The Internet was somewhat helpful—in that it gave me a hard on and made my eyes bulge at the same time. Rimming, felching, anal, frotting. Frotting? What? Oh.
Backroom sex, glory holes, oral. Enemas, HIV, BDSM, bottom, top, pitcher, catcher—I was getting a headache from information overload. And it appeared that most gay men fucked on the first date. Or before their first date.
You
That one word. Maybe nothing else mattered but that. Maybe all that mattered was that I wanted to hear his snarky comments about my tie and make him laugh in spite of his best attempt not to.
Maybe all that mattered was I was mostly accepting the gay.
You.
I narrowly missed crashing the car several times on the way over to Peter’s home. And, like I’d imagined, I was nervous as hell. My fingers drummed on the steering wheel. I kept accidentally pushing ‘seek’ on the stereo instead of ‘play’. My stomach decided I was fourteen or was riding a rollercoaster. And I had to turn the air conditioning on full blast so I didn’t sweat through my chinos and plaster my plaid shirt to my body. Yes, that was what I wore. I also wore a tie. Not because ties were particularly comfortable. But because I fantasized Peter pulling me into a kiss by my tie, and that had my dick so hard, even cotton chinos were too heavy. I parked at the end of his block, hands like cling wrap on the steering wheel.
You.
My worst fear was that I’d end up like Jesse, alone and miserable, hanging from a tree. Coming out wasn’t what was going to make me suddenly suicidal. I didn’t have to worry about that. I wasn’t a teenager, afraid of the loss of my parents or friends and no way to take care of myself. That loss was scary, sure, but I’d get past it. I had options. What I knew, beyond a doubt, was that if I continued to deny who I was, I’d end up with my service revolver in my mouth.
“Better cock than steel,” I said wryly, checking my reflection one last time before I exited the car.
Chapter Eight
Holy Fucking Christ, Dear Sweet Mother of God
“Holy fucking Christ,” I moaned. “Are you trying to kill me?” Peter had a new piercing, in his lip; or it was an old one he’d decided to actually wear. Either way it was there, in his perfect, kissable bottom lip. Well, if I thought I’d need something to keep me focused during the night, that was now covered.
“What’s that?” He nodded toward the package I had tucked under my arm. It was just something to make him laugh—or, you know, question my sanity.
“A corsage,” I replied, and handed it to him with my kiss-me-now grin. He said nothing and tossed it over his shoulder where it landed somewhere in the depths of his living room. I used the opportunity of following its path in order to peek inside. My jaw dropped. Almost every wall was covered in incredible murals.
The farthest wall was so realistic, at first glance I thought it actually was a patio door leading out onto grass and a wooden deck. Beyond the deck, and this was the only reason I quickly figured out it was a painting, was the summer rain. The real world was rain-free.
What I could see of the other walls were different and unrelated scenes: an aquarium with sharks, and starfish sucking against the glass. A baseball game with a field that reminded me of the one from my old high school. Darryl in a pink suit surrounded by Secret Service. I couldn’t stop gaping at it all.
Peter was watching me, seemingly judging my response. “Wow. When you said Cai finished painting the living room, I had a whole different idea in my head.” He quirked up a careful smile.
I cleared my throat, waiting for Peter to invite me in, but Cai emerged from the depths of the house to do it for him.
“Hi,” Cai greeted me brightly. He had a rainbow of paint in his hair, on his jaw, nose, cheeks and neck, and sprinkled along his jean overalls; as well as what was once a pure white t-shirt. He carried a jar with a paintbrush swirling in a clear liquid. Another brush was tucked behind his ear, dripping yellow paint on his shoulder. I thought he may have been cleaning the wrong brush.
Cai was the kind of boy who made you automatically grin from his sheer guilelessness. The kind who attracted people through personality rather than appearance. Where Peter was ethereal in beauty, Cai was just plain goddamn capital C “Cute”. His nose was a bit long and a little crooked— but a good fit for his face. Like Peter, his strongest asset was his eyes—not grey, not blue, but a mixture of both. But where Peter was ice, Cai was the sun. I thought his optimism might piss me off, but if I was in high school, I would have had a crazy crush on him.
It wasn’t until I looked deeper that I noticed the network of scars running from his wrists to his neck, like an ice skater had practiced figure eights on his skin. There had been a futile attempt at hiding them under Celtic vine tattoos, but the damage was so extensive, it was impossible to hide.