It was difficult to leave that day, but after what Cal had done to me, I didn’t have much choice. He seemed to get no end of pleasure out of watching me adjust my jeans and walk uncomfortably to my laptop. He returned to his armchair and grinned wickedly, jaw in palm, dark eyes trailing me around the room.
“I would have thought about you anyway,” I muttered.
“I prefer it this way. I’ll be thinking about it, too.”
The back of my neck was on fire.
“It’ll dry and press against you,” he added.
“You’re crazy.” I snagged my computer and went to lace up my shoes. No matter how I stood or sat, the damp patch in my boxers made itself known.
I wasn’t really angry, though. I was embarrassed and aroused. Still, I found myself envying Jamie again, who had gotten Cal when they were both naive.
I tugged on my jacket and loitered by the front door.
“Well,” I said.
He remained seated, gazing at me. Now it was just getting awkward. I had half-expected him to walk me out, something he had only done when I had barged in on his sister, or maybe to kiss me, which was ridiculous, because he hadn’t kissed me on the mouth all day. Maybe he didn’t do mouth kisses. No big deal. I wasn’t so sentimental that I wanted a kiss goodbye, right?
“Are you okay over there, Michael?”
I was Michael to him, always, never Mike. I liked that.
“I’m fine. I’ll see you Wednesday?”
“Wednesday.” He moved two fingers in a diminutive wave.
Cal’s stunt by the fireplace worked as intended. I thought about him the whole way home: His mouth and hands, his arms, eyes, voice. Leaving the mountains, I felt that I was returning to reality from a dream. None of that could have been real and I wouldn’t let myself hope to replicate the experience.
I streamed for half a day on Tuesday, throwing myself into end-over-end competitive Overwatch matches, and as I was winding down, I got a new subscriber (cbsonofab) and a one hundred dollar donation from the same, no message. My face flushed in front of five thousand viewers.
“Oh, damn. CB dropping the brand new sub and top dono of the day right at the end of the stream. Guys, can we get some hot mics and drop the mics in the chat please?” He was watching my stream. I shifted in my chair. “Dang, dude. That’s huge. Thank you so much. Not even leaving a message, just dropping the mic and walking away.”
During my stream, I had a running (and highly chauvinistic) joke that involved telling the top donator of the day that he had “the biggest dick in the chat.” Whenever I received a large donation or when a viewer topped the day’s largest donation, I would make a speech about how the donator had the hugest dick/wiener/schlong. But I was not doing that for Cal. I couldn’t possibly say it without stumbling all over myself, and he already got too many laughs at my expense.
“What a great way to end the stream,” I said quickly, bowing my head toward the webcam. “Thanks for the insane support today, guys. If it’s your first time here and you liked what you saw, don’t forget to hit that follow button. And, I’m out bros. Keep an eye on Twitter for schedule updates. Things are a little up in the air lately with real life stuff, but I’ll be back to my regular schedule soon. Peace.”
I played my outro and pushed away from the desk.
Seconds later, a text from Cal pinged on my phone. Where’s my big dick speech? Unsub/unfollow.
He had caught on to the mores of Twitch chat, and my channel in particular, with alarming speed.
I thought for a while before replying. It was much easier to joke around via text. I wouldn’t really know about that, now would I?
I waited for a response that never came.
Jk, I added a few minutes later.
Still, he was silent.
I frowned at Furio. “Dude, I made a dick size joke and he’s not answering.” Furio cocked his head, oblivious to my human troubles. What if Cal wasn’t big or even average? What if, improbably, he was small and self-conscious about it? I buried my face in my hands. “I’m an idiot.”
I didn’t care about his size, but he would care, of course.
Hell, if he was on the small side, it might make a few things easier ...
“No,” I said aloud, abruptly. “I’m not thinking about this.”
I spent the rest of the day thinking about it and packing my belongings into boxes and totes. And checking my phone, which was silent.
I would sign the lease for my new apartment on Thursday and start driving over loads on the weekend. I had a few friends with trucks, but I didn’t want to tell them about the breakup. I hadn’t even told my parents yet. They liked Nicole, and they liked seeing me semi-settled. In their eyes, breaking up and moving out would be a regression.
I woke much too early on Wednesday, at four thirty, and with that distinct alertness that will not be lulled back to sleep. I had been relegated to the couch until my move, but the couch wasn’t to blame for my early waking. No, I was looking forward to seeing Cal, and I was subconsciously worried about our texts.
Once upon a time, Nicole had told me that I overanalyzed things “like a girl.” Maybe she was right, though I suspect overthinking isn’t specific to one gender.
Whatever the case, I kept wondering what Cal had been trying to accomplish with his text yesterday—if he was flirting or missing me, or just teasing me—and how and why my response had silenced him.
I made up my improvised bed and put on coffee. Furio emerged from Nicole’s room, slow blinking, to assess the situation, but even he wasn’t interested in being up at that hour. He curled up on the warm spot I had left on the couch.
I checked my e-mail, brainstormed a new blog post, and then, with three cups of coffee pumping through me, I did the unthinkable. I put on basketball shorts and a hoodie and I went for a jog.
I barely made it around our small block, but I staggered back to the house feeling enormously proud. Nicole was up by then and she stared at me like I was a home invader.
“How long have you been awake?” Her voice was chilly. I could hear the suspicion in it. For three years, she had tried to motivate me to work out, and suddenly we were breaking up and I was running of my own volition.
“Too long,” I said. “Not sure what gives.”
I headed to the bathroom before she could ask what she really wanted to ask.
In the hope of lasting a few seconds longer if Cal touched me today, I rubbed one out in the shower. I thought about him. I thought about the question he had asked when I had clumsily offered to blow him. Doesn’t the idea disgust you?
The answer was no, unequivocally.
He had told me not to change the way I dressed, so I wore a Game of Thrones T-shirt that said Crows Before Hoes. It seemed comically appropriate, and since we had watched the series together, I knew he would get it.
I gunned it to Red Feather and arrived a few minutes before eleven.
Cal was walking out of the annex as I let myself in. The clean, chemical odor of paint trailed him. His hair was tied back and dark lounge pants hung from his hips.
“You’ll never believe what I did this morning,” I said.
He approached, unsmiling, and I flattened myself against the door.
I was learning to recognize that particular look on his face.
His hand closed around my throat, compressing the airway until only a thread of breath could pass. Then he practically stood on top of me. His legs and knees pushed at mine, and his stomach and chest and shoulders. He must have felt my thundering heart.
“Is this big enough for you?” he hissed. He grasped my free hand and pressed it between his legs. The thin fabric of his pants stretched over his erection, and he was thick and long, unnervingly so.
Not small, then.
Not even average.
I closed my watering eyes and pulled in as much air as I could.
“Do you want that down your throat?”
I couldn’t reply and he knew it. I could barely breathe. Still, I tried to stroke him.
His fingers tightened.
For one vertiginous moment, I wondered if he knew what the hell he was doing, and the thought that he might actually have killed Jamie Foust flashed through my mind.
He released my neck and I sagged against him.
“It was a joke,” I panted.
But it was not a joke to Cal, apparently. He gripped my arm and dragged me upstairs. I went willingly enough, though I was shaking. The loft was dark. He slid my laptop onto a chair and he undressed me brusquely, yanking off my sneakers and socks, jeans, boxers, jacket, and shirt, until I stood naked in front of him.
He shoved me and I tumbled onto the comforter, and then he was on top of me, kissing me hard, biting my lips and tugging at my hair. “Michael,” he gasped. “Michael.”
Our bodies brushed, there, and I realized he had taken his cock out of his pants.
My heels dug into the mattress. I rubbed my length along his again and he moaned. I had wanted to hear that so badly—to make him do that.
“Take off my shirt,” he said.
I dragged it over his head and clung to his shoulders. I wanted to reach between us, to feel him. Why couldn’t I make my hands go there? Tentatively, I moved my palms across his arms and back. He was rigid all over.
He reached for something on the bedside table, and then he lifted his hips enough to spread warm, glossy fluid over my shaft.
“God,” he whispered. “Now. Like this.”
We rubbed together steadily, our erections sliding and bumping. I needed to come within moments and he seemed to know it. He slowed down, almost stopped. My fingers were biting into his ribs.
“Do you need to come?” His voice was strained.
I nodded, my eyes pinched shut.
“Do it then, Michael.” He started to move again. “Come on me.” The band of his lounge pants kept pressing against my balls, creating a different sort of friction. He knew just how to move to make the bell of his head catch on mine again and again. His hair had come loose. It hung over my face, teasing my skin. I tasted sweat, smelled firewood. When I cracked open my eyes, I saw him pumping over me, his chest, his arms, his breath was in my hair, and I came with a groan.
Afterward, he kissed my mouth. It was easier, then, to wind my arms around his neck and raise my belly to his.
He rolled me onto my side and moved behind me. My eyes flew open. He was still hard, resting along the cleft of my backside. I went completely still. “Cal ...”
“On your stomach,” he murmured, pushing me down.
My heart pounded against the bed.
He settled on top of me and pressed my legs together. I must have looked pathetic, shaking and clinging to a pillow.
“Tight,” he said.
I didn’t understand until his shaft plunged between my thighs. I jolted with relief. He held the back of my neck and gripped my hair as he thrust. I squeezed my legs together tighter and tried to raise my hips so that his head didn’t grind against the bed.
He wasn’t gentle with me. I liked that. I bucked into the force of his body, feeling his strength and mine, and he held me down and drove against me. When he came, he bit my shoulder so hard that I knew his teeth would leave a mark.
Most of his cum ended up on the bed, but some of it flecked my abs. I reached down and touched it, I don’t know why, except that it made me overwhelmingly happy, knowing he had done it with me.