Chapter Six

 

Writer’s block. The struggle is real and it sucks hairy balls.

I came downstairs to write after hours of tossing and turning. Correction. Hours of dirty, twisted jerkoff sessions followed by more sexually arousing angst about a certain bearded drill instructor. Same as the night before.

At the rate I’m going I’ll be heading to the ER after all, only it won’t be for my fading bruises. “Mr. Green? Can you tell us how you sprained your wrist?”

Wouldn’t that be a fun story to share with my readers? Nope. Never gonna happen. Sex will not send me to the ER. 

Last night I’d run away from my intense physical attraction to Carter, and my body has been making me suffer for it ever since. Either that or my host is slipping Viagra into every meal. I haven’t had this many erections in…I can’t remember, but I think never wouldn’t be a huge exaggeration. Not even back when I first discovered the wonderful world of the hard-on.

Finding out your penis has superpowers you can’t entirely control is an awesome, scary and exciting time in every boy’s life. And, at least in my case, I spent an abnormal amount of time studying those powers. Finding the right incentive to draw them out of hiding. Trying to master them whenever I had a minute without one of my brothers around.

What I’m saying is I should have gone blind. So that myth is busted.

I’d successfully managed to avoid talking to Carter about our kitchen run-in, or much of anything else, for the entire day. He didn’t bring it up either. I keep telling myself I’m grateful. And I am. Really.

Instead, he ordered me to relax and recover while he cooked, worked out for a few hours in the gym upstairs and then took some calls in his office. Not that I was keeping tabs on him or anything.

If I was, I’d know he’d passed on checking out the new security measures at the bar in order to keep an eye on me—I heard part of that phone call with Tanaka—but I didn’t bring it up.

I just wanted to stay in my avoidance bubble, with my perfect host who was a perfect gentleman where everything was perfect.

Denial is a seductive bastard. 

I don’t think Carter wants to stay in the bubble. Despite his silence, I could sense him watching me throughout the day as well. Wondering. Waiting.

For my part, I did my best to distract myself. I talked to the locksmith and my landlord. I tried to get information from Fiona about her study date with Wyatt and Thor. She didn’t go into details, but she didn’t sound happy either, which was unfortunate. Not a carrot in sight there. So after that gossip well ran dry, I decided to check in again with my editor.

Toni had finally called him.

“All I know is that she’s using her sick leave, JD. And that she’ll call back as soon as she can.”

“She didn’t quit?” That didn’t make any sense. Eddie the Asshole would have made her quit, wouldn’t he? He inferred as much, and he was willing to beat the shit out of me and toss my place for interfering with their relationship. Why would he let her work around me now?

“No. And she said she doesn’t deserve any favors, but she still needed me not to fire her until we talked again.” Lawrence sighed. “I told her I couldn’t make that promise. Not after what the police said. What her boyfriend did to you. Are you sure you’re all right? All you have to do is say the word, JD, I—”

“Wait. That’s the only word I’m saying. Wait until we know all the facts.” It was an automatic response, but it still felt like the right one.

The facts seem pretty apparent on the surface. She set me up on that date. She disappeared after it happened. She even apologized for it via text.

But she didn’t quit her job. The clothes she’d picked out for herself had been missing from her closet. She’d called Lawrence and told him she’d talk to him soon.

And I was a fool still hoping to prove my trust wasn’t misplaced.

I don’t want to think about any of it anymore. It’s too late now to make more phone calls or seek out a noisy distraction. Too late to let myself go round in circles about Toni or Carter, so instead I’m gorging myself on ice cream floats and working on my diary.

Trying to work on my diary.

At least I’ve already finished this week’s advice column. Lawrence said I could skip it while I recovered, but I’ve never had a problem giving my opinion to the lovelorn and hormone-driven. I could swim in other people’s Kool-Aid all day long, banged up or not.

I guess you could say I’m like that one grandmother in the neighborhood who pries out all your secrets with homemade brownies and innocent smiles before telling you who you are, why you’re decisions are wrong and how to live your life. So yeah, like that nosy grandmother… Only with less mileage and more penis.

 

Dear Green,

My boyfriend of three years didn’t follow me out of the closet and the stress is getting to me. I love him and I want the world to know we’re together now, but he says his family isn’t ready. It’s been four months and I’m worried he’s the one with the problem. That he doesn’t feel the same way I do. Should I give him an ultimatum or will that pressure him and push him away? How do I keep him and stay true to myself? Signed, Loving Loud

 

Dear Loving Loud,

I really hope you don’t take this the wrong way, because we’re all proud of you for taking that step, but you need to turn that volume down for a minute so we can talk.

Coming out is a personal journey and I’m sure you already know it’s different for everyone. Yes, be proud you took that step. And yes, your frustration is natural, and he needs to know what you’re going through. But relationships only work if that goes both ways. So don’t give him an ultimatum without allowing him the time he needs to make his choice on his own.

When you remember that it took you three years, even with a man you loved in your life, for you to finally come out to the world? Four months doesn’t seem that long a delay.

Ask me the same time next year and my answer might be different.

Today you need to ask yourself a few questions. Do you really love him? Does he make you happy? Is what you’ve built together worth the effort and the patience he’s asking for? If yes is the answer, then your next step is clear. If not, then you both have some thinking to do.

 

 

Dear Green,

The straight guy I’ve been crushing on for years wants to “experiment” with me. I’d like to make sure he enjoys himself so this won’t be a one-time thing. What’s the best starter plug for a sweet virgin backside? And do you have any special tricks or tips to keep him coming back? Signed, Foreplay For Him

 

Dear Foreplay,

You’ve just described the start of the best gay porn ever!

“I’ll be in my bunk.”

Before we talk about my talent for inserting an old but classic Firefly reference into a butt plug question or the specific toys to drive your straight guy wild, can we make sure the man he’s experimenting on is okay if that’s all this is?

I’m talking about you. I’ve been down this road before, and if you aren’t careful, you could misread those road signs.

Everyone wants to be the reason someone makes big changes in their lives. We all want to believe that one look, one kiss, one perfect butt plug delivered by us can transform our frog into a handsome and in this case, enthusiastically gay prince.

Life, alas, can be a prick with a twisted sense of humor, and sometimes it’ll turn that frog into a morning after toad. You know, the one who acts like you’re a stranger or a bug on the bottom of his shoe the next time you run into each other. If you know all this and you’re still on board, the best starter plug would depend on how adventurous he is.

Take note: Heterosexuals have personal space boundaries and insecurities about their assholes that we’ll never understand. I’m sure that’s part of their allure, but it’s something to be aware of. Sometimes the most they can handle is a thumb after half a bottle of lube before they have to tap out. Then again, if you’re lucky, they’re anal savants and the world is your cucumber. Or your vibrating eleven-inch dildo. I’ve heard it both ways.

I’ll leave links just in case.

 

My advice is fairly straightforward. Some emails I get are deeper than others. Some are raunchier. It’s not quantum physics, and I don’t think I’m doing anything a good friend with a six-pack of beer and a willing shoulder couldn’t in my place, but I still feel like I’m making a contribution to peace on earth in my own small, if occasionally perverted, way. Little ripples, right?

It’s the diary that’s killing me. I wanted to finish what I started last night for the mid-week edition, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Why? Because while I was avoiding my bad date and trying to make my readers laugh at our expense, he was quietly plotting the ass kicking he and his friend had in store for me later.

I can’t turn that into a witty anecdote, and I don’t think the powers that be would enjoy the comic diary of a sex-deprived advice columnist morphing into an afterschool special on bullying. Lawrence would have said so if that were the case. He’s not shy about his opinions.

Life is already full of sad stories like this. Where we struggle to overcome discrimination, but it gets better. Where we’re more likely to be attacked outside of bars—especially if we’re labeled transgender or belong to another minority—but it will get better. Even when the current political climate foments the type of hate that leads to life-threatening consequences for everyone we care about? Eventually it has to get better. If we stop believing that, then what’s the fucking point?

God help me, I’m starting to sound like my foster mother.

I’m supposed to help with the better bit. At least, that’s how I’ve always looked at what I do. I’m the walking, talking, silver lining product of what happens when things move in the right direction, and I try not to take that for granted.

I don’t need to hide my sexuality to gain acceptance or further my career. I don’t have to define it either. I’m not a bear, I’m not a twink, I’m not a queen, I’m just JD. Fitting into a particular slot in order to make other people comfortable is no longer required.

Being JD means I watch an unhealthy amount of television, obsess over college courses, paying my bills and the amount of sex I’m having—or not having—with other men. It means I work for an online publication where nearly every writer and editor connected to it is also a member of the LGBT community. It means I’m one of many. Average. And that’s the ultimate goal, right?

Despite the recent hiccups and backslides, the world has and will continue to change. For the better, because that’s the only direction we’ll allow it to go. I believe in that strongly. Passionately.

But right now I’m discovering that I might not be the social justice warrior Matilda tried to raise. Because I don’t want to talk about my bruises or the fact that them calling me fag while attacking me broke off a piece of my hard candy shell. And I don’t want to mention that reaching out to help a friend who’d been abused had backfired in such a shitastic way that it made me lose some faith in my gut instincts.

I just want to find something else to write about. So I’m working my way around my mental block. Brainstorming as I drink/eat/inhale my third float of the night.

I’d have guilt for days if I talked about my close encounters of the Finn kind after they’d taken my experience so seriously. So I can’t mention Brady and Ken’s chemistry, Wyatt’s crush or Fiona’s intel about the family’s public sex fetish.

I can’t even bring up my rescuer without sharing what he rescued me from, which would defeat the whole purpose of avoiding my sorry tale.

Or can I? I start typing without considering what I’m going to say.

 

I don’t want to tell you how bad my date was. I know I always give you every juicy, embarrassing detail, but you’ll have to trust me when I say you don’t want to know. I wish I didn’t know. In this case, ignorance is truly bliss.

What you do want to know is that right in the middle of (insert worse scenario imaginable), I was struck by lightning. For the sake of anonymity let’s call that lightning Zeus.

Now I have never been the kind of guy to buy into the Some Enchanted Evening scenario. Don’t know what I mean? Watch a damn musical. It won’t kill you or make you any gayer than you already are.

BTW, the musical we’re discussing today is South Pacific. Rent it or I’ll wash you right out of my hair and there’ll be no more happy talk. (Again, references you’ll get after you watch the movie)

Anyway, when I saw Zeus “across a crowded room” I did what any smart, sane, quasi-capable man would do in that same situation. I made like a Popsicle.

I froze.

There he stood, all my secret fantasies come to life and down from Olympus—even a few fantasies I didn’t know I had—and all I could do was stare at him like a hungry kid with his face pressed against the window of a closed candy store.

I had what some would call “a moment.” They happen all the time. Sometimes they’re moments you wish you could miss and they break your heart, but sometimes they’re like that. Like a damn musical. Like magic with a dash of Greek mythology and gay porn. When you find yourself in one of those moments, you have a choice to make. Do you run away from it? Do you wait for it to come to you? Or do you take a chance?

I wish I could tell you I made the right decision. The brave decision. But lying in this diary to make myself look better would defeat the purpose.

I choked. My body was ready but my head was too busy running variables. What were the odds that he was taken? Straight? A something-religious that hates homosexuality? What were the odds that when he saw me he would be struck by that same lightning? That he wouldn’t reject me?

I was so busy worrying about bullshit that, before I knew it, the moment was gone. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again, talk to him again, or finally break this never-ending dry spell with anyone else after seeing him. I went to the bar for another round and as far as I knew, he popped back up to Olympus, never aware I existed at all.

The point of my shortest and least amusing diary entry on record is this. Don’t be like me. Don’t waste any more moments, because you don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You could walk away from a handsome possibility at a bar and get mugged in a parking lot. You just never know.

Introduce yourself and be willing to be rejected or embarrassed. Don’t worry about the mistakes you’ve made in the past so much that you make another in the present.

No more watching from the sidelines. “Or all through your life you may dream all alone.”

South Pacific again. Couldn’t resist.

 

Damn it, that’s got enough cheese in it to clog an artery, but it might be the best I can do skating a sugar high at three in the morning. I slip off my glasses to rub my temples, worrying about Carter’s reaction to reading this. Worrying about anyone’s reaction to reading this.

No one can ever read this.

I’m about to delete it when the phone beside me starts loudly singing about leaving on a jet plane. I slip my glasses back on and answer before it can wake Carter up. “Royal? Do you know what time it is?”

“Are we taking a quiz? I’m game. In what country?”

“That’s never not funny.”

“I agree. And I always know what time it is. But you work from home,” my brother continues unapologetically. “So it’s not like you can’t sleep in.”

“Is there a reason you’re calling so late I’ll need to sleep in?”

“There is. I got back in town an hour ago and checked my messages. There was one from your editor.”

Shit. I forgot I had Royal listed as my emergency contact. He’s a pilot living in New York City, so he got drafted due to proximity. “I’m sorry about that. Lawrence is a little reactionary. He had no reason to call you.”

“He said you had the shit beat out of you, JD. That sounds like a fairly serious reason.”

I sigh and carry my laptop over to Carter’s comfortable couch, settling in. “Please don’t spread that around. To anyone, Royal. You know I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“It wasn’t as bad as he made it sound.”

“It couldn’t be or you’d be breathing through a tube. Why’d a skinny guy like you get into a fight anyway?”

I’d always be skinny to Royal. My brother is basically the Samoan Hulk, and I have a feeling he’s the reason no one messed with me in high school. Except him. He messed with me all the time.

“Believe it or not, it was about a girl.”

He bursts out laughing. “No shit? Talk about things I wasn’t expecting you to say. Anything else you want to tell me?”

“No, I think that’s it. Still gay. Still fine.”

“If you say so.” I hear his acceptance, along with the sounds of a coffeemaker turning on. Coffee at this hour means he was overseas.

“Where were you this time, Marco Polo?”

“Iceland. It was beautiful. I took pictures. I also took a week of vacation days before flying back.”

“A whole week? Who was she?”

“I respect women too much to kiss and tell.” He laughs softly into the phone. “But they, buddy. The right question is who were they?”

Why am I not surprised?

“You give new meaning to the term friendly skies.”

“I’m living the dream,” his chuckle morphs into a yawn. “Hey, bro, I’m beat. Are you absolutely sure you’re good out there all by yourself? I have no problem coming down there to crack some skulls. I can call Dickie and Manwich and the three of us can fly out and scare the piss out of whoever decided to mess with you.”

Richard and Manuel? The last thing I want is to set those three loose in the city. The damage alone…“Hell no. Do not call them. I swear I’m good.”

“Spoilsport. Okay, fine, but we should pick a holiday soon and stick to it, yeah? When’s the last time the Dirty Dozen were under one roof?”

“Five years,” I answer quietly. “It’s been five years since we were all together at the same time.”

“We need to fix that.”

“Get some sleep, Royal.”

“Take care of yourself, JD.”

I hang up and stare at the phone, lost in thought until a deep voice startles me into dropping it.

“Royal? Is he one of your brothers?”

“Carter.” I look up in surprise, suddenly anxious. “Yes, he is. I’m sorry, was I too loud?”

He shakes his head slowly, and then my gaze drops from his face and I forget what we were talking about. What call? What brother? I’m too busy staring at the masterpiece standing in front of me to care.

I don’t know how to handle the view I’m getting right now, but I’m glad my new laptop is positioned where it should be. On my lap to hide my latest erection.

He’s basically naked, wearing grey shorts and nothing else. His hair is mussed. His thick thighs, strong arms and hairy chest are visible, and I see a tribal tattoo on his left shoulder, but I can’t tell whether the design is Celtic or Norse. I don’t think it matters. All I know is it is working for me. The longer I look, the more it works, and the more I’m worried I’ll punch a hole right through the keyboard with my dick.

Carter Willis is a full course meal and I’m a starving man. I want to tug on his thick pelt of black and silver chest hair, lick his sculpted muscles and hang on to those mile-wide shoulders as he fucks me right into the wall.

I’m being inundated with images of all the fantasies he’s starred in during the last twenty-four hours. But none of them hold a candle to the reality in front of me.

I pulled away for reasons that made sense at the time. It’s too soon, I’m too vulnerable and his intentions are still too murky. But I’m having a sudden, violent allergy to things that make sense, and I did promise myself I wouldn’t turn him away again. If he made a move.

Make a move, Zeus.

“You wear glasses?” he asks in a deep voice tinged with affection.

I adjust them self-consciously. “Words get a little blurry without them.”

“They look good on you.” He grins. “Though the purple leopard print is unexpected.”

Shitballs. I drag them off my face and fold them, flustered. “My spare. I always pick out crazy designs I’d never be seen in public with. It’s my incentive not to lose my more expensive black frames.”

“Were they broken from…?”

“I don’t think so. But I couldn’t find them when I was packing. Hopefully they’re just misplaced and they’ll show once I get my place cleaned.”

He nods and then glances down at my laptop. “Are you still in pain? Is that why you’re awake?”

“Not at all.” Not in the way he means. My shiner is already fading to sickly yellow with purple accents, and my jaw doesn’t ache nearly as much. My lack of sleep is entirely dick related. I lick my lips and try to form a few more complete sentences without the aid of blood flow to my brain. “I was trying to get some writing done but that went nowhere. I’d given up when Royal called to check in on me.”

“You told him what happened?” He sits down and I’m surrounded by the scent of woods and warm man.

Help.

“My editor spilled the beans, the drama queen.” I shake my head. “We need to have a talk about boundaries tomorrow.”

The worry lines on his forehead deepen. “Why don’t you want your family to know what happened to you?”

“Most of them are on the West Coast, Carter. Why bother them when there’s nothing they can do about it?” He doesn’t look convinced. “We aren’t like Brady and Wyatt’s clan. We don’t spend all our free time together or have dinner every week.”

Family dinners at our house had always been sporadic, and not only because none of us could cook. Between football practices, piano recitals, science fairs, legal briefs and paper grading… It’s really a miracle we ever saw each other at all.

“I heard you say it’s been five years since you were all together?”

“We all have busy schedules, and a handful of us are out of state, so we each go home when we can, which is rarely at the same time. But if I needed them they’d show up fast enough. Heck, if I told Rick and Matilda, they’d end up coming just to lead a protest outside the police station. Get the local news involved. Which is another reason I haven’t called.”

“Rick and… Your foster parents?”

Hell.

“Yes. They raised us.”

“All ten of you.” He still looks stunned by the number. “How did they end up with so many kids?”

It’s been a while since I explained my family to anyone, but for some reason, it feels natural to tell Carter. “That’s my fault. I was their first. They were best friends with my mom and dad in high school and, after they died, Matilda and Rick took me in and gave me a home.”

“How old were you?”

“Four by the time I moved in. When I was six I noticed we didn’t have any extended family, so the three of us took a vote and decided to make one of our own. Matilda never does anything small, which is how I ended up with nine brothers. A new one every year, all around my age.” I smirk because I know how insane it sounds. “We had another vote when I was fourteen to stop her after Christopher showed up. An even dozen in one house was enough.”

“Ten teenagers at the same time, no less. They must be saints.” He laid his arm over the couch behind me, his words careful. “All fostered? Were they not able to legally adopt any of you? I’m sorry, I’m just not sure how all that works.”

“No, it’s fine.” The question makes that old wound ache again. “In every way that matters, they’re family. You hear about those nightmare foster home stories, but we genuinely lucked out. And Rick inherited a giant house with some land, so we weren’t suffering at all. But adoption wasn’t an option, no.”

“So then, JD Green…”

“The name I was born with.”

I can do this. I can sit in my pajamas with a half-naked man and chat about my strange family like we’re an ordinary couple. Of friends. Like we’re an ordinary couple of friends.

His arm brushes my shoulders and I actually shiver. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”

“What does JD stand for?”

“My name? That’s your personal question?”

“It is if you don’t want to tell me.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

Everyone does. But it’s late and my defenses are down and he smells amazing. “I’ll give you a Jeopardy hint. I’m named after a rebel without a cause.”

He laughed. “James Dean? You were named after the actor?”

“That’s right. The porn star came around much later. But you lose points for not answering in the form of a question. Who is…” I fade off with a wink.

He leans back, scratching his beard thoughtfully while my fingers curl with envy. “I’m assuming there’s a story behind that.”

“I guess there would have to be.” 

His hand drops to my back and he starts to stroke it in soft, gentle circles that I feel everywhere. “Tell me a story, Green.”

How could anyone say no to that voice? “Once upon a time, or somewhere in Washington circa nineteen-ninety, my mother finally went all the way with her boyfriend after graduation. It happened at the old drive-in that was about to be torn down. Giant was playing. It’s an old movie with Rock Hudson, Elizabeth Taylor and—”

“James Dean,” he finishes for me. “I know it. Classic film.”

I’m too busy trying not to notice how close he is to be impressed. My skin keeps tingling everywhere he touches me. “Matilda says I was conceived that night and my mother wanted to memorialize the magical backseat encounter, so there you go. The end of a not-that-epic story. I guess I should be grateful I wasn’t named after his character, or you’d be calling me Jett Rink.”

“Why not Rock?” Carter is smiling again.

“She had a thing for grunge scene bad boys, I hear. The more misunderstood and moody the better. So I got stuck being James Dean Green, or Jimmy Dean Green. Rick calls me Jimmy. But that was worse. I was literally teased about my sausage for a full year in third grade before I decided on shortening to JD.”

He lifts his hand and pushes my hair out of my eyes, his touch lingering. “James is a good name. It suits you.”

“No, it doesn’t.” How can I think when he’s touching me? “James is a rebel. Or a police detective like Wyatt’s brother.”

“Not a beautiful man who notices everything, with a talent for making people smile?”

Beautiful man. My heart is pounding in my ears at the compliment, but I try to play it off. “Quid pro quo, pal. There were a lot of famous Carter’s around when you were born. Linda, Jimmy, Clarence. Any connection?”

His chuckle sounds like sin. “Sorry. Carter was my grandmother’s maiden name. No exciting stories about my conception either. I’m a boring old man.”

I could argue that point all night. “Look, Carter, about earlier—”

“Today? When you kept finding ways to avoid looking me in the eye?”

“Yes. No. Not today, but I’m sorry about that. I mean last night.”

His gaze narrows in on my lips. “When we were in the kitchen?”

“Right.” Focus, Green. “That’s right, last night in the kitchen wh—”

“When I told you I wanted more?” he interrupts again, the desire in his eyes now unmistakable. “When I almost got a taste?”

His fingers sift through my hair and a whimper escapes before I can stop it. “Oh. Yeah. Exactly… Um, I want to make sure we don’t have our wires crossed here. I know you’re a good guy and, I mean, you gave me a place to stay and everything. And you seem like an affectionate guy, so touching might come naturally to you. But based on what happened last night and, um, what you’re doing now, I think you might be letting me know th—oh, God.”

His mouth is on my neck; his lips grazing the line of fading bruises around my collar.

Zeus made his move.