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My heart has lost its way, now somehow lodged in my throat as my increasing pulse threatens to make me explode from within.
Then Jimmy pulls his shirt on one sleeve at a time, and ever so slowly, he turns around to face me as he buttons it up.
His eyes find mine.
I stare back into his, stricken, lost in them.
As if he’s blissfully unaware of my staring at his ass a second ago—or perhaps just accepting it with casual flair—Jimmy purses his cute lips with thought, gives me a curt chin-lift, and says, “You gotta tell me which pants go with this shirt, bud. I brought three.”
Suddenly, I feel the need to play off my stunned demeanor with a snide-ass comment. “You think you could possibly wear underwear any smaller and tighter than those? Aren’t you afraid of suffocating them Strong nuts of yours?”
“What?” He gives his own ass a slap, then lets out a laugh. “I thought these little things would be perfect for tonight. I never wore them before. What do you think? They doin’ the trick?”
I blink, my eyes now dropping to the front of them.
And the generous bulge of his junk, framed by his tight briefs in such a way that not an inch of it is ignored.
“Trick? What the hell kinda trick you hopin’ to pull, Jimmy?”
He shrugs. “The kind that makes me fit in with the crowd?”
I eye him with mounting confusion. I wonder sometimes if he enjoys peacocking around me all the time for some deeper reason. I used to think it’s because he likes the attention. Then I wondered for a brief spell if Jimmy might be gay and toying with me. Then eight girlfriends later, I dismissed that notion and went back to assuming he’s an attention whore. Then I wondered if it was some kind of invisible pissing match with any other man near him, like he has to be sure he’s always the hottest dude in the room.
Just how far and big does Jimmy Strong’s ego go, I wonder?
Suddenly I find all my fascination gone in an instant. “If you aren’t careful, it’s gonna be your tight little tush gettin’ picked up tonight instead of mine.” With that, I spin around and face the mirror again, fixing my hair with renewed purpose.
Jimmy isn’t done with me. “And what the heck are you gonna wear, Bobby? Aren’t you supposed to be gettin’ ready?”
“I’m already wearing what I’m wearing,” I throw back. “What do you mean ‘what the heck are you gonna wear’?”
Jimmy’s silence makes me pull away from the mirror—yet again—to look at him. He’s gazing at my shirt like the mere sight of it deeply offends him. “But … But you just rode here in that. It’s all sweaty. Dude, are you tryin’ to scare away the boys tonight?”
“I look just fine. You’re the heavy sweater. Not me.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, you are not going to the nightclub like that.”
“I’ll go however I damned well like.”
Jimmy turns away—again gracing me with the sight of his tight bikini-brief-clad buns—and fishes through the pairs of pants he brought: a pair of skinny blue jeans with stylish horizontal slits running across the thighs, some acid-washed gray jeans, and a darker pair of straight-leg blue jeans. “I’m goin’ with these for myself,” he announces, tossing aside his signature pair of slashed-up tight jeans that show off his dancer legs, of course. “And you are gonna wear one of the other two, plus one of my tops. We’re the same size,” he adds over his shoulder—again catching me staring at his ass and not mentioning it, “so you’ll look great.”
I walk right up to that bed and pick up one of his shirts—a sleek blue button-up with stripes running up just the middle of it, the sleeves left solid. “The Strongs are never wanting for clothes.”
“Blame me for havin’ a gay brother who never let me walk out of the house lookin’ half-assed.” He picks up the pair of gray jeans and slaps them against my chest. “And neither are you.”
I give him half a scowl of defiance, then relent at once with a huffed, “Fine,” as I toss the jeans back onto the bed, then proceed to undo my own pants and tug them right down. Jimmy just grins a knowing, cocky grin as he continues to dress himself.
Jimmy Strong always gets his way in the end.
After we grab a bite at a diner on the corner, the (now totally Jimmy-approved and swanky) pair of us walk down five crowded streets through smoke, body odor, cars honking, and loud city chatter. When we reach the nightclub, I’m almost disappointed at its unassuming entrance, wondering what all the fuss is about. But when the man at the door checks our IDs and lets us through, I find the nightclub’s interior throbbing with colorful lights and deafening music. Through the flashing lights, I see a dance floor flooded with bodies, and the longest bar I’ve ever seen lining the perimeter of the space, interrupted here and there by sections with tall tables, moody lighting, and more bodies.
