Myron took advantage of his internal clock and arose an hour before Johnny. He rolled easily off the cot, totally confident the creaking thing would not wake his roommate. Johnny, unaware, snored comfortably.
Muselike, sleepy, but determined, Myron stumbled to the basin-sink and quickly began brushing his teeth. Like routine, he scrubbed up and down, side to side, up and down. Like routine, he stared at his mirror image, but his mind did not see anything; his thoughts were elsewhere. His consciousness snapped back when he accidentaly swallowed a bit of the sloppy, bitter toothpaste, and he caught himself staring into the face of Johnny McKay. Twirling around, he saw no Johnny behind him, saw the unmoving, noisy heap slumbering in the opposite bed. Myron turned back around—painfully slowly—and came face-to-face with the mirror image of McKay once more.
Quickly, Myron washed out his mouth, trying not to notice the mirror McKay making all the exact moves—rinse, spit, rinse again, wipe mouth with towel. He scurried away from the mirror, heading straight for his desk. He snatched up the bottle of whiskey that was perched atop the endless reports and shook it frantically. Hearing a slight, echoing tinkle at the slosh at the bottom of the bottle, Myron felt relief wash over him.
He was still drunk from last night.
Myron eased himself back on his cot, and savoured the feel of the scratchy wool blanket underneath his now-broad back. He couldn't very well work on any paperwork in this drunken state. Amused, he idly held his hand in front of his face and studied it. McKay had large hands; thick fingers, blunt nails—though impeccably cleaned—toughened palms. His arms felt heavier—though it was a pleasant, manageable weight. He curiously touched the large, smooth chest that, in this drunken stupor, was supposed to be his. It was smooth, so smooth, like the skin of a woman. It was soft, but Myron could distinctly feel the hard definition of worked muscle beneath. The was absolutely no hair on McKay's chest.
Did Johnny go to the same waxing salon that Alex did? Myron wondered idly. He giggled, but it came out lighter, smoother. Myron felt a jolt of surprise course through him. Delusions of being in McKay's body was one thing, but having his voice as well? He sat up slightly.
“What's going on…” he murmured quietly. He was fascinated. The voice sounded real, authentically John McKay, but he was hearing it inside his own head. It reverberated slightly in his brain and seemed louder than usual. Myron didn't even notice the slight New England accent of McKay's that usually annoyed him so much.
This experience had now gone past amusing and was becoming completely compelling. He spotted McKay's reflection in the mirror and focused on it. Every part of McKay's body that he stared at he touched delicately. Hair—soft, not tufty and wiry. Eyes—small, blue, not wide and brown (He didn't need his glasses to see!). Mouth—gentle, sensual, not thin and twisting. Arms—strong and firm, not lanky and lean. Boxer shorts—Myron suddenly snuck a glance at his slumbering roommate, making sure he was still asleep. He was ,so the lieutenant leaned back slightly and slipped a large hand under the waist band of the light blue cotton boxers. Smirking, Myron lay back completely again. If he ever had any doubt of Johnny's WASP-ishness, he had none now.
He curiously peered downward and found he couldn't draw his eyes away. Nor could he take his hand away either. He felt horribly embarrased for McKay, but the intense curiousity got the better of him. How often, drunk or no, does one get the chance to be in such a perfectly built body?
Experimentally, Myron gently stroked his tough, blunt thumb over McKay's foreskin. The sensation was one that Myron never felt before, and he had to clench McKay's teeth to stop from gasping loudly.
This was getting strange.
Yet Myron felt he couldn't stop. He couldn't remove his hand, he couldn't turn over and fall asleep and wait for the drunkeness to pass. He already felt McKay was semi-erect; he was already feeling that blood-rushing ache build. It was too late to stop now.
He blithely continued stroking the uncircumcised member, unresisting, ashamed, anticipating. Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of McKay's face in the opposite mirror. Grimacing a handsome grimace of pain and pleasure on the perfect face, Myron felt both repulsed and attracted to the image.
I'm doing that, Myron thought vaguely. I'm making McKay look like that, and I'm feeling damn good doing it.
His hand automatically began moving faster and faster and Myron had to shut McKay's eyes in the pleasure of it all. He broke out into a light sweat, and Myron was sure looked like a shimmering sheen of romance-book-type effort on a body like Johnny's.
When he came, he placed that smooth, dry hand of McKay's free arm against his mouth and bit into the knuckles with McKay's impeccable teeth. It was so different from what he was used to feeling on those lonely nights after Nikki and before Alex. Myron sighed loudly, not being able to hold it in anymore. It was a sound he never heard Johnny make; a sound of utter gratification, of tired pleasure.
Myron instinctively sat up a bit and shook out the pack of cigarettes from this hanging combat shirt. Placing a smoke in his mouth, he paused with the lit zippo. Should he really be polluting McKay's lungs like this?
Ah hell, Myron thought wryly, I just brought the guy to orgasm, what's some nicotine in the lungs gonna do?
Mischeviously, Myron soon stubbed out the last of his savoured cigarette and lay in bed, waiting to fall back asleep and—hopefully—be fully recovered from his inebriated state.
Being McKay was entertaining, but Myron would much rather suffer the pains of a hangover than the body of a goyim.