Chapter 12 I’ll Be Home for Gay Porn
Chapter twelve
I’ll Be Home for Gay Porn
Miranda
SJ’s off with his dad for the weekend. The kittens are snoring in their basket, their tiny bellies rising and falling in perfect synchrony.
And I’m on the sofa, yoga trousers around my ankles, a burnt-orange blanket trapped over my crotch, and a very expensive, highly rated, frankly overqualified vibrator humming away between my legs like it’s auditioning for an award.
The one with the lips. And the flicky bit.
It’s been twenty minutes.
Twenty. Full. Minutes.
The vibrator is warm to the touch now—not quite dangerously hot, but definitely the kind of heat that suggests it’s been doing overtime without a break.
I even dug out that ridiculous bear-and-twink porn from the deepest depths of the internet, the one with far too much oil and entirely too much chest hair, just to give my brain something to bounce off.
Still nothing.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m flushed, I’m tense, I’m swollen in all the right places. Everything’s twitching and aching and on the edge. But it’s the wrong edge. Like the build-up’s all static and no signal. My brain keeps drifting. Overthinking. Slipping out of it.
One moment I’m watching the porn and the next I’m wondering if I remembered to put the laundry on. Then it’s Jasper, out of nowhere—standing in the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves like some kind of M&S ad with attitude, and suddenly I’m all flustered and distracted and not in the good way.
I throw my head back on the cushion and groan.
“I bought you for results,” I mutter, flicking through the settings again.
The vibrator ramps up into something worryingly close to lawnmower mode. It buzzes against me with all the subtlety of a construction site, but still—nothing.
I twist my hips. Breathe deeper. Try to let go. Try to focus. Think sexy thoughts.
Just then, the doorbell rings.
I pause.
It goes again—ding-dong, bright and annoyingly chipper, like it knows exactly what I’m doing and would very much like me to stop.
I try to ignore it. Try to breathe through it. But the moment’s gone. Whatever tiny thread I was clinging to has snapped. There’s no sexy thought in the world strong enough to compete with a doorbell going off mid-lawnmower.
I groan, frustrated beyond all human measure, and yank the vibrator out.
It makes a defeated little noise as I switch it off and drop it unceremoniously onto the towel I’ve been sitting on.
I wrap the whole thing up in one quick, vaguely ashamed bundle and shove it behind the cushion like I’m hiding contraband.
Then I pause the porn—a still frame of the twink gasping with his ankles pointing to the ceiling—and pull my yoga pants up. Face smoothed. Dignity… left somewhere in the cushions, probably.
I march to the door.
Whoever this is better be bleeding. Or be on fire.
I swing the door open, ready to give someone a piece of my mind, and nearly forget how to swallow.
It’s Jasper.
In a tight black T-shirt that looks about one accidental stretch away from becoming illegal, and cargo trousers that wouldn’t be out of place in a 1997 boyband music video.
He’s holding a toolbox in one hand like some kind of rugged DIY centrefold.
There’s a stack of wood and a box leaning up against the wall next to him.
He looks hot.
Like, absurdly hot.
And I—I look like I’ve just lost a fight with a malfunctioning sex toy and gay porn film.
Brilliant.
“I’m here to install a barrier for the front door,” he says, straightforward. “Something solid to stop the kittens slipping through when you open it.”
I blink. Possibly twice. “Right…”
He shifts slightly—not impatient, just deliberate. “Also thought I could fence in the patio. Give you a bit of freedom to leave the back door open without worrying they’ll bolt. Figured it’d make things easier.”
He nods toward the timber stacked against the wall, then looks back at me, steady. No smirk. No flourish. Just calm, capable helpfulness wrapped in a frankly criminal T-shirt.
“Oh,” I say, mouth already two seconds behind the rest of me. “That’s… thoughtful.”
He waits. Just giving me time.
Eventually, I remember how to open doors like a functional human and step aside. “Come in.”
He ducks slightly to pass me—not that he needs to—and walks in with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. He smells faintly of sawdust and fresh air and something warm and clean.
I close the door behind him, heart thudding and immediately remember:
1. there’s a towel on the sofa with my vibrator bundled inside and
2. my laptop is still paused on gay porn.
And he’s heading straight for the living room.
I panic-sprint past him with a muttered “Sorry, mess, just let me—” and all but launch myself in front of the sofa, planting my body in the exact spot that blocks the screen. Casual. Very casual. Like a statue that doesn’t want to die of shame.
Twinklesocks and Thor stir in their basket to the left, yawning and stretching as if they’ve had a long morning of doing absolutely nothing.
Twinklesocks clocks Jasper immediately—and that’s it.
Her little ginger body’s off like a bullet, straight to him like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment.
He crouches smoothly, toolbox placed on the floor next to him, and strokes her back with one firm hand. “There she is,” he murmurs. “Good girl. You keeping everyone in line?”
His voice is soft. Fond. The kind of tone that makes ovaries sigh and women go weak at the knees. Twinklesocks purrs like she’s about to marry him.
I stand there, arms awkwardly crossed in front of my chest, doing my best not to swoon. Because this—this right here—this image of him in a tight black shirt, crooning to a ginger kitten, forearms flexed and face gentle?
This may very well be more effective than the bear porn.
And then.
Then.
From behind me comes the unmistakable, echoing sound of a deep male voice growling through my laptop speakers:
“Take it, boy.”
I freeze.
Jasper straightens up slowly, Twinklesocks still in his arms. He looks past me.
I turn, following his gaze, dread thick in my throat.
Thor is on the coffee table, gleefully pouncing across the laptop keyboard like it’s a toy made for chaos. The screen’s bright. Loud. Very much not paused.
And on it, a large, hairy man is enthusiastically rearranging a smaller, naked man’s internal organs with a level of commitment that should come with a warning label.
For a few seconds, neither of us says a thing.
Then I lurch forward, scoop Thor up, and snap the laptop shut with a decisive clack.
Silence.
I turn slowly to face Jasper, cheeks burning, throat dry, humiliation leaking from every pore.
He looks... confused. And maybe a little stunned.
Twinklesocks is still curled in one of his arms, purring obliviously.
Jasper’s free hand is lifted slightly, hovering near her head, like he’s trying to shield her eyes from the screen.
It’s... adorable.
And also completely insane.
He’s quiet for a second. Then he finds his voice. “Was that… gay porn?”
I groan internally. Externally, I mumble, “Yes.” Because honestly, there’s no bloody point in denying it now.
Another pause.
Then he asks, perfectly level. “Why are you watching gay porn?”
I stare at him.
My mouth opens. Closes. Reopens like a dying fish. “I wasn’t—I mean, I was, technically, but—”I take a breath. “It’s not about that. In straight porn, the guy’s usually quiet. Just sort of… there. Doing things to the woman. And the woman’s expected to shriek and flail like she’s being exorcised.”
He says nothing.
I go on. Because clearly, I’ve decided now is the moment to bare my soul in graphic detail.
“I’m not really watching it. I don’t need the visuals.
I’m not fussed about who’s doing what to whom…
that’s not what turns me on. It’s the audio.
The voices. When it’s two men, they both make noise.
One of them always talks — filthy, low voice, bit of a growl, bit of moaning.
It’s… a turn-on. That’s all. Not that it actually worked this time. ”
I stop. Mouth dry. Ears burning. I can hear my own heartbeat in my neck.
Jasper doesn’t move. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t offer pity for the sad, lonely divorcee who needs high-production-value twink porn to get through a Saturday afternoon.
He just stands there, entirely still. His expression completely blank.
And somehow that’s so much worse.
Because I don’t know what he’s thinking.
Not a clue.
He shifts slightly, then clears his throat. “Maybe I should come back another time. Let you, uh… carry on.”
I stare at him.
“I mean,” he adds, very politely, “I didn’t realise I was interrupting. Sorry.”
He crouches just enough to place Twinklesocks gently on the floor, and as he turns to leave, I swear he subtly adjusts himself.
Just a little rearrange in the trouser region. Barely there.
My brain lights up like someone’s flicked a faulty switch.
Was that…?
No.
Was it the porn?
Or my awkward explanation?
Or maybe—
Oh God, maybe he’s gay. Maybe that’s why he spends so much time at Callum’s. Not that there would be anything wrong with it. Except that Callum is with Stella, of course. Oh, maybe they have some secret thing, maybe they do a reverse haram thing?
I spiral for a good ten seconds—full internal PowerPoint presentation, complete with footnotes and sexual identity theories—before he turns back around and interrupts it.
“Why wasn’t it working?” he asks, voice still maddeningly even.
“What?”
“The… thing. The audio. The… self-love. All of it.” His brow lifts just slightly. “Why wasn’t it working?”
And just like that, I forget how to breathe.
Because he’s not teasing me.
He’s asking.
Like he actually wants to know.
“I haven’t had sex in a really long time,” I blurt.
His brow lifts, just slightly.
“My ex and I were more just sharing a flat and… and I thought, you know, that’s marriage. You get comfy. Tired. You prioritise laundry and work commitments and scheduling eye tests.”
I take a breath. Bad idea. I’m mid-spiral now.
“But then I left. And the itch came back with a vengeance. Like some kind of hormonal zombie uprising. I thought, fine. We’ll sort it. I’ll fix it. I’ll buy the bloody vibrator.”
I stomp to the sofa, yank the cushion aside, and unwrap the towel with theatrical flair.
“There!” I say, brandishing the thing like a glittery, anatomical lightsabre. “Seventy-five pounds worth of high-tech vibration and nothing. Nada. I’ve had more success with bad dreams and an itchy tag on a pair of tights.”
He blinks.
I keep going, waving the vibrator like it insulted my ancestors.
“I tried everything. Baths. Fantasies. Guided audio filth. And that bear porn, which is honestly very well lit. But whatever I do, it’s like my orgasm takes one look, shakes her head, and swans off muttering, ‘Not with that attitude.’” I pause, chest heaving. “Something’s wrong with me.”
Finally, finally, I stop.
Jasper hasn’t moved.
He’s still holding the toolbox.
I’m still holding the vibrator.
This is the worst TED Talk in history.