Chapter 14
There’s something I’ve been sitting with lately that I don’t have anyone to talk to about: I’ve been getting railed consistently for months now and I still genuinely don’t know if I’m into guys.
Like, I’m into cock. Obviously. My body has been extremely vocal about that on multiple occasions—some of them hands-free, most of them in front of witnesses, and zero of them something I regret.
But there’s a difference between liking what makes your body feel good and actually being attracted to someone, right?
The doll is one thing—a headspace thing, a kink thing, just orgasm after orgasm while I’m totally checked out of the decision-making process.
But lately I keep wondering what it would be like to actually want a guy as Kit.
To see someone across a room and think yeah, I want that the way I would with a girl.
The thought keeps surfacing, and I keep not knowing how to play it, because every time I try to think about it clearly, my brain just replays a highlight reel of hands on my hips and goes: thoughts?
Anyway.
The party.
We’re here for Walker because his girlfriend dumped him four days ago.
She was a perfectly nice girl, nothing wrong with her except apparently she had a hard line about where her fingers were going to go, and it wasn’t in Walker’s asshole.
Walker told me this two days ago while he was using my dick as a dildo, which is maybe the most insane context I’ve ever received personal information in.
He was riding me, and was just talking like I was a therapist. A very occupied therapist.
“She got mad, bro. I don’t even think it’s that weird of a thing to ask for. Is it weird? You can’t answer but like—is it weird?”
It is not weird, for the record. I would tell him that if I was allowed to talk during, but I’m not, so I just let him keep using my tool and process his feelings about Chloe’s exit.
The other guys think it was a normal breakup. I know the actual reason, and I’m never telling anyone because that’s not my business.
So. The party. Right before exams week, by the way. None of us except Walker and Finn were exactly thrilled about it. Grant complained the whole Uber ride here. Miles made me promise we’d be out by midnight.
But Walker needed this. So here we are.
And yeah, that’s also the reason why I’m thinking again about if I would be able to be with a guy—I blame the alcohol.
The house is packed.
Not like, classy party packed. More like sweaty bodies everywhere, someone puked in the hallway already, the bass is rattling the windows, and I’m pretty sure that’s not a fog machine; just smoke from however many people are vaping indoors. Off-campus chaos. You know, the good kind.
I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a beer that’s more water than alcohol. The strobe lights are giving me a headache, but I don’t care. I’m feeling good.
Walker’s on the dance floor, shirt off as always, sweat gleaming off his chest under the strobes. He’s got a girl on each arm, both of them laughing as he tries to teach them some weird dance move. He’s drunk, but he’s having the time of his life.
Grant’s in a corner, eating his girl’s face, his hand up her shirt. Finn’s on a couch, head back, mouth open, halfway to passing out. Someone drew a dick on his forehead in sharpie.
Miles disappeared into a room twenty minutes ago with some guy who had “dealer” written all over his patchy beard and tie-dye hoodie.
I’m not worried—Miles is a stoner, he knows what he’s doing.
If anything, he’ll come back with good weed and a story about how the guy’s cousin grows “the best shit in the county.” It’s always funny to think Miles is the one among us who parties the hardest.
Reid is somewhere. I saw him a couple times in the first hour. I wonder if he’s out there getting his dick wet in something better than my ass. I also wonder what kind of girl Reid goes for.
But anyway…
I do my own thing.
My outfit—the slutty tanktop, as Grant calls it—has already gotten me three offers.
I made out with two of them. Just quick, messy, dancing-close kinda kisses.
But listen, it has been a while for regular Kit, as opposed to doll-Kit, and I’m tipsy and the music’s good and I’m wearing the slutty outfit for a reason.
Also, I’m not gonna say no to a girl who wants to press me against a wall and suck my tongue.
The first one tasted like watermelon vape. The second one like tequila.
I’m not complaining.
The third one didn’t want to make out.
She found me near the back hallway, and was extremely direct about what she wanted. Twenty minutes later I’m back inside feeling considerably more relaxed.
So. Good night so far.
Great night, actually.
“Hey.”
I turn toward the greeting as a guy slides up next to me. He’s tall, dark hair, with droopy blue eyes. He’s dressed way too well for an off-campus rager, and even from here, I can smell the nice scent of his cologne.
“Hey,” I say back, easy.
I’m easy, I guess.
He gestures at the chaos. “Wild night.”
“You could say that.”
“I’m Matt,” he says, leaning against the counter next to me. “We’ve got Systems together.”
I blink at him, trying to place his face, but coming up with nothing. That doesn’t mean much—I wasn’t exactly paying attention to people in that damn class.
“Oh yeah,” I lie. “You used to sit in the back, right?”
“Third row, actually.” He’s smiling. “You’re Kit, right? Your project last semester was sick. I saw the demo.”
Now I actually remember. He was one of the few people in that class who seemed to give a shit about my presentation.
“Thanks, man.” I take a sip of my beer. “That thing almost gave me an aneurysm.”
He laughs. It’s a good laugh. “I believe it. My final for that class made me want to drop out.”
We talk robots for a few minutes. It’s easy. But then his hand lands on my arm, his thumb brushing back and forth over my forearm. I don’t pull away like I probably should. Instead, I lean against the counter a little more—a flirty position, one would say.
“You always dress like this for parties?” he asks, and his voice is lower now.
I look down at myself. Leaning like this, the low neckline of my tank sags away from my chest. He can see right down the front of it, tracking the bruises Miles left all over my nipples.
“Only when I want attention,” I say with a smirk.
His thumb keeps moving. Slow circles.
“It’s working.”
“Careful,” I say. “I might think you’re hitting on me.”
“What if I am?”
I laugh. It’s a nervous laugh, honestly, because here it is again. The question.
I’ve been getting fucked in different ways, at different times, in different positions. I’ve been my roommates’ doll, their toy, their thing to use.
But that’s different from anything else.
And this is different from them.
This guy wants the Kit who talks and laughs and flirts back. The Kit who’s present. And I’m curious if I would want him back. If my dick would get hard for a man outside the kink.
I’m so fucking curious.
I’ve never looked at a guy and thought I wanna date him or whatever. But even after all the dicks I’ve had, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually hook up with a guy. Like, a real hookup. Where I’m not offline. Where I’m not just a toy.
What would it be like to fuck a guy?
What would it be like to kiss one?
Matt’s thumb traces the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse point. He can probably feel how fast my heart’s beating.
“So,” he says, “you here with anyone?”
“Roommates.” I tilt my head toward the chaos. “Somewhere.”
“Is that guy one of them? He’s been watching you all night.”
I follow his gaze. Reid’s by the window, smoking a cigarette. Our eyes meet, and I have a weird little feeling of my heart dropping into my stomach.
“Yeah,” I say, looking back at Matt. “He does that.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I snort. “No.”
No boyfriend. No dating my straight roommates who just like to fuck me.
“Good.”
“Good,” I agree.
“You always come to these parties?”
“When I want to have fun,” I say. “You?”
“Not really. I just live two houses down.” He traces his index finger along my arm, scratching a little with a short nail. “Convenient.”
“Very.”
I hear myself say it, and notice the tone of it. The easy flirtatious thing I do without thinking. He catches it too. His eyes drop to my mouth for a second, then back up. His hand slides up my arm, giving my bicep a squeeze.
“You’re trouble, huh?” He steps forward again, closing the gap. His thigh presses against mine. His cologne’s everywhere now—woody and sharp, filling my lungs.
I swallow. The heat in my gut is definitely flaring up now, and there’s a heavy pulse under my skin. I don’t try to hide the fact that I’m interested. What’s even the point when the guy’s literally feeling me up already?
“Takes one to know one,” I say.
That earns a laugh. His other hand comes to rest on my waist. His thumb hooks into the belt loop of my jeans.
“Yeah?” He grins. “You think that?”
“I’m pretty sure of it.”
He presses his thigh up against my crotch, and I can feel his dick. I rock forward, let him feel me. My dick slides against his thigh through both our jeans, and I don’t fucking care who sees.
“Top or bottom?” he asks. His lips brush my jaw.
I tilt my head, giving him a clear line to my neck while I think about it. He doesn’t take it, just breathes against my skin.
“Both,” I say. It’s true, isn’t it? I like topping. I like bottoming. I like whatever gets me off.
He leans back to look at me, his eyebrows go up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Depends on the mood. Depends on the guy.”
“And what’s your mood tonight?”
I lean in, let my lips almost brush his ear. “Depends on the guy.”
He shivers. I feel it.
“That’s good,” he says, slipping his hand under my tank top to squeeze my waist. “Because I’d love to fuck you.”
It’s my turn to shiver.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes are almost black in the dim light. “You’d look good riding me.”
I’m tipsy, not drunk—I want to make that clear.
But tipsy is enough to drop my filter and line up my bad decisions.
I should probably feel some kinda way about a guy talking to me like this at a party full of people I know.
But I don’t. I’m tipsy, I’m horny, and Matt’s…
well, he’s hot. That’s really all there is to it.
“So this is what you want?” I ask, voice low. I’m turned-on, I realize. Turns out flirting with a guy is as easy as flirting with a girl. “What, not even gonna buy me dinner first?”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. Is this what you want?”
I think about Reid watching me tonight.
I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what I want it to mean.
“Yes. That’s what I want.”
“Wanna get out of here?”
And here’s where tipsy Kit’s decision-making process gets a little compromised, because the answer my body wants to give and the answer my brain is trying to formulate are not the same answer.
I should say no, obviously.
I glance over my shoulder. Reid’s not by the window anymore.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Matt’s hand slides down to grip my hip. “Your place or mine?” he murmurs, lips brushing my earlobe.
I’m about to say his—fuck, I’m this close—when a loud, slurred voice cuts through the bass.
“Kit! Kiiiiit, dude, I think I’m, like. Actually dying.”
Miles materializes out of the crowd, all six-foot-four of him. He’s got one hand clutching his chest like he’s having a heart attack and the other gripping the counter for balance.
“Dude,” he wheezes, swaying toward me. “I think I took too much shit. Like. Way too much.”
Matt stiffens beside me, his grip loosening. “You good, man?”
Miles flaps a hand at him dismissively before collapsing against my side, dropping his weight on me.
“Kit,” he whines. “I need water. And like… an ambulance. Maybe.”
I sigh, tipping my head back. “How much did you take?”
“All of it,” Miles moans, sagging further against me. “Like. All the edibles. And some mixed powder. And maybe three different pills?”
Matt’s looking between us like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke. It’s probably not.
But.
There’s a big but here.
I’ve seen Miles really cooked before—we all have.
The guy has the tolerance of a whole fucking crack house, but even he has limits.
And when he’s truly cooked, he’s usually on the floor questioning the nature of reality or confessing his childhood traumas to the nearest potted plant. And sometimes it also gets really ugly.
This isn’t that.
I’ve also seen Miles fake his way out of things he doesn’t want to do. Seen him play sick to skip a party, play tired to not do the dishes. The guy’s a trash actor, honestly, but we always indulge him anyway.
Right now, he’s overdoing it. The glassy eyes are real, but the swaying? The hand on the chest? Total theater.
I don’t know why he’s doing this. I don’t know why he’s here, why he’s cockblocking me. But I also don’t know if I’m wrong. And the thought of being wrong—of leaving him here, of walking out with Matt while something’s actually wrong—makes my stomach clench.
I look at Matt, and by his expression he already knows he won’t be getting it in tonight.
“I should—” he starts, stepping back.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry, man. Duty calls.”
Matt hesitates, like he’s considering offering to help, but Miles makes this wet, gagging noise, and Matt’s face does this oh fuck no twitch
“I think I’m gonna puke,” Miles mumbles into my skin.
That’s Matt’s cue to nope the fuck out. “Maybe another time,” he says, glancing toward the crowd like he’s looking for someone less vomit-adjacent to pull.
“Sure,” I lie, because let’s be real, there’s not gonna be another time.
Miles makes another noise, this time more dramatic, clutching his stomach, and Matt fucking bolts, disappearing into the sea of bodies before I can even fake a goodbye.