2. KYLE
2
KYLE
The days have gotten more than a little bit repetitive recently. I wake up, I go to the gym, I go to work. I’m not saying it’s necessarily a bad thing, I like my routine and I’m not saying I want anything to disrupt it, but I can’t help but feel like my life is getting stale.
“You need to find a new man.” And there he is. Taylor Howe, my best friend of… far too many years, practically a brother at this point, and a guy who thinks his advice is the best—especially when he’s had a couple of drinks. “How long have you been single for?”
“I could ask you the same question,” I reply.
“You could, but my wife died so it would be very insensitive,” Taylor replies with a wink before taking a swig of his pint. That’s one way to shut me up. “I’m being serious, though, Kyle. Have you even considered trying to date somebody else instead of fucking around?”
“I’m not fucking around!”
“Well maybe you should try fucking around then?” Taylor says. “It might stop you being so bloody tense all the time.”
I can feel my face going red. The last thing I want right now is a lecture from Taylor about how I should be moving on. Even less than that, I don’t want him to be doing it in the middle of O’Flannery’s because that’s just plain embarrassing.
The pub’s quite busy even though it’s only a Tuesday night, but that means there are people around, and it means that Taylor’s talking far too loud and maybe people are going to hear about my love life and… I’d rather they not.
“Stop being embarrassed. I’m teasing,” Taylor says, nudging me. We’re sitting at the bar purely because it’s easier to get drinks, and there’s something nice about having a view of the whole pub.
“I’d rather not have the bar staff knowing all my business.”
“They see you enough, they probably do anyway,” Taylor says.
“New subject please,” I groan, taking a sip of my pint. It suddenly tastes a little more bitter than it did a few seconds ago.
I understand where Taylor’s coming from; he’s just trying to help me out. He wants me to be happy but… I still feel far too damaged for any of that. It’s been nearly ten years since I was with Ricardo and he… broke me. When you see someone cheating on you, right in front of your face in front of an entire bar, it’s a hard thing to take. I kicked him out. I never looked back. He didn’t even ask why. But he knew. He knew exactly what he did.
“Now I’ve upset you,” Taylor says, reaching a meaty hand across and letting it land on my forearm. “Not my intention, Kyle. Promise. I just… I don’t like seeing you miserable.”
“I’m not miserable.”
“You can’t complain to me that your life is repetitive and you don’t know what to do about it and then get upset when I tell you what to do about it,” Taylor says. “But I’ll shut up if you want me to shut up.”
Taylor hasn’t exactly had the easiest life. His wife Angela died nearly five years ago and he never really recovered from it. He’s the nicest guy in the whole world, and if he were gay and my type in any way I’d have likely made a move by now.
We’re similar enough that people think we’re brothers. Both tall, both broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, both more salt than pepper in our hair these days. The biggest difference is that he can’t grow a beard, which I remind him about as often as I can, and my eyes are blue where his are green. Other than that, we’re identical.
“You don’t need to shut up,” I say, flagging down the bartender to grab us another round of drinks. “I just need to get my head out of my arse and actually do something about it. Otherwise I’ll just end up pushing you away.”
Taylor groans. “I think that’s the drink talking. You sure you want another one?”
“What? You think I’m about to become the ‘crying into my beer’ type? I never have been before.”
“Well, you’re talking about trying new things and turning your life around,” Taylor says. “Maybe one of the new things you want to try is being a fucking sad sack.”
“Fuck off.”
“Never.”
“Fine,” I say. “It’s been ten years, almost to the day, since I kicked Ricardo out.”
“And you’re sitting here trying to figure out exactly what’s changed since then,” Taylor says. “How you’re in the same position, and he’s off living this fabulous life with the guy he cheated on you with.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel better.”
“I know it’s been ten years,” Taylor says. “But I saw you looking at his profile on your phone. You’re just torturing yourself.”
“Maybe that’s what I want to do. It’s my life.”
“You’re making yourself miserable,” Taylor says. “Come on, Kyle, I’m being deadly serious now. When was the last time you went on a date?”
“Do people even go on dates anymore?”
“I think you’ve proven my point by asking that question,” he replies. He looks furtively about himself and then lowers his voice, leaning in a little closer. “When was the last time you… you know?”
I recoil. “Bloody hell, Taylor.”
“What?”
“You can’t ask me that!”
“We’re friends. We’re brothers!”
“You’re my boss!”
“Sure,” he says. “But friends first, colleagues second. I don’t want you to think you can’t talk to me.”
I sigh and stare into my drink. The truth of the situation is, I’m a little bit hard up at the moment. I use apps every now and again, and I have every intention of hooking up with people when I do, but then… I don’t know. I bottle it. It’s so of the moment, and it just fizzles out. I’m shocked I’ve not been red flagged and banned from every single one of them because all I seem to do is string people along.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe a year?”
“Okay,” Taylor replies. “Handsome guy like you, in shape from being in the gym all the time, and you’re telling me you can’t find some hot young thing that wants a piece?”
“I cannot begin to tell you just how much I despise this conversation.”
“I can see that in your face, Kyle. It’s why I’m persisting. It’s quite entertaining,” Taylor replies, unable to keep the smile off his face. “But I’m being serious. You could have somebody if you want somebody.”
“But I…” I let the words die on my tongue. I’m not about to tell Taylor the whole truth, which is that I’m afraid of doing anything like that, afraid of letting somebody else in, because what on earth do I do if I end up getting hurt again? Is it really worth it? I’m not so sure.
“You what?” Taylor says as the bartender puts down our next round of drinks.
“I… wouldn’t know where to start,” I say. “It’s all so complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it,” Taylor says. “Dip a toe in. If the water’s cold, get out and try again in a few months.”
“Ooh, we’ve gone metaphorical. Is it really that point in the night?”
“I’m trying to help.”
“And I love you for it,” I say. “But let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about you, let’s talk about work—literally anything.”
Clearly I sound just desperate enough that Taylor seems to hear me this time, and he lets it slide for the time being, moving on to different topics for the remainder of the night. But it still plays at the back of my mind. What if I actually did something? What if I finally decided to make a move? What would that even look like?
When we say our goodbyes at the end of the night, Taylor tells me to think about what he’s said, and I make some joke about how I won’t be able to stop thinking about it, before I start the long stumble home. I walk past the office, past my gym which is conveniently just opposite, and back towards my house. I don’t live a million miles away, so it’s not such a chore to walk. In fact it’s nice, and it clears my head a bit.
I let myself in and turn on the lights. The house is cold, empty, and it pulls everything Taylor said tonight into even sharper focus.
I have a nice house, which I’ve lived in since before I was with Ricardo. I’d bought it before we got together, and then he moved in and we began building a life together. There are still parts of him all over it. The books he left behind, the small ornaments he didn’t think to pick up or come back for, the sofa he helped me pick out for the living room.
Christ, maybe I need to redecorate. Maybe that will help. I’ve certainly got to do something.
I throw my coat onto the banister and sit myself down on the sofa, pulling out my phone. I open up a hookup app, the one I always seem to gravitate towards because there are often messages waiting for me, always some gorgeous guy in there wanting to chat or maybe more.
Immediately I can feel my dick swelling as I scroll through the many, many shirtless profile pictures. Mine’s shirtless too, just in case somebody who happens to know me is on here. I don’t want it to be awkward or for them to bring it up in conversation. My sex life isn’t anybody’s business—apart from Taylor’s apparently.
Almost like I’ve summoned him, a message comes through.
TAYLOR
You better not have gone straight to bed when you got in.
I hate him.
KYLE
FUCK OFF!
TAYLOR
Hahahaha!
I go back to the app and change my photo to a slightly updated one. I’ve recently been hitting the gym a little more, so my chest is looking a lot bigger, and you can see some of my tattoos in this one—the spider web I got on my shoulder, and the little bear paw I got on my chest that’s since been absolutely covered in hair.
Someone pops up with a simple “Hey!” because they’ve seen I’m online. I check his profile. No name. Just a peach emoji. He’s younger than me by about ten years, which would normally have me deleting him straight away, but there’s something about the way he looks that piques my interest. He’s a little on the chubby side, which I like, with a little bit of chest hair, but not a lot. Certainly not as much as me. My profile picture could be mistaken for one of me wearing a sweater vest.
What about him? I think.
Hey yourself.
What are you up to?
NM. You?
NM. Just here. Scrolling.
A picture comes through. He’s taken the picture over his shoulder, his perfectly round arse in the air, his messy bed beneath him, and boxes dotted all around the room. My mind floods with images of me in that bedroom with him, of all the things I’d do to an arse like that. I want to grab it, bury my face in it, spank it.
Jesus Christ.
Quite an arse you’ve got there.
Would look better with you on it…
Oh really? What would you have me do?
Three dots come up immediately. He’s typing and my heart is in my mouth, my cock straining against the fabric of my jeans and leaking into my underwear. I really must be hard up if it’s taking so little just to get me going.
Well, let me make your face my new favourite chair first, and then we’ll see where that takes us.
He sends the peach emoji with it, and the water squirting emoji, and that just throws more and more images into my head—the two of us writhing on that bed, me in total control of him, turning him into my little fucktoy. It’s so unbelievably forward that I choke on the air I’m breathing. Though what did I expect? This is a hookup app. He came here with one thing in mind, and I came here… with what? What am I even doing?
Psyching yourself out, is what you’re doing.
That sounds like heaven.
I want to carry on the conversation. I want to keep talking.
You moving out or moving in?
Huh?
The boxes.
Oh! Moving in. Might be trying to christen the new place.
How naughty of you.
You like them naughty, do you?
Oh, you have no idea!
Try me.
And I really would like to try him, really would like to go over to that apartment and show him a good time, but there’s a strange sort of fear gripping my chest. I’m hardly the hookup type. It’s never really been my style. That’s why these apps never work for me.
I move to type something back, to apologise or even make some kind of excuse as to why I can’t come over, but I’m so sure that he just won’t care. With an arse like that, and an attitude that bold, he’ll have a new guy at his beck and call in no time.
There’s no use agonising over it.
I close the app and lock my phone, putting it back in my pocket. That, of course, does nothing to help my now throbbing erection. I might not want to join the many, many people who like to hook up using apps, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have needs.
In a flash I’m upstairs, clothes off and in my shower, trying to wash off the pains of the day. Still my hard cock persists.
I wouldn’t say I’m particularly well endowed. It’s slightly above average, or so I’ve been told, and is thick enough to get some rather delightful moans out of even the most experienced and stretched of bottoms.
It was called huge by a guy once, and impressive by another. I’m yet to have any complaints. And just the thought of that has my dick springing back to full attention, throbbing beneath the hot running water.
I squirt a little bit of soap onto my hand and start to lather myself up, slowly stroking back and forth, letting my mind wander as I do. And that boy’s arse suddenly pops into my head—round, perky, a veritable bubble butt just waiting to be seen to.
So I let my mind continue to wander in that scenario. I think about slapping those cheeks just hard enough to get a yelp out of him, maybe even hard enough to leave a nice red mark where my hand was. I spread them and bury my bearded face in there, breathing in the scent of him, letting my tongue go to work on what I imagine is tight little hole.
“Fuck,” I groan as I can already feel myself getting close. I slow my strokes down, not wanting this fantasy to end too soon.
I lube up my cock and position it against his hole, waiting to hear him beg me to push a little harder. I can feel the warmth of him against me, radiating against the head of my dick. I push and feel him give way to me with a heavy groan as I slide inside until I’m buried deep, my crotch resting against his ass.
I’m sweating now, my breath coming in short, and I can’t help but pick up a little bit of speed as I stroke and think about this guy who I don’t even know, who maybe I should have got to know a little better tonight. An opportunity missed, but hopefully not entirely useless.
I imagine I’m grabbing hold of his hips and driving my cock in deep, long strokes in and out as I slam into him, watching his butt cheeks wobble with every waiting thrust, his moans filling the air around us.
My eyes fly open as I can’t hold back any longer. I come long and hard, my knees practically buckling beneath me as I spray my load onto the shower door. I normally come pretty hard but this is ridiculous. I’m out of breath, like I’ve just run the hundred metre sprint or something, and all because of one guy’s ass.
You really are a mess.
I clean up the shower and finish rinsing myself off, my cock steadily returning to its resting size which according to Ricardo at least, is still quite impressive.
“How can you be a grower and a shower? It doesn’t seem fair,” he would say.
And now I’m thinking about Ricardo again. Great.
I towel off and step out of my bathroom, once again struck by the size of the house, the emptiness of it, and how in the years since we broke up I’ve filled it with nothing else.
Maybe I need to move.
I don’t even know where I’d go.
I try and shake the sadness off and then climb into bed, which feels bigger tonight than it ever has before.
This is the drink talking. Go to sleep, you’ll feel better about it in the morning.
I turn out the light and hope for just that.