Chapter 5 James
Some night’s it’s a battle for Dyl to eat anything, especially when he’s tired. But tonight, he’s in rare form, and covered head to toe in red sauce after polishing off two slices of lasagna and three of Manny’s homemade garlic bread.
“He looks the happiest I’ve seen him since …” Faith stops, eyes darting between Dyl and I. We both know what she means. Neither can bear to say it, so as usual, we just move on.
“It’s ‘cause you are happy, aren’t you, bud?
” Rocking in his chair, Dylan nods, and hums around the last bite of pasta.
“And why wouldn’t you be? An afternoon at the beach, the sun on your skin, water lapping at your feet, sounds infinitely more appealing than the frozen version I was dealing with. And those boys. Faith. What the hell?”
“You’ll get used to them. And don’t forget, you were one of them a decade ago.”
“Hey, I was never that bad. Was I Dyl?” Another cheeky smile and nod comes my way. “Oh, that’s lovely. Gang up on me after I slaved over dinner for you both.”
“Really, James. Reheating is hardly slaving, but since you feel so hard done by, why don’t I take kitchen clean up, and you tackle showering Pasta Face over there.”
I’m not sure I’m getting the deal Faith seems to think I am, but it doesn’t matter. Dylan, a massive fan of all things water, is up and out of his chair in a beat, stripping off as he heads upstairs. Laughing, I give chase, and overtake him just before he reaches the bathroom.
It’s there, as steam fills the room, and bubbles cover Dyl’s full head of curls, that his fatigue kicks in.
At six-five and well over two hundred and fifty pounds, I’m no lightweight—and no match for a heightened Dylan.
With one nudge, I’m slammed into the glass shower wall, and left wondering again how the hell Dad, who was half my size, managed this alone.
Dyl grips my wrist and tugs. He’s not trying to hurt me, he just wants out. That’s clear. What’s not, is his hair.
“Dyl, mate, we have to wash your hair first. Then you can get out. Just ten more seconds, okay. Come on, count it with me. One … two …” Counting out loud is a technique Manny taught us when we first moved in, and it’s one of the best tools we have.
Dylan can count, he just can’t count out loud. Rather he nods and hums along with me.
At five, I angle the shower head, then gently edge him towards me. I’m not trying to get him all the way in, rather just enough for the water to reach his soapy locks. It takes to the count of forty, but the bubbles are out, Dyl’s eyes are soap free, and he’s ready for bed.
So am I.
Dylan is dry and dressed and Faith’s getting him settled. As much as I want to be doing the same with my own exhausted frame, I’m back in the car, heading to my old apartment to get more of my belongings. An itemized list of said belongings is not what’s on my brain, though.
A thousand and one things have happened tonight, but Faith’s, You need to get laid, is all I can think of.
Why? Because honestly, she wasn’t wrong.
It’s been at least a year since I split with my ex, Brandon, the breakup leaving a bitter aftertaste, I haven’t wanted to so much as look at a man sexually.
But tonight? I dunno. Maybe it’s all the testosterone I’ve inhaled today at the rink, but losing myself in someone, having them take the lead and give me what I need does sound appealing.
Ghosts of hook-ups past whisper into my ear, as I glance at my phone. Dooo ittt. Dooo ittt.
Hmm. Should I?
An aggressive series of beeps from the car at my rear let me know the light is now green.
With an apologetic wave in the mirror I take off, eyes constantly flicking to my phone on the passenger seat.
Barely cognizant of how I got here, I park in my prime space right out front of my building, and head up the stoop, my stomach twisting with each step.
It’s been two weeks since I was here—one because I have such limited free time these days, and two because just seeing the postcard perfect streetlights, and the little garden with its hydrangeas beginning to bloom, it hurts like hell.
I fucking love this apartment.
It’s a ridiculously large three-bedder in Chestnut Hill, with high ceilings, exposed brick walls and the walk-in closet of my fantasies.
And since it’s the last in a neat row of brownstones, every room is bathed in light that never failed to lift my spirits.
The day Brandon and I moved in, heads full of dreams, hearts with hope of the family we would create here, was one of the happiest of my life.
The day he left for Florida, weeks after moving in was one of the worst.
So yeah, I love it, and I hate having to let it go …
if I ever can find someone to let, or buy it, that is.
And I need to. Desperately. Brandon did a job not only on my heart but on my bank balance.
He came from money, and together we could easily afford the mortgage.
But apparently, there were issues. The majority of his cash was tied into a family trust, so he paid the deposit but the mortgage was in my name with my dad as a guarantor.
With Brandon and Dad gone it’s my responsibility.
The entirety of my savings, mere monthly income and then some, is gone only to have the place sit empty.
Anxiety claws at my throat, as I make my way up the stairs, wave to my neighbor Mrs. T, then unlock the door, the knife lodged in my heart turning in sync with the key.
Boston city lights up the black sky as I step inside, wander over to the window, dropping my keys on the dust-covered coffee table, and flicking on light switches as I go.
“God dammit, this sucks.” Instead of closing the blinds like I should have done the last time I was here, I stand there like a loser, taking in the torturous view for what may be the last time.
After moping, crying and lecturing myself to snap the fuck out of it, I get busy packing and ferrying boxes down to the car, until all that’s left is the sofa Brandon loved but I hated, the small dining and coffee tables, my old bed, and the spare in the second bedroom, oh, and of course my youth, hope and chance of any future happiness.
Exhausted, I slide down the living room wall until I slump against the floor and bury my head in my hands.
“What an utterly fucking, cluster fuck miserable life this is.”
Out of no where, I hear Faith’s voice. “Jamie, you need to get laid.”
Now, I’m not normally one to take sex advice from my big sister, but maybe invisible Faith’s right. Maybe it’s time to dust the cobwebs off and have some fun.
If I can remember what that is.
Like it can sense action is coming, my dick swells against my zipper. It wants in. Fuck it.
I raise my ass, slide my phone from my pocket, and scroll.
When I swore off men months ago, I deleted all my apps, so I re-download Grindr and am up and running in a disturbingly short time.
Which is a good thing, I tell myself, because intellectually I know using one of society’s most potent dopamine providers is morally repugnant, and the longer it takes the more chance there is of me wimping out.
Which I’m close to doing as I flick by the first dozen or so profiles. I am a terrible person. Judging people by photo-shopped mug and junk shots is – Ooh, a twink. Ooff, he’s a swimmer. That explains the bod.
Normally go for guys like me, big, burly. Strong. But a long lean body, with two perfect plump cherry nipples, sparks something inside me.
Something called horniness. I scope the rest of his pics, see that he’s close by, and of legal age. Before I can overthink this, I tap, type, and send the lamest message ever.
Handyrub04
Hi. Hello. How are you? You’re cute.
I’m googling how to unsend Grindr messages when I hear the infamous blip-blip.
Twinkiebearbear21
Hey. I like your tattoo. I struggle with finding that. Is that why you got it?
“What the fuck is he talking about?” Then it clicks. I pull out the collar of my polo and see the lame ass BALANCE tattoo on my right pec. At nineteen it felt super deep. Now. Well. I dunno.
Hey yourself. Thanks. It’s …
I pause, trying to think of something sexy
permanent.
What the actual fuck, James?
Twinkiebearbear21
You don’t say. I don’t have any tatts, but I’d love to get one. Maybe a tiny one on my pec like yours.
No, don’t do that. Not there anyway. Maybe your arm?
Twinkiebearbear21
Arms are hot, but why not my pec??
It would be a waste: You get a tattoo to be seen and admired, but no one will be looking at anything on your chest other than those pretty pink nipples.
Twinkiebearbear21
You like my nipples?
That’s weird, sorry.
Twinkiebearbear21
No it’s not. It’s kinda hot. No one’s ever just put it out there like that, which is kind of surprising considering.
There’s a short delay, enough for me to worry that I’ve ruined it already, and then…
Twinkiebearbear2
So you’re a nip guy?
Am I? I glance at the pic again, zooming in on the light dusting of hair above them and the tight toned muscle beneath. My cock is weeping from a freaking nip pic.
Not normally, but in this case yes. It would appear so.
Twinkiebearbear21
Would you like to see them in person?
I should probably say something hot and flirty to seal the deal, but I have no idea what.
So I say just that.
Yes. I would. Very much so. Sorry I know I should say something sexy, but I’m no good at this.
Twinkiebearbear21
No, you’re direct. No games. I like it. That and you’re fucking massive.
In return, I’m going to make this real easy.
I want to straddle your thick neck, watch you suck my dick and go to town on my nipples until I blow my load all over that big furry chest. Then, I’ll return the favor.
That or you can fuck me. Or vice-versa. I’m easy.
Holy shit. That sounds … yeah. That sounds … good.
I glance at my watch. I told Faith I’d be home by eleven. That gives me two hours.
Normally, I would feel weird about having a stranger in my house, but after tonight it won’t be my house. If he did decide to come back and murder me, I won’t be here.
I’m aware that he could also murder me while he’s here, but with my dick aching the way it is, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
Twinkiebearbear2
You still there? Did I freak you out?
Nope, just figuring out logistics. How soon could you be here? I have to be home by 11.
Twinkiebearbear21
I can leave now. Gives us plenty of time