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Sitting up on the thin foam mattress, I rub the sleep out of my eyes and try to muster enough energy to get up. There’s not enough padding to keep me from feeling the cold concrete of the garage floor, but it’s better than trying to get a good night’s sleep in my car.
Glancing around the dim room, I see the office door and it sparks a memory from yesterday like an assault on my mind. As if I could forget fucking a complete stranger in my boss’s office.
Why am I suddenly faced with a sense of nagging guilt? He was clearly into me; he never said no, and it was completely consensual. So we fucked. So what?
Because he’s aguy.
Not the first guy I’ve fucked—not even close. Just the first one in broad daylight, at work, and who had seen my face beforehand. Dark encounters are really more my style. There’s more anonymity and privacy in the darkness. But I couldn’t help myself. That salty, short beard of his along with his tight ass caught me off guard.
I wish I could say I’d never see him again, but I have to fix his car and the parts are coming in tomorrow, so… looks like I will have to face him again.Fantastic.
I brush my teeth in the bathroom sink, shove my flimsy mattress in the storage closet no one opens, and toss a granola bar in my pocket as I run out the door. As I jump into my black and silver 1970 Chevelle SS, I say a little prayer that she starts for me on the first try, and thank fuck, she purrs to life after only a few seconds.
“Good girl, Aphrodite,” I say, patting the steering wheel.
She may not have a working radio or A/C, and the heater may smell like something died in there, but she’s mine. I bought her off an old lady whose husband had just died and she cared more about getting rid of it than getting rich off of it, so I put a whole month’s salary toward the purchase. And three months’ rent—hence the current living situation.
I was prepared to be homeless for Aphrodite. When you live your entire life bouncing around foster homes, living in your car doesn’t sound like such a sacrifice. For once in my life, I have something I own, something that’smine.
As I pull up to campus, I don’t even bother looking at my schedule again. This is my second year at Florence U, and I'm here for two reasons.
One, rugby. When a disfigured orphan finds something he’s good at, and it makes people revere him as a god, he doesn’t let it go so easily.
Two, the grants from the state don’t cover tech schools. And if I ever want to run my own shop someday, I need an education.
My academic advisor filled my schedule with all the shit I need, and I have to keep a passing grade. So far, it hasn’t been an issue. I work, I play, I do my school work. That’s it.
And occasionally, fuck strangers on a whim, apparently.
I still can’t get that guy out of my head.
Thomas Litchfield. I didn’t even know I was into older guys until now, but he was sexy as fuck. The way he groaned when I slid my cock into him, his fingers gripping the desk. The way he nearly shot his load three feet when he came. How good he tasted when I kissed his neck, like sweat and spice.
Fuck, it’s only seven-thirty in the morning and I’m about to get out of my car with a chub in my pants. I have a few minutes to spare, so I do my best tonotthink about my cock in his ass and pray my dick deflates.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.
He wasn’t repulsed by me. It’s not that he didn’t stare—everyone does, but he didn’t gape at me in disgust or confusion like people usually do. He had a keen interest in me, judging by the way his eyes lingered on my lips and eyes, almost like he was attracted to me. Maybe that’s why I pounced on him in the office. I don’t get that look a lot.
Grotesque repulsion? Absolutely. Fear and paranoia? Definitely. Curiosity? Sure.
But attraction? Nope. Never.
I’m used to it though. The guys on the team crack jokes, and I don’t mind. I let it roll off my shoulders, and I laugh along when they call me Leatherface and theugly fuck. Because we all know what really matters—I’m the best fucking player on the team. So they can have their fun giving me names. I just pound them into the pitch during practice.
Five minutes to eight, my dick has finally gotten the memo that now is not the time to get excited, so I jump out of the car and head into the English building. My first class is in the big lecture hall, and when I get there, it’s already crammed with students. There’s only a couple spots left, but they both require me to walk past the whole crowd, something that immediately has me clenching up with paranoia.
Pulling my hoodie over my head, I keep my eyes forward as I make my way across.
Then I hear a familiar voice.
“Come get a syllabus before you sit down,” he says, his voice loud enough not to need the microphone that some teachers use. I freeze in my spot before glancing in his direction, and there he is.
Warm gray-speckled brown beard, tall narrow frame, long fingers, and tight slacks snug around his hips. When our eyes meet, time stops. Everyone in the room ceases to exist.
The man I fucked yesterday is my new English professor.
Of fucking course he is.
