Waiting until David walks over to hold the door open, I walk in. I look down into his face, gauging his reaction to my presence. He doesn’t seem upset, more nervous than anything.

He and I bumble our way through an awkward conversation, and I know we need to communicate what we’re feeling. His actions on the set that night were baffling, and I know mine must have seemed strange to him as well. I inwardly curse Aaron for being the bane of my existence. He just has to revolutionize cock blocking for me, his twin.

I listen as David tries to explain away his feelings, and it annoys me and saddens me to see he’s incapable of accepting himself. I wince at the memories of struggling with my sexuality, and I completely understand what he’s going through, but it doesn’t make it any easier to know that he’s struggling to accept his sexuality.

“Did you like it, David?” I ask him quietly.

He looks away but the blush on his face is apparent. Of course he did, physically anyway, but that isn’t the response I’m looking for. I want to know where his headspace is at. If there’s any doubt about what happened, I’ll turn and crawl away and not darken his doorstep again. If he didn’t want it, or me, that’s a line I’m not willing to push. Consent is always key. But if he wanted me, and he still does, but is unsure how to ask for that, then we’re playing by a different set of rules.

“What did you like about it, David?” I’m determined to get a response from him that’s more than a yes or a nod. It doesn’t surprise me when he fumbles with the answer. He’s been denying himself his own pleasure for so long, it’s as if his mind is trying to block out the event as being pleasurable to begin with. I lean forward on my arms and watch him search the rest of the room like he’s searching for a life preserver. I feel myself crack when he looks up at me, almost like a puppy that knows it’s done wrong.

“It was the first time you’ve allowed yourself to be pleasured by another man, wasn’t it?” I ask him. I can’t help the emotion in my voice. I want nothing more than for him to know that being gay, having feelings for another man, is completely okay. The only person judging him so harshly is himself. If there’s anything he takes away from this conversation, I want it to be this.

Before I can follow up with anything else, any advice to give him, he’s taken a breath and launched himself from his chair. He’s standing before me, shaking with desire and anticipation. I don’t need to feel the press of it against the bed and my thigh to know he’s been sporting a boner since I walked in. But the hot throbbing on my leg is enough to get my own engine revved, and before I can react, he’s bending over, kissing me.

Well this is a pleasant surprise for sure. I wasn’t sure he had the courage to make the first move, but this could potentially be a breakthrough for him, so I let it happen.

Things progress quickly to some heavy petting. When he reaches between us, despite my body telling me otherwise, I know I have to slow this situation drastically, because he’s going for gold and the last thing I want is for him to regret it again. I’d wrapped my arms around his waist and squeezed his ass, pressing him into me, but it’s time to take the reins and slow this ride down.

I move, shifting his weight onto the bed and positioning myself so I’m angled over him, but he’s still on his side. It gives me access to continue the grind, and damn but it feels so good rubbing my own stiff cock against his bulge. The friction is maddening, but not enough to push me over the edge. I need to maintain control of this situation and make sure we go slow enough that he knows exactly what he’s asking for and getting, and more importantly, that he’s truly okay with it.

But when he figures out the rhythm, I’m screwed. He’s caught up with the tempo, so every time I rub up, he rubs down, catching the head of my dick through the fabric so the sensitive underside is receiving maximum friction. Spots swim in front of my eyes and I have to kiss him before I start openly panting like a dog. He’s a fast learner, damn it. I feel his fingers fumbling between us and I know exactly what his aim is. I want nothing more than skin to skin action, but I know if I give in to that it would be maybe a stroke or two and then instead of heavy petting and grinding, we’d end up with a mess.

I roll so all my weight is on top of him, feeling him flail under me as he struggles for control. My eyes pop open and widen when both his hands reach up and grab my ass, massaging, lifting, and spreading my cheeks. Damn, damn, damn! I’m quickly losing control of this ship. I groan and continue kissing him as he tries to break the kiss and nip at my neck. If he gets his lips and tongue on my nipples, I’m going to lose my shit. Nothing but irreversible erogenous zones lie that way, where I lose all control of my faculties. I’d be done for and would do anything he wants. I can feel his frustration mounting, because my own is just as insistent. When his hand begins groping again I have to grab his wrist, move it out from between us, and link our fingers.

I can’t lose control of this situation. The look on his face, the way he shunned me. I stiffen, remembering the way I was rejected. Was that how this was going to play out this time too? What was going to happen when David second guessed his or my intentions and then cried foul? I’ve had a history of men who use me for one reason or another. I’ve played along, enjoying the intimacy, however brief, but even Alayah has pointed out to me the emptiness of those encounters.

I scramble off the bed, wishing things hadn’t gone this far with David. He’s not going to understand, he will surely feel rejected, but his demanding demeanor that came on so suddenly is enough to make me back off. Is he the virgin who needs someone to help him explore? Or is he pretending to be shy to get what he wants, then turns the tables and vies for control of the situation once he has someone in the bedroom?

I curse at myself as I slam the door behind me and lean back against it, panting with desire and frustration. Of all the inopportune times for my mind to decide it has a moral compass, this was probably the worst possible situation. I’ve helped men discover themselves sexually, but they’ve never been men I work for. I cringe and whimper as the pain of denial shoots through my dick, landing me with another serious case of blue balls. David is a high-profile person in the industry and he has the potential to ruin my career if he chooses. Better to break things off now than in a day or two, when he suffers his own internal breakdown and accuses me of inappropriate behavior on and off the set. It wouldn’t be the first time it’d happened in the industry, and with him as insecure as he is, it would just add accelerant to the fire.

I look left and right, grateful no one saw me come from his room. Being seen with the producer is a sure way of ending up this year’s talk of the industry. Drama thrived on set when there was a juicy rumor going around. People couldn’t help but get caught up in it, and David has the power to make or break my career if he chooses not to tolerate the rumors. What does he want with me? He’s so hot and cold. It was my own fault for letting this go as far as it did, but damn it! I can’t get a grip on his headspace. I think I know where he’s at, and then it’s like a switch goes off and he’s a producer, demanding things from me that I am unsure how to deliver without one or both of us getting hurt.

I make my way back towards my cabin before David has a chance to open the door and make a scene. The last thing either one of us needs is to be caught. Gritting my teeth I consider how I’m going to get rid of this throbbing erection in my pants. It’s rubbing against my boxers and I have to stop a moment when the hallway opens up to a railed section that overlooks the water. So far I haven’t met anyone on the way to my room, which is a good thing, but I stop a moment to take a few deep breaths of fresh air and try to calm myself down. It doesn’t help. I guess I’m at that point of no return. The one where I need to crawl back to my room, ditch the shorts and boxers, wrap a hand around myself, and rub until white spots appear in front of my eyes and I pass out from pleasure.

The problem is getting back to my cabin. It’s still another five-to-ten-minute walk, and the pressure in my balls is enough to threaten those spots in front of my eyes prematurely. I look around, can I chance it? I figure it’s probably better if I don’t, but I can’t help it. I reach down and give myself a squeeze, gasping at the pressure. That was a bad idea. I’d thought it might bring some relief, but it seemed to rekindle the throb, which had gone from a pulsing to an ache.

“Damn it!” I groan and resign myself to just make it back to my cabin. I alter my pace between fast and slow, not sure which is worse. By the time I reach my cabin, my fingers are shaking from the need to get inside and get to stroking.

When I open the door it’s pitch black. Trying to walk to the bathroom and grab a shower, I trip over something, an end table, I think and end up sprawled on the floor. I figure I’d land on the plushy carpet, but my chin bounces off something hard, and my hand gets tangled in fabric that’s been wadded up on the floor.

“What the hell?” I push myself up onto my knees, feeling the sharp jab of something broken under them. Standing quickly to brush them off, I figure something has broken the skin because my hands come away wet. I grope for the light switch and when I flip it up, the scene before me causes me to gasp.

The room is a mess. Not just a mess in the sense that the tables are overturned, and every bit of linen is on the floor, but a mess in the sense that everything is also smashed and broken. Lamps have been shattered and bits of their ceramic bases and the glass from the light bulbs litter the floor. Every article of clothing on my racks has been ripped from the hangers. Some of the cloth has been ripped down the seams and others wadded and thrown on the floor. The bed has been overturned and feathers from the pillows are floating around everywhere. The foam from the mattress is spilling out where someone sliced into it. The chairs have also been vandalized and ripped open. I walk across the room to the bathroom, where the mirror has been shattered and the toilet tank cover has been thrown against the wall and blasted to a million pieces.

I turn in a circle, looking at the splintered drawers ripped out of the bureau, and I gape in astonishment at the ruins of my ransacked room. If I’d been smarter, I would have run and called for help in case the vandal was still in the room, hiding in the shower or closet. But the curtain had been ripped from the rod in the shower and the door to the closet stood open, leaning helplessly on one hinge.

Gaping in horror at the ruins of the room I begin to shake, wondering what would’ve happened if I’d still been here when the perpetrator broke in and ransacked my room. Would I have even been left alive? Judging by the state of destruction, I think the probability of that is highly unlikely.