Chapter Three #2
Schuyler shot his uncle some side-eye, moving the late-night conversation along.
“Enter Fernando Rio Riaz, the cocky Hispanic forty-something who waltzed into the restaurant ten minutes late. And I’ll admit, I was caught off guard by how handsome he was in person.
I mean, pictures did not do this piece of man candy any justice.
Olive skin, green eyes, with the darkest, thickest hair I’ve ever seen.
And the cockmeat this dude had packed into those painted-on pants, by the Goddesses, I was ready to let him Gael Garcia my Bernal right there.
“And because of it, I was too blinded to notice the red flags: the arrogance, the way he was rude to the waiter, the materialism, flashing his watch at me to make sure I knew what kind of phone he had, and the car he drove. How many times he worked out for the body he flaunted in his too-tight shirt. The cockiness. I mean, what a tool. Except I didn’t notice until after our two rounds of sex.
“I learned the extent of his douchery while getting dressed. He was sitting in bed smoking, and I was half dressed when he admitted he didn’t think we were going to work out.
Apparently, while I was a ‘great time,’ I was, in fact, not pleasing enough aesthetically.
” Schuyler closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to forget the shot to the gut Rio Riaz’s words caused.
“We’d fucked for three hours, flip-flopped, did everything on the menu, and somehow through all of that, through all the praise I received during—I was not a pleasing aesthetic! ?”
The words hurt. Rio Riaz’s casual mockery of his body—in specific detail—hurt the most and had lingered for days.
Sky even cancelled two other dates not feeling up to any more potential scrutiny.
And Rio Riaz’s comments were not simply focused on the slight weight gain, but on Schuyler’s cheekbones, eyebrows, calves, jawline, and how he needed to tan.
The assault was cruel, especially after Schuyler had discussed his current body woes with his date during dinner, even happily taking the workout advice Rio Riaz offered up, only to be blindsided when the once enthusiastic lover proclaimed him all but a leper, unworthy of an ounce of kindness.
Fucking men.
“And what did you do about that, Monkey?” Beau asked with a smirk, confident he knew what happened next.
Schuyler shot his eyes to the ceiling and playfully whistled, “Well, I know I said no magic, and I meant it, but I may have, could have possibly—placed the Cojear Hex on him.”
Schuyler recalled the moment he stood in the bedroom, half dressed, being told in explicit detail about every part of himself that Fernando Rio Riaz found displeasing.
His right hand had been behind his back, fingers tapping in the air as if playing an invisible piano, the tips of them glowing with blue energy.
He’d been reciting the incantation in his head as Rio Riaz mansplained all the things Schuyler could do to improve himself that would put him back in the running to be with him again.
And, if he worked hard enough, even get him featured in Fernando’s content.
“Condescending sonofabitch,” Marshall added, getting angry. “What’s the Cojear Hex? Make his dick fall off? I’ve half a mind to go over and-”
Schuyler smiled; it still warmed his jilted heart when Marshall or Beau became upset on his behalf, reinforcing how loved he was.
“It’s a fun little spell from occultist J.
E. Campbell; he wrote the book on sex magic,” Schuyler said in a sing-song voice.
“And now, for the next four to five months, Senor Fernando Rio Riaz will be unable to reach orgasm without his thoughts turning to me and our time together.
“That’ll teach his ass about aesthetic.”
“I knew you’d come back to magic,” Beau said smugly, enjoying a victory cookie. “I believe you owe me ten dollars,” he glanced at Marshall, who grunted, reaching into his pocket.
“Wow, betting on me? And I’ve not come back to magic—I made a justifiable exception for a nightmare of a person with good dick.” Schuyler reached for some Mike N Ike’s as he readied himself for the final dating disaster he cared to share.
“And that brings us to Country Boy Dylan. Over six feet of bearded, ruggedly handsome farmer. I found myself smitten even before the date. Just chatting with this guy was really easy, and fun, and fucking nasty when it got to that point. And I mean we’re talkin’ true country boy hotness with his weathered ball cap and dirty Wranglers.
And among the other crops, he has a field devoted to cannabis.
Holy hell, I felt like I’d hit the motherload.
“And the date started off well, vibes were vibing, laughs were genuine, his accent was hot as hell, not all fake sounding like yours, Beau.
“He said a lot of the right things, and like our chats, the convo was easy and fun, and we talked about love, loss, and what we wanted in the future. I felt comfortable. I felt I matched what he was bringing to the table. Like second date material—definite after dinner oral.”
“Our son is a whore, Marshall,” Beau said, leaning heavily into his southern accent, sipping some tea.
“Guess we raised him right.”
“I like to think of myself as a very go-with-the-flow type soul. Anyway, we continued the date after the restaurant, walking around downtown aimlessly. Stopped for a sweet treat. I deliberately lingered a few steps behind him cause his ass in those tight jeans was borderline criminal.”
Their flirtation had grown stronger until they were in the parking garage, in the back seat of Dylan’s truck.
His kisses were heavenly—deep and passionate—and Schuyler had enjoyed the simple make-out session.
But Dylan wanted more, pulling off his shirt, showing off the body the hard work his country-boy lifestyle assisted in creating.
“I ran my hands over those abs, and I was like ’where’s my gingham shirt, Pa?
My own pair of Wranglers. I mean, all this ass in those?
! I’d be unstoppable. Give me a cast iron skillet and point me to the stove, ’cause I was down to be a pioneer homo.
” Schuyler had stripped his shirt off as well, the cab getting steamy with their body heat as they made out more.
Schuyler, who felt he’d normally complain about such cramped quarters, especially being forty, was glad that they had a place they could fuck in; he found himself immersed in the moment, always up for a good time.
And he’d given in to Dylan’s request that their pants had to go as well; Schuyler enjoyed feeling the cool leather under his ass as he encouraged Dylan’s oral prowess.
“The farmer knew how to sweet-talk some cock, mmkay.
“And then,” Schuyler added ominously, once again preparing to relay the turn the date took, “while in the middle of servicing me, he looks up at me, smiles, and says, I love you. Like, with his full chest, he said this. I thought, maybe he’s joking; was he talking to me or my dick?”
Dylan had never tried to course-correct or cover up what he said, leaving his words hanging in the air between them, waiting for a response.
“And… five minutes later, he doubled down, started discussing a fully committed relationship, meeting his family, us living together, even dropping hints about marriage. And all of this is being said into my dick like it was open mic night. All I could do was stare at the beige ceiling of the truck and will myself to come so I could leave. He filled every moment he didn’t have his mouth full of my cock with pleas for a life together and a constant string of I love you’s.
“After I raced to my finish line, I’d offered to reciprocate, because if I’m anything, it’s a gentleman. He refused, though, and said he was only in the mood to give, and I could get him next time. And I was like ‘okay, I’m outta here.’
“He kissed me goodnight and then threw another I love you at me. And I mean, it was a full force I love you. Who tosses those words out so easily? I can’t wrap my head around where he was coming from.
Who proposes a lifetime commitment after one dinner, with a mouth full of cock, in the back of an extended cab Chevy Tahoe? Are we in Florida?”
“Lonely, maybe,” Marshall interjected, “someone over the games, the trying, the daunting aspects of finding true connection in a distracted world. A person ready to have a life with someone.”
Schuyler had felt the same for years, tired of dating and men who wasted his time, until he met his ex.
“I can’t see myself moving as fast as he appears to want to go.
Maybe he would have been a great partner, and maybe dates two, three, and four would have been amazing.
But how could I casually continue to date him, knowing he’s already picked out our matching burial plots?
I want that, I think, still not sure, eventually though, not from the jump.
Haven’t heard from him either. A bummer because I wanted to eat that ass like a buffet. ”
Marshall stood, ready for bed. “Well, that was nightmare fuel and the main reason I don’t divorce your annoying ass uncle. You’ll have better luck with the next one, son. Have fun till you find him. I’m off to bed.” He hugged and kissed them both and made his way upstairs.
Beau lingered, “That’s a run of bad luck, Monkey. We can improve things, you know.” He offered, raising his hand, ruby colored energy flowing around his fingers. “A little Love Whipple never hurt anyone.”
“Absolutely not,” Schuyler snapped playfully. “There’s nothing to be done, so unless we’re going to Frankenstein me a partner in the lab, I’ll leave this up to the Goddesses.”
“If only.” The energy flared on his hand. “Even they would suggest you seek professional help.”
“I’m serious. Magic isn’t going to help this mess. All my formers have seemingly moved on to their forever people, and it seems I can’t attract anyone who isn’t crazy, apparently, so I can either keep trying or revisit that spinsterhood idea. No magic.”
“While I don’t like when you speak to me like one of those Darrins from Bewitched.
Your wishes will be respected nonetheless.
” Beau rose from the table. “Chiaro,” he commanded, sweeping his arms upwards and then swinging them down until his palms came together before he swiped his arms outwards, cutting a line through the air.
The table was cleared in a blink; not a speck nor a crumb left behind, except for the empty cup still in Schuyler’s hand.
“I wish I could say something that would give you some comfort, but it’s one a.m, and I’m tired and don’t have the will to lie to you.
“Your uncle is right, the next one will be better, might not be the one, might not even be close to the one, but they’ll be better.” Beau headed to the door but then turned back with a quizzical look on his face. “I just thought of something that could be contributing to your dilemma.”
“What?” Schuyler sat up, curious. A curse? A hex? Had he pissed off an ancient deity without realizing? They were an incredibly moody bunch.
“Ever thought about how the issue might be—you? You’re kind of awful.” Beau couldn’t hold it in and left the kitchen laughing, proclaiming he was only kidding.
“Pincer,” Schuyler swirled his left hand in the air counterclockwise three times before clamping his fingertips together and snatching them inward to his palm rapidly.
“Ow! Dammit, that’s assault,” Beau yelled from the hallway. “Not using magic, my ass! Ow, you heffa!”
“Goodnight,” Schuyler yelled playfully, knowing the pinching would continue for five minutes. He threw his cup away and made his way to his room. While they drove him crazy, his uncles were his anchors, and they kept him grounded.
Maybe they were right. Possibly the next date would be better, whomever the next date turned out to be.
An issue for another night. He set his phone down on his desk, away from his bed, leaving the Do Not Disturb on, happily silencing the men waiting for an invitation, a confirmation, a late-night chat started off by a simple “hey.” Happy instead for the evening ending with his family and not him, alone in his room, replaying the events of the evening in his head.
The men on his phone could remain unanswered within that liminal space for the evening.
There were far better things to dream about.