Chapter 11 DIEGO
It’d been a good two years since I’d started working at The Pike full-time, mostly so I could afford my own place, tiny as it was. I’d been living with two guys back then, and it was a lot to juggle, so it just made sense to prioritize differently.
Especially when acting wasn’t making me any fucking money. I mean, gotta be realistic, right?
But then that relationship broke down, and I didn’t wanna live with another roommate, and then Drake happened, and what with him on my ass all the time about where I was and when I was gonna see him next…
Time just got away from me, I guess.
I spent that June with Taran trying to quit smoking and figuring out how to do a new voice demo.
I picked through material I thought would play to my strengths and went back through parts I’d played over the last few years in local stuff.
I paid for some online courses and worked to save up money.
So much that I didn’t do many of my usual Pride Month bacchanalia events.
No club basement underwear parties, no foamy DJ nights at the club, and only one charity drag brunch—though Taran was a hit with the local queens, who asked if they could use him as a prop for their show at a later Pride event.
Taran politely declined, much to their disappointment.
I was pretty proud, though, because those girls know talent when they see it.
And because he was slowly but surely integrating into my world, and he seemed…
perfectly normal about it? I must’ve had some fear that the inherent cishet programming he’d grown up with would spoil his enjoyment, but like it did with most queer kids once they were set free, he seemed to enjoy himself among the gays and the theys far more than he did at any Pirates game.
I started to think this was really going to work. I started to admit to myself, if not to him, that I didn’t just want him to hold me down and edge me until I screamed; I was super, super into him. Like, as a person.
Again.
I held back on the requests for more dommy behavior, though, just like I held back on the boyfriend thing. And since he didn’t seem to mind, and we were having plenty of fun as it was, what was the harm?
I recorded my demos with Louisa at Studio L on the first weekend in July.
To celebrate, Taran put me flat on the bed, told me not to move, and drove me crazy for about an hour that night.
And as I was curled up in his arms, my body humming with pleasure and relaxed as fuck after, he asked me, “What do you want from me for your birthday?”
He had a whole fucking wishlist; he’d made me fill one out back in June.
It was full of equipment I needed to really start getting serious about voice work, including software I couldn’t afford and an actual soundproof booth you could set up in your living room or whatever that no one was ever gonna buy me.
But he’d said to shoot for the moon, to think of it as aspirational, so I did.
“You know what I asked for,” I said sleepily.
“Right, and I’ll get you something off your list. But I mean, something else. Something no one else could give you.” He kissed my cheek, my lips, then my sweaty forehead.
I sighed happily. “I don’t know. I guess…”
He pulled back enough to look me in the eye, smiling. “I saw that idea happen.”
I chuckled, body still thrumming from his hard work.
It was impossible to lie to him after he’d fucked me so good, even if I’d wanted to.
Which I didn’t. In truth, I wanted him to do a lot of things to me, not limited to but including spanking, overnight free use, and a bunch of other shit that added up to just wanting him to own me, sexually speaking.
Not just so he could get off, though that was obviously fucking delightful, but because I wanted him to…
Something. Something I was having trouble getting to, because my last experience with this shit had turned into an older white guy giving me the ick.
I couldn’t imagine it’d be a thing, with Taran.
In spite of looking like he might be something other than, he was definitely white.
But he knew about decolonizing other shit, so kink shouldn’t give him any trouble.
I also knew he would never take advantage of anything I gave him.
That he would never ask for more than I could give; or if he did, he’d accept a no gracefully, even gratefully.
And come on. He loved that shit. Having his fingers on all my buttons and deciding when to push them didn’t just make him hard, it made him drip. Massive wet spot, sticky cockhead, suck-him-off-in-sixty-seconds hard.
Maybe it felt more secure lately because he trusted me that way, too. I might’ve been drunk that night, but I still had the memory locked in, vivid and bright as a movie in my head: … I’d do anything for you. Because I can trust that anything you asked me to do wouldn’t be morally reprehense..ible.
Yes, I even had the little stutter in reprehensible memorized. I was that taken with it.
Not sure I really realized that I trusted him right back, though. So it was a little bit to process in the moment, and post-orgasm clarity was only so helpful there.
“I want a list,” I decided.
His lips were puffy and red from kissing and teasing. He licked them, then bit down on his tongue playfully. “Of…?”
“Things you wanna do in bed. Wild, dirty, disgusting, hilarious; I don’t care. I want at least five real ideas from you.”
He chuckled and flopped onto his back, stretching upward and arching his back. I ran my fingers slowly over the trail of hair from his chest down to his navel, feeling the flex of muscle beneath skin and a lovely layer of warm flesh. Goddamn, he was just—
“Will you make a list too?” he asked.
I glanced up into his eyes. “Me? Why?”
“Well, I’m giving you my fantasies. But I wanna give you some of yours, too.”
I considered. “But we can veto anything out of the gate.”
“Obviously.”
“And if there’s nothing appealing, you have to say.”
“I will. And you too.”
“Girl, please. But yes, fine.”
Taran laughed again, deep and satisfied, tucking his hands behind his head. “How many things?”
“At least five,” I said again. “That gives us some wiggle room.”
“I could probably give you five right now,” he said.
Delighted, I moved closer, plastering myself to his side and shoving my face into his armpit. Too much deodorant, not enough Taran, but still nice. “Save it, lover boy.”
His chest bounced with laughter. “Words I never thought I’d hear you say.”
And in that moment, it was perfect.
And then came Picklesburgh.
***
Look, maybe you’re a normal person. Maybe you don’t get excited at the idea of pickle-based beer, pickle-and-potato pierogies, and pickleback-flavored fudge. That’s a choice you could make.
But it wouldn’t be mine. Or Pittsburgh’s in general. The Picklesburgh festival got so big a few years back that they had to move it off the Three Sisters—the side-by-side suspension bridges over the Allegheny—because the sheer weight of the crowds was too much for them.
This year, they decided to put it back on the bridges, which was great for the sake of atmosphere but kinda rough in terms of crowd movement, so I insisted we get there early on the first day.
They always run out of the Turner’s pickle iced tea later in the day too, and the experience just isn’t complete without it. Total bummer.
All morning, Toni was blowing my phone up about how she was gonna meet us there.
She was back in Stanley Co for her usual two-week visit, which always ended with my birthday.
And it wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her, because obviously I did.
She was my best friend, and we’d been through hell together, and I loved her.
But her mouth was even worse than mine. And I knew, I just knew she was gonna say some shit to Taran.
So I was trying to put her off as long as possible.
I was apparently giving off distracted vibes, because as we settled our pickle-themed lunch bounty on one of the standing tables near an empty stage, he asked, “You okay? We don’t have to stay, if you don’t want.
Toni can just meet us at your place. Or somewhere else. ”
I shook my head. “No, I’m good. We didn’t get any fudge yet. Oh, shit, I wanted to try the cucumber cocktail over—”
“I’ll get it; you hold down the fort?” Taran was already on his way back to the stall our hands had been too full to stop at before.
Ugh, what a fucking gentleman. Even when he was rearranging my guts, he was a gentleman. It was goddamn ridiculous.
“Where’s he going?” a familiar voice from over my shoulder asked.
I sighed. “Toni.”
She sidled up to the table beside me and leaned. She had a huge pickle lemonade in one hand and a basket of fried pickles in the other. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek as she settled her food and drink on the table.
Then she went up on her toes and kissed my cheek, too. “He looks good.”
“Told you.” I raised an eyebrow. “Play nice. I mean it.”
“Me?” She put a hand do her chest, making the most over-the-top innocent face in her arsenal. Her eyes were bright today, a clear gray that gave the impression of honesty somehow, no makeup, pale skin slightly pink from the sun.
“You look good too,” I commented after giving her a once-over.
“You always look good.” She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Oooh, are those good?” She stole a pierogi.
“Those are Taran’s,” I told her.
“He’ll get over it.”
I chuckled. As nervous as I was about the two of them meeting up after all this time, and with me involved, no less, it was really, really nice to see her.
Cincy wasn’t even that far from Pittsburgh—hell, one of us coulda got on a boat and just followed the Ohio to the other—but between money and work and shit, we hardly ever had the chance.
Someday we’d have disposable income. Until then, the yearly visit and the odd vacation would have to do.