7. Orion #3
You should think that it has nothing to do with you, I tell myself sternly. Straight guys have every right to be interested in their prostates. Putting things in your butt doesn’t make you gay. That’s what you should think.
It takes a second, but after a brief internal struggle, I return to my center. I take a long sip of beer, and when I’m positive no one’s looking at me, I throw a surreptitious side-eye at Summer. She’s resting her chin lightly on her hand and gazing at Jordan with a faraway expression.
He’s trying not to make eye contact or notice how she’s looking at him. He has a major talent for reading sexual signals from women, though, so I can tell the effort is costing him.
Their chemistry is palpable. A living, beating thing that crackles and sizzles across the table.
It’s because she’s perfect for him, isn’t it?
And because he’s perfect for her. They’re probably soulmates.
They’re probably meant to be. Their story is probably written in the stars or some shit like that.
They’re probably irrevocably drawn to each other by fate, destiny, and a mutual interest in prostate play.
And they’re being kept apart on the whim of an asshole like me.
Oh God. I’m going to hell, aren’t I?
I’m so lost in the quagmire of my own thoughts, contemplating my damnation and all that, that I hardly notice the music being cranked up.
I’m only dimly aware of people at the table getting up and starting to move around.
Riley and Rowan head to the bar, and by the time I drop back into my body, Jordan has left the table too.
I spot him near the back of the room, to the left of the bar, with three or four girls around him.
“I like the way you kiss me” by Artemas is playing, and Jordan is dancing.
Of course Jordan is dancing. He loves dancing, and he’s good at it.
He has a talent for it. He moves in a way that slows the air around him, making it grow heavy and thick.
Like sex on a Saturday night. Like a slow song he feels in his hips.
Like he’s having the time of his life and has no idea how sexy he looks when he does it.
I look away quickly and plaster a bright smile on my face. My gaze collides with Andy’s, and I’m hit with a gentle, coffee-brown question. He doesn’t blink or ask it aloud, but it unsettles the living hell out of me anyway.
“Another drink?” I offer a little too loudly.
Andy motions to his glass. It’s almost full. “Still going strong, thanks.”
I bolt from the table and go to the bar, leaving a more than half-full beer on the table. I order another one and nurse it at the bar, keeping my back to Jordan and making sure I don’t look in Andy’s direction either.
I can’t believe Jordan said I know like that.
I can’t believe he’s into that kind of thing.
It makes sense, I guess. He’s open-minded and very sexually liberated, but Jesus. To say it aloud in front of a group of guys like that. I don’t know, man. That takes some balls.
Hmm.
I wonder if he likes having his balls played with too.
No.
No, no.
I’m not going to think about him like that anymore. I’ve spent years doing that, and all it’s gotten me is depression. And blue balls.
I take a deep breath and remind myself of a little coping technique I invented for dealing with this kind of thing.
It’s called Reality. It involves not allowing myself to think of Jordan in a way that defies the simple reality that he’s straight.
Instead of inserting myself into fantasies about him, I force myself to think of him doing whatever I’m thinking of with a girl.
Take the whole prostate thing, for example. Sure, I’d like to spend some time thinking about touching him like that, but that’s not what he’s into. So instead, I’m going to sit at the bar, pound drinks like my life depends on it, and think about a girl touching Jordan’s asshole.
I conjure a set of slim fingers to get me on my way. Small, dainty hands. Neatly painted nails—short and well filed though. I can’t do him wrong like that, even in fucked-up fantasy land.
Okay, so where was I?
Yes, that’s it. A girl’s hand. Feminine and pretty. Soft skin. Moving down his body. Stroking his chest lightly. Fingertips glancing over his abs.
A hand flat on his belly, turning slowly so the fingers point downward.
Flesh on hot flesh.
Her hand on his body. Moving down.
Down.
Down.
A feminine hand stroking his cock, lightly and only once. Only because she can’t help it. Only because it makes his eyes slide shut when she does.
Gentle fingertips ghosting across the seam of his balls. Stroking the underside. Teasing them so they pull up close to his body.
Lube.
Lots of it.
The song that was playing ends. The brief silence alerts me to the fact that I’m in no way sober before another one starts playing.
A kaleidoscope turns. The fantasy spins.
The girl’s hand on Jordan’s body disappears, and the outline of my hand appears. I push the thought down, forcing the image out of my mind. It’s replaced with a perfect picture of Jordan’s hands.
Big hands with thick palms. Thick fingers with blunt nails.
Slick fingers, lubed up, circling his opening.
Again.
Again, a little more determined this time. A deliberate movement. The curl of a big, thick finger. A single digit finding the place where he’s knitted together and dipping into it.
The room swims. The kaleidoscope turns again.
It’s my hand I see now, not his. My fingers, slightly slimmer than his but masculine and strong.
My fingers thrusting into him. Not his. Not a girl’s.
My fingers sinking into the heat of his body, soaking up the warmth he holds inside.
Sinking into it deeply. Spreading it. Opening it.
Curling upward. Beckoning inside him until he’s thrashing.
Until his hips are rocking. His cock leaking on his—
The song ends, and I whip my head around quickly to see if anyone is watching me. They aren’t. Everyone is oblivious, happy and heaving as they move to the music.
Jordan is still on the dancefloor, and I swear to God, the light hits him differently from the way it hits other people. It caresses him. Softening hard edges and making them glow. He stands out to me like a beacon. A fine, forbidden beacon I can’t tear my eyes off of, no matter how hard I try.
He has his back turned to me, his body moving in time with the music. He feels the music most in his hips, I think. He must because that’s where it moves him.
Since I’ve already failed spectacularly at Reality tonight, I allow myself a rare treat.
I watch Jordan dancing.
His hips roll in slow circles, and I let myself imagine standing in front of him. I imagine being naked in front of him, with my back turned toward his front. I imagine every person here disappearing, and he and I being the only ones in existence.
I imagine his big, hot hands on my body and his lips on my neck, saying sweet things to me. I imagine him naked too. Stripped bare and hard and horny. His hands on my hips, holding me in place as his cock slides into me.
Jesus. What am I thinking?
What am I doing, getting like this out in public?
I push the dregs of my drink away and try to think about something else. The music is so fucking loud now that the bass is no longer only auditory. It’s become a physical sensation. A somatic experience. One that pulses in my face and makes cerebrospinal fluid vibrate.
Honestly, I think I’ve had all the fun I can handle for one night.
My head is throbbing and my throat has gone unpleasantly dry.
I’m going to call it a night. Ordinarily, I’m a big believer in ducking and running without saying goodbye to anyone.
But Jordan loses his shit and chases me down if he catches me doing it, so I weave through the throng of people on the dancefloor to find him.
He’s with that girl, Nat. She has him pressed against the wall, and she’s on her toes, whispering into his ear. His hands are roaming slowly down her back. I can’t even imagine the debauched shit she’s saying to him because his eyebrows are raised a lot higher than usual, which takes some doing.
I catch his eye, jerking my head toward the door to let him know I’m leaving.
Hopefully, he’ll go back to Nat’s place tonight.
It’s not normally something I want. I hate waking up in the apartment without him, but after the whole prostate thing and my flagrant disregard of Reality tonight, I’m going to need to jerk off a lot when I get home.
Seriously, a lot. A lot, a lot. It’ll be way better for everyone if I’m alone in the apartment. That’s all I’m saying.
To my surprise, Jordan hugs Nat, kisses her on the cheek, and comes bounding over to me.
“What are you doing?” I ask when the crisp night air hits us and the thud of the music fades. “Nat was way into you.”
“Yeah, she was.” He doesn’t sound surprised, and why would he? “But she has a boyfriend.”
“What?” That’s the last thing I was expecting from the way she was acting.
“Yeah, he was out tonight too. He was at the bar watching us dance. They were looking for a third for the night, I guess.”
The mental image of Jordan having sex with another man in the room scrambles my thoughts significantly, but I get back on track with a little effort.
When I think about it, this is a good thing. This is reality, and I could do with a reminder.
“Not into being naked with another guy around, huh?” I prompt helpfully.
“Nah, I don’t really mind it.”
What?
Jesus. What the hell is up with tonight?
I can’t catch a fucking break.
“What do you mean you don’t mind it?” I ask, heart clattering in a new and very unpleasant way.
“Sharing’s cool. I don’t mind it… I kinda like it, actually, but from the way she described it, I got the feeling her boyfriend wanted to get into my space.”
I have no idea how to respond to that. Absolutely none. Most of my mind has gone completely blank, and the rest of it is reeling from the visuals of Jordan and a naked guy in a room together.
Actually, no.
You know what, this is good.