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“How did you know that getting fucked is good for stress relief or whatever?” he clarifies. “If you’re not into guys, I mean. It seems like a pretty wild leap.”
I’m thoughtful for a moment. I’ve never had to explain this to anyone before—mainly because every other guy I’ve hooked up with has been a random stranger and has likely made the assumption that I’m gay or bi or whatever. But considering Deacon’s the one I want to use as a stress ball, he probably has a right to know. And I have to wonder whether any of his hesitation is wrapped up in him not being able to understand my “system” as he called it. Maybe if he understands things better he won’t feel so used.
Or maybe the complete opposite will happen.
“Okay, first of all—I don’t really know what my attraction to men is, but it’s clearly not zero. I mean, I’ve watched gay porn before and didn’t get so much a twitch of desire, but then if I’m at a gay bar and I see a guy who looks like he’ll be a good fuck, I can definitely get aroused. I might not get fully hard until I see his cock, or until he’s inside me, but things will start happening.” Except with Deacon, when I got rock hard from just watching him across the bar. I should have twigged then that something weird was going on.
“But you only go to gay bars when you’re really stressed, right?” he presses. “Do you get that reaction normally—like, if you’re feeling good and not all stressed out would you still see a hot top and get hard?”
I want to laugh at the notion of me not being stressed out, but I can see what he’s getting at. “To be honest, I only really go out when I really need to hook up. Otherwise I prefer to stay at home with my family.”
He nods, and I can see a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “Right. So it probably is just the stress thing.”
I shrug. “Like I said, I don’t know. But one thing I should clarify is that I’m not using this to deal with run of the mill stress. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and I’ve got a ton of techniques and methods I use to help me deal with it. And this is one of them. Sometimes I have days where everything just feels like it’s spiraling out of control and my mind’s a fucking mess, and I need to clear it out. This helps with that.”
He nods, brows knitted in concern. “Okay. I can definitely see how it could help. How did it start, though?” he probes, reminding me of the original question.
I take a fortifying sip of my wine before offering Deacon a small, wry smile. “It was after my wife died. As you can imagine, it was an incredibly difficult time…”
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes full of sympathy as he reaches out to grasp my hand.
“Thanks,” I say with a soft smile, before drawing in a steadying breath. “During the year straight after Leah’s death I was…well, I think ‘basket case’ might be a pretty accurate term. I’ve had issues with anxiety in the past, but after the accident it felt like I was on board a capsizing boat in the middle of a storming sea. I kept bailing out water and then twice as much would be dumped back in. It felt like I’d never see dry land again.” I glance to Deacon and offer a wry smile. “Sorry, that was a bit melodramatic.”
“It doesn’t sound like you were a basket case,” he murmurs, squeezing my hand gently. “It sounds like you were coping the best way you could with an impossible situation. And you made it through the storm, which is more than can be said for George Clooney.”
My brows draw together in confusion. “Huh?”
He just blinks at me, as though unable to comprehend my confusion. “George Clooney dies inA Perfect Storm—you haven’t seen that one?”
“No, but I guess the ending’s ruined now.”
He rolls his eyes. “The movie’s almost as old as I am. I think when you hit the twenty-year mark spoilers are fair game.”
I shrug. “Fair. But for the record, I haven’t seenGladiatoryet either and I don’t want to know the ending.”
Deacon stares at me, dumbstruck. “What the hell were you doing in 2000?”
“Well, we were in the process of acquiring BCN and I had a newborn daughter, so free time was limited.”
A bright grin spreads across Deacon’s face, his dark eyes lit with amusement. “Okay, you win. But yourGladiatorvirginity is something we shall have to remedy.”
I quirk a brow at him. “That’s a line fromBraveheart.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh, one hand held over his chest. “Oh, thank god. There’s hope for you yet.” Turning serious, he sends me a soft glance. “You don’t have to tell me the rest if you don’t want to.”
I shrug. “I’ve started now.” I try to remember where I left off before we went on that wild tangent. Right, my anxiety. “My therapist wanted to put me on meds for the anxiety,” I tell him. “But I was on my own with two young kids and I didn’t want to take anything that could fuck up my brain chemistry, or make me all drowsy and out of it. I have Valium for emergencies, but that’s as far as I’ll go.” He gives me an encouraging nod and I go on. “What I needed to do was to figure out ways to cope with my triggers and reduce my stress. My first move was to change therapists because the other one seemed way more interested in trying to medicate me than actually talking to me, then I hired a director for Grimco and pretty much halved my work load; I brought in a team to help me handle the management of Leah’s estate and business interests; but probably the best thing I did was talk to my kids. They were so young, I thought I was protecting them by keeping them out of everything and by making it seem like I was fine, but kids are way smarter than adults give them credit for—especially my kids—and they could tell that I wasn’t okay. All I was doing by keeping them out of everything was pushing them away. Once we started talking, we were like scattered puzzle pieces being put back together. There’ll always be a piece missing, but you can see the picture.” I give a sharp shake of my head, letting out an exasperated huff. “Fuck, I really need to stop with these lame analogies.”
“I like your analogies, they’re cute,” Deacon says with a grin.
Fucking hell. A twenty-seven-year-old is calling mecute.
“Anyway…I gradually started doing better, but I was nowhere near back to my normal self. And after about a year, one of my buddies started suggesting I try to get laid. Sex has always been a good outlet for me—I mean, it’s sex, it gives you endorphins, I’m pretty sure most people get some sort of relief from a good orgasm—so it was a valid suggestion. But I wasn’t ready to be with another woman—not at that point, at least.” I send Deacon a hesitant glance. “I’m not sure you’re going to like the next part…”
“Well, now I’m intrigued,” he says with a smirk. Perhaps sensing my unease, his expression softens and he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Tanner, I’m not going to judge you for doing whatever you needed to do to get through your wife’s death.”
“That’s not really what I’m worried about,” I murmur. I sigh and decide to just get it over with. I’m about to justify all the reservations he came here with tonight. “I’ve always been into anal play—mainly fingering—but I took it to another level after Leah died, with dildos and beads and stuff like that. It just felt better to be doing stuff we hadn’t done together.”
“Like, you would be cheating on her otherwise?” Deacon asks, brows furrowed in thought.
