The next day, Kamen was at my house when I got home from work. He was sitting in the kitchen, sans guitar, looking through one of my hair magazines. “What’s payot?” he asked as I walked by him to rummage in the cabinets for snacks.
“Ask Gould.” I found an ancient bag of pistachios and sniffed it.
I was still on edge. I hadn’t stopped thinking about yesterday with D. I’d sent him several apology messages, and he’d assured me that he wasn’t angry. That we’d meet Thursday as usual. But I still felt guilty. Why couldn’t I learn to just shut my mouth?
He flipped the page. “There’s some crazy hair in here.”
“Yeah.” I sampled a pistachio. Tasted fine to me. “Are you here for the good bread? ’Cause I think we’re out.”
“Nah.” Kamen shut the magazine. “I just wanted to say hey.”
I looked at him and got this incredible rush of affection. Kamen liked every movie, every type of food, every style of music. He could find something to admire about any painting in an art museum. Where I hated to go places with Miles because Miles had to find some intellectual way of ripping apart anything I claimed to enjoy, seeing the world through Kamen’s eyes was a blast. He was happy when the sun rose. Happy when the twenty-fourth caller on the Q-Hits station won a vacation to the Dominican Republic, because he loved when good things happened to other people. He didn’t like Taylor Swift or olives, but that was about it.
I’d once made a list of things I wanted to bring up in front of him, just to see what good he’d find in them: ISIS, Ebola, puppy mills. But anytime I opened my mouth, I realized I couldn’t. He was so fucking sweet. If I hadn’t known him most of his life, I might not have believed he was for real.
“How are things going at work?” I asked.
“Good. We’re changing the menu.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, Hannah’s crazy. She says we should do more seafood.” He leaned back so the chair was balanced on two legs. I didn’t even bother warning him not to do it. “How’s your applications and whatever?”
I brought the pistachios to the table and sat. “Awful. I suck. I really do wanna do this hair-school thing. I don’t know why I’m so hell-bent on self-sabotage.”
He nodded, looking dead serious. “Yeah, it’s kind of like me and my music. I really want to do it for a living. But I get real busy with work and then I forget to set up times to play in bars, and then it’s like, when am I gonna actually make this happen?”
What was sad was that it probably wouldn’t ever happen for Kamen. He had a good voice and was decent on the guitar, but he had a lot of work to do if he was going to make a living with music. I didn’t even think he realized how much work.
Damn it. I’m such a dick.
Who the fuck cared whether Kamen had what it took to be a rock star? He was my best friend and if that was his dream, then I fucking wanted it for him, eight hundred thousand fucking times over. Why did I never tell them? How could I go around all the time caring about them all this much and never telling them?
I scooted the pistachios so he could reach them. “It’ll happen.”
He studied me. “Seriously, you okay?”
“Ugh, maybe. I think. I feel like I’ve been screwing up a lot lately. The thing with GK and Kel. And I was awful to D last night.”
“Dude. GK and Kel are just in a weird position. You’re not screwing up. You’ve done so much good stuff. And if you were rude to D or whatever, just be like, ‘Hey, man. Sorry. Let’s have sex.’”
I winced. Didn’t tell him that sentiment was exactly what had gotten me in trouble in the first place.
“I love you, buddy. You know that, right?”
He tilted his head. “Aw, Dave. No one ever says that to me except my family.”
I stood and crossed behind him, stooped, and gave him a hug. “I’m saying it.”
He turned and hugged me back, and it was, like all of Kamen’s hugs, a borderline painful experience.
“Love you too,” he said. “You want to hear a new song?”
“Is it about squirrel gravy?”
“No. It’s, like, ‘Hotel California’ if it was played by a mariachi band.”
Well. Who could resist that? I brought him his guitar.
On Saturday evening I showed up at D’s place unannounced.
“I’m sorry,” I told him, standing on the mat even though it wasn’t Thursday. “I really am just—incredibly sorry. I’m . . .” I shook my head rapidly. “I’m rusty. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this kind of thing with anyone. And I’m not trying to play the dead-friend card, but I’m doing a terrible job getting back in the game.”
“Two things,” D said. “One, I would like to fuck you.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Two, you’ve apologized. I’ve accepted. Let’s move on.”
We moved on to the living room and flopped on the couch side by side.
I stared at his bare mantle. The nearly empty bookshelves. “I’m not usually the kind of person who tries to push someone into having sex.”
“I know that.”
We sat in silence for several long minutes.
“You’re not like anyone I’ve met before,” I went on. “When I read your profile, I thought you’d be a real jerk. But I feel like you . . . You’re not what I was afraid you’d be. You do respect me, and I should’ve respected you.”
We both stared at the blank TV screen. I watched the movement of his reflection as he scratched his head. “That profile was written several years ago. Back when I was less sure of myself. Compensating for something, I guess.”
I grinned. “You should change your profile.”
“I suppose I should. Really, aside from messaging you, I haven’t been on that site in ages.”
“Really? So you haven’t been looking for my replacement?” I said it teasingly, but I was curious—and nervous—about the answer.
“Not yet.” He glanced at me. “Have you been looking for my replacement?”
“Not yet.” I leaned back, my hands folded on my stomach. Just sitting next to him was making me uncomfortably warm. “Nope, you’re a damn good catch. You and your mysterious past and your Den of Horrors.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“Will you let me ask you three questions?”
“I suppose.”
“Would you rather: Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett?”
“Crockett. No contest.”
“What would you name your baroque-style Friesian gelding?”
“Vidar.”
“I won’t ask.”
“Good, because you only have one more question. But I’ll tell you it’s the Norse god of silence and vengeance.”
“Of course. Uh, let’s see . . . Where were you born?”
“In the suburbs. My mother raised me. We had to leave our house when I was seven. We had an RV for a while. Camped a lot.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I liked it. And she was good at making it seem like an adventure.”
I leaned closer to him. Stared up at him with my head against the cushion. “Have you ever been in love?”
“That’s four questions.”
“You’re right.” I studied him. “I’m gonna go with yes. But you’ve said before that marriage is the last refuge of the insecure. So I’m gonna say . . . married to a nice woman before you realized you liked guys? Messy divorce?”
He stood. I thought for a second I’d offended him. But he walked to the bookcase and took a small, framed photograph from behind a collection of Ivan Doig novels. “Actually, my first boyfriend was in high school. More recently I dated this gentleman for several years before we parted ways amicably.”
He handed me the picture. The man in the frame was a legit human version of a Friesian stallion. Brown skin, wavy black hair, biceps the size of butternut squashes. Thighs like fucking missile cylinders. He was smiling at the camera and dressed like he was ready to lumberjack. Hard. I swallowed. “Amicably?” I repeated tentatively. “But you don’t . . . you don’t still see each other. Ever. Right?”
“Jake and I talk on occasion.”
“Jake? How is his name not Titus Crowsfoot, Esquire? Or something?”
“Because that would be ridiculous. That’s like a name from our screenplay.”
Awww. Our screenplay.
“He’s ridiculous!” I thrust the photo back. “He’s beautiful! Oh my god, D, why would you even let someone like me in your front door if you’d had that?”
He didn’t answer. Then suddenly he reached down, picked me up off the couch, and slung me over his shoulder.
“Whoa.” I clutched at his shirt “Whoa! What are you doing?”
He started toward the stairs. “I’m going to show you why I let you in my front door.”
I struggled, still not ready to surrender to the indignity of this position.
“Stay still.” He went up the steps unhurriedly and without straining, as though I wasn’t any burden at all. This was some serious Rhett Butler shit.
We didn’t go to the guest room. We went to his bedroom, which looked almost identical to the guest room, sans Friesian wall porn. The bed had a headboard with rungs. That, in my experience, was how you could tell the hard-core doms from the neophytes. It was all about the rungs.
He tossed me gently onto the end of the bed. “You,” he said, reaching out to undo my fly, “are going to listen to me for the next—” he checked his watch “—fifteen minutes.” I was still too shocked to move. “I’m going to fuck you, and when I’m done, there won’t be any doubt in your mind that I want you here.” He paused. “I presume you’re still interested in fucking?”
“Y-yes.”
He yanked my jeans and underwear off and thrust my legs apart. Pushed my knees up toward my chest and smacked my hole with two fingers. I gasped, my head snapping up.
“Stay put,” he growled.
I watched him undress. He was all that I’d imagined: hairy, paunchy, and hot as fuck. His dick was kind of small, but I appreciated that. His balls hung low and were covered in long, light brown hair. The left one was decidedly bigger.
He condomed up, doused his cock in lube, then returned to stand at the end of the bed. I reached down and stroked my dick. I didn’t give a shit if I had permission or not. He calmly caught my wrist and flung my hand aside.
He spread me again and slapped my crack with his slick cock. Worked two fingers inside me, crooked them, and rubbed my prostate until I was nearly sobbing. Then he took his fingers out and slid his cock in. It burned like hell, but I took it, my head falling back and a deep, guttural moan escaping.
To my surprise, he started slow, one hand tangled in my hair, the other on my hip. He withdrew almost entirely, then eased back in, so the sensation of being gradually filled pushed another moan out of me. He gave me a few more gentle strokes, and then he rammed into me. I twisted as he stayed there, balls-deep, staring down at me. “You want more of that?”
I nodded, panting.
He pulled my hair and started pounding me steadily.
“Oh,” I whispered over and over again, writhing under him as his heavy balls slapped my ass. “Oh, oh, oh . . .”
“What do I have to do,” he demanded, “to keep you still and quiet? Gag you? Tie you up?”
I smiled. “You could kiss me.”
I winced at a particularly hard thrust. But then he stopped, leaned down, and kissed me. I closed my eyes and hummed with pleasure as he pushed his tongue into my mouth, his jaw working gently in time with his slow thrusts, his mustache rubbing the tip of my nose raw. I tilted my head back as he kissed the side of my neck, sucking the skin. I shifted my hips—a hint, an invitation. He ran the backs of his fingers over my nipples, and I exhaled.
His cock slid from my ass. He kissed my forehead, ’stache scratching my hairline. I snickered. Placed my arms above my head and spread my legs wider.
Caught his smile.
He skimmed his hand down my stomach to my waiting cock. Wrapped his fist around the shaft and didn’t pump, just held it and stroked his thumb lightly over the slit.
I went rigid with the effort not to come.
“Scoot up.” He let go of me.
I scrambled up the bed until my head was on the pillow.
“Hold your legs up higher.” He popped open the lube and drizzled some more on his cock.
I brought my knees as close to my chest as they’d go. I heard a strange sound and realized it was me, breathing in a series of strangled, whining huffs. I wanted the burn and stretch of him where I was still sore. I wanted his mouth over mine, his nails raking my skin, him shouting as he drove into me. But mostly, I wanted to know that I was getting exactly what he wanted me to take.
I wanted to be his fucking boy.
He picked up his belt. Used his free hand to cross my wrists, and then he looped the belt around them and pulled the tail all the way through the buckle until the edges of the leather dug into my skin. Then he tied the tail around the rungs of the headboard.
“Keep your knees up.”
I strained to obey, my thighs quivering with the effort. He climbed onto the bed, and I sighed at the warmth of his body next to mine. “Yes, Sir.”
He got between my legs. Pushed my thighs apart, digging his fingertips into the flesh.
I arched my back. “Please . . .”
He positioned his cock. Then he took my dick in his fist, yanked it once, and drove into me at the same time.
I yelped.
“Knock that off.” He forced his cock all the way inside me. “You’ve wanted me to put you in your place since you walked over to my table at Finer Things.” He took me in fierce, hungry strokes, occasionally tugging my dick. “And I’m finally going to do it.”
The burn finally eased to the point where I could speak. “Is that . . . all . . . you’ve got?” I asked as the bed creaked under us.
I saw a flicker of a smile before his expression hardened again. He shoved his hips back and then plowed forward, nearly sending my head into the headboard.
I wrapped my legs around him. “I’ve seen Madonna air hump harder in concert videos from the eighties,” I whispered.
His hands came down on the pillow on either side of my head, and he lifted me half off the bed with his next thrust. He hammered me hard and fast, and I couldn’t do anything but bounce on the mattress, gripping him with my legs. The belt bit into my wrists, and I was pretty sure my ass was never going to be the same again after this. “Come on,” I goaded. “You call—ah!—this—fucking? Come on. Come on,” I chanted, bumping his hip with my heel.
He stopped. “Did you just kick me?”
I didn’t answer. I was still panting and squirming, trying to fuck myself on his cock. I wouldn’t have called it kicking. More like nudging.
He reached out and undid the belt from the headboard and freed my wrists. Before I could say anything, he grabbed me and flipped me onto my stomach, his arms on either side of my shoulders. “You wanna kick me?” he demanded. “You wanna try to ride me like a damn horse?”
“You do love horses.”
He yanked my hips up. “I can ride you ten times harder, pony.”
I opened my mouth to denounce any and everything that made me think of furries, but then he hauled me up onto my elbows and knees. Got behind me and forced my shoulders down, then shoved his cock back in, and all I could do was grunt. He rode me with one arm around my waist, using his free hand to slap my thigh. And I mean, he rode me. My knees and forearms got comforter burns, and my head repeatedly got shoved against the rungs of the headboard. Every few seconds he took a break from whacking me and flicked my balls to make me clench harder.
I grabbed the rungs to steady myself. “What is this, the tiny carousel in front of Kmart? Put some . . . uh . . . uhhhh . . . effort into it . . . cowboy.”
The headboard knocked against the wall, and the bed groaned as he lifted my back end off the mattress with each thrust. His alarm clock toppled from the nightstand, along with an issue of Hiker Today. A tin of Altoids slipped dangerously close to the edge, and I saw D reach for them.
“This is . . . aghhhh . . . no time to . . . freshen up,” I informed him.
I heard him open the tin. He pulled his cock out of me, and I almost yelled at him. The next thing I knew, he’d popped a ’toid into my ass.
“What the fuck,” I said. The burn started a moment later, and I arched my back, opening my mouth in a silent cry.
“This’ll be fun.”
“Those are mints! For your mouth! They’re my favorite kind of mints, and now I’ll never be able to enjoy them again because you’ve turned them into ass mints!”
He stroked my cock. The sting from the ass mint mixed with the pleasure spreading up from my groin. I opened my mouth and bit the pillow, the fabric chafing my nose. He leaned forward and pushed two fingers inside me.
“You’ve needed this—a long time.” D cracked his palm against the crest of my ass, driving his fingers in and out of me. “You cocky . . . little . . . brat.” He brushed my prostate, and my whole body tightened.
I heard a series of wet slaps. He was jerking off while he fingered me. He rubbed circles over the knot of nerves inside me, and I couldn’t even cry out. Just clenched around his fingers again and again while he worked that sensitive spot. I came hard.
He finished a few seconds later, streaking my thighs.
“Oh, fuck.” He slipped his fingers out and collapsed over my back, running his other hand down my side. “Oh . . . ”
I stayed where I was, shuddering and trying to breathe. He kissed my neck, and my knees buckled. I sank onto the mattress. He lowered himself alongside me. My ass throbbed, though the burn from the mint was fading. He turned me to him. His face was red and glistening with sweat, but he looked incredibly satisfied.
I stopped panting and gazed at him. Then I started laughing.
He chuckled too and pulled me close.
“I’m starting to think you could tame me,” I said.
“I’m starting to think you were already pretty tame.”
“You’ve had worse brats than me?”
“David, you don’t even crack the top six.”
“What?”
“I don’t think you’re as hard-core as you think you are.”
“Yeah, well, maybe neither are you.”
“Fair enough.”
I propped up on one elbow. “I used to be hard-core. I used to go to bars and I’d let guys raise welts and—and—I was fierce.” I made claws at him. “Rawr.”
“Terrifying.”
“I’ve only met girl brats, though. I never meet other guy brats.”
“Well, I’ve met enough ‘guy brats’ to last a lifetime.”
I was silent a moment. “What time is it?”
He glanced at the clock. “Almost eleven.”
“I should go.”
“You can stay the night, if you want. If you’re tired,” he added quickly.
I beamed and rolled onto my back, stretching my arms over my head until I grabbed the rungs. “I’m exhausted.”
“I have a nice guest room, as you know.”
I released the headboard and kicked at him.
He grinned. “You should see your face.”
“You suck! I’m not sleeping with the Friesian!”
“Why not? You make such a good horse.”
“Do not even joke about that. I hate animal play.”
He guffawed. “So you think we should sleep in my bed?”
“I think you should take the couch,” I grumbled. “D’you mind if I shower?”
“Be my guest. I could use one too.”
“You can join me.”
We showered, then settled into bed, where I tried not to wriggle with joy. I was in bed with him. He’d fucked me just how I’d wanted to be fucked, and he’d invited me to stay.
I’m crushing it.
I dozed, but I couldn’t quite go to sleep. Mostly because I could sense he wasn’t asleep, despite his deep breathing. His muscles were tense, and I was close enough to feel his heart beating too fast. I got the feeling he wasn’t used to people in his bed. Part of me wanted to pull him into my arms and show him how awesome it was to spoon. But I wanted to, you know, respect his boundaries. So I passed a fitful night, bothered by his tossing and turning, but keeping admirably quiet.
In the morning he was sleeping beside me, his brow furrowed, the skin under his eyes dark. I kissed him, and he mumbled.
“Hi,” I said.
“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t open his eyes.
I slid off the bed and went to get my things.
“Hey.”
I turned. He was watching me.
“Lemme see that ass.”
I flushed and went to stand beside the bed, facing away from him. The back of one thigh was still sore, and I wasn’t really looking forward to trying to take a shit, but other than that, I felt great. I bent forward slightly, and he brushed the thigh bruise with his fingertips.
“Very nice. Spread ’em.”
I bent farther and held my cheeks apart, gritting my teeth.
Not going to say anything. Just going to obey.
He ran a finger lightly down my crack, just barely skimming my hole. I tensed, which made him laugh softly.
“Ohh, yeah. Come here.” He hooked an arm around me and pulled me back toward the bed. I collapsed onto the mattress, and he drew the covers over both of us. “You got somewhere to be?”
“Not really.” I pressed my face into the crook of his shoulder.
“Then go back to sleep.”
I smiled against his skin. “Keep doing this.”
“Hmm?”
I looked up. “Keep pushing me. Keep telling me what you want to do to me and then doing it. Every time I argue, push me harder. I like it.” I paused. “I feel like I’m close to something. I don’t know what, but I want to find out.”
He closed his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not done with you by a long shot.”
“Did you ever go to leather bars?” I asked. “Or did you ever play back when . . . I don’t know, when there weren’t so many rules?”
“What happened to going back to sleep?” he mumbled.
I ignored that. “I didn’t always play safe. I definitely didn’t play sane. And consensual—yeah, most of the time. But sometimes a guy would start doing something without asking me, and I’d just go along with it to see if I liked it or not. And it didn’t feel wrong. You know what I mean?”
He sighed and opened his eyes. “I didn’t really do the bar scene. But I know what you mean.”
For a second, my whole body ached. I wanted to tell him about the Subs Club. I wanted to tell him I didn’t know what was right anymore. That I didn’t know how to be a leader, but I didn’t want to give up trying. “I’m afraid of getting so caught up in, like . . . kink ethics, or something, that I lose the—whatever you want to call it. Passion.” I made a face.
“I think there’s a balance.”
“I know there is. I had it, before Hal. And now I’m so fucking paranoid.”
“You think something’s going to happen to you?”
“That’s the weird thing. It’s not even about me. I don’t, like, fear for my own life. I fear for theirs.”
“Whose?”
“My friends. I just think, ‘What if I lose them too?’”
“How would you lose them?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “What if Miles falls down a sewer or Kamen gets hit by a car or Gould gets cancer? Or, you know, what if they play with the wrong partner and end up like Hal? People can get killed so many ways; I don’t understand how anyone survives past age three.”
He placed his hand on my hip. Then he twitched his mustache back and forth, like some backwoods version of I Dream of Jeannie. “I, uh . . . I don’t . . .”
I should have known he’d be the worst person ever to talk to about feelings.
But he cleared his throat and spoke more certainly. “Most likely, you and your friends will live long, full, happy lives. But in the event that you lose someone else, I am certain that their time on Earth was much better for having had you as a friend.”
“Don’t.” I pulled away from him. “That shit works on me!”
“What shit?”
“When people say nice things about me. I get all emotional. Go away!” I swatted his hand as he reached for me. But when he tried to withdraw, I grabbed his wrist and forced his arm around me. I nestled against his shoulder. “I love them, D. I love them so fucking much.”
“I know you do.”
“After the funeral, Miles was having trouble at work. He couldn’t focus, and he thought his company was going under. So I just . . . I made up a new identity and ordered a hundred shirts. I don’t say that as, like, I’m a great friend, because I think I’m probably a shitty friend for deceiving him, but it made him feel better, getting that order. And now I have a hundred Star Wars T-shirts in my closet and a fucking hole in my life where Hal should be and no idea how to have sex with anyone without an instruction manual.”
He stroked my hair. “He had a lot of energy. Hal.”
I smiled. “I know.”
“He told me he didn’t want a safeword,” D said quietly.
My stomach clenched. “He was such a fucking moron.”
“Lot of people don’t use them.”
“But with someone you don’t know? Come on.”
“You know what else he said, though?”
“What?”
“That if I was a serial killer I’d better not try anything. Because his friends knew where he was and who he was with and if they didn’t get a text by 10 p.m., they’d come looking for him.”
I laughed, a lump forming in my throat. “We’d been to a workshop,” I explained. “About having a call buddy when you meet with new partners. We kind of did it as a joke at first—any time one of us played, we were all like, ‘Who’s gonna be your call buddy?’ But, I mean . . . it’s not such a dumb idea.”
It hadn’t saved Hal. I could torture myself forever with what could have saved Hal. A word? Probably not. A call buddy? No. I blamed myself, I blamed Bill. And I blamed Hal, for acting like he’d rather have had a short life full of adventure than one that was long, boring, and safe. Everyone wanted to make like Hal was so stupid, but I kind of understood why he’d let someone tie a rope around his neck even though neither of them had done breath play before. Maybe he was caught up in the moment. Maybe he just wanted one fucking experience that was—was raw and wasn’t, like, the safeword is “Kankakee River Basin,” and I’m going to need exactly two hugs after this to make me okay again.
It was sweet, though, that he’d told D about his call buddies. I tried to remember if I’d been on call that night. Probably not. Hal had probably used Gould. I made a note to ask Gould if he remembered.
“It’s gonna be okay,” D said. I could tell he felt awkward, and I wished I knew how to thank him for what he’d shared.
“I know.” I smiled again and kissed him softly. “Keep pushing.”