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He was just about to stand when the sound of the bird started going off again, and the kitten took off like a rocket before Peyton could stop it.RIP bird, he thought, hoping a window wasn’t open. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if his neighbor came home to find their bird dead and the little stray licking its paws.
With a wince, Peyton pushed to his feet and went back in, feeling a little bit lost. There was little to do now, and it was barely eleven. He was still young, but the idea of going out was laughable. He didn’t have the energy for it, and when that eventually came back, he didn’t know if he’d have the courage.
Normally he’d crawl into bed, find some nice porn, then rub one out until he got tired. His favorite thing was slipping a small little bullet vibe into his hole and letting the pleasure rocket through him.
His doctor had suggested external prostate stimulation, but he could never get it quite right, and the first time he tried to use a toy, he kept fumbling with it—unable to get the angle right. Then his balls kept getting in the way, and his dick refused to get hard, and…
Well.
It threw him into a fit of anger, which dissolved into an anxiety attack leaving him near tears.
He hadn’t tried since then, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to now. His orgasms weren’t as satisfying just by stroking himself, which was why he hadn’t spent a lot of time masturbating when he was younger. His world had been changed the first time a man in a club rolled a condom on, then pounded his prostate until he was sobbing into the crook of his arm.
He didn’t know he could come that hard, and the thrill and pleasure of it had never worn off.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he decided crashing in front of the TV was a better option. There was no sense in lying in bed, letting his brain run in circles that wouldn’t stop. It felt a little pathetic and a lot lonely, but Peyton knew it would be a slow climb to his new normal.
He drifted to the sounds of the soothing time-keeping music of the baking show, then jolted wide awake sometime later when something rattled at his front door. Unsure what time it was, Peyton dropped his feet to the floor, but when he stood, he felt a familiar tug on his bag.
It was full—close to bursting. He paused to listen, making sure there wasn’t some rando criminal trying to break in, and when he was met with silence, he hurried off to the bathroom and dug his supplies out to make the change.
It was the longest process now—carefully detaching the bag so nothing spilled, wiping away the adhesive that was leaving a permanent red ring around the opening, ignoring the strange sort of zing he felt every time his intestine was exposed to air. It had no feeling, but the hole around it was still tender.
He tried not to look too closely at it—how alien it was, how unnatural.
He knew eventually it would just become like another appendage, but it was still early days.
He swallowed thickly, then attached a new bag, slipped on the cover, then gave it a gentle tug to make sure it was properly stuck in place. Ten minutes had gone by, and he wondered if he was ever going to get faster.
God—if he had been on a date and had to excuse himself for this…?
He shoved that thought out of his head and walked back into the living room. The time on the wall clock read just after one in the morning, and he listened carefully again, but there was still no sound other than his own breathing, and the soft hum of his fridge.
Something was nagging at him though, so he walked to his door and peered out the little peephole. The street was awash with the yellow glow of the ugly streetlights, the sky pitch black, and all the other townhouses dark. His own porch light was off, and he regretted not installing one of those doorbell cameras because it just seemed the safe thing to do these days.
Hesitating, he gripped the knob, then pulled the door open a crack. Still nothing. He turned to shut it when something fluttering in the faint late-night breeze caught his eye, and Peyton glanced down to see something sitting on his stoop. It was a bag—one of those small black kitchen bags for trash. The ends were loosely tied, and there was something attached to the knot.
Pulling the door open all the way, Peyton knelt down and plucked it off the little bundle.
What part of NOT INTERESTED is confusing for you?
The note was in the same hand as the previous one—from his neighbor. It took him a second to realize what it was, then he lifted the bag and knew the cookies were inside it. Beneath it was the little container he’d sent them in.
His stomach burned hotly with shame and rejection. How could someone be so unkind? If there was an issue with baked goods, they could have at least knocked on his damn door and told him instead of trashing them and leaving them on his doorstep.
What kind of fucking monster was living next door?
Peyton snatched up the container, then stepped back and slammed the door shut. It wasn’t as satisfying knowing he was the only one who could hear it, but it still felt good to release some of his anger. He marched to the kitchen and dropped the bag, then ripped it open. The cookies were at the bottom, a crumbled mess of soft dough.
Sneering, Peyton stuck the note on top of them, then grabbed his phone off the charger and snapped a photo. He didn’t think twice before posting it to his Instagram as he walked back to the sofa and crawled beneath his blankets.
TheBakerByTheSea: This is what my neighbor thought of the welcome basket of pudding cookies I left him. Guess you can’t please everyone, right?
He set his phone down and turned his attention back to the TV. There was no way in hell he’d be sleeping tonight, but he knew people would see his post and maybe their love of his bakes would soothe some of the white-hot sting that was simmering just under his skin.
He was a simple man, after all, and a little validation went a long way.
CHAPTER SIX
