Out of the Closet and Under the Bed

Back to Other Stories

“Mylène’s back early,” J.F. whispered.

“Merde,” Marco whispered back. He couldn’t think of anything to add.

“Well, do something!” J.F. hissed.

“What?” Marco shot back.

From downstairs, through the closed bedroom door, a voice floated up. It was deep but still feminine: “Anyone home?”

J.F. ran a hand through his short, spiky brown hair. His brown eyes darted around the room. Normally, he sported a healthy tan, but at the moment he looked like he was made of pale cheese. “And,” Marco thought, hating himself for it, “he’s still a sexy bastard.”

“What should I do, J.F.?” Marco insisted.

Both men listened. Footsteps, the sound partially masked by carpeting – Mylène was coming up the stairs, presumably to the bedroom. Marco noticed that J.F. still had a semi.

“Hide!” came the whispered reply.

“Where?” Marco asked.

J.F. cast about frantically, then pointed to the closet. Marco frowned. This was a metaphorical irony that didn’t sit well with him. Then again, Mylène’s footsteps sounded closer. Now, he could hear faint, feminine humming. At a loss, he looked around himself – the room was familiar (as it should be, the number of times he’d been here with J.F.), but he’d never looked at it with this particular need in mind. Inspiration struck when he saw J.F. bent down to retrieve his underwear from where it had dropped near the bed. Just in time, Marco dropped down and crawled into the cramped space, dragging his own discarded clothes with him.

The door opened.

“Ah!” A startled cry. Marco saw high heels freeze in place near the room’s entrance. “I didn’t think anyone was here. Chéri, you’re not at work? And why are you undressed?”

Marco saw J.F.’s feet next to the bed. He repressed the urge to reach out and grab his lover’s toes.

“I came home early. Wasn’t feeling well. I took a nap,” he said. “I woke up when heard you come in.”

“Oh, pauvre petit, you are looking rather pale,” she cooed. “Are you very sick? Should I get you some warm milk so you’ll go back to sleep? Or soda crackers, maybe, for your tummy?”

Under the bed, Marco rolled his eyes. If Mylène launched into baby talk with J.F., he was going to lose his lunch. He hated when gay couples did that with each other, let alone breeders. Then again, he wondered, if J.F. slept with both Mylène and himself, did that mean that his lover and Mylène were still a straight couple? Or did that make them a somewhat bent triangle? Not that it mattered – baby talk was unacceptable under any circumstance.

Marco guessed that his lover was smiling nervously just by the sound of his voice: “Ça va, thanks. I had a bad headache. But I had a nap, and now I’m fine. Maybe I should just go back to work.”

“Non, don’t,” Mylène purred, and now Marco could hear a smile in her voice as well. “I think you should stay here. I’ve got the afternoon off, you took the afternoon off, and if you’re feeling well now, maybe we could…”

The high-heeled shoes had made their way over to J.F.’s bare feet and were now only inches away. Marco closed his eyes, not wanting to see anything, but then what was behind his closed lids was even worse: images of Mylène touching J.F., touching him there, where his own mouth had been only moments before. And, even worse, J.F. rising to the occasion… Silence and heavy breathing interrupted the vision. Oh God. They were kissing.

Soon, however, Marco’s preoccupations changed. It was dusty under the bed, he noticed. Very dusty, in fact. He was not alone under there – dozens of dust bunnies, of various shapes and sizes, were keeping him company. Marco shuddered. He was very allergic to dust.

He heard a zipper being drawn open. A moment later, a sheaf of black fabric fell to the floor. Then, a bra, and finally, the high heels were cast aside and a pair of grey cotton panties tumbled onto the heap. It was soon joined by a pair of boxer shorts, the same ones J.F. had put back on after they’d been so rudely interrupted. Marco longed to reach out and touch them. Instead, he remained still, hoping that they couldn’t hear him blinking and breathing under them as the bed creaked under their weight.

“It’s been a while,” Mylène said, above.

“Um,” J.F. replied.

“Not for him, honey,” Marco thought acidly. Then, quietly, imperceptibly (he hoped), he sniffed. He was beginning to worry. There was an awful lot of dust under here. If he knew himself, then in another minute, he would start to sneeze. Which would be disastrous. Mylène would never forgive J.F. if she found out about their affair. J.F. would never forgive him for being found out, which would mean no more affair. And Marco didn’t want to give J.F. up – the man was not only good looking; he had a mouth like a Hoover. Until Marco found himself a nice, steady boyfriend, his weekly trysts with J.F. were like heroin to an addict.

If only it weren’t for the dust… Marco sniffed again, feeling his nose beginning to run and prickle in earnest. Around him, the dust bunnies seemed to be laughing, beginning to dance around. Only it wasn’t entirely his imagination. From above, he could hear and feel bedsprings creaking, the movement stirring the musty air under the bed. He repressed a moment of anger, for he had to acknowledge, he was the one stealing J.F. away from Mylène, not the other way around.

“That nap must’ve done you a lot of good,” Mylène said. “You’re feeling frisky now.”

“Guess you got here at just the right time,” J.F. replied. “I apparently had sex on the brain.”

“Salaud,” Marco thought, wrinkling his nose. He really felt like sneezing now. It felt like a dust bunny had crept up there and was waving dusty little tendrils around, tickling the tender tissue inside his nose, making him want to sneeze it out. Of course, he didn’t dare.

“Ean-an-ois,” Mylène burbled. She sounded like her mouth was full. It made Marco want to retch.

The faint movement of the mattress overhead made the dust bunnies around him shimmy. Silently, Marco reached over and picked one up. He crushed it between his fingers with great satisfaction, imagining it letting out a high-pitched whine of pain. His throat was beginning to itch. He repressed the urge to cluck his tongue against the roof of his mouth, just pressing it there instead, swallowing hard. His vision was becoming more blurred as allergic tears formed. The pressure in his sinuses was mounting. He ached for the temporary relief of a good, hard sniff through his now rapidly closing passages.

“Mm… yeah…” J.F. groaned above. “Bébé…”

Marco wondered whom his lover was thinking of while Mylène busied herself just as he had been doing only minutes before. Suddenly, he felt deeply humiliated. Was any sex à la carte worth this kind of shame? Was he no better than a frightened rat, hiding under the bed, fearful of being discovered? He was, as it were, already caught in a trap. He opened his mouth to breathe through it. The dust bunnies, now stirring more visibly as the bed’s motion increased, seemed to be mocking him, showing him just how pathetic he was. A good sneeze would show them, Marco thought – blow them all away. He was too distracted by the sudden flare up of a building sneeze to specify just who they were. He brought a hand to his face, massaging the bridge of his nose, trying to rub the itch away.

The gentle motions on the bed changed. There was a pause, a little giggle from Mylène, and then a loud creaking of springs as they shifted positions. In another moment, a rhythmic up-and-down motion made the mattress rock and the dust bunnies dance. Marco’s eyes widened. There were just so many of them. His allergies were already making it hard for him to breathe – would he be able to keep himself under control in the face of such an onslaught? He could feel traces of mucus mixed with dust trickling down his throat. He’d surely inhaled a good quantity already. He knew he’d been sneezing for days after this. Marco assured himself that he wouldn’t mind – as long as he could keep it down right then. As long as he could refrain from-

“Aaauunnnh…” a loud groan from J.F.

“Harder – I need –” Mylène, panting.

“So good…” J.F. again.

“Oh, mmm, oui, ohhh…” Mylène, again, high pitched and breathy.

The dust bunnies were having a regular party, twirling like debutantes. Marco was still as a statue, all of his energy focussed inward, fighting off a monstrous urge to sneeze. His face was frozen in a miserable rictus, his eyes streaming. His mind whirred frantically, a litany of “don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze” running through it. He stopped breathing entirely, but somehow that made it worse – there was nothing else to focus on except the brilliant, burning urge, lighting up his thoughts like a flare.

“Oh yeah, oh unnh, oh-oh-oh!” Mylène was fairly shouting now.

As though in slow motion, Marco slowly cupped his hands around his twitching face. He realised that like his lover’s wife, he too was edging towards to point of no return. “I tried, J.F.” he thought, as though his lover could hear his pathetic silent broadcast. He simply couldn’t help it – despite his best efforts, he would have to sneeze.

Overhead, he heard Mylène cry out: “I’m there, I’m there!”

J.F. gave enthusiastic grunts, his thrusts gaining speed and strengths, making the entire bed shake and groan.

A small hope flared: maybe, with all the noise they were making, the couple wouldn’t hear Marco sneeze. Only the problem was, he’d never learned how to stifle. Maybe it’d be quiet. Though for some reason, his sneezes tended to have a mind of their own. Like many things in his life, they were not quite within his control. Now, for example, there seemed to be small dust bunnies everywhere inside his head, twirling, tickling, brushing every available nerve ending, coalescing into one big, insistent, desperate need to sneeze.

Marco drew in a massive breath. His mouth gaped. All the pent up frustration, the burning need, the excruciating irritation, burst out of him in one gigantic rush: “Heh-heh-hah-HAH- HAAAEEEEIIIISSSSHHOOOOOOOO!”

It felt to Marco as if that sneeze would earn about 5.8 on the Richter scale.

Simultaneously, J.F. fairly screamed: “Oh God – Oh God – Oh God!” accompanied by a cacophony of groans and creaks from the bedsprings and small mewling noises from Mylène. Marco felt a weak rush of relief.

Then, everything went quiet.

“Did you hear something?” Mylène asked after an interminable pause.

“Non,” J.F. replied, too quickly. “Nothing at all.”

And then, Marco couldn’t help himself: his head reared back in the gloom, dust bunnies sticking to his hair and wet cheeks. He couldn’t even think about stopping it this time – he exploded again:

“HAEEEEIIIIISSSSSSSHHHHOOOOO!”

There wasn’t a sound in the room except for his own ragged, clogged breathing.

Suddenly, a face appeared at the gap between the floor and the bed.

Marco didn’t know who was more startled: Mylène or himself.