No Regrets, A Birthday Story for Vali
Written by Beth
When Munch woke up, his limbs were heavy, his
stomach was upset, and his head was pounding.
Wincing, he cautiously opened eyes just a fraction
to test how much pain the light was going to give
him. Jesus Christ. He was *way* too old for this.
A small glance at the world, and then all of a
sudden a very large one, because even hungover,
fuzzy-headed, and without glasses, it was obvious
at once to John Munch that he most definitely was
not at home.
"Oh my god," Munch said out loud and then, as
panic began to suffuse him, "Oh my *god*!"
In a flash he was out of the bed. Boxer shorts?
There--to the left of the bed. He picked them up
and pulled them on, shivering a little in the cool
A sudden memory, intense and sensual, Griscom
slowly working the boxers down over Munch's hips,
murmuring something no doubt articulate and
clever--Munch had been too stricken, too
incredibly aroused to listen to anything other
than the underlying desire in the voice. And then
George had slowly leaned forward, a glint in his
eyes, and moved his mouth . . .
"Stop it. *Stop* it!" Munch whispered to himself,
then sat back down on the bed, pressing a fist
against his mouth.
*Okay. Okay. So you got drunk and fucked the
coroner,* he thought. *You've certainly done
That made him laugh out loud. The sound was
hoarse, more breath than tone, the result of too
much wine and too much talking. Jesus, but
Griscom *could* talk, and he, of course, had been
unable to resist the challenge to outtalk the
They had closed down the Waterfront last night, in
fact, then moved to Griscom's apartment to
continue their discussion.
*I should have known then. As soon as that evil
little troll suggested it, I should have figured
out that he was on the make.*
"You know, I don't think I've been this . . .
*interested* a conversation in quite some time,"
Griscom had said once they were settled on his
couch, flashing his perpetual unreadable smile at
"You know, that's actually very disturbing," Munch
had replied, raising his eyebrows. "I feel like
condolences are in order--some expression of
grief. Because if this is the best you've been
getting, doc, well . . ."
"Such a clever man," Griscom had answered softly.
"You always know just what to say, don't you?
Always the wittiest one around."
"You obviously haven't talked to anyone who's--"
Actually spent time with me, John had been going
to finish, but the words got sucked back inside
with a powerful gasp, because with a grace and
economy of movement Munch never would have
predicted he possessed, George Griscom had slid an
arm around Munch's waist and begun pressing kisses
to his neck.
"Uh, doctor, doctor, . . . *doctor,*" Munch had
said as panic rose in him, his voice growing
"Oh come on," Griscom had chided, his breath
fanning the side of Munch's face. "Surely you've
done this before?"
"What?! Of course I've *done* it--I just haven't
done it with *you*!" Munch had aggravatedly
replied, and Griscom had laughed out loud, gnomish
delight spread across his face.
"Well now you have the opportunity," Griscom had
said, the arm around John's waist tightening just
"Look. Look. Tonight has been a lot of fun. It
really has. I like talking to you and I like
arguing with you, but you've gotta understand--
that's where it stops for me," John had replied
quickly but not unkindly. "I'm sorry, but I just
don't feel-- Hey. *Hey*! Are you *listening* to
Griscom had resumed kissing Munch's neck, his
mouth warm and wet. Munch had taken in a deep
breath, then realized that he was shaking a
little. The feeling was intolerable. It was
intolerable and had to be stopped at once, and . . .
"Oh *god,*" he'd fervently whispered, shame
spreading across him as he began to register the
fact that he was getting aroused by this man, as
he'd realized that his cock had begun to stiffen.
Stop. it. now.
"Okay, that's enough," he'd said sharply, and at
that, George had slowly moved back, contemplated
Munch with glittering eyes.
"Relax, John," Griscom had said gently, wearily.
Munch had responded with a harsh noise of
incredulity, then: "*Relax*?!? You're telling me
"Yes, I'm telling you to relax. Lean back," George
had said, using his free hand to push Munch into
the sofa cushions.
This was where he'd gone wrong--this was where
he'd lost it.
Forcing himself *not* to think about what he was
doing, Munch had let himself be pushed backward.
He had not protested when Griscom had slowly moved
forward, had not protested when Griscom had begun
to brush Munch's lips with coaxing kisses, and had
not fought when Griscom wriggled his tongue past
Munch's lips and into his mouth.
And his reward for that had been one of the best
kisses of his life, a kiss that had made him burn
and ache. And so after *that* kiss, he certainly
hadn't been about to protest a second, and then a
third, and then . . .
Well, and *then* he'd ended up in the good
"*Idiot,*" Munch chastised himself, and sat up
very straight, began to look for his trousers.
He couldn't think. Not right not. This was
definitely *not* a time for thinking. This was a
time for firm, resolute action, a time to get
dressed, go out into the kitchen (where he now
heard George moving around), and then calmly
renounce everything that he'd done last night.
*I didn't mean it. I got carried away. We're not
even compatible--we can't talk for five minutes
"Ah," George said, startling Munch. He was
standing in the doorway. "Sleeping beauty
"That's not funny," Munch said, pointing at
Griscom for emphasis, then slowly backing up a
little as the man came toward him.
"Not feeling a little uncertain, are you?" Griscom
teased. "No second thoughts, I hope?"
On his face was the most *annoying* look of self-
satisfaction that Munch had ever seen.
"Of course not. Certainly not," Munch said with a
heartiness he didn't quite feel. The important
thing now was to disagree. "It's just that I
should probably go now . . . oh *fuck,* George."
George had calmly, surely, moved in front of
Munch, then neatly slid a hand deep into his boxer
shorts and around his cock.
Munch whispered it almost plaintively. Like
fucking clockwork he got hard for this man. Why
was this *happening* to him?
"Why not stay a while?" Griscom asked, voice
"See . . . see, the thing *is,*" Munch began,
trying to remember the speech he'd planned and
then stiffening in shock as Griscom began to
squeeze, to stroke him more firmly.
Griscom moved in as Munch got weaker, took
advantage of his confusion to kiss him, to moan
into his mouth.
Munch began to shake in anticipation. Shit. Why
in the hell was he being so *responsive*?
"I'm going to fuck you, John," Griscom slowly
said. "Just like last night."
Munch groaned in agony as Griscom's hand continued
stroking his cock, and as it all came back to him
with startling clarity. *He* on hands and knees,
*George* behind . . . and the ecstasy. The shame,
the thrill, the sheer strength of the feeling. It
had been so good.
Not at all like him. Not at all--most
particularly not like him to let a man as
infuriating, as simply *weird* as George Griscom
was, to have control, to orchestrate . . .
"Down on the bed now," Griscom prompted, and Munch
sighed heavily, and then obeyed, all the more
turned on because it was so unlike him to be doing
so. This was just so deeply *fucked* . . . but
he'd think about all that later.
Just like last night, Munch squirmed in pain when
George moved slick fingers inside of him to prep,
and just like last night, Griscom had calmed John
down, had slowly, slowly massaged and caressed and
whispered until he'd gotten deep inside.
And then the fucking. Being rocked back and
forth, ridden, *taken,* for God's sake. It was
the most deeply and gratifyingly humiliating thing
John had done in a long time . . . and that
estimate *included* the 1970s.
When Griscom came, he shouted once, a harsh, sharp
cry. It was contained and forceful and utterly
like him, in Munch's opinion.
The two men slowly disentangled, John moving
gingerly and painfully, in part because of the
fucking, in part because he was so very near
Griscom smiled, then looked deep into John's eyes
for a moment. Try as he might, Munch just
couldn't *read* the man.
"Let me take care of you," Griscom murmured, and
John nodded avidly. Griscom laughed, then slowly
"You know, I've been thinking. Does this make me
your bitch?" John asked later, voice deadpan.
Griscom raised his arm to his eyes, then shook
with silent laughter.
"Where the *hell* do you come up with--"
"Saw it in a cartoon," Munch said matter of
"I see." Griscom wiped his eyes, laughed again
for a minute. "Ummm, I'm not sure on that one.
Can I get back to you?"
John snorted. "If you have to think that much
about it, the answer has to be no."
"We'll have to revisit the question tonight,"
"Oh no. This was--this was a one-time deal,
Griscom," Munch said firmly. "Absolutely no
repeats. None. We had our moment in the sun--now
it's time to gracefully fade away. No, uh, no
*regrets,* of course, but this is it."
Griscom looked fondly at Munch. "You really
believe that, don't you?" he said incredulously.
Munch glared. "Of *course* I believe it. You
think I'd *lie* about something like that?"