In the early days, when they were forced to spend long nights in freezing
hotels in the middle of winter, they would make love just to warm up the bed.
Not to say that's how it started. It wasn't as though they said to each other, "Hey, it's really cold in here. Let's fuck to generate body heat." In fact, if either of them, in those very early days, had said anything aloud, it probably would have sabotaged the whole thing. What kept them from chickening out was the fact that neither of them ever said a single word out loud about it. They just did it.
They were both sitting in Bono's bed that night, because his had a better view of the television. Inadequate blankets covered both of them and they were too cold to move. When there wasn't anything left to watch, Edge didn't want to get up, and Bono didn't ask him to. He just said "Good night," shivered, and pulled the covers up over his shoulders. Edge sat still in the darkness for a few minutes before he did the same. Nothing wrong with this, he thought. Really, people used to do it all the time. They called it bundling. There were only so many ways to keep warm, before electricity. But Edge's next thought was, logically, how often a "bundling" situation got out of hand and ended up as something else entirely. He tried to push the image out of his mind as he scooted closer to Bono and sighed when he felt the shared body heat engulf him.
The kissing didn't start for a couple of weeks. Or at least, not the serious kissing. First there were the brotherly kisses: a peck on the cheek before cordially saying good night. Then, the playful kiss: a touch of the lips to the forehead, followed by a giggle and a half-hearted closing of eyes, slumber party-style. (Okay, really, let's try to go to sleep now.) Then the lingering kiss; not so different from its predecessors, but waiting just a half-second too long before disengaging made it a little suspicious. And then, the serious kisses.
The serious kisses were too numerous to catalog, because they spent so much time and energy coming up with new kinds. They played up and down every spectrum, from length to urgency to location to noise to wetness, pushing the levels up and down with ease, like knobs on a mixing board. When they kissed, the room didn't seem so cold. Their blood wasn't so sluggish in their veins. The goosebumps still came, but for a different reason.
They stalled at this stage not for lack of enthusiasm but because they had no idea what to do next, or how. They both new what the next steps were with women, but between themselves they lacked certain key parts of anatomy, and were left mystified. Not to mention their mutual fear of going too far. Neither of them wanted to be the one who was rejected outright for audaciously putting his hand somewhere it ought not to be. So instead, they spent many hours inventing new kisses, kisses to arouse and kisses to satisfy. Kisses to speed things up and to slow things down. To say "yes" and to say "no."
The question was, how long could they hold out, doing things in this manner? They could stand it for now, the limits they'd placed on themselves, but the temptation was weighing on them, pulling at them, whispering suggestions in their ears when there was no talk to drown it out. Bono and Edge never asked the question aloud. What they were doing was, literally, unspeakable. But the question was answered for them, one morning, when dawn's gray light opened Edge's eyes and he found himself in a clinch with Bono, their limbs intertwined in a manner that could not possibly have been accidental. His first startled movements woke Bono, who kept his mouth shut but gazed in wonder at their tangled bodies, at the plump erections pressed between warm bellies.
They didn't think it was possible anymore, but this time, when Bono kissed Edge, it was of a new and completely different variety.
****
Bono didn't understand what was happening. Not in the sense of "What is this attraction I feel for this other man," because that was clear. What wasn't clear was How. Men never suffered this sort of confusion, at least not this late. Women seemed to quite a bit. Bono had met a few girls who, all through their college years, were almost militantly lesbian, but as soon at their degree was in hand they fled to suburbia, married a nice man, and had a couple of kids. Men never did that. Men knew by the time they were fourteen whose orifices they wanted to become more intimately acquainted with, and certainly by the time they were twenty their tastes were cemented. A little experimentation might be on the itinerary, sure, because everyone was curious. But there was none of that fluid, dynamic female sexuality, which Bono admittedly was in awe of and sometimes yearned for.
That's it, Bono thought to himself one day. That's it. I'm a bisexual woman trapped in a man's body. How am I going to explain this to my family? Am I going to have to start shopping in different stores? How will I know which box to check when I renew my driver's license?
But just as his initial inquisitiveness had turned to worry, the worries that pervaded his thoughts churned and blended and became curiosity again. Bono started to wonder about things, like what Edge was like as a lover. He flipped through the hints he received like index cards, picking out ideas, the things he most liked to imagine. He had to stop himself sometimes, afraid that he'd idealize things and set himself up for disappointment when he was faced with reality. He was sure he would get to find out the truth someday.
Someone like Edge, so soft-spoken and so gentlemanly, you couldn't help tainting his angelic image with dirty musings. Bono guessed he would probably maintain his politeness in bed, but only as a pretense. You'd be about to go down on him, and he would say softly, "Oh, that's okay, you don't have to do that..." All the while thinking, "Yeah, that's it, suck me baby." And Edge was polite, so Bono was at least half-right, but he could never find out if his guess was completely accurate; even if he could ask, how could he be sure Edge was telling the truth?
Incidentally, Edge's guess about Bono's habits in bed were way off. He had presumed that since Bono spent so much time on stage kicking and screaming, that in bed he would be quiet and demure. Passionate, surely, but in a quiet, demure way. Edge couldn't have been more wrong, of course. Bono wailed and groaned just as fervently in bed as he did on stage. And when the lovemaking was over there was still no escape, for Edge had learned that Bono made sex noises in his sleep as well. The first time he heard it he got angry. It was one thing to masturbate after you were certain everyone else in the room was asleep, but did Bono have to be so fucking noisy about it? Edge rolled over to tell him to knock it off or else go do it in the bathroom, and saw Bono lying perfectly still, his arms coiled around his pillow, a juicy, full-throated moan pouring out of him for no apparent reason.
Bono was never informed of this idiosyncrasy. Years later, he wondered why Edge always laughed himself into tears whenever he talked about "dreaming out loud."
****
Their mouths were going to waste. If they couldn't speak, they could at least put them to some other use. This was Bono's reason for wanting to take the next step. He didn't want to be rude and make a demand. Instead, he decided to offer Edge his favors first, assuming he would then reciprocate. They had maintained a healthy balance so far: you touch me here and I'll touch you there, and so on. Anyway, it was hardly a chore for him to go first. But the night he had picked to spring this surprise on Edge, things just weren't working out the way he had planned. He waited for hours after they got back to their room and nothing happened. Edge made phone calls, played his guitar, watched M*A*S*H, and tried to work the thermostat. It seemed like he was avoiding the bed altogether. Maybe he knew what was up and was stalling. Only one way to find out.
When Edge started giving off the winding-down vibe, Bono encouraged him, turning the lights down and hopping into bed himself. But Edge sure took his time brushing his fucking teeth. Bono had planned to seduce Edge slowly, make him wonder for a little while if he was really going to do it. Hell, at that point Bono was wondering himself if he would be able to. Kissing was one thing, but this was the kind of thing you don't just walk away from. But by the time Edge got into bed, Bono had run out of patience. Without hesitation he pushed Edge onto his back, grabbed his cock, and crawled under the covers to put it in his mouth. Edge almost spoke. He almost asked, What are you doing. But it would have been too late anyway, because Bono had already started doing it. Edge didn't even have a chance to protest. And anyway, that kind of warm wetness is not easy to say no to, even if you had words at your disposal. Edge settled into the warmed sheets and reached one hand down to fondle Bono's neck.
Bono had never had his mouth on a penis before, and he noted that the flesh didn't feel or taste like the flesh anywhere else on Edge's body. He put his lips on the head and kissed away the droplet of pre-come that had gathered there; it was salty and bitter, but he was not concerned. In between licking and sucking, he gave Edge all his variety of classic kisses: zealous kisses, wet kisses, kisses with noises in them.
Edge appreciated Bono's brand of self-referencing oral pleasure, he really did, but really he needed more rhythm. He placed his fingertips over Bono's cheeks, sunken with suction, and guided his head towards a pace he could get off on. Bono gladly complied, thinking of the imminent reciprocation. He took Edge's new, unique, salty kiss with pleasure, and when it was over his head popped out from under the blankets and he was a different person than the one Edge had seen retreat under those blankets a few minutes ago.
It was a nice little moment, and Bono didn't want to spoil it, so he lay with his head on Edge's shoulder and gave them some time for reflection. At first, each of Edge's exhalations was a sigh, but after a while his breathing became regular and quiet and Bono decided to make his move. He reached up to direct Edge to his erection and found he'd fallen asleep.
He couldn't say anything about it, so he just thought it, over and over, and hoped that Edge would receive the message telepathically: You are a bastard. You are a bastard. You are a bastard.
****
The morning found Bono nibbling at Edge's smooth, bare shoulder to wake him up. But that didn't work, so he just yanked the covers off and Edge jerked awake, reaching reflexively to pull them back over himself. Bono took Edge in his arms and kissed him, then nodded his head in the general direction of his groin. Edge didn't understand. Bono rolled his eyes; he was ready to just climb on top of him and shove it down in his throat when it suddenly clicked and Edge nodded and smiled. He slid down and Bono got ready for a pleasant start to his day, but then there was a noise. Someone was pounding on the door. "Time to go, Bono," they called. They didn't even know that Bono wasn't alone. Or maybe they were just being discreet.
****
One night, Edge had a nightmare.
He was sleeping alone in Adam's room. Bono was letting some fans crash on the floor of his room, but Adam was staying with a girl that night, so Edge went there to get some peace and quiet. He fell asleep with the television on and dreamt that he and Bono had decided to do that last thing, that one thing they hadn't done yet. He was lying on his side and Bono was behind him. He couldn't see what Bono was doing, but he could feel it. It hurt very badly, but Bono was making noises that told him it might be best to just bear it so his partner could enjoy himself. When Bono was done, he turned over. There he saw, on the bed next to an indifferent Bono, a pile of entrails. Edge's guts had fallen out. And not just gastrointestinal organs; on top of the pile were some teeth, an eye.
Edge woke and sat up. His face had been pressed hard into the pillow, so he couldn't see out of one of his eyes, just for a moment. "My eye! My eye!" he screamed before he came fully awake, and spots started to dance in front of him as his vision returned. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. All better. He twisted around and looked behind him. Unless the maid had come in and done a remarkable clean-up job, Edge's mishap had proved to be just a dream. No one heard him yelling. He didn't tell anyone about it.
They knew perfectly well what the next step was. They knew that they each had a particular body part that could be inserted into another body part. (Granted, that was the extent of their knowledge on the subject.) But it was one thing to kind of want to do it, even if only out of curiosity; it was something else entirely to actually go through with it. It was no different than before: their incredible effort to keep the kissing interesting had allowed them to put off moving along to the other, more personal kind of kissing. And now, their imaginative variations on oral sex had kept them from getting bored enough to want to try the next act. But they couldn't lie to themselves. Boredom was not the catalyst.
So (it seemed) enough time had passed that Edge forgot his nightmare and let his conscious feelings dictate his willingness to try new things. Under the covers, their bodies slid over one another, in constant contact, lest one of them stray too far from the pocket of warmth they'd created and expose himself to cold sheets. It was in the most fluid manner that Bono found himself on the other side of Edge. He pushed his erection between Edge's thighs and against his opening, and was disappointed that, unlike his lover's pouty lower lip or his soft rump, it did not give way beneath his touch. But his body was flushed and his mind was clouded; he pushed again, harder, until he started to penetrate. But Edge whimpered and scrambled out from under him, curling up on the pillows and clutching the headboard. He looked at Bono and shook his head "no." It was just a tiny movement, a twitch. A shiver.
Bono felt awful. He panicked and lost his erection immediately. When he leaned forward to take Edge's hand, Edge broke out in gooseflesh and his muscles tightened. Bono didn't make eye contact. Eye contact was for asking What? or Why? and Bono knew the answer to those things. Instead he just held Edge's hand in both of his and kissed it, reverting to their first, safest form of play, until Edge felt comfortable enough to get back under the covers. Only then did Bono move in close again, kissing his forehead and stroking his hair until there was peace in the room again.
****
Bono couldn't help it. His curiosity had been piqued. The following week some fans were showing him around town, and when they stopped at a bar one of them pulled a small pot of Vaseline from her purse and rubbed some on her lips, complaining about what the cold was doing to her skin. When she got up to go to the loo, Bono sneaked his hand under the table, snatched the Vaseline out of her purse, and put it in his coat pocket.
That night, after much pleasant rolling about, he leaned over the bed to get his coat (tossed carelessly on the floor, as usual) and pulled out the Vaseline. He opened it and gathered a glop on his fingers. Edge recoiled and shook his head again, like a child refusing to take his medicine. But Bono made an "I mean you no harm" gesture and smeared the Vaseline not on his own erection but on Edge's. Edge let out a short "Ooo" of pleasure and surprise, and leaned back to watch his erection twitching beneath Bono's greasy fingers. When Bono was sure things would be okay he got back under the covers and lay on his stomach. Edge got on top and pressed his chest to Bono's back. Everything was nice and warm. He took his slippery cock in hand and slid it up and down until he found Bono's entrance. They didn't know anything about this; it didn't occur to them to take the time to prepare him with a finger or to at least wait until he was quite relaxed. Edge just pushed, and Bono bit his hand to try to take his mind off the pain. Edge waited for him to say "Stop," to finally break the self-imposed silence, but he didn't. When Edge was all the way inside he leaned forward and kissed Bono's neck, little tender grateful kisses. He ran one hand up and down the back of Bono's head, over his scalp. Bono groaned, not so urgently and helplessly as he had a moment ago. Then he was quiet, and lay still. Edge stroked Bono's shoulder and did the thing he needed to do least of all at that moment: He whispered into Bono's ear: "Shhh..."
Neither of them could understand it. Throughout history, men have risked death, humiliation, prison, and castration for this? This is no good at all. It hurts, and it...well, it doesn't hurt so much now...In fact, it's starting to feel kind of good...maybe if I just...oh...
Bono squeezed his muscles tight around Edge and felt the full-body shiver above him. He grinned and pushed back, then lay still, teasing Edge and trying to get him to move, to tell him that it was okay, really. It took some time, but once Edge got started there was no stopping him. He grabbed Bono's hips and gave him small, quick thrusts, forgetting his tenderness and self-control. A moment before, he was trying to think about Bono's skin, Bono's breath, anything but where his dick happened to be. But now that was all he was concerned with. Once he was sure Bono had given him permission, he took his pleasure selfishly.
Bono grunted in time with the thrusts as Edge came, concentrating on the good feelings inside him but nowhere near orgasm himself. When Edge was done, he made a sickly groaning noise, like he'd just gotten off a bad roller-coaster, and collapsed beside Bono, who still had an erection under his belly and wasn't quite sure what to do about it. He was very sore and scared to move. The whole thing was a greater mystery now than it was before. He was at least glad there was no pressure to talk about it.
****
Edge wanted to get on that roller-coaster again very soon. He kept waking Bono up in the middle of the night, grabbing at him and prodding him. Bono had to gently push him away, or suck him off, hoping that would keep him at bay for a little while. But it wasn't too long before he relented; after all, he knew he could be a handful for Edge to deal with sometimes, so would it be so bad to let him do this, just to make it up to him?
Remarkably, Bono discovered as Edge fucked him greedily, it was much better now than it was the first time. It didn't just begin to feel good; it felt good the whole time, and when Edge climaxed he almost did as well. He was so excited about this that afterwards he brazenly pushed Edge's head down, demanding that he be finished off this time. The next time Edge asked for it, he complied immediately. And after that, he was the one begging. Which was such a turn of events, Edge didn't understand what Bono was asking for at first. He thought Bono wanted head. He slid down under the covers and Bono growled in frustration and pulled him back up, thrusting the pot of Vaseline into his hand.
****
Edge was not unhappy about this new development, not at all. But he was getting so frustrated. He thought he'd finally gotten things figured out. Every night he was presented with new things to wonder about, new questions that resisted answering. It was overwhelming, and every time he thought he could put things together, another change in the model made his conclusions seem silly. This was not science. This wasn't a constant that could be broken down into essential elements. Edge's mind wasn't built for that sort of thing. He didn't even know why he was doing this. Just an few months ago he and Bono kept their eyes averted out of courtesy if they ever encountered each other undressed. Edge had read articles in Hot Press about the head-spinning whirlwind that was life on the road for a band, but he never thought they meant anything like this.
Now that Bono's desire for the act had surpassed his own, Edge felt guilt, for the selfishness he'd exhibited before, but also intense curiosity, which, if he'd had it before, he'd suppressed. He couldn't forget that dream, or their aborted first attempt, but if Bono could go from compliance to ecstasy so quickly, why shouldn't he? It wasn't just curiosity, it was jealousy. Edge wanted what Bono had, and he was willing to go through the nasty initial stage to get it.
The next time Bono pulled out the pot of Vaseline (it was a new one; they'd gone through the first pot rather quickly) Edge took it and did just what Bono had done to him. He spread the Vaseline on Bono's hard cock and then laid himself down to make it clear what he wanted to happen. As if it wasn't obvious to Bono already.
****
To attempt a sexual relationship without words, you must be imaginative. Bono and Edge used expressive body language to communicate their desires, which could be frustrating, but when successful it also proved to be more exciting than using blunt, clumsy things like words. In fact, it actually allowed them to be more open and public with their activities. Because just as a frog trains itself to only see moving objects, most human beings focus only on the most extreme, obvious body language, unless given a good reason to notice minutiae. And so there Bono was at the pool table, ostensibly eyeing a shot, bending at the waist and spreading his legs to give himself leverage. When he turned his head, sure enough, everyone else was milling about, chatting drunkenly and waiting for their turn, but Edge met his gaze and grinned with understanding and approval of this display gesture. He knew what Bono wanted tonight.
It gave them a feeling of superiority, not just because of their new secret language but also because they were the only ones who felt no need to complain about the lack of decent heating in all those cheap little motel rooms. They carried their own portable heating system with them everywhere they went (although admittedly they couldn't employ it when it was cold in the van). The only glitch in the system was, when they retired for the night they had to remember to have a towel near the bed, because if their mischief made a mess it would be torture to get out from under the toasty covers and face that chilly room in order to retrieve one. When they did forget, the question of who had to get up was never easily answered.
****
Now, the season has changed and the room is warm. Two young white bodies wrestle naked on a hotel bed, their skins soft and smooth, their eyes wide. They wrestle to determine who gets to be on top tonight. What started as a playful little variation has become a ritual, one which is performed with particular energy on a night like tonight, when there is no gig. Promptly at nine their bodies invariably begin buzzing with adrenaline. Having no better way to expend this habitual energy, they take it out on each other. On those occasions they go at it much more viciously, not hesitating to bite, scratch, or pull hair to establish dominance. They are evenly matched; Bono is a true scrapper but Edge has clear-headed strategy working for him. Very rarely does either one simply surrender. They do this as long as it takes, their breaths coming in short rasps and their muscles straining, rubbing against each other. It looks and sounds more like sex than the sex does.
It's been going on for ages tonight. It certainly says something about both these men, that they would rather battle for a just resolution that simply give in so they could get down to business. They are so noisy, Larry, who is in the next room, gets out of bed and goes to pound on their door. "Knock it off!" he says. "No one wants to hear your weird sex stuff! Or whatever you're doing in there."
Bono and Edge freeze in place, like a painting on an ancient Greek vase, and look at each other. Does he really know, or is he making a highly coincidental joke? There is no way to tell. But Bono grins and pushes Edge off him. "You know what?" he says, with defiance he could only muster if he knew what a big line he was crossing. "I don't care if he knows. Do you hear me talking? I. Don't. Care. If he knows what we do. Watch this." He leans against the wall between their room and Larry's and moans with exaggerated volume and obviously fake passion. "Oh, yes!" he cries, and even starts to rub his naked body against the wall as he wails, which turns Edge's stunned silence to laughter. It never fails to shock and delight him that Bono can be so shameless. He could never do something like that himself. When he is sure Larry's had enough, he pulls Bono back onto the bed, saying, in a stage whisper, "Come on now, what does a guy have to do to get a piece of the wall's action?"
Bono seemed to have the upper hand tonight, but Edge's retaliation comes in short bursts, and he manages to pin Bono several times before his muscles finally go slack and refuse to tighten for him again. Bono pins Edge's shoulders with his knees, and Edge's body is relaxing into the boneless acceptance of impending submission. Bono's erection bobs before him, and Edge opens his mouth to take it.
"Nah, you know what?" Bono says, with no small amount of smug victory in his voice. "You go ahead. I'm too tired to do all the work tonight." He rolls off Edge and lies next to him on the bed, spreading his legs. "Well? Come on then."
Edge is indignant at first, but smiles. He turns away from Bono. "Forget it," he says. "I liked you better when you kept your fucking mouth shut."