CHAPTER SIX Van #2
Sure, Evan was highly sexual. Twice a day was the norm for him.
I enjoyed sex with him, but once a day was fine for my urges.
We worked well together in bed, but he had zero romance in his genes.
His approach was straightforward. Put it in.
Pump for ten minutes. Talk dirty. Moan exceedingly loudly at orgasm.
“Wanna fuck tonight?” he’d ask.
When I said yes, he’d grab the lube, finger my ass, and then expect me to roll over while he pumped a load into me. Loads of nasty talk about what a slut I was, and how Daddy was going to rape my pussy.
“Yeah, bitch boy. Take Daddy’s big load, you whore,” he’d growl. “You love this huge dick, dontcha, boy?”
I’ll admit that in the beginning, the sex was hot. We were twenty-one when we met and had a ton of testosterone to take out on one another. He was so wild and dominant that it fed into my passive sexual psyche and really turned me on.
Trust me, I’m an active participant while being manhandled, but Evan only thought of his role in any sex scene. I was to accept being satisfied because he was blessing me with his huge dick and energetic ramming of said dick into my hole.
If I wanted to achieve orgasm, I’d better jack myself off before or during his performance, always trying to accomplish simultaneous lift-off.
As the years went by, I wanted to try new stuff.
Maybe he could blow me to get me going? Maybe I could sit on his cock to mix stuff up?
I suggested other positions, even role play.
Perhaps we could make out and heavy pet our way to wild lovemaking.
Evan saw my suggestion of role play as him being inadequate for his limited bag of tricks.
That should have been the first sign that things could become problematic in the future.
His unwillingness to give and take in the bedroom pretty much summed up his role in our household.
I loved him, though, so I took the backseat as he drove.
Now that he’d left me for another, he needed a narrative that fit his desired goal to move on.
If he wasn’t getting enough sex, every gay man would recognize what a deal breaker that was and be sympathetic to his cause.
And his fear I could lose my job simply painted me as unreliable in the career department.
Nothing was further from the truth. My job performance reviews were excellent.
Sure, he made double my salary. But I made six figures and contributed plenty.
Truth was, Evan also wanted to control the purse strings. He fancied himself a financial guru and a business savant. He had grandiose ideas of what we should appear to be with the trappings of the good life.
Fancy cars. The right address in Seattle’s priciest neighborhood. Nice meals out at the latest ‘it spot’ for dining. Art collecting. Expensive clothes. Vacations to only gay spots like Palm Springs so we could be seen at the right parties, muscled out, and possibly available.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, glancing in the rearview mirror filled with Louis Vuitton luggage behind me. “You are just like him.”
I was just like him. The keyword being was.
But I had nearly a year apart from Evan under my belt now.
True, I still drove a BMW. Still lived at a nice address, even though I rented.
Some things hadn’t changed all that much.
But I was frugal. Far more thrifty than Evan had ever been.
And I desired real change. I wanted a healthy mindset and a loving relationship.
What I no longer desired were the trappings of assumed wealth.
I didn’t care who I kept up with these days.
I had a different type of affluence. I overflowed with love and wanted to share that part of me with someone.
I needed romance like a bee needs pollen.
I wanted an equal partner in bed and on the streets.
A new beginning would have to start with me, not with Evan’s accusations of my deficiencies. If I wanted to realize positive change and the opportunity for growth and equality in my relationships, things would have to start with me.
All the best comebacks and snide comments holstered in the imaginary revenge gun I wanted to aim at Evan were not going into a response.
Why bother? Evan could sort his own issues out.
I’d been replaced by him because I wasn’t enough, and he’d proven my opinion didn’t matter anymore. This was of his making.
But I knew deep down, with hard work and a lot of care, I would be enough for someone. The brief anger I’d felt at his texts slid off me like dried honey on a Teflon-coated pan. I had a Christmas miracle journey awaiting me, and this was day numero uno of that trip.
I reread Evan’s text about John threatening to return to Missile, Montana. What was it about this town called Missile? Why did John leave in the first place? Why would he go back?
“Maybe I’ll see you again, John,” I whispered, putting the X5 in gear and glancing at the heart on the concrete wall one more time. “What if love isn’t an illusion?”