Title: Technical Details
Author: Romana Clef (romana1987@yahoo.com)
Archiving: Wherever (but let me know so I can visit)
Rating: some parts nc-17
Disclaimers: As if!
Summary: Josh/Sam. Some memories are better off forgotten.

)()()()()()()(

Technical Details by Romana Clef

"Bye, Sam. Don't have too much fun."

"See ya, Josh," he said with a wave, and then Sam Seaborn was off for
another evening with Mallory O'Brian -- who, in Josh's opinion, was a
rather undistinguished young woman. Even bland, you might say.

Now, Laurie -- she was certainly _interesting_. But she was also a
maneater. A freakin' Amazon succubus. And Lisa... Ugh, don't even
let me get started on Lisa, Josh thought.

What was Sam's problem? The man had the face of a matinee idol, the
body of a Greek god, and charm and sophistication to spare... So why
did he date such losers?

Not that Josh's own romantic track record was anything to brag about,
but then, he was just Josh Lyman. No more or less attractive or
charming than any other hired political brainpower on Capitol Hill.
A geek god, maybe, but no Greek god.

Fitful rain spat from the sky as Josh hurried to the Metro. The
classifieds section of the Washington Post was the only umbrella he
had. Traffic on the Red Line was always thinned out by this late in
the evening; he had his pick of seats on the train. His damp pant
legs clung to his calves.

What woman would be good enough for Sam? Josh tried to picture this
paragon of feminine virtues: her face, her laugh, her style, her
conversation... But he couldn't fix the image in his mind. She just
kept changing, nothing but a parade of Josh's own memories. Random
moments when he'd been smitten with some girl, or some woman, and
something she said or did, some way she held her head or some light
on her hair, had just cut him to the heart and overwhelmed him with
reverence. But every moment like that was tainted by whatever
humiliation or betrayal had ended the relationship. (And Josh had to
admit that a fair number of those betrayals had been his doing, not
hers, but that almost made them worse to think about. Guilt is
really fun.)

The train came to Dupont Circle. Josh climbed the endless escalator
-- his only concession to physical fitnness. It was still raining
when he emerged at the top.

)()()()()()()()()()()(

Back at his apartment, Josh changed into sweats and a t-shirt. He
left his damp suit in a heap on a chair.

Sometimes when the night was dark enough and the weather was shitty
enough, Josh would find himself admitting that part of his obsession
with Sam's lovelife came from possessiveness. Once, for a fleeting
moment, Josh had possessed Sam. (Or been possessed by him. What's
the difference, really?)

Sometimes it was hard for him to remember that party clearly. So
many years later, he wasn't sure if he was still remembering what
really happened, or just a facsimile that his mind had put together
from plausible-sounding details. Getting drunk usually helped. Josh
had dated a psychologist for a while (a really bad idea) and she had
called it "state-dependent memory". If something happened while you
were drunk, you could recall it more clearly if you were drunk while
remembering.

So Josh got the Stoli out of the freezer and made himself a vodka
tonic -- on the weak side, naturally. He headed for the livingroom,
drink in hand, and then something made him stop and really look at
the drink he had automatically made. A highball glass, part of a
matching set purchased at Crate & Barrel. Expensive vodka. A
fucking twist of lime, for chrissake. When had he become such an
effete bastard? This was not how he and Sam used to drink, back in
school.

He sank into the corner of the couch. The bitter citrus vanilla of
the drink perfumed his tongue and burned his throat. He closed his
eyes and tried to call up the vision of the party. A cold March
night, Spring Break of their first year in law school....

)()()()()()()()(

"Why can't I get just one screw?
Why can't I get just one screw?
Believe me I'd know what to do,
But something won't let me make love to you..."

A press of drunk coeds, their faces rosy and drinks sloshing in their
hands, were jumping up and down in time to the music. The entire
first floor of the house was too crowded to allow any dancing other
than a pogo hop. The girls' voices were uninhibited as they sang
along. "Why can't I get just one fuck?" they were yelling in the
next verse, and then giggling at their wickedness. Safe to say that
any of them who wanted one fuck -- or more -- would not come away
from this party disappointed.

All the windows were open, but the house was alive with heat and
noise anyway. The common partiers were drinking Kool-Aid and cheap
vodka, or piss-water beer from the keg, but Derek, their host, had
brought out a bottle of Jaegermeister for his special friends. They
were huddled in a corner of the dining room: Derek, Josh, Sam, Will,
DeShawn, and Kent. Sometimes someone would look over their shoulders
and see what they had in their shot glasses, and ask to get in on the
good stuff. They were told to piss off -- unless they were a cute
girl.

Nobody noticed (or maybe nobody cared) that Josh took four or five
sips to finish each shot, and was now about four shots behind the
rest of the guys.

Their eyes were glassy with drink, their tongues free, their
imaginations fervid. They were gods for an evening.

"No, _Kent_ is the man," DeShawn was saying. "I'm gonna start
calling him 'Pike' in public."

"Sorry, but I, _I_ am the man," Derek objected. "I got testimonials
from women of all ages to prove it. Women who oughta know. I _am_
the most well-hung man at this party."

"In your dreams!" Kent yelled. "Say it, don't spray it," Josh
thought, and giggled. Nobody noticed.

"Oh yeah? You willing to put that fabled dick on the line? You
willing to see how you measure up?"

"Bring it on," Kent boasted. "We'll see who's the real man, and
who's the runner-up."

"Wait a sec, wait a sec. How do we know Derek's even number two?
Maybe he's way down on the list. Maybe he's totally delusional. How
are we going to know unless we all drop trou?" This was Sam, with a
wicked grin. Then he licked his lips.

Josh's senses were hazed, _real_ hazed by this point, but he saw the
tongue. He saw the lips. Thunder filled his ears, and he saw that
little motion again. Only slow. The tongue... the lips...

When he snapped out of it, the guys were laughing. They were barely
sitting on the edge of their seats; they were amped up by their
daring. "Josh, you in?" he heard someone say.

"No! No. You, uhh, you need someone impartial to do the measuring."

"Alright!" Kent clapped him on the shoulder.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

What had he just gotten himself into....

)()()()()()()(

"Basement?" Sam asked, suddenly the ringleader now.

"Basement," Derek agreed.

The guys filed through the kitchen, wedging their way between the close-packed bodies. The look of guilty excitement on someone's face must have given someone the wrong impression: "Hey, you're going to go smoke pot!" a classmate yelled. Everyone in the kitchen turned to look at the six of them.

"Nah, we're just ditching our dates. Even beer goggles don't help, man," Kent made a face. The on-lookers laughed and returned to the pursuit of their own pleasures.

The contestants snuck down the back stairs. If something so clumsy could be called sneaking. DeShawn covered half the stairs on his ass. More breathless laughter ensued, until they were all finally arrayed in a tight circle under the bare bulb of the basement light.

"So how are we gonna do this?" Derek asked, putting his hands on his hips and rocking back and forth with a sort of swagger. Everyone cracked up again. Josh hoped he looked like he was laughing, too. Inside he was still panicking.

"Everyone knows the only size that really counts is the size when you're ready for action," Kent said. "Sorry, dudes, that's just how it is."

They contemplated this for a moment. Then, "Marcie!" Will bellowed up toward the ceiling, before Kent leapt across the circle and clapped a hand over his mouth. Kent had gone out with Marcie a few times. Kent had told the guys about her willingness to strip. Kent was not a gentleman.

 

"No, we'll just have to use our imaginations. You _can_ all use your imaginations, can't you?" Sam said, and Josh could swear that Sam said it right to him. He'd been trying to inch out of the circle, hoping that in their state of alcoholic blitz the other guys would forget about him, but now he was pinned by Sam Seaborn's burning blue eyes. Sam's eyes were daring him.

Sam's eyes were asking him to stay. Sam's eyes made a quick trip down Josh's body, and returned to meet his gaze again. It was Josh who chickened out and looked away, before he'd had a chance to explore even a fraction of what might have been in that gaze.

"Tape measure. I'll need a tape measure," Josh mumbled, and fled up the stairs.

"Drawer next to the stove!" Derek yelled.

The party hit him like a slap when he opened the basement door. "The city is restless, ready to pounce, and we're in your bed going ounce for ounce. Don't shoot shoot shoot that thing at me, don't shoot shoot shoot that thing at me..." The girls were still screaming along with the blaring music. He couldn't move without touching people. They were packed so tight. Their voices were rising and falling. The kitchen started spinning, but there was no room for him to fall. People's shoulders held him up until he made it to the fridge. He slumped against it with his eyes closed.

Sam Seaborn. Sam Seaborn licking his lips. Sam Seaborn thinking about sex. Sam Seaborn waiting for Josh to go back downstairs and measure his cock.

(God! He was going to have a fucking heart attack right here in the kitchen, and no one was going to realize until tomorrow that he wasn't just passed out drunk.)

Sam Seaborn of pale gold skin and wicked eyes. Of sculpted shoulders and clever hands...

Drunk. He was drunk, drunk, so drunk. He had thought he was more sober than the guys downstairs, half of whom were probably too drunk to find their dick in their pants, but clearly that was a misapprehension. He began to struggle through the crowd toward the livingroom and the front door.

Sam was his friend. Sam was his housemate. Sam was the smartest guy in his class, someone he enjoyed debating with. Not someone he imagined going down on. Not someone whose neck he wanted to bite, not someone he wanted to grind his hips against, not someone he imagined moaning in his ear...

He only made it as far as the stove.

He got the tape measure. He fought his way back to the basement door. He prayed to God this wasn't going to turn ugly...

)()()()()()()(

This time it was Josh who covered most of the stairs on his ass. No one noticed his skid -- everyone was watching Sam and Will.

"Stop making me laugh!" Will protested, then gave Sam a playful shove. "If I laugh, I'll lose the wood!"

"Oh, I'll make you laugh," Sam said, pretending to dance and feint like a boxer. "Just try not laugh. I dare you."

They were both already laughing so hard they could hardly breath. Josh felt like an idiot. Yeah, Sam had really missed him. Sam's wild glee and daring weren't meant for him, or at least, not for him in particular. Sam was wasted, horny, and wanted to break some rules. Josh was just there.

Finally DeShawn spotted him there on the stairs. "Here come the judge!" he yelled. Everyone turned to look at Josh.

Fuck it. If you're going to do it, Josh, just do it. Do it with some style.

He was falling under the spell. The music from upstairs was throbbing in his bones. He descended the last few stairs.

He was floating.

He was one of the guys.

He was grinning like crazy.

"Yes, gentlemen, it's D-Day. That's a capital D and that stands for 'dick', and that rhymes with..." he paused –

"--Prick!" Will called out.

"That's not how the song goes," Kent objected.

"No shit, Sherlock. There are no songs about pricks in the 'The Music Man'," continued Josh, stretching out the cloth measuring tape and snapping it between his hands. "Be that as it may, I am here to judge the family jewels, weigh the wedding tackle --"

"-- Wait, you're not going to actually _weigh_ anything, are you?" Kent asked.

"Kent, will you stop being so fucking literal-minded? I, like you, am completely shit-faced, and I'm having trouble coming up with synonyms for 'measure'. Now drop your pants, already!"

Josh didn't even know where these words were coming from. He was having a freaking out-of-body experience. He kind of liked it.

Things only got more surreal once the pants were down.

It was a living porno film. Five cocks of various colors, shapes, and states of attention, pointed straight at him. Five bleary-eyed guys trying to concentrate on the matter at hand. (No, not "at hand", Josh. Do not be thinking about the cocks and hands in the same sentence right now.)

He approached Derek, held out the tape, and stopped, confused. "What exactly do you want me to measure?"

"Yeah, it's so small he can't even find it!" jeered Will.

"No, idiot, I mean, what dimension? Length? Girth? Along the top? Along the bottom?"

"Length, of course."

"No, I think we should measure both," someone else contributed.

"Multiply length by width for total size!"

"Yeah, but how is Josh going to get width? The closest he can get is circumference. I'm not going to divide by pi in my head, and I'm not going upstairs for a calculator."

Josh just stood back, shaking his head. Trust a bunch of lawyers to get hung up in the technical details, even when their pants were around their ankles.

"JUST SHUT UP AND MEASURE ME!" Derek bellowed. "It's cold down here! I'm shrinking!"

Honestly, Josh couldn't remember much about the next part. It's probably because at the time he was trying so hard not to actually touch anyone, and not to look like he was looking. He didn't even look at Sam, he just hurried past with a quick flick of the tape measure and got the info he needed.

Kent "Pike" Harris was the clear winner, by any standard.

Looking back on that scene, all Josh could get now was a confused jumbled of images, no matter how much he drank. The damp cement chill of the basement, the warm, strangely stirring scent of the men around him... the incessant thumping of the speakers upstairs... And mixed into the jumble was a portrait of Sam's cock, in perfect lifelike detail. It tore through the other images, washed them away.

But Josh knew that he hadn't dared to really look at Sam then. That image was in his mind only because he got a much, much better look at it later that evening....

 

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