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“Hey,” I call out at him. “Your shirt.”
He stops with the door half open and turns to me. “I know exactly what kind of guy you are,” he decides. “You, Ben, are just another rich, cocky prick who thinks he can purchase a guy like me and make him fall to his knees in front of your big, manly cock.”
“Oh, so you’ve noticed?” I counter, my shirt still off, my pants still open, and my bulge in plain view of this sexy young man—this sexy young man who still hasn’t left, who lingers at the door, who I still have a chance with.
His face reddens. “That’s not what I—” He shakes his head, flustered, then shuts his eyes. “I-I was saying—”
“Look at it, Trevor. All big … and manly … and also hard.” I start to approach him. “I need someone sexy to stick it into.”
“Make a fist and stick it in that,” Trevor retorts. Then, with a small, dignified lift of his chin, he adds in a gentler tone, “Sorry about the bowl.”
The door shuts behind him.
In the silence left by his departure, I lift his shirt to my face and inhale deeply. Then I pull down the waistband of my boxer briefs and free my swollen cock. I do exactly as he suggested: making a fist, sticking it in, then jerking myself raw. Every breath is Trevor as I keep the balled-up shirt pressed against my face.
And when I come, the only thought on my mind is: I don’t give up that easily, boy.
7
Trevor can’t stop thinking about him.
The arrogant rich prick, that is.
“Dude, what the fuck happened Friday night?”
“Not now,” I state to Elijah as I pour myself a mug of coffee, then bring it to my face to give it a gentle blowing.
“You hate coffee.”
“Not this beautiful Monday morning, I don’t.”
“C’mon. You held out on me all weekend. You wouldn’t even go to the potluck Saturday.”
“I thought you were kidding about a potluck,” I shoot back.
“You came home freakin’ shirtless on Friday,” he goes on like a scolding mother, “and you wouldn’t talk to me then. You had ‘sad rejected date’ written all over your face. All Saturday and yesterday, you looked like someone sat on your donuts. Now, you’re hopping around all bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed this morning like you’ve got a family of frisky squirrels in your pants.”
I return with my mug to the kitchen table—cluttered with my roommate’s dirty cups, empty beer cans, a stack of big sci-fi novels, and a PlayStation controller—and continue reading an article about one of Mr. Gage’s clients that I started on last night. I need to be prepared. Today is the day we finally meet him.
“Talk to me, bud,” he tries again. “Was it really that bad?”
He’s not going to give up until I let it all out. Besides, I do tell Elijah everything. We never keep secrets from one another. Even when we were kids, we’d share everything—good and bad. He was one of the first people I came out to, even before my own parents.
“I went home with him,” I start, my eyes still glued to the article on the screen of my laptop.
“And … what? He saw your third nipple and kicked you out?”
I roll my eyes. “No, he didn’t see my imaginary third nipple that I don’t have, you punk. He didn’t kick me out, either. I kicked myself out, more or less.”
Elijah lifts an eyebrow. “Why? He lived in a shithole? His dick looked like a thumb? He had a wife?”
“Quite the opposite. A dog. And he lives in a gorgeous, upscale high-rise eight blocks in that direction.” I point without looking. “Y’know, where all the other rich pricks live up in their big fancy towers.”
“Rich pricks, huh?” Elijah drums his fingers along the table. “Not hearing the problem yet. Dogs are amazing. I mean, cats are better, but—”
“No, they’re not.”
“Dude, he could’ve been your sugar daddy. You said he was an older guy, right? In that text you sent me on the way to his place?”
I’m not really reading the article. I’ve been aggressively trying to choke away the memory of Friday night, and my roommate is making it impossible. Every second, I’m assaulted by yet another image of Ben’s striking face, his fierce eyes, and the look of his muscles in those perfectly-fitting clothes of his.
And that beady-eyed look of hunger he gave me just before I shut the door on his face.
That look alone fueled my jerk-off session last night.
And the night before. And the moment I got home Friday.
I give my mug of coffee another gentle blow. How can one love the smell of something, yet hate the taste of it? Maybe that’s a perfect metaphor for my love life; delicious to dream of, ghastly to know.
“You realize what today is, right?” I ask him, trying to shift the subject. “I will be on-time, and by on-time, I mean fifteen minutes early. I’m not gonna wait on you.”
