3. Fabián #3
“Shit.” I gasp as I open my eyes and look at the phone again because apparently I’m committed to making this worse.
Shirtless Elías smiles at me.
I imagine that mouth losing the smirk, my thumb at the corner of it again, wiping syrup from his skin.
Only this time I don’t stop. This time I press my thumb between his lips and feel the slick slide of his tongue ring against my skin.
My hips jerk into my hand, and my head drops back when the fantasy hits so hard I almost drop the phone.
“No,” I moan, like that means anything.
My body doesn’t care about no; it’s done listening to the committee of common sense.
I stroke myself slower, then faster, setting the phone down so I can grip the edge of the sink with my other hand.
The tiny barbells in my nipples drag against the fabric every time my chest moves, sparks of sensation cutting through the heat.
The piercing in my dick catches with the glide of my palm, sending a sharper jolt up my spine.
My forehead hits the mirror, and I bite my lip to keep quiet. I should think about someone else.
Anyone else.
A woman, my ex, some anonymous body that doesn’t come with a family raspado business, public beef, and the ability to make me feel like I’m getting jumped by my own nervous system. But the second I try to change the picture, Elías comes back stronger.
Elías on his knees for me behind the booth.
Elías’s tongue ring dragging over my happy trail.
Elías’s hand under my crop top, tugging at the piercings in my nipples while he says something filthy just to see if I break.
I stroke harder, and my breaths turn rough. The restroom feels too small, too hot, and too bright. I make a grunt, and it feels like it echoes in the space.
Not loud.
But not quiet enough because my tío’s voice rises outside the restroom, distant but too close.
“Fabián?”
I freeze with my hand around my dick. My soul is halfway out of my body.
“Yeah?” I call back, voice wrecked.
Silence.
Then, “You okay?”
I stare at the door. I swear to fucking God, this family needs to stop asking me that question.
“I’m fine,” I say, drawing in some staggered breaths.
“You sound weird.”
Fuck… think fast. “I’m taking a shit.”
Immediate silence.
Then my tío says, his tone disgusted, “Why would you tell me that?”
“You asked.”
“I didn’t ask for details.”
“Then leave me alone so I can finish.” Please for the love of all things holy… I need to come so bad it hurts.
He mutters something about me being uncivilized and walks away. I exhale so hard I almost laugh, then turn and look down at my phone.
Elías’s face is still there.
“Fucking problemático,” I whisper.
My hand starts moving again, and this time there is no pretending. No arguing with myself.
I think about Elías.
Only him.
His mouth. His thighs. His glasses sliding down his nose. His fingers sticky with syrup. The silver ball in his tongue. The way he looked at me when I told him to watch his mouth, like he wanted to find out exactly what I’d do if he didn’t.
I imagine pushing him against the back of the trailer after closing, and that’s what does it; my orgasm hits fast. Too fast.
It slams up my spine and punches the air out of me.
I bite down on my cheek to keep from making noise, hips jerking into my fist as cum pulses out into the sink basin, splattering the porcelain and the bottom edge of my phone screen.
The pleasure drags out longer than I expect, sharpened by the piercing, by the tension, and by two days of pretending I’m not crawling out of my skin.
When it finally lets go, I slump back against the wall, panting. My phone sits on the edge of the sink, and my cum hitting the screen must have woken it because Elías’s Instagram is up.
I stare at the ceiling.
“Great,” I whisper.
Fantastic.
Amazing.
This is super healthy. I came so hard I saw God, and God was wearing slutty little glasses.
I clean up with paper towels that most definitely don’t deserve to be involved in my downfall.
I wipe down the sink with disinfectant spray and a cleaning rag, then wash my hands.
Splash water on my face and avoid my reflection for as long as possible.
When I finally look, I expect to see shame.
I don’t—I look flushed.
A little calmer and deeply, deeply fucked. It helped, but it didn’t fix anything.
If anything, it made it real.
My body knows now and is going to bring this up at every available opportunity like an annoying cousin with screenshots.
I tuck myself back into my boxer briefs and zip up my pants.
The crop top sits too high. My stomach is still showing.
The happy trail is still there, dark and obvious, like it had a front-row seat to my bi-awakening crisis.
I pick up my phone, knowing I should close Instagram and get back to being a productive person. Instead, I stare at the follow button under his bio.
Absolutely not.
Following him would be insane, and still my thumb hovers.
Do not.
Do not.
Do not.
I tap “follow,” and the account is public, so it happens immediately.
No request, just me, ruining my own life in real time.
The button changes to the grayed-out “Following.”
I stare at it, horrified with myself, and then my phone buzzes. A notification for @fabi.sin.filtro
@lalo.con.limón followed you back
My heart stops. Oh my fucking God, he was online the whole time. He saw it. The bathroom walls narrow, and another notification drops.
A message request from @lalo.con.limón
I open it.
lalo.con.limón
Took you long enough, crop top.
I stare at the message and my face goes hot all over again, but this time it has nowhere to go.
He knows. He fucking knows.
Nah, he doesn’t know what I just did. Unless the universe hates me more than I thought.
But he knows I looked.
He knows I searched.
He knows I followed him, and here he is already running his mouth. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, and then I start typing.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Don’t flatter yourself.
Delete it.
Sounds too weak.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Business research.
Delete it.
Too stupid.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
You always online?
Delete it.
Now you sound too interested.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
you always this loud online too?
The three little dots appear immediately, and I grip the phone like it can save me.
Lalo.Con.Limón
You followed me.
And from the shop bathroom… for shame.
My blood turns to ice, and I look around like there is a camera.
No.
No way.
No fucking way.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Why would you assume I’m in the bathroom?
His reply comes fast.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Because you took 11 minutes to follow me back after watching my stories…
and because Junior posted a story of you walking toward the bathroom looking like you were about to fight God while holding your phone up to your face.
I close my eyes.
Fucking Junior.
I’m gonna put him underneath the Altima and lower it off the lift.
Another message.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Relax, tough guy
If anything, I’m flattered to be your… bathroom entertainment.
My dick twitches.
Traitor.
I stare at the words—I’m flattered—I need to throw my phone into the toilet.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
You shouldn’t be.
Lalo.Con.Limón
But I am.
Nice crop top btw, your slutty little stomach is having a moment.
My breathing changes again.
No.
No.
I just handled this, and I’m sure as fuck not going for round two in the shop bathroom like a man with no future. I shove my phone into my pocket and unlock the door, and the shop air hits me, hot and oily and real.
Good, reality. Cars, tools—normal things.
My tío looks up from the front desk as I walk out. His eyes narrow. “That was fast.”
I stop. “You timing me now?”
“Why you look all sweaty?” He asks, looking me up and down.
“It’s hot,” I snap back. “And that bathroom has practically no ventilation.”
“You better have sprayed, cochino.” He watches me for another second, then shakes his head and goes back to the invoices.
I walk to bay two, and my phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m gonna have to silence the damn thing if I want to get anything done today. It buzzes again.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I exhale slowly and pull out the phone.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Don’t work too hard.
Wouldn’t want you overheating in that tiny shirt.
I stare at it, then, because I am weak and apparently suicidal, type back.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Why don’t you worry about the length of your shorts, Cárdenas.
His reply comes so fast it feels like he was waiting with his thumb over the keyboard.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Why?
Seems like you’re worried about them enough for both of us.
I don’t smile… Okay, maybe my mouth moves a little, but that is not my business.
From the front desk, my tío says, “Ay.”
I jerk forward and look up. “What?”
He points at me with his Sharpie. “You’re smiling.”
“Am not—”
He smirks. “Sí, you are.”
“No.”
He squints. “Who are you texting?”
“No one.”
My phone buzzes again, and my tío’s eyebrows climb. I drop down onto the creeper and slide back under the Altima to hide my face. The new message glows on my screen.
Lalo.Con.Limón
See you Friday, crop top papi.
He’s seen the video.
I drag both hands over my face and realize, with a kind of calm horror, that getting Elías out of my system did not, in fact, work.
All I did was make room for more.