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“No, I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Really, though. I feel bad about that.” My hand runs up to his shoulder, giving it a massaging squeeze. “I should’ve been more responsible or somethin’.”
“Mr. Lemon is super forgiving. Heck, he probably won’t even remember it when I come in for work Monday morning.”
“And you don’t have to apologize to me for nothin’, Bobby.”
He shifts slightly. “Huh?”
“The whole ‘ignoring me’ thing.” My fingers dig and play into the muscles in his back, turning the soft rub into a one-handed massage. “I’m a big boy. I oughta be able to take—”
“That feels good.”
“Does it?” I dig my fingers into his back with more intent, focusing all the strength of my hand into his muscles. “Anyway, I was saying, I oughta be able to take care of myself.”
“Yeah, but now you’ve got a gimpy foot.”
“It’s fine. Just needs a little lovin’.” I give it a wiggle. “Speakin’ of, is that offer for a foot rub still on the table?”
“That was you asking for one, wise guy. Not me offering one.”
I chuckle softly. My hand works its way down to his lower back muscles, which is just a bit of a reach. He lets out a soft sigh when I dig into them, which I take to be an admission of, “Damn, that feels good,” so I knead my fingers even deeper.
He shifts slightly, and his arm slinks across my waist.
By instinct, I reach for it with my other hand. Now clutching his arm, I start gently rubbing it, too.
“You’re like a mini massage parlor,” Bobby mumbles against my chest.
“I’m a lot of things, I guess,” I murmur back as I press a thumb deep into a muscle in his lower back. Bobby hums softly in reply, melting into it. “I’m also a space heater, according to you.”
“A wet n’ sweaty one. Mmm.”
His words are starting to turn into milk and nothing.
He’s really enjoying my massage, by the sound of it.
My fingers go even deeper, working down to the very bottom of his back where the muscles end and meet the top of his ass. He groans the deepest when I press my thumb right into that knot of muscles where all his tension gathers.
Ah, there’s the sweet spot.
When my eyes meet the top of his shorts, and I see a tiny peek of his ass crack—just inches from where my fingers are digging—I find my mind straying.
My heart’s light right now. So light, I could float away.
And my chest is finally relieved of every bit of the stress of this past week—now that I’ve got Bobby here in my arms.
And my mind keeps wandering off, curious about things.
Things like, this feels so fucking good, spending time with my man and making him comfortable.
Things like, I wonder what’s so damned different about Bobby and me. Sure, he’s gay and I’m straight. But I love Bobby just as much as I’ve loved any one of my past girlfriends. I care for him deeply. I like holding him.
Things like, why do we have to put this big wall of labels between us? Straight, gay … Hell, back when I played football my freshman and sophomore years of high school, I know how it felt when a teammate slapped my ass. It made me proud. It made me feel loved—in that brotherly, teammate-like way. And I would return the love, too, showing my encouragement and team pride with a hearty smack right on the ass of another teammate.
That’s how you do it as a dude. It feels great.
All guys like it. All guys think it feels great, too.
Maybe men feel this need to toughen up their showings of affection to prove their masculinity—or some other dumb shit. But the bottom line is the same: we care about each other. And if we were brave enough to admit it, we can love each other, too.
Same as I love Bobby Parker.
He’s always gonna be in my life, and I’m always gonna be in his, no matter what that means for the both of us.
Even if that means … having to let him go a bit.
“You’re holding me a lot lately,” Bobby murmurs softly.
I shrug. “I like holding you.”
“Do you?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“It feels good.” I give his lower back another deep, massaging squeeze. “Don’t you think it feels good?”
Bobby gives it a thought, then nods. “Yeah, it does.”
“Good. You should go on the date.”
He flinches at my abrupt shift in topics, for a second looking like he’s been shaken out of a trance. “Uh … wait, what?”
“What else do you think I’m talkin’ about? The date tomorrow night. You should go.”
He shifts himself around, rolling onto my lap and turning to face me. His face reflects confusion. “Why are you saying I should go, right after warning me about your ma’s ‘uppity taste’?”
I shrug. “Maybe this is the nice deed I was tryin’ to do for you down at the nightclub. Maybe this guy’s a super nice guy who’ll do you good, I don’t know. But you’ll never know unless you try.”
