you pick up two men on the flight?”

    “Why would he want to when he was sitting next to the hottest guy on it?” Barney said.

    Tom shook his head. Never argue with someone who was drunk. That was something he’d learned the hard way at college. “Whatever. The stairs are that way, and I’m sure Cal remembers where his room is.”

    “Yeah,” Cal said. “I think I can find it.” A look crossed his face that Tom couldn’t have translated; then Cal led his new friend up the stairs. One of them stumbled and cursed—Tom was uncharitable enough to be annoyed that neither of them seemed to be hurt—then, thankfully, there was the bang of Cal’s bedroom door closing.

    Unfortunately, it turned out the closed door wasn’t thick enough to contain the moans that followed nor the distinct, rhythmic squeak of Cal’s bed frame once things got a little more heated. Embarrassed, Tom fled to his own room, hoping that the change of location might help muffle things more effectively.
     
    It didn’t.

    “Yeah, like that, baby!” It wasn’t Cal’s voice, so it had to be Barney’s. Baby ? Seriously? If that was how the typical gay man talked while having sex, Tom was grateful he wasn’t the typical gay man. “God, yeah. Fuck me!”

    He could feel his cheeks heating and reached over to flip the button on his clock radio that would turn on his favorite local station. There, finally. He adjusted the volume up and lay back, looking down at his toes instead of at the ceiling. The worst song in the world would have been preferable right then.

    The faint squeaking of the bed continued for another ten minutes or so. There was a shout, and everything went quiet. Thank fuck for that.
     
    Tom exhaled, long and slow. So. Sex took as long as the time between commercial breaks. Good to know.

    He closed his eyes. He wasn’t hard, not from listening to that frankly pathetic display of rut. He felt like jerking off anyway, just to beat that time. Ten minutes? He could spin it out for an hour sometimes, just letting the feelings build, then taking his hand away, teasing himself mercilessly, the scenes behind his eyes unspooling in detailed, familiar fantasies that left him shaking, his cock rigid and slick between his fingers.
     
    Sex with someone wouldn’t be as good as that, couldn’t be. He could climax with his body left weak and trembling from the force of it, pleasure so intense it made the world go away, just for a moment.

    He didn’t