“I don’t know—FaceTime fucking with Daniel?” Lucas grinned.
Gideon shook his head. “If I wanted to fuck Daniel, I wouldn’t do it in cyberspace.”
Leaning forward, Lucas’ grin stretched. “Haveyou fucked him?”
Gideon smiled and turned to Derek. “I’ll go with you to the fundraiser. I think I might like to make a generous donation to their worthy cause.”
. . .
Following a restless night ofheateddreams—both sexual and those filled with hellfire—Patrick awoke at seven on Thursday morning, exhausted and wanting to go back to sleep—but afraid of what other dreams may come.
Barely conscious, he crawled out of bed and went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He didn’t notice the sticky residue in his undershorts until he stripped them off. His heart sank heavily in his chest. Not all of last night’s dreams remained clear and vivid… but a couple did, the detailscrispin his mind. As the sleep fog dissipated, the sensations Patrick experienced within the dreams resurfaced, warming his skin… heating his blood.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the dream images, but that only made it worse. There was no escape from the erotic scenes that played out in his slumber all through the night. Everything had felt soreal;Derek’s hands on his body… the taste of his kiss… the pleasant weight of his body as he settled on top of Patrick… the physical, emotional,spiritualconnection between them as Derek entered him…
Patrick gasped and clutched the shower door, a sob sticking in his throat as his member throbbed and stiffened. “Stop it…” he whispered, shaking. “Stopthinkingabout him. Juststop.”
He showered quickly, adjusting the water to a cooler temperature just before stepping out. It eased the burning ache in his body… somewhat. Wrapping himself in a towel, he returned to the bedroom and sat on the end of the bed, his head in his hands—despairingover his dilemma.
Why can’t I just forget about him?
That question had plagued him since last Friday and he was no closer to the answer today than he had been six days ago. He raised his head and looked at the laptop lying closed on the desk. It hadn’t helped his problem by going to the website and ogling Derek’snakedbody.
Now that he’d come to the full understanding of thepowerof the flesh, experienced therawtemptation—how could he make it through therest of his lifeholding strong against it? Was this what addicts had to deal with every day? Trying to walk acleanpath while temptation pulled at them at every turn? Those who succeeded… how did they do it?
They don’t do it alone. They go to meetings, have programs, sponsors.
Is that whatheneeded? Was there such a thing asHomosexuals Anonymous?
Yeah,he thought sickly,it’s called conversion therapy.
There had to be a different way to deal with the temptations. Maybe Brian could be his “sponsor,” he was great at steering Patrick back onto the proper path when he began to stray. But he would have to be completely honest with Brian and confess everything—and that meant telling him the truth about the porn stuff and Derek’s status as a porn star.
Whyhadn’the told him by now?
The answer that tried to surface didn’t sit well with Patrick and he pushed it back down.
He dressed and went up to the kitchen, surprised to find his dad at home. Alan Weber sat at the table with a cup of coffee and open Bible. He usually left for work by six thirty.
“You’re not working today?” Patrick mumbled as he fixed himself some coffee.
“I have more pressing matters to attend to,” his dad replied in a quiet, calm voice that oddly unnerved Patrick.
“What… what pressing matters?”
Alan Weber rose from his chair. “Familymatters.” Patrick’s unease heightened as his father pulled out a second chair from the table. “Sit down, son. We need to talk.”
“About… about what?”
“Sit.”
Patrick approached the table, a ball of anxiety mounting inside him. “Is something wrong?”
“Just sit down and we’ll talk about it.”
About what?
Patrick sank into the chair, wary eyes on his father as the older man reclaimed his seat. Patrick kept quiet, waiting for his dad to explain the reason for this talk.
Discreetly clearing his throat, Alan Weber clasped his hands, resting them on the open Bible. “I’m going to ask you a question and you are going to tell me the truth. Understand?”
Pursing his lips, Patrick swallowed through a tight throat and nodded.
His father looked him in the eye—something he rarely did these days—and asked, “Whois Derek?”
