8. Oli
Oli
Want
J orge is at Michael’s birthday party.
There’s this irrational fear, knowing he’s there, possibly in the same vicinity as him. Fuck, I can’t even think of his name, or I start to panic.
Stopping Churro from jumping off my bed, I stuff the fat black rat under my shirt. His little paws scratch at my skin, but it’s welcome. Keeps me present in the moment instead of then.
I've been riddled with dread since Jorge told me about the birthday party. We haven’t spent much time together since because he’s been in the recording studio working on a new cover song for his YouTube channel.
I eyeball my phone, hoping for a text that hasn’t come yet. It’s late, too.
Since my rats are nocturnal and I don’t follow a sleeping schedule like most people, I let them get in some free roam time on my bed while I stew in my thoughts.
Did Phoenix go to the party? Is Jorge struggling right now, trying to save face? To keep up this fucking lie? Lenny and Denny—my younger pair of boys—start to scuffle, so I make a high-pitched noise.
“Stop that,” I scold them, using my calf to scoop Lenny between my legs.
When I had to get my car back from the shop on Thursday, I decided to be a coward. I didn’t want to risk his car still being there. Couldn’t stomach the possibility of running into him again. So I simply asked Manuel to drive it to my studio. He was more than happy not to ask too many questions.
Because of it, I’m considering asking Dr. Langley for an emergency appointment on Monday. He’s the only one who knows. The only one I can talk freely with about my issues and fears.
My throat clenches on a swallow because I’m not strong enough to voice these things to anyone else.
Every instinct screams to warn Jorge—to make sure he doesn’t get drunk if he is there. To insist he doesn’t even breathe in the same air as him. I’m worried sick.
Jorge is a fighter when he has to be. That loveable exterior hides a warrior that’d gladly take up arms to defend what is right. I saw it plenty in high school. Yet, that knowledge does nothing to soothe me.
I wasn’t small.
I played football and stood taller than him .
And I still crumbled.
Couldn’t fight it. Couldn’t stop it.
My eyes slam shut while my heart races, my stomach churning before solidifying. I just need to know he’s okay. That he’s safe. That he’s going to come back to me tomorrow. I force my eyes open, snatch my phone off the charger that Turbo is attempting to grab, and my thumbs fly over the keyboard.
How’s it going?
Are you okay?
There’s more I want to ask—to demand.
Instead, I stare at the text thread, waiting for the word read to appear. It doesn’t show up ten minutes later. And it doesn’t show up after I put the boys back in their cage.
There’s an itch I just can't scratch in the back of my throat. Foreboding curling around me like sticky webs. I want to obliterate everything—ruin my sobriety.
I want to get high and drown in the waves of obscurity. Sink into the fluffy clouds until I ultimately fall through them, landing in a crumbled heap.
But I hold fast. Keep my mind from going down that path.
Instead, I cling to earlier in the week. The feel of Jorge’s soft nose against my fingertip. The look in his eyes afterward. How he’d bravely returned the gesture like it wasn’t a monumental task for me to do in the first place.
God, I wish I could get my head to screw on right. I wish I could make it do what I need because deep down, I am starving for what Jorge could give me. It’s a hunger so deep that it gnaws at my bone marrow. Keeps me breathless and aching.
I’m in a limbo of: I want and I’m afraid.
I’m okay. Just leaving.
Devon and Michael got into it. There was blood. I had to deal with it all otherwise I would’ve texted you sooner.
Are you okay?
Do you need me?
I know I should ask if his friends are okay or find out what caused them to fight, but I can’t move past the last question.
Yes.
I need you.
On my way.
See you soon.
See you soon.
I deflate into a pile of limbs on my bed. He’s coming. That knowledge eases the dark thoughts swirling in my head, and my eyes flutter shut. I’m not tired, but my mind is exhausted. The last thing I remember before drifting to sleep is the soft click of my front door.
I have to piss. Urgently.
Fumbling out of bed, I squint through the bright light and paw at the wall beside the bathroom door.
The sound of water rushing only makes my bladder scream as I blink through the fog of sleep. Sometimes, I crash so hard that it takes me a while to realize I’m awake and not still dreaming.
The ache in my bladder grows the longer I stand there, my brain rewiring to figure out why my shower is on.
“ Jorge ,” his name comes out like a wisp of smoke.
Carefully leaning against the thin wood, I press my ear to it and listen. There’s splashing—like water is hitting the tile walls of my shower. He could be just scrubbing. Jorge has showered here before.
I hold my breath in hopes it’ll allow my ears to focus.
My body absently leans in closer, and the door slips open like he hadn’t shut it all the way. Through the crack, I glimpse my relatively sheer shower curtain. The shadowy planes of his body are visible past it.
I swallow hard, absently reaching for the handle.
I’m going to close it. It’s the decent thing to do.
My eyes trace the outline of his back, dropping to the curve of his ass. So round and thick and taut. The kind of ass that could destroy a man or resurrect him. I wet my lips, my bladder long forgotten as I take in my fill. His arm moves frantically, more splashing. Something urgent crushes down on my chest, warmth swirling low in my stomach. Tingles spread over the base of my spine while my balls draw up tight.
It’s just shapes and colors, but it’s enough to have my imagination going wild. Picturing all that skin on display, glistening and dripping.
His other hand slaps against the wall, bracing himself. And it dawns on me. This is an extremely private moment I’m intruding on. Masturbating isn’t something I actively seek to do anymore unless my body demands it. Even then, it’s clinical. Absent of all pleasure.
Jorge fucks his fist like it’s someone else.
He worships the feeling and savors it like he has all the time in the world, but he is also eager to reach his climax.
I’m panting as I stand there, enthralled, hypnotized by the sight. A soft moan echoes through the bathroom as I squeeze the handle tighter, my knuckles blanching.
What has him like this? Or better yet, who? Did I interrupt something when I asked him to come over last night? Did he leave a willing participant at that party? Someone who’d reciprocate his touch?
My body wars from within, bloody and violent. To make myself known or to run away?
Regardless of my repressed needs and my dreams of an alternate reality where I could be the one to please him, I can’t make a decision. Can’t move from this spot.
In slow motion, I watch as his muscles flex, and his head throws back as he comes all over my shower.
Leave, my mind shrieks. Leave now!
How can I? How can I ignore something this fucking gorgeous? Even if I know I’ll never experience it myself, just having a glimpse into his passionate world soothes a broken piece of my soul.
“ Ohmygod !” Jorge shrieks, arms windmilling and fingers clawing at the shower curtain. He goes down in a heap of limbs, taking the entire plastic sheet with him. The flimsy plastic rings holding it to the rod pop dramatically, falling to the ground.
“I’m sorry!” I cry out, shame and disgust filling me like quicksand. “I had to piss and—”
“There’s still jizz on my dick, man! Give a guy time to wash it off!” he growls, cheeks dark. “My ass hurts,” he whines, struggling to untangle himself.
Rushing to get him a towel, I turn off the shower and wordlessly hand it to him, which he takes with a muttered thanks. “Ow, ow, ow ,” he keeps whimpering as he stands.
Holding the towel over his crotch, he peers over his shoulder and inspects his ass. I’m unsure what to do. He’s moaning and groaning in pain. Should I get ice? I have some Tylenol in the medicine cabinet…
“It’s bruised. I never bruise! I think I hit the lip of the shower.”
Since I don’t have a bathtub, the single shower has a raised lip to avoid splashback and water damage to the floor. Jorge faces me, wet curls clinging to his cheeks and rubbing his buttcheek while holding the towel.
It hides only his cock, revealing everything else to me, like his narrow hips and the subtle V. His firm thighs and lean torso. I’m bright as a ruby, forcing myself to keep eye contact and not drool over his perfect lithe body.
“I think I broke my ass. It’s bad, Oli.” He flinches and hisses. “I can’t get a good look. Do you have a handheld mirror?”
“No–I—I’m sorry. Do you want an ice pack?”
“What I want is to make sure I don’t have a permanent dent in my asscheek or a bone sticking out.”
“There are no bones in you—”
“Shush. Yes, there are. I just— Fuck it. You’re my friend. We’re friends. Tell me how bad it is.” And then he spins around.
I cough loudly as his brown cheeks meet my eyes.
There is a definite bruise, but it’s not as bad as he’s making it out. Not that I’m doubting his pain or concern. A little ice will help.
I take a few more moments to look, though. When else will I get a chance? His legs are firm but lean, dark hair dusting his calves. His back is wide enough to give him an edge but not enough to make him imposing. Not like mine. And especially not with the cute butterfly he has tattooed on his hip right above his ass.
“Well?” he demands, shivering, which makes those glorious globes clench.
I’m hot everywhere.
“No bones, Jorge,” I say hoarsely.
“But it’s bad.”
“Pretty big bruise. Golf ball-sized. I’ll get ice.”
“Okay,” he says and covers himself with the towel. “No post-orgasm glow for me,” he mutters as I exit the bathroom.
I go to my fridge, which has a tiny built-in freezer, and remove the pack of frozen corn. He limps dramatically out of the bathroom, crashing face-first on my bed—still naked.
“Give it to me. I can feel the bruise leaking into my hamstring.” His hand grabs at the air.
I go over to my bed, hand him the frozen corn, and he sets it on his towel-clad ass. My bladder chooses now to remind me I still need to piss, so I hurry and get that taken care of. While washing my hands, I take a moment to collect myself.
God, I haven’t been this worked up in… years. Not since the last time I tried to be…with another person. I thought because she was soft and submissive, it’d be okay. But as soon as it was over, I panicked. My skin crawled, and I had flashbacks that left me weeping on her bedroom floor.
Obviously, she took it personally, and we haven’t spoken to each other since. I don’t even remember her name.
I’m waiting for something similar to happen now, but it doesn’t, which confuses me. Maybe it’s because I didn’t see his dick. Or perhaps, because despite my lurking, he wasn’t directing his needs at me or demanding them of me.
I know myself, and I know that because of how my mind works, I have been selfish in the past. Put myself over others. I never took my time, never…savored. However, disappointment is weighing on my shoulders now.
Regret.
I shouldn’t have looked.
Wanting Jorge as I do will ruin everything if I don’t stop those feelings immediately. It’d never work. We wouldn’t work.
That doesn’t stop the lurching in my chest, nor does it take away the yearning I’ve lived with for half my life. I scratch at my beard, feel the old scars on my cheeks, and shake myself. Being friends with him is better than nothing at all, so I leave the bathroom.
The frozen corn has disappeared under his towel, and he’s swiveled so his face is up by the pillows, watching me approach. “I'm sorry you had to witness that,” he winces with embarrassment.
“I should’ve knocked.”
“I should’ve locked the damn door,” he mumbles.
“We can pretend it never happened.”
“Okay.”
We lapse into silence while I hover next to my bed. “Food?” I prompt, knowing that if anything will make him smile, that will.
But he shakes his head, rolling his face flat into the pillow. “I thought last night would go differently,” he says, his voice muffled.
“What do you mean?”
He sighs heavily, revealing his face again, but keeps his eyes downcast. “You said you needed me, Oli. And I stupidly thought—”
I wait for him to finish, heart racing.
“Thought what?” I whisper.
His hands clench before sliding under his head. “That you really did. But you were asleep when I got here.”
“I didn’t mean to make it seem more urgent than it was.” At the moment, it felt urgent, though. But I don’t say that. Can’t say that.
“So you didn’t need me, then?” he asks, voice small and timid. It's so unlike him that it hits me like a gunshot blast to the gut.
I shuffle closer, stopping at the foot of the bed. “I do,” I say through a swallow. “I did.”
Those brown eyes find mine, tiny flecks of gold standing out behind, forming tears. “What happens when you don’t? What then? Everyone always needs me until they don’t. Until they find the person they want around all the time. Even Phoenix doesn’t want me around all the time, and he’s my other testicle.”
I think that was meant to be funny, but his voice has no humor. It’s raw, aching, and so honest that I feel guilty despite not knowing what for.
But he’s wrong about one thing. I’ve never not needed him.
I’ve waited years to be the center of his attention, and I’m not giving it up.
Do you trust him? My eyes flutter shut, asking myself the question over and over. I want to trust him. I want it so badly that I can feel myself clawing through my boundaries with bloodied fingers. Needing him inside it with me.
My legs tremble as I lower to the bed, sitting next to his damaged buttcheek. His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t comment. I don’t necessarily enjoy being treated like a spooked wild animal, though it does help, especially when my bravery is minuscule at best. Abysmal at worst. I think I can be brave for him, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
“I will always need you,” I tell him gently, folding my hands in my lap.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Think you just gave my heart a seizure, Oli,” he says through a husky laugh. His eyes flutter in pleasure, savoring my admission. “Feels good to know that.”
“I mean it.”
His hand slithers from under the pillow and rests palm up between us. I stare at it. Sparks ignite in the tips of my fingers; the want damn near crippling me. I know what he wants and needs , but can I do it? Can I still be brave?
It takes me too long to decide, so he starts to close his fist.
Another opportunity is gone. Another door closing.
My hand shoots out, and I hook my pinky finger through his.
Jorge lets out a breath, like he’d been holding it. Like he’s been waiting just as long for me as I have for him. “Thank you,” he whispers and smiles gently.
“Be patient with me?” It comes out like a beg.
Fuck it. It is a beg.
“I’m not going anywhere.”