The Spare Helmet
A borrowed motorcycle helmet, leather gear and a long ride turn an old attraction between two men into something neither wants to leave on the road.
Owen had owned the spare helmet for three years.
Nobody had ever worn it.
Then Marcus appeared outside his apartment on Saturday morning and said, “You still owe me that ride.”
Owen looked at him.
Marcus was thirty-three, broad-shouldered, smiling, and dressed completely wrong for a motorcycle.
“You can't wear that.”
Marcus looked down at his jeans and trainers. “Fashion police?”
“Road rash police.”
Owen handed him the spare gear.
Leather trousers. Jacket. Gloves. Helmet.
Marcus held the trousers up.
“You just happen to own these in my size?”
“Shut up.”
They had known each other two years.
Friends, technically.
Both gay. Both single. Both maintaining an elaborate fiction that the tension between them was imaginary.
Marcus changed.
When he returned, Owen forgot what he was saying.
Black leather fitted him obscenely well.
Marcus noticed.
“You're staring.”
“Safety inspection.”
“Very thorough.”
The ride took them out of the city and into empty country roads.
Marcus sat behind him, arms around Owen's waist, body pressed close whenever they accelerated.
At a lookout they removed their helmets.
“You really like the gear,” Marcus said.
It wasn't a question.
Owen exhaled. “Yes.”
“How much?”
“Marcus.”
“I'm curious.”
Marcus stepped closer and touched the front of Owen's jacket.
“Can I kiss you?”
Two years of pretending ended with six words.
“Yes.”
Marcus kissed him.
The helmets nearly collided when Owen forgot he was still holding his. He dropped it onto the grass.
Marcus laughed into his mouth.
Then Owen pushed him back against the bike.
The leather between them changed everything.
Sound. Texture. Smell.
Marcus gripped Owen's jacket and kissed him harder.
“So this is your thing.”
“One of them.”
“What are the others?”
“You're ambitious.”
“I've waited two years.”
Owen stopped. “You have?”
Marcus stared at him. “Seriously?”
Owen laughed. “I may be an idiot.”
“Confirmed.”
They rode back considerably faster.
Inside, neither immediately removed the gear.
That was deliberate.
Marcus stood in the bedroom while Owen unzipped his jacket.
“Leave yours on.”
Marcus's expression sharpened. “Bossy.”
“Problem?”
“No.”
Owen kissed him again.
His hands moved over the leather trousers, feeling Marcus hard beneath them.
Owen opened them and wrapped his hand around him.
Marcus closed his eyes.
“Look at me.”
He did.
Marcus reached for Owen's belt.
“Your turn.”
Soon both were half dressed, leather hanging open, bodies exposed against black gear.
Marcus dropped to his knees.
“Still okay?” Owen asked.
Marcus looked up. “Very.”
He took Owen into his mouth.
Owen's hand rested against the back of his head without pushing.
The sight nearly finished him by itself.
Marcus kneeling in borrowed leather. The spare helmet sitting on the bedroom floor.
Owen pulled him up before he came.
“Bed.”
“Definitely bossy.”
They stripped enough to make the rest practical but left the jackets on.
Condom. Lube. A pause to ask what each wanted.
Marcus lay back.
Owen moved between his legs.
“Tell me.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
The directness made Owen's pulse jump.
He prepared him slowly, checking with every change.
Marcus grew impatient.
“I'm not made of glass.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like it.”
Owen entered him carefully.
Marcus gripped his jacket.
“Yes.”
Owen stopped. “Good?”
“Move.”
He did.
The leather creaked with every thrust.
Marcus wrapped his legs around Owen and pulled him closer.
What had begun as fetish became something else.
Eye contact. Kissing. Two years collapsing into the obvious.
When they finished, neither spoke for a while.
Marcus looked towards the discarded helmet.
“So.”
“So?”
“Is the spare gear mine now?”
Owen laughed. “You haven't even bought a motorcycle.”
“I wasn't asking about the motorcycle.”
Owen turned towards him.
Marcus was smiling.
This time Owen didn't pretend not to understand.
“Keep it.”