It normally wigs me out to stay at somebody else's house.

Ever since I was a kid, when my parents would try to get me to take part in sleepovers so I could look like a normal, well-adjusted boy, they'd always have to pick me up before 11 p.m. because I’d pitch a fit. I'd just lay there in a bed that wasn't mine and imagine all of the awful things that could happen while I was staying with somebody else. Hell, in the third grade, I'd convinced myself my friend Stevie's parents were like gingerbread-house evil, full stop. I was positive that the second I closed my eyes, they were going to toss me into a pot, season me with salt and pepper, and boil me alive like a lobster.

I guess it's no wonder I grew into the paranoid, overprotective parent I am today, what with all the child-eating going on in the world.

And that discomfort in other peoples' homes hasn't ever gone away. If I were psycho-analyzing myself, I'd say it's the lack of control that scares me the most. I'm at my host's mercy for pretty much everything, a fact illustrated by Jake going to fetch me some bedding from a linen closet in the hall.

But the weird thing is that I don't feel unsafe at Jake's home. It's a nice place. Clean, but not tidy to the point of feeling sterile. Nicely decorated, but not giving the impression that some cold, calculating professional did it. It's cozy, and Jake himself has been nothing but welcoming.

Plus, I'm crazy tired, and I think I could sleep at Ted Bundy's house if I had to right now.

When Jake brings the bedding, I thank him again and get directions for the guest room to check in on Riley one last time before I hit the hay. She's sleeping peacefully, curled up with one arm underneath the top pillow, a smile on her face. Watching her now, it's hard not to remember when she was a little girl; when she smiled all the time at the simplest things, and sometimes for no reason at all.

She was my little sunshine once, and I know people joke and say puberty changes kids, but it just feels like I've failed her somewhere along the way. Like all the joy's been snuffed out of her life, and she's got nothing to smile about anymore.

It's a stupid, depressing thought, and I chalk it up to being tired as I haul my ass back toward the living room.

As I amble through the hallway, the bathroom door opens and my head turns before I even think about what I'm doing. Why should I? Sure, it's the bathroom, and I can hear the shower running, but it's not like I'm walking in myself. Jake knows he has guests, so he wouldn't open the door unless he was dressed.

Or so I thought.

Standing there in the doorway is Jake, a towel held about his waist as loosely as anybody can hold a towel. So loosely, in fact, that the bottom of it is open a little.

A normal human being would look away. Maybe even back away, stumble out some sort of apology even though it wasn't his fault, and then later pretend like none of this ever happened.

But I don't look away. I get about as far from looking away as you possibly can, my gaze moving over his mostly naked body. He's not a gym rat, but that much I could've guessed already. There's definition to him, though, hard lines that lead my gaze downward, past his smooth chest to the sparse hair peeking out from above the towel.

I could tell myself it's just appreciation for the male form. Nothing wrong with that. But when have I ever appreciated "the male form" before? At the most, I've looked at actors, said "I wish I was that ripped, but without all the effort," and moved on with my life.

This is different. This is the slow sort of appraisal that makes my skin flush and dries out my mouth. It's the kind of appraisal I remember making of my first girlfriend when I finally saw her naked after months of imagining.

And that confuses the hell out of me.

"Shit, I didn't think anybody'd be out here," Jake says, pulling the towel tighter around his waist.

I finally have the decency to look away, my cheeks flaming. "Sorry, I just wanted to check on my kid."

"No, it's my fault. I left my clothes in the—you know what, it doesn't matter. Shouldn't have happened. I'm going…" He jerks his thumb to indicate someplace down the hall. "I'll just… yeah."

I've never seen somebody move faster while trying to hold up a towel.

Completely mortified, I head to the couch feeling a lot more awake than I was before. My body's come alive, and I try to tell myself it's just adrenaline even as I'm fighting that familiar feeling of blood rushing southward.

I'm not bi.

I'm a 36-year-old man. I would know if I was bi.

I didn't even experiment in college, and it's not like I didn't have the opportunity to do so.

I'm not bi. I'm not attracted to guys. That was just an involuntary reaction. My cock is confusing surprise and embarrassment with something else. It wouldn't be the first time.

I think of everything under the sun as I settle onto my makeshift bed. The crowdfunding campaign. A job I'm working on for a client. Riley's grades. How weird of a kid I was and how much my parents reinforced my behavior.

Everything.

And eventually it's enough to put me back into a state of exhaustion. I all but pass out, and the next time my conscious mind observes anything, there's light pouring through the window.

But not Jake's window. One of the picture windows in my house in Chicago. The one Sid had installed because she “didn't want to raise a vampire”—her words, not mine.

That sort of dissonance is enough for me to realize I'm dreaming. It wouldn't be the first time the old house has featured in my dreams, and it won't be the last. And as much as I know I could wake myself up and avoid the inevitable pain of seeing my wife again, I can't seem to force myself to do it.

Some part of me needs this.

The dream rolls on, and I feel a light pressure near my groin, like somebody's got their hand there. A tug follows, along with the sound of a zipper being pulled down.

Oh. It's going to be one of those dreams.

My cock is freed without anyone having to free it—as it usually works in dreams—and I can feel a hand wrap around the hardened flesh. Sidney's hand is small, her fingers a little stubby, and I'd remember the feeling of her hand on me anywhere.

I shift on the couch or the bed or wherever I am in the dream, my thighs falling apart. I'm naked now, and my whole body is wound tight with anticipation, like I've been waiting for this for a long time.

I feel the very edge of her tongue as it slowly traces up my shaft, then circles around the head. When we first started dating, she'd never given a blowjob before, and I'd never gotten one so I wasn't much help instructing her. But a lot of practice over a lot of years made it possible for her to know exactly what I needed at any given moment, and she knows now in the dream, her lips parting over the head as she strokes the shaft with her hand.

I reach out to tangle my fingers in her soft, curly hair, but I'm met with something else. There's nowhere near as much hair as I expect, and my fingers partially caress scalp.

I know I didn't have my eyes closed in the dream, but suddenly I'm having to open them to see. And when I do, it's not Sid kneeling in front of me, her pretty lips around my cock, her big, baby blue eyes cast up at me.

It's Jake.

He lowers his head on my dick, taking me deeper until I can feel the sensation of his stubble tickling against my balls, something I've never in my life felt and could never even imagine.

But it feels so, so good.

I moan, gripping both hands into his short hair. He draws back, his lips tight around my shaft before he relaxes a little, shooting me a gaze that I somehow know means "fuck my mouth."

And I do.

My hips lift upward and I fuck him as I hold him in place. He gives me just the right amount of suction as my cock thrusts into his mouth, and it's not long before I'm on the verge of a frenzy. I can feel my balls draw up and tighten, and I'm so close to coming that I pull him back…

And promptly wake up.

It's still dark, only a hint of moonlight coming in through the window. Jake's vaulted ceiling is high above me. The lumpy couch has me laying in a weird position.

All that and I'm desperately, painfully hard.

From a dream about getting a blowjob from another man. A man who's sleeping in this very house.

I need some relief, but I know I can't do anything about it. Not here. Not now. If I'm smart, not ever, because I really don't feel like facing the fact that I'm a nearly middle-aged man who apparently hadn't pegged down his sexuality as well as he thought he had.

There's no escaping it. I can deny myself, wait for my erection to subside, and hopefully fall back into a dreamless sleep.

But at some point, I'm going to have to face the facts:

I'm bi.

And I want my daughter's teacher.