3. Henry
THREE
HENRY
Oh my god, oh my god.
My chest is heaving with fear and lust and anxiety as I stumble down the aisle on the bus and slump into a seat.
What the hell just happened? Parker and I were having dinner, and then Danny and…Anders arrived, and my brain just went to mush.
Danny is a beast of a man, tall and built, but oddly energetic, kind of like an overly enthusiastic toddler.
I don’t know what Parker was going to tell me before they arrived, but whatever the situation she has with that man, it’s going to end with them together.
The way Danny’s entire face lit up when he looked at Parker was enough to lighten even the most intense situation.
Anders was like a thunderstorm in comparison to his sunshiny friend. The moment he appeared at the end of our booth, it was like the air filled with static and the oxygen thickened.
Unlike Danny, who is gym-bunny thick, Anders is built like a mythical Viking.
I’ve never seen anyone look like him in real life.
His hair is pale blond, almost white, and was twisted into a man bun on top of his head.
His skin is a warm, sun-brightened color, not tan, but not fair either.
His eyes are the kind of blue that look like a mountain lake, and his aura is… terrifying.
No, terrifying is the wrong word. I’ve met my fair share of scary people in my life, and Anders didn’t make my skin prickle with fear.
Instead, he made every hair on my body stand on end.
He made me feel like everything I’ve known until the moment we met was simply a prelude to how everything would change now that he’s stepped into my life.
I had to literally bite my tongue so I didn’t call him Sir, or Daddy, or Master, or just roll to my back and spread my legs in the air for him.
The last hour has been scary and intense and confusing. The way he’s acted toward me was intoxicating, but I’m not sure if he was flirting with me or if he’s just one of those overly caring people who felt sorry for me.
I’ve known I was attracted to men my whole life, but I have zero gaydar. I couldn’t pick another gay person out of a crowd if my life depended on it because I’ve never even spoken to a gay man before. I’m a reclusive, friendless virgin.
After living in a crazy amount of devoutly religious foster homes while I was growing up, I learned not to tell anyone that I preferred boys over girls, and by the time I hit high school, hiding my sexuality had become just another thing I had to do to survive.
Being a foster kid is scary enough, but being a quiet, small, gay foster kid is just making yourself a target. When I started college, I thought that would be the time for me to explore my sexuality and experiment, but it just never happened.
I considered joining an LGBTQ+ society at school, but the idea of putting myself out there was too scary. I thought about going to a gay bar, but the idea of walking in alone made me feel nauseous.
I tried to convince myself to go and talk to cute guys I saw in the library, in class, and at the coffee shop I worked at, but I couldn’t find the courage to do it. So instead, I’ve become a gay guy who is scared of gay guys.
When I told Parker I was gay this morning, it was the first time I’ve ever admitted my sexuality out loud.
The asshole guys who worked at the garage before her might have figured it out and then taunted me for my sexual preferences, but I never confirmed it.
I never said a word, I never have, until today.
I’m not ashamed of being gay. I know that for me, being attracted to men is simply who I am, I just have no idea how to start living my authentic life.
The way that Anders looked at me tonight felt different from the way anyone has ever looked at me before.
Although I’m not entirely sure why. No one has ever looked at me like they’re trying to see inside my soul and promising to make things better while also scaring me half to death all at the same time.
He called me Kitten. What does that mean? Was he insulting me? The way he said it didn’t sound like an insult, it sounded like an endearment. like the way I’d guess a lover would whisper a sweet nothing. But what do I know?
If it wasn’t an insult, then what was it? A guy who looks like him wouldn’t be interested in me. He looks like the type of man who would throw his wife over his shoulder and then spend the night putting his baby in her.
But he sat right beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin where his thigh pressed against mine. He offered me food from his fingers and told me to eat. Then he paid for my dinner and tried to give me a ride home.
Who does that for a stranger? The only things that make sense are that he’s either into me—which seems unlikely given he looks like he should be on a sexy Vikings calendar—or he’s a do-gooder religious freak and I look like an easy mark.
I’ve dealt with the overly good people of the world before, and sometimes they’re more dangerous than the really bad people. The overly good don’t see people like me as human, we’re simply a cause.
Let’s help the poor orphan. Let’s rally round and fill his trash bags with shitty secondhand clothes that no one else wants. Let’s start a GoFundMe to send him on the senior class trip, even though he has no friends and doesn’t actually want to go.
Let’s take him to church and ask the entire congregation to pray for him, even while we condemn others just like him.
What most people don’t realize is that the truly scary people show you they’re scary right up front, but the overly good people hide their evil behind good deeds and bright smiles. They’re the ones you have to be the most cautious of.
When I was in my early teens, I ended up living for a few weeks with a picture-perfect family, the Wilsons.
They had eight foster kids, including me.
Some of the things I saw in that house still haunt my nightmares, and the memories of the nights Mr. and Mrs. Wilson came into my bedroom are scarier than any scary stories I’ve ever heard.
I know that what they did to me is nothing in comparison to what they did to some of the other kids in their care, and I was lucky that it wasn’t so much worse, but the Wilsons and others like them have shaped me, changed me.
My experiences have made me who I am…cautious, scared, antisocial, willing to question every action.
Exhaling a shaky sigh of relief, I’m grateful when the bus pulls away from the curb. But as I risk a glance across the street, I see Anders standing on the sidewalk, his huge arms crossed tightly across his chest, his expression stern and determined as he watches the bus leave.
I don’t know what he wants from me, but I really hope Anders doesn’t see me as a new project, because I refuse to be anyone’s good cause ever again.
The moment we hit the town limits, I try to put him out of my mind and concentrate on my book, but by the time the bus pulls into the station in Bozeman, my thoughts are still entirely consumed with him.
I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point during my journey, I allowed myself to consider the bizarre possibility that he’s actually attracted to me and not just looking to recruit me into a cult.
I might be a virgin, but I’m not dead. I’ve been attracted to men. I’ve found guys cute. I’ve looked at men on the TV and felt aroused. I just don’t have any real-life experience.
But if Anders isn’t some do-gooder looking to fill up his “pay it forward” bingo card, then why would he be interested in me? I’m completely inexperienced. I’ve never even kissed anyone. I can’t be his type, and he definitely isn’t mine.
When I close my eyes and allow myself to indulge in a fantasy of who my ideal partner would be, the person I see myself in a relationship with is someone who is a lot like me.
When I put my hands on my dick and bring myself to release, I always picture someone quiet, with kind eyes and gentle hands.
Someone who would be my best friend. Someone who wanted me for all the reasons I think I’m not worthy of love, and there’s nothing about huge Viking Anders that says quiet and gentle.
I’m sure that to most people my fantasies sound lame and boring, but after surviving all the bad hands I’ve been dealt since I was born, my bland, peaceful, and loving dreams feel utterly perfect to me.
Following the line of passengers off the bus, I pull my backpack onto my shoulders and make my way out of the busy bus depot.
My apartment is on the outskirts of the city, about a twenty-minute walk from here.
Normally the walk doesn’t bother me, but it’s late, and the usual hum of the city has changed to an eerie lull that’s as threatening as it is peaceful.
Holding the straps of my bag tightly, I walk quickly, staying close to the curb instead of allowing myself to drift toward the alleys that disappear into the darkness between the closed shops, offices, and warehouses.
By the time I get to my apartment building, I’m breathing heavily and jumping like a frightened bird at every small sound.
I don’t relax until I’m inside my apartment with all five of my locks firmly clicked in place.
Exhaling shakily, I pull my backpack off my back and drop my keys into the bowl on the tiny kitchen counter.
Calling this place an apartment is probably a stretch.
My home is actually a converted basement storage room.
The only window is small, covered by bars and half obscured by the sidewalk outside.
The space is just big enough for a queen-sized bed, a shower stall, sink, and toilet in the corner, and a kitchen counter just big enough to get a single hotplate on.
The place is damp, cold, and crumbling, but it’s mine. I’ve lived here since I moved to Montana for school, and even if it’s a dump, it’s the only place I’ve ever lived for longer than a year. It’s home.