The orc Rob was in the middle of slaying suddenly started taking massive DPS, his hit points withering away, and Mike’s muscular Centaur wizard strolled in from one side of Rob’s screen. One more hit from Rob’s enchanted bow and arrow and the orc fell. Rob tapped the microphone button. “Thanks, babe. I’ve been at it all damn night.”
“I bet you have, you bad girl!” Mike chuckled at the double entendre. “Eyeball quest?”
“You know it.”
“How many you have?”
“Like, six?”
“Want some company?”
Rob pulled his legs up under him in his chair and readjusted his headset. “Sure, maybe after we get the last of these, we can get a dungeon group together, run one of your lower-level characters through the Goblin mines?”
“Sounds great. So, hey, uh . . . I’ve been practicing magic crafting and uh . . . I made this new bow and arrow that boosts your accuracy stats. You want it?”
A trade alert popped up on his screen.
“Holy shit, Mike, that thing’s worth two hundred gold. Why don’t you sell it?”
“Oh, uh, I was, uh—I was going to sell it, I mean, but I don’t really need gold, so I was thinking maybe you . . . I mean if you don’t need it, I’ll just sell it . . .”
“Mike, be honest, did you specifically make this for me?”
“Are you going to think I’m a total loser if I say yes?”
“Of course I’m not, you goofball.” Rob hadn’t quite perfected his girl-laugh, so he turned off the mic, as if entirely by accident. Then he accepted the trade.
Dubious perks, indeed.
He and Mike battled orcs for another hour or so after that, until they’d finally collected all twelve of the elusive eyeballs. They collected and then sold the quest’s reward, and after that they got a couple of guild-mates and a token gold farmer from Asian countries unknown to run the Goblin mines. Their priest was off his fucking game, though, and Rob joined in on razzing him when their whole party wiped during a minor boss fight.
Of course, then their group’s tank had to come in with the fag-this and cocksucker-that, because . . . Well, Rob had no idea where that shit came from, or why it was so fucking ubiquitous. Some sociology or Queer Studies major had probably done a thesis on it, though.
He was about to log off for the night in resignation when Mike came to the rescue, shouting, “There’s a lady present! Fucking ingrate.”
“Sorry,” Casually Homophobic Gamer said, sounding suitably chastened.
“Apology accepted,” Rob replied, even though it really, really wasn’t.
“Sorry you had to hear that,” Mike said, switching over to private chat.
“It’s okay, I’ve heard worse. Thanks for cooling that hothead off for me, though.”
“Anything for you, my lady.” Man, if Rob weren’t a hopeless nerd himself, he’d have laughed at that. Instead, he just felt a pang of affection and commiseration.
He leaned back in his chair, flipping his feet up onto his desk. He’d taken his jeans off before he’d sat down and now his nearly hairless legs were stretched out, glowing, in the flickering light of the computer monitor. He crossed his ankles demurely and dusted at one thigh. “Yeah, well, I think maybe it’s a sign I should head to bed, anyway. Got my first day of class tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah, definitely don’t want to be too tired for the rigorous academic work of your what, basket-weaving degree?”
“BFA in Ceramics, actually.”
“Ah yes, my apologies. Millions of old ladies at thousands of farmers’ markets are depending on you, then. That’s a different matter entirely.” There was no mistaking the growl in Mike’s voice, the way Rob could just hear his toothy grin. God, he was flirting.
“What about you? Isn’t it like 4 a.m. in New York? Gotta be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for your long day of Bill Nye videos.”
And, God, Rob was flirting back.
Mike laughed. “What would I do without you to put me in my place? Gonna miss you tonight, baby.”
“Well, I do have to go to bed, but . . .” Might as well. “I don’t have to log off just yet . . .”
“Oh, no?” Rob could actually hear Mike swallow through a dry throat.
He was really doing this. Why not? Nobody was home except for Noah, and he’d be way too busy with his own hanky-panky to be worrying about Rob’s. And Rob—well, the last couple hours had really invigorated him, made him feel attractive again after a massively shitty day. Maybe Mike was lonely, too. They probably both had their secrets. It didn’t have to get any more involved than Rob wanted it to. Being the person you wanted to be, avoiding consequences, forming strange and nebulous connections, wasn’t that what the Internet was for?
“Yeah, just give me a second to take off my shirt before I lie down.”
“S-sure.”
Rob pulled off his headset and stripped away his tee. Put the headset back on and made sure the mic was activated as he lay down. He wanted Mike to hear the mattress creak, hear Rob as he shifted around in his blankets.
“You, uh . . . you sleep shirtless?” Mike was panting a little.
“Mm-hmm. I just get all tangled up in pyjamas, to be honest. So I’m down to my—” he looked down at his plaid boxers “—panties.”
“Panties, huh?”
No point in lying more than strictly necessary. “Yeah, they’re plaid, from the Gap.”
“Wow.”
“You don’t do this often, do you, Mike?”
“C-can’t say I have, no.”
Rob could feel his cock shifting and filling, growing fat and tight inside his boxers. He kept his voice sweet. He couldn’t let the arousal distract him, although, to be honest, this voice felt more natural than the one he spoke with by light of day. “Aw, that’s actually pretty cute to me, actually. Tell me what you’re wearing.”
“Is this where I tell you some lie? What do girls even like? Is there dude lingerie?”
Rob laughed, but this time it didn’t sound masculine at all. “Just tell me the truth.”
“Okay, well, you asked for it. I’m wearing tighty-whiteys. You know, like Breaking Bad?”
“Sounds sexy. I’ll picture that they’re Calvin Klein ones instead, okay?”
“Well, I don’t look like a Calvin Klein model.” Now some insecurity crept into Mike’s voice, and Rob’s heart went out to him.
“I don’t need a Calvin Klein model. I just need a nice, sweet guy who comes to my defense over Teamspeak.”
“Heh, well that I can do.” Confidence returned. “So what do you look like?”
“Well, I’m Asian, so I’m pretty small and have black hair.”
“Yeah?”
Rob looked down at his body, and the sight strangely didn’t bother him at all. There was no dissonance, even though Mike was probably picturing Lucy Liu or Zhang Ziyi. In the dim computer light, Rob could picture the slightest curve to his slim hips, and his legs were delicate and pretty. His cock, well, he’d never minded that.
“I’m, uh . . . well, half German, part Irish, maybe some Scottish in there.” So, white, then. Rob couldn’t help but smile to himself at that. “Little bit chubby.”
“I like that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I bet I’d feel so small in your arms. I bet my face would fit perfectly against your chest. Do you have a hairy chest, Mike?” Rob said his name like he was calling up a god for a spell.
“Yeah.”
“Mmm, can I scratch my fingernails through it?” Rob’s hand skimmed down his flat belly and disappeared under the waistband of his boxers. He scratched his fingers through his neat pubic hair, pretending it was the blond half-German hair that formed a sexy triangle between Mike’s part-Irish pink nipples.
“Yeah . . .” Mike replied, breathing a little hard.
“Are you touching yourself, Mike?”
Mike barked out a little laugh. “How could I not?”
“How about you let me do that
instead? Are you cut or uncut, Mike?” Rob wrapped a hand around his own (cut) cock and gave himself a slow jerk.
“Ungh, I’m cut.”
“Mmm, nice. I bet you have a nice head that I could lick and suck on.”
“God, fuck.”
Rob fumbled to one side and found his bedside drawer, yanking it open and quickly finding his lube. He overslicked his hand, kicking out of his boxers. He ran his wet fingers between his legs and up his crack, homing in on his hungry hole. He wished Mike were here, that Mike would turn him over and fuck his ass but call it a pussy. “Getting so wet for you, baby. You mind if I finger myself while I suck your big dick?”
“Go ahead. Please. Are you . . . are you tight? Down there?” Finally getting up the nerve to join in, even if his effort wasn’t terribly inspiring.
“Down there?” Rob chuckled. “You mean my pussy, Mike? Is my pussy tight?”
“Yeah,” Mike groaned back.
“It’s so tight, Mike. I’m no virgin, but your dick wouldn’t be able to tell.”
Mike’s breath hitched.
“I’m putting a finger in my pussy now, Mike. Gonna suck your dick. Might be a little too big for me though. You going to make me take it? Make me choke on your dick?”
“Only if you want to. I’m a gentleman.”
“Mmm, good answer,” Rob praised, then shoved a single finger into his hole. His pussy, fuck. He fell into the familiar gender-bending fantasy, raising his free hand to his mouth, shoving three fingers in, and licking them up and down, making it wet and loud for Mike to hear. Pressed back with them until he gagged.
“God, God,” Mike babbled back, and his breaths were coming hard and fast now. Rob imagined that those harsh breaths were from fucking so hard, from grabbing Rob’s hips and pounding his pussy, tearing into him with that raw cut dick. “Can I touch your tits?”
Rob pulled his spit-wet hand out of his mouth and started pumping his aching, hard dick with it, glad he had the dexterity to jerk off and finger-fuck himself at the same time. “I’d prefer if you sucked on them, Mike. Get my nipples hard, maybe bite me a little?”
“You like that?”
“Oh, yes,” Rob murmured, adding another finger, and then another, three fingers stretching his wet pussy wide. The tip of his middle one grazed his prostate and he arched off his bed with a cry.
“I’m holding both of your tits in my hands now, rubbing them a little.”
“Squeeze them.”
“They’re so soft.”
“Yeah, small but mighty.”
“Su-sucking your nipples now,” Mike said. “Oh, oh!”
“About to come?” Rob asked. He sure as hell was.
“Fuck, sorry, yeah, close, I’m close—”
“It’s okay, baby. Come on my tits. Give me a pearl necklace to wear.”
“Yes, yes, God. You’re so hot, Bobby, so hot, so hot—”
Mike’s voice devolved into grunts and moans at the same time Rob clenched hard on his fingers and shot right up his stomach and chest.
They lay together awhile after that, across the continent but together, both panting and humming as their bodies twitched and came to rest.
At last, Rob grabbed his balled-up dirty boxers and wiped his stomach and chest clean.
“That was great,” Mike said, finally recovering himself.
“Yeah. Just one thing before you go.”
“Anything, baby.”
Rob took a deep breath and closed his eyes, because now the shame was hitting him hard. “I did this because I like you and you’re a good guy, not because you gave me loot, right?”
“Not a prostitute. Gotcha.”
“Virtual prostitute,” Rob corrected with a dopey smile.
Mike’s voice was soft and kind. “Sweet dreams, baby.”
“Sweet dreams.” Rob turned off his mic, stretched to turn his computer monitor off, pulled the headset from his head, and finally, finally, rolled over to sleep.
When Rob came downstairs the next morning, Christian was already in the kitchen, chewing on some toast as he looked over his imposing binder of lesson plans.
“Coffee?” Rob asked hopefully, and Christian nodded his head toward the pot on the counter.
“Made enough for both of us,” Christian replied, not looking up.
“Thanks, you’re a gentleman.”
Mike’s voice, echoing in Rob’s head: I’m a gentleman.
The phrase gave Rob a weird surge of mixed humiliation/pleasure that he quickly shoved down again. There was no room for Bobby by the light of day.
“I know,” Christian said with a smile, and took a sip from his own mug.
Rob dropped a couple of slices of rye into the toaster, then poured himself a coffee in his usual mug. Went to the fridge for milk while his bread toasted.
He and Christian had fallen into something of a routine, as the only ones up early. Austin either had afternoon classes or early—as in, 5 a.m. early—morning hockey practice, and Max and Noah were both night owls who slept in until at least noon whenever they could. Christian and Rob, however, both had strict schedules and were strict enough with themselves to keep them.
“When did you get in last night?” Rob asked.
“Two-ish.” Christian didn’t actually say, Just as I was told to, but Rob could feel it dangling off the end, there. “You? How was your shift?”
“Went good. Charlie VIP came in.”
“Didn’t let him kiss you, did you?”
Rob laughed a little, thinking of Charlie’s scabby mouth. Poor perverted bastard, although considering what had gone down between Rob and Mike last night, maybe Charlie was in good company. “Nah. So, uh . . . was what’s-her-name—” Her name was Jenny, of course, but Rob didn’t quite want to admit to remembering it as well as he did. “Um, you know, was she still here when you got back?”
“Unless you’ve taken to wearing ballet flats recently, I think so.”
“Still here now?”
“Jesus, Rob, I don’t know, I didn’t go check the front hall before I took my morning piss. Why do you care?”
Rob blushed furiously and turned to butter his toast, which he did a little more angrily than was strictly necessary. “I don’t!” The soft bread tore under the cold margarine.
“Oookay. Well, I don’t know. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. As long as she pays rent if she makes a long-term habit of it, I really don’t care.”
“Do you think Noah would go for that?” Rob may not have been too hot on the idea of Noah shacking up with someone who wasn’t Rob himself, but even he couldn’t resist the thought of a break on his rent. Sure, his parents footed the bill, but that didn’t mean Rob couldn’t still be frugal on their behalf—after all, if money was no object, then he could have lived somewhere way nicer than here.
“He’d better, considering Max and I are both paying the exact same rent we were before we hooked up, even though now we’re sharing a room.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get ahead of yourself. Sharing a bed, sure, but don’t tell me Max has moved anything but the essentials out of his old room. There’s no way we could turn around and rent that tomorrow, if we wanted to.”
“Hmmph,” Christian sniffed, but there was no mistaking the look of acquiescence on his face. “Yeah, well, if Noah wanted to rent out the room, we could clean it. Well, I could clean it and Max could supervise.”
“Supervise. Right.” Rob chuckled through a mouthful of toast. “Anyway, I don’t think Noah’s gonna be renting that room out any time soon. I’m not sure what the occupancy density threshold is for this place to qualify as slum housing.”
Christian reached for the nearest wall, flaking off some ancient yellow paint with his fingernails. “You telling me it’s not slum housing already?”
“It has character,” Rob countered.
“Uh-huh. I believe that’s what your ad said.”
“Yeah, well, at this price point I think those kinds of cosmetic nuances fall under that
banner.”
“Man, forget pottery or sculpture or whatever, you should go into advertising.”
Rob gave an exaggerated dreamy sigh. “Oh yes, using T and A to sell sneakers to impressionable kids who can’t afford them.”
Christian thought it over a moment, then came back with, “Vodka to alcoholics.”
“Las Vegas vacations to gambling addicts.”
“Barbie dolls to the parents of gender-rebelling little girls.”
Rob scrunched up his nose. “Better not.”
“Better not,” Christian agreed.
A brisk wind came in from False Creek, and Rob yanked his scarf around his nose as he walked. A shivering busker on the street corner playing a fiddle with wind-chapped hands gave him a nod and a smile as he passed, and Rob nodded back with a pitying look, but didn’t stop. If he gave change to every busker he encountered on his twice-daily walk across Granville Island on the way to and from school, he’d bankrupt his parents by the time he finally graduated. One day when he was rich and famous from his art—ha!—perhaps he’d spare them more. Or maybe he’d put aside a fund from his Rear Entrance Video earnings to be distributed over the course of a month to the musicians and performers who really spoke to him.
Yes, that.
His guilt soothed, he hurried down the not-sidewalk and through the maze of former industrial buildings to the looming repurposed factory he’d been calling school since September.
At this time of the morning the island was quiet, just the sounds of trucks unloading produce and goods, the tinkle of coffee shop doors, the murmur of sleepy art students like himself, and the piercing cries of gulls. Even in the off-season, by late afternoon this place would be bustling with tourists and locals, here to window-shop, sample beer and wine, and pretend they understood the art. And only rarely buy anything, if the dissatisfied grumblings of his fellow students were to be believed.
He joined the usual throng of girls in colored tights and guys in skinny jeans bottle-necked at the main entrance to the North building. Once he was safely inside and could feel his hands again, he pulled out his class schedule and squinted at it. Mondays and Wednesdays both started with two hours of Introduction to Art Principles in a classroom space, followed by an hour for lunch, and then three hours of studio time. Rob wasn’t really drooling at the thought of going over stuff like negative space with a bunch of fellow first-years here for everything from oil painting and animation through to photography and . . . well, basket weaving. None of whom wanted to be in this lame first-year class, either, but they were all stuck with it anyway.
Wallflower (Rear Entrance Video, #2) Page 3
