TWENTY-ONE Too Much
N OAH
I barely clear the room and lower my pajama bottoms and boxers in time to fountain all over my hand. Even then, I make a mess that spills down onto Elle’s carpet. Worse, I’m still hard . I think I might hear her calling out to me, but that may have been my imagination.
Bolting to my bedroom, I lock the door, then run to the bathroom and lock that, too. Secreted away like this, I rub another one out. My lungs seem to scream for oxygen once I’m finished, making me huff and puff like a freight train. After that, though, my body settles down.
Too bad my thoughts are still in turmoil.
I know I should feel like a sinner. Back at my church, I was taught that cleanliness is next to godliness, and what just transpired in Elliana’s room was anything but godly. I should feel dirty and disgraced. And part of me does. The boy who sat in a million bible studies and prayed before every meal does.
But I no longer feel like that innocent boy.
Maybe because I’m not.
Sex feels so good. Really, really good. And I care about Elle. So do Tristan and Jackson. I can tell. They’re upstanding guys who are beginning to feel more and more like my friends.
But I do have to wonder if what I witnessed between Jackson and Elle tonight was similar to how I looked while having relations with her on the dining room table. Had everything been that intense and... explicit?
What I’m feeling right now isn’t good, though. I feel disturbed. Rattled. Because while I appreciated the beauty of Elle’s feminine form, I also appreciated the men’s nudity.
And that’s not okay.
I slam my eyes shut on the visual of Tristan’s long length. I can remember every detail and every specification. His size and shape. His coloration and that he’s uncut. The throbbing pulse of it when he came. I never let myself notice any of this prior to tonight, and the minute I did, I nearly lost control.
And Jackson and Elle together? Watching the veininess of his glistening member disappearing inside her as he brought a finger around Elle’s hip to bury within her...
I can’t even think about it right now because... shoot , I’m hard again.
I’ve never once glanced at a male body and felt any attraction, so I don’t know what this change says about me. Or if it says anything. Does every guy get aroused by watching sex between a man and a woman? Or how about witnessing a man’s nakedness all by itself?
Might it have been the fact that both guys were erect? Or is it simply because of all those hormones flying around? Is it normal that I couldn’t look away from Jackson’s features as he threw his head back and came? Or that I felt enthralled by how much seed spurted out of Tristan?
I don’t know. But I had to get out of there. I couldn’t let them see, couldn’t expose my reaction to anyone else.
What’s happening to me? How have I gone down this dangerous and scary path so fast?
I refuse to masturbate for a third time, so I don’t manage another wink of sleep that night. I depart before anyone else gets up the next morning, going by a coffee joint and sipping it in my pickup. I’m thankful I have a shift at the fire department today.
Otherwise, I don’t know what I would do with myself.
The day is heralded by a literal dumpster fire, then bleeds into another structural blaze in an abandoned office building in a strip mall several blocks away. They each take time and effort to put out, and I’m so thankful for them. Well, not for the fires, but for the chance to get caught up in my work.
Yet once we’re heading back to the firehouse, one of the senior firefighters bumps my elbow.
“Still with us, rookie?”
Off in LaLa Land, I don’t respond as rapidly as I should. Even this brief downtime between jobs is allowing my mind to wander back to my personal concerns.
“Sure,” I tell him—Brogue—several beats too late.
Luckily, he doesn’t notice. Brogue continues his conversation with another guy onboard, one named Kane. Kane is going on about his wife being an admittance clerk at a mental health facility and some of the more interesting scenes she witnesses there.
But I’m too tired and preoccupied to listen to the particulars. I think about all the times I’ve been around men going in and out of the showers at the firehouse. Have I ever been curious about those totally exposed bodies before?
No.
So, what does that mean?
My old church would banish people who came out as gay or bisexual. They became apostates and were no longer permitted to be a part of the community. Not that I haven’t already been excommunicated. Technically, that term belonged to what they did to my parents. But I didn’t think of myself as a member of that church anymore, so I suppose it’s a moot point.
Mostly.
Still, it’s hard to unlearn lessons that have been ingrained in you since birth. What if my own sexuality falls somewhere under the heading of LGBTQ? What will I do then? What would Elle do if I told her? Or Tristan or Jackson?
Or my family ?
My heart spasms in fear. My parents and brothers have always loved me, but every member of the church is taught that sex should be between a husband and wife only. Their reaction to me admitting that I might like men that way—especially when I can’t even tell them about Elliana or Elegance—is too horrifying to contemplate.
I oscillate between being a skittish frazzle of nerves to acting dull and unresponsive all day. So I’m fortunate to find no one about when I trudge in from work. I’m able to slip into my room in solitude and peace, but then my phone beeps. It’s a text from my dad.
Dad : How’s all the firefighting going, son? Call me when you get a minute.
This isn’t unusual. He, my mom, or sometimes one of my brothers text me at least once a week, which considering none of us really used a cell phone at all back in Utah is yet another change we’ve grown accustomed to.
I haven’t visited them in over a month, and I feel awful about that. But it’s difficult to face them knowing how far I’ve strayed from the moral values they instilled in me. I hear Tristan’s announcement for dinner but ignore it.
“Noah?” This time it’s Elle, and I can’t ignore a summons from her. Head down, I trek behind her as she leads me to the table. Even then, I remain on my feet, though. I feel like ants are crawling under my skin and wish I had some sort of escape strategy.
“Hey, why don’t you have a seat.”
Having no other option, I obey. I feel transparent, as if all anyone has to do is take a single glimpse of me to know how demented and messed up I am. That’s when Elle reaches out and touches my arm. Someone’s already laid down a plate and some silverware in front of me, and I didn’t even register it until now.
“Noah,” she speaks my name again, a line cutting into the smooth skin of her forehead. “I’d like to talk about last night.”