A Dangerous Game

by Rick R. Reed

  “Toto,” Wren said, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” He stood to go wash his hands, already wondering if he wouldn’t be better off on a park bench along the lakefront or, if it was raining, Lower Wacker Drive.

  He dropped the offending athletic supporter in a hamper in the bathroom and thoroughly scrubbed his hands.

  What had he gotten himself into?

  DEVIN ARRIVED home about three hours later. During his time away, Wren busied himself online, searching Craigslist not for hot, willing men but for a new job. The prospects were dismal. He could be a front desk person at a hair salon, an “associate” at Sears, or a dog groomer. “We train!” He could hand out leaflets and samples in the Loop for a new cereal. He could valet park cars. He could telemarket his little heart out.

  So when Devin rolled in the door, all smiles, skinny jeans, and a form-fitting black T-shirt that made him look like he’d just wrapped up a modeling gig for Details magazine and suggested they hit the bars for “Horny hour cocktails. You know, to celebrate the coming of my new roomie….” Wren was too defeated to argue.

  A big, stiff drink sounded perfect.

  Wren stood to give Devin a grateful peck on the cheek, but Devin grabbed him and maneuvered Wren so he could shove his tongue halfway down Wren’s throat. When they finished, both were gasping for breath and Devin was grinning, running a hand over an obvious bulge in his own pants.

  Breathlessly he said, “Now that’s how you kiss a roomie hello.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” Wren said, still a bit shaken. He didn’t expect things to get off to such a heated start. He and Devin would have to talk, and Wren would need to set some boundaries. But Devin had just come home, and he was being nice enough to let Wren stay with him, so he thought the first thing out of his own mouth should not be a directive to Devin about keeping his hands, tongue, and assorted other bodily parts to himself.

  That would just be rude.

  Instead he stepped back and a little away from Devin lest Devin try to yank down his pants. “So, you ready to go get that drink? My treat!”

  “In a hurry?” Devin flung his Prada messenger bag across the room, where it hit the wall with a thud. “I thought maybe you’d like to fool around a little first. God! I’m so horny.” Devin grinned and licked his lips. His eyes flashed. He rubbed his own crotch again. The man was one big walking libido. “I was thinking about coming home to you all day. Hoping you might be waiting for me—” He winked. “—naked and on your knees.” Devin grabbed Wren’s shoulders and attempted to push him down to the floor.

  Trying to keep things light, Wren laughed, extricated himself, and moved nimbly away.

  “Damn. I could sure use that drink. Where were you thinking, Dev? Roscoe’s? Sidetrack?”

  Devin raised his eyebrows. “How ’bout the Brig?”

  “Isn’t it a little early for a leather bar?”

  “Ah, they get guys in on their way home from work, just like anyplace else along the strip. And they don’t go all Nazi on your ass if you fuck around in the men’s room.”

  Wren wasn’t sure about that, especially on a Tuesday afternoon, but he wouldn’t put it past Devin to test the limits. Nevertheless, getting Devin out the door was advancing him one more step away from molesting Wren.

  He liked Devin well enough and liked having sex with him. It was, after all, the basis of their relationship, but Wren had hoped now that they were going to be roommates, they could explore other aspects of their relationship, arcane areas like, oh, eating and what’s on TV.

  “Is that what you’re gonna wear?” Devin nodded to Wren’s Levi’s and Big Chicks T-shirt. “I can loan you a harness or some chaps.”

  “Dev, it’s six thirty. No one’s going to be wearing leather.”

  “Well, I am. Fuck ’em if they’re too big of sissies to gear up. Fuck you too.” Devin wiggled his eyebrows, Groucho Marx style. “Later.”

  He disappeared into his bedroom, and when he came back out he was wearing a skintight black mesh tank, leather jeans, and combat boots. He stumbled around a bit in the dim apartment, possibly because he had also donned a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  “You look hot, man.”

  “Thanks. You sure I can’t lend you something?”

  “Maybe later.” Wren’s comment was not a compliment. It was near one hundred degrees outside. Devin would roast his nuts off in those leather jeans. “Let’s go.”

  Horny hour, as Devin described it, was right. Once they had their bottles of Bud Light, all Devin did was critique and rate every guy who came into the bar. It didn’t matter if he was young, old, fat, thin, or looked like Chicago’s answer to Ryan Gosling—or Rush Limbaugh—Devin had an opinion. And that opinion usually revolved around the size of the man’s basket or how his jeans gripped his ass.

  Devin flirted with almost everyone, and Wren was actually surprised to see many of the guys taken aback by Devin, who seemed a bit too desperate for his own good. Hot as Devin was, with his muscles and perfectly chiseled and bewhiskered face, there was something about desperation that was a turn-off, even for some of the guys Wren would have assumed weren’t even in Devin’s league, physically speaking.

  Wren assumed most of the clientele in the Brig that early evening just wanted to have a drink and weren’t there to cruise. Devin did return from the men’s room once boasting about groping a “nine-incher,” but Wren wasn’t sure if that was true.

  When Devin’s siren song of lust was not quite being returned in kind, he turned his attentions back to Wren, flinging innuendos, come-ons, and flat-out propositions at him as if he thought the more he tossed them Wren’s way, the likelier he would be to get lucky. Given half—no, make that a quarter—of a chance, Wren was certain Devin would have been happy to fuck Wren in the bathroom stall. Or right at the bar, for that matter.

  And then go out looking for more.

  The man needed to see a professional. He needed a twelve-step group.

  Wren didn’t drink as much as he had intended, partly because he wanted to keep on his toes to ward off rape and partly because the constant barrage of suggestive words and touches were wearing him down and ruining his mood, making him feel he had no idea just how large his error had been in throwing in his lot with Devin.

  Wren felt like he was just a thing, a receptacle, and that Devin couldn’t care less about Wren the person. He was simply Wren the ass, Wren the cock, Wren the mouth, Wren the balls.

  It made him feel small and dirty, as though he wasn’t worthy of simple human respect.

  He had thought he’d treat Devin to dinner tonight, but now that seemed out, partly because of Devin’s male whore attire and partly because Wren didn’t know if the man had any appetite, other than libidinous.

  Wren just wanted to go back to the apartment and find a comforter under which he could hide until morning.

  “You want another beer?” Devin asked. “Don’t answer. You’re getting one. You need to loosen up.”

  Wren watched Devin swagger to the bar, gaze roaming over the clientele, desperately trying to engage someone in eye contact.

  Maybe, Wren thought, another drink would help him escape the feeling of being prey.

  Whatever. Wren knew he had a long night ahead.

  THREE HOURS later the pair staggered home, Devin grabbing at Wren’s ass and crotch and Wren slapping his hands away. “Cut it out, fucker!” Wren would holler, causing heads in the street to turn.

  But Devin would just keep it up with the molestation, laughing. He thought—and quite wrongly too—that this was a game and that Wren was just playing hard to get.

  The truth of the matter was, Wren was growing increasingly alarmed and repelled by Devin’s behavior. Finally, after Devin tried to pull him into an alley where he assured Wren, “It’s safe to fuck there,” Wren lost it.

  He stopped in the middle of Halsted, arms across his chest. Steam should have been rising from his collar. He was furious and doubted very much De
vin could see it in his face, especially since his gaze seldom went above crotch level. “Quit it,” Wren said between clenched teeth. “Just. Quit.” He grabbed Devin by the shoulders, wanting to shake him but instead forcing him with the power of his gaze to meet his eyes.

  Devin was drunk half off his ass but not so far gone not to notice the anger in Wren’s voice. “Oh, honey,” he whined. “Don’t be mad.”

  “You have to stop this. I’m grateful for a place to crash, but that doesn’t mean I become part of your personal property.” He let go of Devin’s shoulders and continued south on Halsted without bothering to see if Devin followed.

  From behind him, Devin said, “I thought you liked fucking around with me. It’s what we do, man. It’s who we are.”

  Wren said over his shoulder, “That was before. When we hooked up, it was for sex. But I thought if we were living together, we might do something else besides, you know? Like, don’t you want supper? Isn’t The Voice on tonight?”

  Devin hurried so he stood in front of Wren, blocking his path. What he said next surprised Wren.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I guess I just thought having you staying with me would be a nonstop sex-a-thon. I guess I was wrong.”

  Well, will wonders never cease? Perhaps a brain does actually function in that upper head of his after all. “Thank you. I’m not saying I never want to fool around, but there is more to life than sex, you know.”

  “There is?” Devin asked, and if he was kidding, his face didn’t reveal it.

  Wren ignored the question. “I’m thinking of heading over to that Thai place on Broadway to get some pad thai.” He was about to say “You want to come?” but changed it to “Would you like to join me?”

  “Nah. You got me too horned up, dude. I’m going to check out Hydrate, see if I can find a hot boy to fuck.”

  Wren shook his head and walked away without another word.

  IT WAS late. That’s all Wren knew. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but the near silence outside, the quality of dim light in the room, and some sort of internal time clock all told him it was the middle of the night.

  At first he wasn’t sure what had pulled him from slumber’s embrace. The usual suspects for something awakening him were conspicuously absent—there was no urge to pee, no remnants of nightmare chasing around the edges of his conscious mind. Outside there was no distant wail of a siren.

  He turned on Devin’s couch, away from the back of it, and gave a little gasp. A figure was standing over him, little more than a shadow. As his eyes better adjusted to the darkness, Wren recognized Devin, who stood, barely illuminated by the scant sodium vapor streetlight coming in through miniblind slats.

  “Dev?” he croaked out in the dark room.

  “Yeah, man. You look hot, sleeping like that.”

  Wren sighed, yanking the sheet up over himself. “Honest to God, Dev.”

  It was then he noticed the regular up and down pumping, Devin’s hand on his dick.

  Creepy! The guy is beating off while he watches me sleep? Wren felt a peculiar—or perhaps it wasn’t so peculiar—sense of violation. “Cut it out,” he whimpered.

  “Look at my dick, man. Look how hard you make it, even when you’re asleep. You drive me nuts, Wren.”

  Devin moved his dick so it was positioned right over Wren’s face, still pumping away. At one time Wren had considered the dick a thing of beauty, worthy of casting in a porno, but right now he just wanted to slap it away. Hard. He would too, if he didn’t think Devin would get a thrill out of it.

  “You wanna suck it?”

  “No. I want to sleep, man. Get the fuck back in bed.”

  “Can’t. Too fuckin’ horned up.” Devin pumped harder, flexing his knees so the dick lowered down, closer to Wren’s face.

  “The bathhouse is a few blocks over,” Wren said tonelessly. “I believe it’s open twenty-four hours. You’ll find someone there, even now. What time is it, anyway?”

  “Time to fuck,” Devin panted.

  “I should have figured you’d say that. I’m not interested, man.”

  “Come on. All you have to do is roll over on your stomach. I’ll do all the work. It’ll feel so good.”

  As much as Wren loved sex and loved getting fucked, this whole scenario was so surreal and out of line that he had absolutely no desire for this very hot, very horned-up man whose enormous dick was only inches from his face. Funny thing about Wren—he liked to be an equal participant in matters sexual.

  And right now he felt like any choice he had had been ripped away. He wasn’t sure if he should get up and punch the guy in the face or simply get up and leave.

  Before he could decide anything, Devin began pumping his cock faster and started to moan, his body contracting. Before Wren knew what was happening, hot jets of come were raining down on his face and hair. Wren squeezed his eyes shut tightly, knowing from past experience that semen in the eyes was not a pleasant thing.

  None of this is pleasant, Wren thought as he felt the crawly semen trickle down his face and onto his neck.

  “God, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” Devin moaned. “I couldn’t help myself.” He shook the final few drops of come off on Wren’s face, squeezing the tip of his dick to make sure he got every drop. “You wanna clean it off?” He placed his dick a tongue length away from Wren’s mouth.

  Wren turned away, his back to Devin. He wanted to cry.

  He thought this must kind of be what it felt like to be raped.

  “Go away,” he whimpered.

  To his immense relief, he heard Devin pad away from him, toward his bedroom.

  Wren lay there for a long time, shaking. Finally he wiped his face with the sheet, sat up, lit a cigarette, and waited for morning.

  He sat up all night, smoking and trying to tell himself he was being silly. He hadn’t been raped, not really. Devin hadn’t even touched him.

  So why did he feel so violated? Why did he feel Devin had used him and stolen from him something he’d never get back? He thought of his mother and how much more awful what she went through must have been, with complete physical penetration. But damned if he didn’t feel like he’d been a thing, a device to use, to degrade.

  It was dehumanizing.

  During those long hours, waiting for dawn to filter into the apartment, Wren experienced a gamut of emotions, ranging from depression to despair to rage. What he had felt for Devin, whether it had been as friend, lover, or fuck buddy, was now all gone, replaced by hatred.

  It was all Wren could do not to go into the bedroom and do something in retaliation to the man. He didn’t know what it would be—if he would spit on him, punch him, strangle him, or just scream at him, telling him what a user and asshole he was, with no respect or dignity.

  But all he did was wait for the grayish-pink light of dawn to tiptoe into the apartment. When it did, Wren rose from the couch and went into the bathroom. He took a piss and stood over the sink, splashing water on his face and pulling at his hair until he thought he looked halfway presentable.

  Back in the living room, he dressed silently, his fingers trembling as he pulled on a T-shirt. Just as soundlessly, he slid into his jeans and sneakers and then gathered up his few belongings. Finally, he tucked everything into his duffel bag.

  He looked around the apartment he’d thought was going to be his home for a couple of weeks at least, and the light revealed nothing out of place. The near-overflowing ashtray on the coffee table was like a pimple on pristine skin.

  Dude. Do not tell me you are going to be courteous enough to empty that tray. Wren’s hand hovered over the aluminum ashtray, and he finally did pick it up. He tiptoed into Devin’s bedroom with it and stood there, near the doorway, watching Devin sleep. The sheet was pulled halfway up over his stomach, leaving his magnificent, perfect pecs exposed. Wren was stunned to see that, even though the guy’s mouth was open and he was snoring somewhere in the decibel vicinity of a freight train, he had a hard-on. It was plainly outlined beneath the she
et’s thin fabric.

  Without making a sound, Wren moved slowly and cautiously over to the bed. He dumped the ashtray gently on Devin’s crotch and tiptoed away, leaving the ashtray itself at the foot of the bed.

  At the door he whispered, “Thanks for nothing, you dick. Don’t say I don’t clean up after myself.”

  He grabbed his duffel and continued to the front door without making a sound, then slammed it behind him, hard enough to rattle the frame.

  Immature, yes, but it did make Wren feel better.

  Chapter Six

  “HONEY, WHAT are you doing here? I thought you were gonna stay with your friend Devin.” Linda peered out at him from the doorway of her new apartment, hair tousled, sleep in her eyes. She did not look happy. “What time is it?”

  “Sorry. I think it’s only a little after six. Did I wake you up?” Wren whispered in deference to the early hour.

  “Well, yeah.”

  Wren hadn’t wanted to bother his mother, and now he wished he had found a Starbucks or something to hang out in until a decent time. Just as he had, Linda had moved in a hurry over the weekend. It was amazing how quickly a life could be stripped down and transported.

  But he didn’t want to miss her before she started her new responsibilities at the hotel, which she had told him would encompass daytime hours. “I no longer have to say I’m just a bartender. I’m in management,” she had boasted.

  “Things didn’t work out with Devin,” he blurted, trying to peer around his mother, who stood in the doorway with the door only halfway open. The remainder of the space was blocked by Linda’s petite form. She held a pale blue satin robe closed at her chest. Okay, this was weird. So Wren asked, “I’m sorry it’s so early and all, but are you gonna let me in?”

  Linda leaned close, whispering. “Can you come back in about an hour?”

  “No, Mom. I got all this shit to carry around.” He pushed past his mother into the apartment. The first thing he noticed was that it was not a one bedroom, as she had said, but a studio. The second thing was her brass bed, all set up in the corner, and the man in it, clutching a sheet to his hairy chest.