15. Ryan
RYAN
W hat the fuck was that?
I mean—I know my answer—it was me totally losing my mind on him like a lost, starved animal and reeling myself way the fuck back in, but him ? Who even was he? That’s Malcolm Walsh?
Look, I wasn’t kidding when I asked about his meds.
I almost had to physically restrain myself from going into the bathroom and raiding his cabinets and drawers for either prescription meds that might be making him delusional or illicit substances that are changing his entire personality.
The thing is, I kinda like him like this?
It’s just nothing like how I expected him to be in whatever fantasy or nightmare I dreamed up. He’s always been the douchey jock—reluctant participant—or the dude who punches me in the face for trying to go down on him. Never, ever slutty “leave the towel” guy. Never once straddle my lap guy.
Half the time I was in his bed, my brain was too busy rewiring itself to take in what was happening—how long have we been kissing?
Was that his noise or mine? I halfway convinced myself that mine wasn’t the first cock he’s ever sucked— he was so fucking good at it.
Meanwhile, I’m over here gobbling him up like I’m a pig in a trough, not even thinking about what might actually feel good to him .
Thank fuck I was able to rein it in. If I freaked him out after last night, I’d have had him in an institution if I kept up like that.
The more distance I get from his apartment, from his bed, the more I think about what he told me tonight balanced against what he used to be like before my horrible confession lost me everything I cared about.
For example, I remember very distinctly the first time he ever rolled over and put his arms around me while we were watching TV.
The Simpsons were on. We were ten, I think.
I thought he was saying good night because we’d hugged before.
Not all the time, not every night, but when it was convenient and made sense, we’d give each other a hug before going off to our separate rooms for bed.
But that night wasn’t a hug. It was the first time he snuggled up to me, put his leg between mine and sighed like he’d finally gotten comfortable for the first time in years.
It surprised me, but I’d liked it. He was warm and managed to fit himself perfectly into all my hollow spaces. It was before bed, so we were both clean and showered, and it was just so… cozy .
“You’re comfy,” he’d said.
I think I said something like thanks .
So, after that night, he’d say things like “let’s watch a show and get comfy.” And I knew what he meant.
Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night, usually close to daybreak, and he’d be snuggling up to me again.
I’d pretend to be asleep, and he’d usually get up before I did and slip out of the room, but sometimes I’d let him know I was awake and make room for him.
Sometimes we’d wake up together and laugh about it .
Why the hell was that inappropriate? I didn’t start crushing on him for years after that.
So what was he talking about? I’m gonna get obsessed with having more answers.
It’s only a matter of time before I won’t be able to go on with my life before I need to know what the hell goes on in his confusing head.
I respect that he doesn’t want to talk about it, but what a weird thing to say.
Especially when it preceded him all but throwing his naked body at me and speaking the words aloud: I’m not straight.
His timeline was confusing as fuck for that, too, but I can’t deny he was acting exactly like someone who was way more confident about being with a man than I am.
Did he mess around with guys at Stanford?
If he did, I’ll be pissed. He was at his homophobic worst when we saw each other for holidays in college.
I didn’t even spend the summers at home because I knew he’d be there.
I stayed in Portland and worked, only venturing to the Bay Area for Thanksgiving and Christmas—the occasional birthday.
I’d stay two days max because watching him feel up or fuck Kaylin in every room on every conceivable surface was crippling.
I was physically ill after the first time I caught him having sex with her.
We were sixteen, and they were in the laundry room.
He had her on top of the washer—during the spin cycle obviously—and she was coming unglued as he was thrusting steadily into her.
I’d literally thrown up in my bathroom afterward.
But after that time, I guess I got used to it.
To hear him say tonight that their sex life is “okay” is in direct contradiction to the way it looked to me on that and several other occasions following that.
He’d seen me, too—that day in the laundry room.
He winked at me with a shit-eating grin on his face.
He wanted to get caught. I knew that. He was showing me who he was.
Proving it. Over and over and over again.
He liked pussy. Loved it. And he wanted to make damn sure I knew it .
I perfected the art of giving him no reaction. I’d watch a few seconds, make sure he knew I knew what I was seeing, take his stupid fucking wink and walk away with fury burning my insides and hurt devastating the landscape of my feelings for him.
I hated Kaylin, too. Not that she ever noticed me walking in on him banging her brains out, but I hated her for being the object of his desire.
She’d let him do her in just about any position, in any room, no matter how likely they were to get caught.
Bathroom with the door half open? No problem.
Kitchen—sure, why not, mom’s out for a walk and dad’s out back mowing the lawn.
Should be fine. Bent over the living room sofa when mom and dad were upstairs wrapping presents?
A perfect time to fit in a quick, indiscreet fuck.
So sue me for not trusting his reckless ass.
His plump, round, perfect ass that turns hard as a rock when it clenches during one of those infamous thrusts.
While I’m showering, I remember what he said about getting pounded into a mattress.
Another mind fuck.
I’m a few months older, but he’s a few inches taller than I am.
He’s slimmer, too. Lean but not lanky. Still, he’s got a different build than me.
I’m not huge, but I’m dense, packed with muscle.
I’d guess we weigh about the same, it’s just distributed differently.
He’s height and ass. I’m shoulders, chest and thighs.
Mostly thighs. It’s impossible to find jeans, which is why I didn’t want to come in them—I only have two pairs that fit right.
So, can I picture it? Pounding him into a mattress?
Fuck yeah, I can, especially after tonight with him pouring himself all over me the way he did.
But the mind fuck is that those are moves of his I’ve never seen—never could have imagined his body doing.
The casual drape—the loaded upward glances—the slow seductive body roll. He was hot before, but he’s sexy now.
I text him when I get out of the shower, unable to stop worrying about what tomorrow’s gonna be like.
I’m not sure if I can handle him flipping out on me again.
I’m messed up enough already. “Once Bitten, Twice Shy” by Great White is stuck in my head.
Only the chorus, of course. No mystery how that one got in there.
Me
You still up?
Mal
Barely. My mattress wants to swallow me.
Me
You good then?
Mal
You?
Me
I’m fine. See you tomorrow.
Mal
Tomorrow night too?
Me
I told you, we’ll see.
Mal
Did you have a good night?
I blow out a breath, thinking about how to answer that.
In all honestly, I feel wrung-out. Emotionally hung over.
Uncertain. Other than a few minutes while he was sucking me off, I was overthinking everything .
I was trying to separate my feelings from what we were doing, trying not to conflate the two.
But something about the way he kisses me is—I don’t know what the word for it is— fond?
What a stupid word. Is it even a word? It’s definitely not a sexy word.
And the hugging. Goddamn, the hugs. They’re like marathons.
It feels good to be turned on—it felt incredible to come down his throat—best orgasm of my life, no contest, but I also feel ashamed of it. Like I was taking something that isn’t mine to have.
But in the interest of not putting him into a dark, belligerent mood, I respond casually.
Me
Yeah, it was a good night. Sleep well.
Mal
You too.
Long story short—I don’t sleep well, but Bud sleeps like a champ.
The following morning with the same song stubbornly stuck in my head, I’m dragging ass getting ready.
I see I missed a call from Norah. I debate about whether to return it, and I ultimately do, but I only last a few minutes on the phone, barely able to speak in complete sentences.
She assumes I’m struggling to wake up, which is at least half true, and I promise to catch up with her after work.
Deacon, who sees me spill nearly a whole box of cereal, which I have to clean up while wanting to cry, brings me a double shot of espresso while I’m shaving my face.
I nearly come out of my skin when I see the gentle giant behind me in the mirror, but he holds up a hand like he means no harm and offers the drink with his other. “It’s got ginseng in it.”
“Thanks, man.”
He gives me a weak, shy smile and disappears.
The shot helps. By the time I’m on the elevator at Marks & Baker, I’m sharper, and as a bonus, my hands aren’t shaking like they normally would be with so much caffeine in my system.
Piper and Nathan are on the ride up with me, and I notice Nathan’s looking a little smug. “Any subscribers yet?” he asks.
I scowl at him. “Why? You like my tips?”
Piper grins. “ I like your tats. And your cat.” And then she snickers.
“Thanks for all the comments,” I tell her.