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Stan is above this. He truly is. He’s aware of the intricacies of why exactly doing this is wrong, yet through loneliness, curiousity, and shame he’s found himself here. Inside a motel, waiting for a male prostitute to arrive.
Sex worker— sorry. Prostitute is offensive, for some reason neither Stan nor (he assumes) the prostitutes would understand. He stares at the peeling eggshell wallpaper, and ponders on the dreadful possibility that the man who walks through that door may not be a ‘man’ as Stan was raised to know—- a walking stereotype with a cropped shirt and a feminine lisp. He supposes that’s the majority of male sex workers. The typical ‘fag’ who Stan had grown up with a quiet hatred for as a projection from his own insecurities, a hatred he’d only just begun trying to undo. He doesn’t want a big, strong man, either. Through his limited understanding of gay sex (porn), he knows that these are the two types of men you can be. Young, barely legal, skinny, feminine, twinky bottom. Big, old, fat-cocked, masculine, hunky top. Stan is aware of his dad-bod, of the wrinkles that paint his boring story across his skin. He’s pretty certain he’s the second.
He’d asked for the hooker to be around his age, deadly uncomfortable with the concept of fucking a boy only ten or so years older than his oldest son. He shivers at the concept, one of those intrusive, awful thoughts that pops into his brain only to torture him, make his eyes squeeze shut and his grip on his whiskey glass tighten. He takes a sip and wants a cigarette.
Why is he here? Where to begin? He’s in the process of an awful divorce, is the biggest one. He has the money. He can’t be bothered going on Grindr or whatever other app gays use, this is easier. It’s straightfoward. Fuck, pay, bye-bye. He doesn’t have to know the guy. He isn’t interested in knowing the guy, the pleasure of the entire encounter is the absence of beating around the bush.
It will be his first time with a guy, intimately. He’s 43 and he hasn’t explored the other half of his identity. Jesus Christ, he’s pathetic.
Of all things, he thinks of his wife. She’s a pretty woman, younger than him by 7 years, not that it matters. He wonders what she would think of him, if she knew. She knows of his bisexuality, through an horrifying encounter where she found gay porn on his computer which ultimately lead to their divorce in the longrun. He remembers desperately searching for an explanation— ‘every guy gets curious!’ ‘It’s hard when we don’t make love to one another anymore!’ And she didn’t even pretend to not be disgusted. He gets it. She’s not homophobic, she’s just not too fond of the idea that the man she loves likes it up the ass. She’s homophobic in the way every straight person kind of is, which Stan realises doesn’t include him. He’s homophobic in a ‘denial’ kind of way. An ‘internalised’ kind of way, whatever that means.
There’s a knock at the door which makes Stan’s attention shoot up to it. He stands, checking his phone, which reads 9:30pm. The hooker is exactly on time.
Stan’s face is hot, and there’s a pit in his stomach. He can feel beads of sweat already formed around the back of his ears, and across the inners of his shoulder blades, the gross wetness of middle age coming out through nervousness. He’d been worried he’d have trouble maintaining an erection, something he’s not worried of in the slightest now, he’s already semi-hard, his cock pushing slightly against the fabric of his khakis from the rebellion of it all. Even if he knows his wife wouldn’t care anymore about infidelity, that she probably is fucking that pretty young assistant on the side, he still feels that cheaters rush. His hand quivers over the doorknob, gold and shiny. He can always back out. Pay the guy and leave. Yeah.
He opens the door, hand shaking and leaving pools of sweat on the poor knob. He refuses to match the gaze of whatever sad old twink is infront of him, head faced to his left, his vocal cords emitting a croaky and nervous, “Hey.”
He’s met with no response. His gaze flickers forward, looking down, expecting someone shorter than him, but having to look up. The face he sees looks dumbfounded, and he’s slightly taller than Stan. He has a light ginger beard, nice, soft eyes, and sharp features. It’s only when Stan catches a whiff of his scent, familiar and nostalgic and full of memories of late nights, video games, and cuddles they’d surely grown out of, with a new, underlying manliness it lacked in it’s youth, does Stan’s jaw unlock into agape shock as Kyle’s has.
Neither of them speak. A weak, “...Kyle?” crawls out of Stan’s chapped lips.
Of course, this is the way they’d reunite. The universe finds ways to punish Stan Marsh endlessly, shamelessly. Kyle looks a whole lot better than Stan does. His hair is neatly groomed, and whereas Stan has lines running across his forehead and the corners of his eyes, there are only the faint lines of what will become along Kyle’s soft skin.
“You were right about sunscreen,” he says, in his shocked state.
Apparently, it snaps Kyle out of his, because he guffaws with offense, the same way he used to as a kid. “Of-fucking-course I was right about—- Stan, what the fuck? We meet each other for the first time in 21 years and that's what you have to say to me? Why are you… dude, are you gay?”
“Are you?”
“ Yes!”
Stan steps back. “What—- since when?”
“Since forever, asshole! What the fuck!” his face is curled up into that familiar curl of anger, so familiar that Stan can’t pull the smile from his cheeks, and can’t stop the welling in his eyes. “Stan, are you laugh—- why are you crying?”
“I missed you!” he whimpers snottily.
“So much that you order me to ride your dick? What the fuck? Was this the only way you could think I’d speak to you—- Stan, stop crying, seriously.”
“I can’t! You’re all grown up! You have a beard!”
“Yes, I have a fucking beard, you’re— oh my god, Stan, you got fat. Did you have kids?” his eyes squint, examining his frame. “You’re married? You ordered a gay sex worker and you didn’t even take your ring off?”
Stan’s eyes squint through his tears to stare at his hands, big and hairy, and there it is— his wedding ring. He pulls it off, sniffs, and wipes his eyes. “You think I’m fat?”
“No, I— sorry. That was mean. I mean, I like dads… dad-bods. They’re hot. You look good. I mean— what the fuck? Why are you here?” He has his hands on his hips exasperatedly, and his face is red. He looks just as beautiful as when he was 17.
“I wanted to experiment,” Stan says dumbly.
“Of course you did.” Kyle holds his nose bridge in between his fingertips, shaking his head. “Okay. Okay. We can still… If you want. I’ll suck you off, or something. You deserve your money’s worth. Sorry.”
Stan stands in the doorway, still crying slightly. “Are you… are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I can see your boner, dude.” Stan blushes. “Okay, sit on the bed, take your pants off.”
Kyle pushes past him, and when Stan fails to follow his instructions, points to the bed, one hand on his hips, his foot tapping irritably. He hasn’t seen this guy since he was 21, and he’s being asked to sit down and let his dick be sucked like its nothing.
“I missed you,” he tries again, stupidly. “I’m sorry— for everything. I swear. I was a stupid, stupid kid. I— god, there’s so much I want to say to you. I missed you so much.”
Kyle looks away, then to his feet. “It— it doesn’t matter, I really don’t care anymore. Lets just get this over with, okay?”
Stan nods, weakly, sniffing. “You’re sure you want to? If you don’t, I can just pay you and le—”
“I want to, okay?” It comes out loud, defensive. Kyle’s still not meeting his gaze. “I want to.” Quieter, he adds, “I missed you too.”
Stan pulls off his shoes, and his khakis, and sits on the bed. When Kyle still taps his foot restlessly, he looks down at his hairy thighs. “Wait, like, my underwear, too?”
“Yes, your underwear. Do you not know how sex works?”
“Okay, Jesus.” He pulls them off, too, his cock still semi-hard, as Kyle mentioned. His arms move to pull his jacket off, too, but keep his shirt on. He’d prefer the gorgeous, lean adult version of his childhood best friend to not see his hairy chest and belly. He’d also prefer not to be completely naked while Kyle is fully dressed. Kyle pulls his expensive-looking leather coat off, folds it onto the grimy couch, and falls to his knees in front of him. Stan looks down, breathless at the situation, shocked and aroused. Kyle kisses softly along the thick head, eyes locked with Stan’s. He looks nervous, which is weird because he must do this a lot.
“Ah, shit, stop teasing.” Kyle pulls the head into his mouth, sucking softly, the wet warmth drawing a groan from Stan’s throat. Kyle’s hands find their way to the base, playing with his balls, jerking him softly, getting him fully hard. “Does this pay well?”
Kyle pulls off. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry. Just wondering. That’s a nice jacket.” He looks down, pressing his cock against Kyle’s cheek, the feeling of a beard against his penis foreign and weird. “Don’t stop, dude. It felt good.”
Kyle shakes his head, holds Stan’s cock up, and licks a long wet stripe along the base. Stan hisses, throwing his head back.
“Yeah, it pays good. Why do you think I do it?” He pulls him back into his mouth, bobbing his head slightly, and Stan gets a strange deja-vu from the teenage fantasies he definitely was not thinking about.
“ Ah, deeper, yeah,” Stan groans gutturally. “I don’t know. Aren’t you worried? Like, about diseases? I mean— oh god, so good, ah—- Like, you used to like, care about germs and stuff, and now for you to do this is—-” he cuts off into a low hum, Kyle pulling off to respond.
“Can you shut the fuck up? I make them wear protection—” he kisses the head softly— “Obviously. I’m very careful—” he takes him back in his mouth, Stan hissing loudly, hums around his cock, and pulls off, spitting into his hand and jerking him so he can speak. “—Yeah, you like that? I mean, obviously, this isn’t what I wanted to do with my life. Like, I went to uni, and all, I’m a smart guy, why am I sucking dick for some petty cash? And it’s weird, you know, like, that this is the career that is treating me the kindest. I enjoy this, genuinely. And it’s such a fucked system, and yes, I’ve had some bad experiences, but it really, really helps me stay afloat and keeps me happy and somehow gives me way less anxiety than when I worked in an office job.” He moves to suck on his balls— a different sensation, a different kind of pleasure. Stan nearly laughs, remembering Cartman and his childhood battle about the topic, wondering what he would think of him now. “Oh god, your dick is so big and thick dude. Always wanted to see it, back then. I love uncircumcised cocks, always makes me think of you, seriously. Are you close?”
Stan’s face is hot, and his eyes are half-lidded. “Uh-huh.”
Kyle stares at him, thinking. “Can I ride you?”
“ Please.”
“Okay, okay.”
Kyle moves backward, removing his shirt slowly, pulling it over his chest and revealing his hairy chest and soft stomach, hands moving down to his pants, pulling them down. Stan can’t make out whether he’s trying to be sexy for him or whether he’s just naturally sexy. When Stan sees Kyle’s cock, long and uncut, he flushes red with the possibility of that fucking him, making him submit to it, Kyle’s big hands pushed down his throat, silencing him so the rooms next to them can’t hear. Kyle also— Stan realises, has no pubic hair.
“Why do you have no pubes?”
“Ugh. It’s part of the job. The guy who gets me customers— it’s not like he’s my pimp, he’s nice, seriously, he doesn’t like my ginger pubes, so like, gets me waxing sessions. It hurts, but I like it, honestly. I feel less insecure. He gets me to wax my ass, too— look—-”
Stan stares as Kyle pulls his asscheeks apart, revealing a perfectly hairless asshole, pink and puckering. Everything that had previously grossed Stan out about anal seems to fall apart, the clean, pureness of Kyle so apparent. His mouth falls open, and he touches himself lightly. He also gets hit with jealousy, picturing some creepy guy analyzing Kyle’s genitalia to make sure it’s fuckable. The thought is kind of disgusting, kind of shamefully hot.
“Oh, fuck off,” Kyle scoffs at his expression, pulling what Stan assumes to be lube and a condom out of the pocket of his clothes. “Okay, lie down. I already fingered myself before.”
The idea of that— Kyle, bent over, pushing his fingers into himself, preparing himself for some stranger's cock sends Stan’s brain reeling even deeper into arousal. “Did he help you?”
“Who?” Kyle’s moved to the bed, pushing Stan down to lie on his back, straddling Stan’s thighs. The heat of their bodies together is too much—- Stan rocking his hips forward, the feeling of their dicks touching so strange and foreign.
“Your pimp.”
“He’s not my pimp. It’s not like that—” Kyle has shuffled down lower, his head infront of Stan’s erection. Stan can feel his cock slid inbetween his calves. He’s ripped the condom open, “Wanna see a trick?”
“Yeah, sure,” Stan cranes his neck, sitting up on his elbows. Kyle has the condom in his mouth, softly held inbetween his lips, and moves forward, in one, swift movement pushing the condom right down to the base without hands.
He pulls off, grinning lopsidedly, a longer strand of his ginger hair down on his forehead, an expression Stan hadn’t realised he’s missed. “Cool, right?”
Stan laughs into his hand. “Yeah, man. That’s awesome. You should be a magician.”
Kyle rolls his eyes, pouring lube onto his hands, and rubbing it on Stan’s cock.
“Yeah, yeah. I am. I’m a sex magician. I make sex magic,” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Stan laughs. God, he’s cute. “Here, I’m gonna make your penis disappear, look—”
He’s moved up to position himself above Stan’s cock, looking down at him, cock pink, hairless and needy flat against his stomach. Stan’s starting to like it more. His large hand has moved to cup Stan’s cheek, tapping him lightly. “You ready?”
Stan grunts out a ‘yeah’, and feels Kyle slowly press himself down onto him, his thumb pressing into Stan’s mouth, his other hand steadying his chest. When he’s bottomed out, he lets out this delicious whimper.
“Feel good?”
He nods, needily. Kyle starts to rock his hips, moving in a sort of practiced dance, his moans pornographic and Stan knows they’re fake but he still whimpers, truly involuntary, head thrown back. Kyle looks down at him, “Oh, yeah, that’s it, fall into it. That’s it, just let go… Good boy, good boy. God, look at you.”
Stan’s sure his face is a deep crimson, and he can feel the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. But somehow Kyle sounds like he’s impressed. He bucks his hips up into him.
“Oh, god, yeah,” Kyle works his hips faster, eyes tightened shut, head pointed up towards the ceiling. “Oh, yeah. Fuck me. Oh, god, daddy!”
Stan sits up to his elbows, making him stop, a disturbed expression on my face. “Please don’t call me that. Jesus, my kids call me that.”
“Okay, okay,” Kyle shakes his head, rolling his hips again. “Sorry. The whole dad thing kinda got me going. That’s really sexy to me. I really have a thing for dads, I think. Like, you, baby in hand, working a grill—- oh my god.”
“Yeah?” Stan says, mouth agape in pleasure. His hands move to palm at Kyle’s ass, bucking up to thrust up into him, “God, I never would’ve thought you’d grow up to be such a slut.”
It comes out of his lips in a horny daze, and he half expects Kyle to stop and slap him square across the face. But instead, he whimpers with pleasure and nods. “Mhm, mhm. I am, I’m just your come dump, I’m just—- I’m just a body for you to use whenever you need—-”
“No, you’re not!”
“I know, I know, I’m just saying that, fuck.” He sighs, exasperated. “Do I feel good, Stan?”
He feels immaculate. Like nothing Stan’s ever felt before.
“You know you feel good— you feel so fucking good, Kyle. So good for me, dude, so, so, perfect, better than—” he bites his lip. “Better than her.”
Kyle’s eyes light up. Just what he wanted to hear. “Yeah?”
“Mhm— God— missed you. Missed you so bad. You have no clue how bad I missed you. Can I kiss you?”
“We’re not supposed to— ah, I’m close.”
“Same, same. Me too. Kiss me. Kiss me, and come with me, okay? Come when I tell you to,” his hand has moved to wrap around Kyle’s cock, which had been bouncing against his stomach, untouched. Kyle looks around like someone will get him in trouble, and leans down to connect their lips softly. It’s nothing like how Stan expected it, but it’s perfect. It’s perfect. Their lips meet the rhythm of Kyle’s bounces, and Stan starts huskily whispering, “Gonna come, gonna come, dude—”
“Me too, me too—” Kiss. Kiss. Kyle kisses him wantonly, needily, like he’s been deprived of air and the only way to reach it is to suck up every last drop from Stan’s lungs. Stan moves their position slightly, pushing Kyle further up onto him, letting him relax, his turn to do the work. He holds onto Kyle and thrusts so hard that the only noise in the room is the echoing of their skin slapping together. Stan comes first, so hard he’s scared the condom will break. Kyle comes the moment the impact of Stan’s orgasm hits him, moaning into his mouth, really moaning. Not fake and practiced and trying, pained and low and raspy and real. His come hits Stan’s shirt forcefully, Stan jerking him through it, helping him ride it out. They can’t stop kissing eachother, even when they’re both done.
Stan pulls out sadly, rolling the condom off and placing it on the bedside table next to him, kind of wanting to keep it as a creepy, gross memento. Kyle is smiling against his cheek, his naked body curling around him like a koala. Stan kisses every inch of his beautiful face, Kyle giggling through it. “You’re perfect. God, you’re perfect.”
Kyle looks at him like he’s the moon. “You’re all sweaty. It’s really gross.”
“Sorry, I’m 43.” he kisses him again. “Sorry— I’m not allowed to do that. Fuck.”
“It’s fine, you’re special.” It’s good to know Kyle gets just as romantic post-sex as Stan does. Stan’s wife used to jump out of bed eagerly, pushing past him into the shower. When Kyle’s smiling like this, Stan can see his wrinkles. He’s happy he’s smiled enough for them show.
Stan sighs, giving into the urge and saying it. “I used to think about this so much. Us… together. God, I thought I’d missed my chance. I thought…”
Kyle sits up, alert. “What?”
Stan curls into himself. He shouldn’t have said it. “Sorry. I guess, I… Sorry.”
“Wait.” Kyle’s pulled away from him entirely. “Wait. You— you thought about us? Like, us?” He motions with his hands, pointing to himself, then to Stan. “Together? When we were kids.”
Stan sits up too. “Yeah.” his voice is soft, obvious. “Yeah, I mean. When I we were teens, not—”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant.” his eyes are alert, slow. Stan can’t tell if he’s mad or just shocked. “You… you liked me?”
It’s a childish way of putting it.
“...Yeah,” Stan says, shyly, stupidly. “You were like, probably my first love. Next to Wendy, obviously.”
Kyle gapes at him, then looks down in his lap, then looks up again, and Stan realises he’s crying.
“Dude— sorry, I—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The look Kyle gives Stan is so genuine— too genuine, too real. Eyebrows curved, lip quivering. The kid in him still there, even if his body is all grown up.
“I…” words fail to leave Stan’s lips, “I…. I don’t think I knew. Then. I only realised, recently. It was what made me realise… you know. Everything. Why I’m here.”
Kyle sobs into his hands, once, and then wipes them away, so quickly put back together. “Okay. Okay. Sorry. I just— I loved you too. Then. So much. That’s why I… stopped calling, and all. It hurt too bad. I thought you’d never…”
Stan gulps. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Kyle looks to the door. “Um. I’ll, uh. Get dressed. Then you can pay me, and I’ll leave. Sorry, for, um. Sorry. I talked too much.”
“No, I liked it,” Stan murmurs weakly, reaching down to pull his own jeans back on, at the foot of the bed. He watches Kyle step into his neatly folded korduroy pants, and pull on his shirt, and his nice leather jacket. If Stan saw him in public, he would never, ever assume he’d be riding cocks and calling random men ‘daddy’ as a career, but Kyle Broflovski is full of surprises.
Kyle turns to him. His face is red, and he looks embarrassed. He rubs his beard. “Um. You can Venmo me. Here’s my, uh—”
He turns his phone to show it to Stan, who pulls out his phone and enters his information. It’s dreadfully awkward, you could hear a pin drop. Stan can barely focus on typing, distracted by the nervous bobbing of Kyle’s adam’s apple. It goes through, and Kyle smiles fakely, clearly eager to leave. Stan’s eyes flicker over his features. The entire experience has been so confusing and strange and quick and good. They’ve said nothing and everything. Stan needs more.
Kyle turns to the door, slowly, like he’s waiting for Stan to stop him. So he does. He grabs onto his arm, making him jump, jerking back to face him, laughing awkwardly.
“Sorry— sorry, dude—”
“It’s fine,” he laughs. Stan has him pressed against the door. He looks at his lips.
“Um,” say it. This is your one chance. Say it. “I… would you want to like, get coffee sometime? Like, catch up, not like this? I mean, if you wanted to do this again, that’d be fine, too, I—”
Kyle laughs heartily at his nervous rambling, cutting him off with a soft kiss. He pulls off. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he pulls something from his pocket— a business card. Of course he’d make a business card for this. “That has my number on it. Text me. I… I’d like that. Seriously. I really missed you, man.”
Stan feels the childlike, innocent sensation that can be described in no other way then butterflies in his belly, pushing the heat right up to his face, drawing the air from his lungs. “I missed you too. So much. Thanks— thanks for… this. You’re, um. You chose well, in your profession.”
Kyle laughs, and Stan notices that even in the soft, shitty motel lighting he can see that he’s blushing as well. “T–thanks. Sorry for, uh. Calling you daddy. That was really, really weird.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he pats him on the shoulder. “I’m just going to tease you about it, like, forever, now.”
Kyle groans, hands moving up to cup his face. “Oh, god.”
“Yeah, okay, say bye to daddy, now,” he teases, eyes shimmering with confidence now he’s finally in the upper hand. Kyle’s laughing giddily now, and Stan kisses him again. Okay, maybe too soon. His hands pull off the soft yet firm hold they’d had on both sides of his torso.
Kyle’s hand finds the doorknob. “I really don’t want to leave, I just, I have to go to another—”
“It’s fine. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Kyle creaks the door open, reluctant to leave, looking back at him and opening his mouth to say something but closing it again, thinking of something to say just so they can speak longer. “Okay. Do you have my card?”
Stan can’t stop smiling. “Yes.”
“Okay, cool. Cool.” He’s so nervous. His hand stumbles on the door, nervous under Stan’s smirking gaze. “Okay, uh, bye, daddy.”
Stan’s loud, uncontrollable wheeze has barely crawled out from the depths of his stomach before Kyle’s slammed the door shut with embarrassment. It takes a good couple of minutes for him to calm down, his cheeks hurting from smiling. He feels light, giddy, and excited like someone much younger than he is. In a way he hasn’t since he last knew Kyle.
To think that they could know eachother again. To think that there’s more space for them. That they haven’t run out of time, yet. That there’s still space for them to grow. It almost makes the dull last twenty years of Stan’s life worth it.