by Amy Lane
Lance would text them chores or shopping that needed to be done, but since he usually threw something goofy on the list, like “Cranberries and popcorn to decorate apartment” since Thanksgiving was coming, that was okay too.
Reg had a trivia calendar at his desk. Bobby had seen it on the nights he’d spent when he was working on the bathroom. He’d had to leave the job half done and spend odd hours on it since waiting tables at Hazy Daze, but Reg didn’t seem to mind. They locked up the bathroom, and he used the tiny one off his bedroom when Bobby was gone, and on the days Bobby could make it, he was welcomed with a smile and lunch and company.
Reg’s smile seemed to increase in amperage and appeal every time Bobby knocked on the door. He’d send Bobby the fact of the day from the trivia calendar every morning since that first time, the time Bobby had made love to his hand, and neither of them had spoken about it. The trivia was an attempt at connection—which Bobby appreciated—and Reg usually added a comment on it.
Condoms only prevent conception 85 percent of the time. Jesus, Bobby, it’s a good thing we’re in gay porn, or I’d be a daddy.
Bobby would remember the trivia just because he loved the glimpse into Reg’s mind. And man, did he love getting texts from his Johnnies people—hands down. His roommates were fun and going out into the world to make the world a better place, and even though he was just a guy with a hammer (heh, heh), he felt like he was helping them by providing an air mattress to the last guy in the door.
But still—Reg’s texts felt different.
Every visit to Reg’s house to fix up the damned bathroom took Bobby a little further into Reg’s life—and a little closer to the man himself.
Bobby’s fascination with him hadn’t diminished in the two weeks since they’d had to care for Reg during his infection.
As much as Bobby liked his bright, mercurial roommates, there was something about Reg’s steadiness that he treasured more. As lovely as the other guys were at Johnnies, as muscular and stacked and, yes, hung like elephants as the guys in the catalogue were, something about Reg’s compact muscles and bowlegged walk made Bobby almost hunger to touch him.
And the fact that they did touch—snuggle in Reg’s bed, touch hands, touch faces, casually, tenderly, a brush to the shoulder, a kiss to the inside of Reg’s wrist—it filled something fundamental in Bobby’s soul. It was like all those times he’d wanted to touch Keith but knew he’d end up with a bloody nose while still reeking of Keith’s come—those moments were healed one by one, every time he and Reg touched freely and no sex was involved.
But Reg was right. That morning, before Bobby’s still shoot with Ethan, Reg had texted, I looked up ‘companion,’ and it still doesn’t seem right. We can buy a computer after Christmas—I keep fumbling my keyboard looking for a better word.
The text was riddled with spelling errors, and Bobby’s heart beat hard enough to crack and flake a little as he thought of Reg trying to spell anything so he could figure out what they were.
Friends wasn’t covering it—but they weren’t lovers either.
No.
Even if they did a scene together, Bobby was learning that didn’t really make them lovers.
Particularly after the stills shoot with Ethan.
“God, that was hard,” he said over a light veggie platter he and Ethan shared when it was over. Reg had coached him the night before—bring some nice clothes, be ready to go out. Even if it wasn’t the actual scene, Ethan was a nice guy to hang with.
Bobby had the feeling that hanging with Ethan was like facing a friend audition.
His chest ached to pass so he could be Reg’s friend too.
And Ethan was easy to like. During the shoot itself, they’d been skin to skin, doing weird, hard, twisty things with their bodies while constantly fluffing to make sure their dicks were hard during the frame.
Ethan had kept things light and friendly, and after they’d collapsed on each other in a sweaty, giggling pile of naked after the final shot, going out with him had been as easy as Reg told him it would be.
And then Jessica had texted him, out of the blue, while he’d been sort of losing himself in Ethan’s easy conversation.
Whatcha doin’, hon?
Eating with a coworker, why?
We just haven’t talked in a while, that’s all.
Bobby gritted his teeth. No, they hadn’t. He’d kept busy—damned busy—with the working out and waiting tables and the working on Reg’s bathroom, and he’d done that for a reason.
Helping to fix a friend’s bathroom is all.
Don’t you want to talk to me?
Not now, Jessica! I’m eating! It was a lie, of course. They had to fuck the next day, and Bobby was already learning that starving was the key to a good scene.
He wasn’t sure how many years he’d be able to starve himself before a scene. He’d already realized he had no qualms about sex for money, and he wasn’t particularly ashamed of that. But going without food….
He stared at the crisp celery and carrots on their little tray and thought longingly of a hamburger.
“Tomorrow,” Ethan said with a weak laugh, and Bobby looked up from his frustrating phone conversation and put the damned thing in his pocket.
“Yeah, I know.” He breathed deep and took in the smell of hamburgers from the kitchen, hoping that would sustain him. “Sorry about the texting.” He didn’t want to tell Ethan that he didn’t really want this girlfriend far away in Truckee, because that seemed mean somehow to Jessica, and Bobby was starting to see how being decent to people mattered in the world of Johnnies.
“I get it. People want your attention.” Ethan nibbled on a carrot stick disconsolately, like he was trying to think of another polite question to ask Bobby so he didn’t have to talk about whatever was weighing on his own chest. Bobby had purposely made light of his time in construction and the awful setup of exploitation he’d escaped while staring down a gun barrel to get out. He’d shown his scarred thumb as proof that he was clumsy and told Ethan the story in a way that made him laugh.
Ethan was putting a good face on what looked like some serious heartbreak—Bobby didn’t want to tell him the horrible shit. Who needed to know that about the guy you were working with? Seriously.
As if to confirm Bobby’s suspicion that Ethan had great deep, dark things going on in his head, he suddenly said, “Hey—do you want to come with me to get inked?”
Which was how Bobby found himself in a tattoo shop, a place he’d sworn he’d never go into, just because who had the money to suffer for vanity, right?
Ethan wanted a Chinese symbol, something small, in the small of his back near his ass. Bobby didn’t want to ask—the look on the guy’s full-lipped Italian face was one of fierce penance, and Bobby didn’t want to intrude.
He spent the time browsing through the art held in the poster displays around the room, and as Jessica buzzed fiercely in his pocket, he started to think about an image, any image, he’d want inked on his body for all the world to see forever. About all he could come up with was the innocence in Reg’s eyes, but hey, he’d only known the guy for a couple of weeks, and he’d always thought tattoos of people’s faces were stupid.
“Hunh….” He opened one of the display posters and saw a dragon, all in black lines, vertical and twined around a tower. The pic was beautiful, and suddenly he could imagine this drawing, stretched out over his ribs. He took a picture of it and texted it to Reg.
Think I should get a tat?
I thought you were saving money?
He smiled. Crap. Yeah. You’re right. Maybe after my mom’s paid up for the winter.
Jessica buzzed him again. So, what you doing?
He thought about her—she’d love a tattoo, or the idea of a tattoo. She’d gotten a few since they’d graduated from high school, and Keith had gotten a big chain around his bicep since Bobby’s last trip up the hill. But he didn’t want to share this idea. She’d probably get him something for Christmas, and t
hen he’d have her money on his skin. God—at least when he fucked on film, it was his own doing, his own choice.
He didn’t feel owned by anybody—not with Trish, not with Dex, not with Ethan taking stills that afternoon. It felt same as carpentry.
Honest work.
What was he doing?
Waiting tables, he lied. Text you when I get home. He’d never told her about the miserable trailer with thirty guys on the floor, and he’d never told her he’d quit the job in construction.
He’d mentioned picking up shifts as a waiter—because Billy did that between gigs at Johnnies and school.
He could keep his lies straight because they were the same lies he’d been telling since August—but he’d never felt bad about the lies until now. This wasn’t a lie to put a pretty face on an ugly truth. It wasn’t a “don’t worry about me” lie. It was a lie to get her off his back, because he didn’t want to talk to her, even about everyday, ordinary things.
He’d rather talk to Reg. Hell, he’d rather talk to any of the guys at Johnnies—but really, he’d rather talk to Reg.
Ethan was standing, stretching, then paying and tipping his artist. Bobby noticed him but was still staring at the picture, wondering if he could put a hammer and a saw in the dragon’s claws, because those things were apparently a part of him that weren’t going away.
“You want some ink?”
Bobby smiled at him, his pretty face and warm brown eyes. Today had been hard work—but tomorrow? Tomorrow, being skin to skin with this sweet guy doing penance in ink? Felt a little like payday.
“Can’t afford it,” he admitted. “Sending money to Mom, helping Reg fix his place—”
“Oh my God!” Ethan stared at him, enraptured. “You’re helping Reg fix up his house? That’s awesome.”
Bobby had to laugh. “You been there?” Of course he had. Bobby was getting the feeling Reg had hooked up off camera with as many guys as he’d fucked on camera.
“Yeah. Me and Reg hang sometimes when his sister’s feeling okay.” Ethan’s face fell. “Families. Sisters. They can fuck you up, you know?”
Bobby regarded him steadily, because he knew Ethan had been kicked out of the house, but he didn’t know particulars. “No sisters,” he said in apology. “Only Mom.” He thought of his father and Veronica. “But yeah. I’ve seen it get dire in other ways.”
Ethan nodded. “Your mom? She’s okay?” This answer seemed to matter to him, and Bobby wondered if maybe his mom had not been “okay.”
“She’s tired,” he said after a thinking moment. “And sad. I wish I could give her more.” He half laughed. “I’d fuck a lot of guys to get her the hell out of Dogpatch.”
“Hunh.”
“Hunh what?” Bobby searched his face, looking for clues.
“Just… you didn’t say anything about getting your girlfriend out.”
Bobby regarded him steadily. “No. I guess I didn’t.”
Ethan blew out a breath and smiled sadly. “Well, I am not the person to judge. None of us at Johnnies are. It’s just….”
That pause went on so long Bobby could hear the buzz of the tattoo needle in it, and the long, slow exhalation of the twentysomething woman getting her girlfriend’s name tattooed on her shoulder.
“What?” he finally asked.
“Living a double life—it’s not… it’s not good for you. I mean, last guy I know who did it tried to kill himself.” Ethan blew out a breath. “Last two guys, really.”
Bobby recoiled. “Oh Jesus. No!” He grimaced. “I mean, no on the killing myself. But yeah. I see your point. It’s not good.” He shrugged then. “I visit her about every two weeks. Used to be one week, but after I started at Johnnies….”
“Got busy,” Ethan agreed. “Especially with waiting tables—”
“And fixing Reg’s bathroom.” Bobby grimaced, absentmindedly touching the poster again, because the dragon was cool. Ethan was stroking the smooth metal frame, so maybe Bobby wasn’t the only one who liked to touch. “I think I’m going to bail on the visit this weekend so I can finish that. I don’t like the idea of leaving it open while I’m up in Truckee.”
“Well, that’s a real nice thing,” Ethan said admiringly. “And ooh—man, I hope you make your money soon. That’s an awesome tattoo. Can you imagine it, mouth over your nipple, the body just riding down your ribs and curling the tail around your belly button?”
Bobby actually shuddered. “Oh damn,” he breathed.
“Oh yeah.” Ethan shook his head. “I hope you get a chance to get that,” he said wistfully—and then winced, probably because his own tattoo hurt. He sighed. “We got a long day tomorrow….”
Bobby nodded. “Yeah. Time to go.”
Ethan took him back to Johnnies to get his truck, and after he hopped out of Ethan’s little hybrid and started the truck with a familiar rumble, he had a thought.
That should have felt like a date.
That should have felt like a date.
Dinner, an activity, time talking together.
But it felt no more like a date to him than having obligatory sex with Jessica when his mom was at work.
In fact, going over to Reg’s house, working on his bathroom, and looking forward to a quiet dinner and talking in Reg’s bed felt more like a date to him.
God. Bobby was having sex with more people—more beautiful people—than he’d ever dreamed of, and he was still more confused about who he should want to be with than he had ever been.
So Many Fish
REG’S THING against girls who liked freaky shit had nothing to do with jealousy, really; it had to do with convenience and effort.
Two people, naked, was a perfect equation in his eyes—touch, reciprocate, touch, reciprocate, touch, reciprocate, happy ending, happy ending, sex had been achieved! He didn’t mind threesomes on set, because usually the director gave the whole thing shape: You, Reg, get the blowjob; you, Ethan, give the blowjob; you, Tango, fuck Ethan while he’s working. And then change positions. So, again—touch, reciprocate, touch, reciprocate, touch, reciprocate, happy ending, happy ending, happy ending, sex had been achieved!
But the idea that a girl would go off and have sex with someone else if Reg didn’t want to have the freaky sex with her didn’t bother him. The problem was, once a girl did that—or left for a variety of other reasons, including “Man, you’re a sweet guy, but your sister scares the shit out of me,” she normally didn’t come back, not even to have dinner or go to the movies or something.
To be a companion.
More and more, Reg treasured his Johnnies guys to be his companions.
Which was why he didn’t really understand the feeling in his stomach when Bobby went off to film his scene with Ethan.
Bobby was Reg’s friend, right? He did everything with Reg that the other guys did—hung out, had dinner, helped Reg with Veronica-watch. The only two differences were that Bobby knew how to fix Reg’s house and didn’t mind doing that, and, well, Bobby wasn’t hooking up with him at night.
When Bobby stayed the night, they just… talked. Held hands. Rubbed backs. But they hadn’t kissed, and while Reg got aroused—and Bobby did too, for that matter; Reg had seen him adjusting himself—they hadn’t gotten naked.
No sex.
It was driving Reg bananas. He was starting to wonder if he’d done something wrong.
Bobby stayed at the apartment with all the guys the night between his stills and his shoot. He admitted that he slept better there, because it was easier to ignore all the sex than it was to keep an eye out for V, and Reg had insisted. But, dammit…
Reg missed him.
And the next night, the night after the scene, Bobby texted to say he was going to sleep at the apartment again. He’d won the coin flip for the bed and just wanted to curl up in a ball.
Reg could relate. When Bobby—or somebody—wasn’t there, he just wanted to curl up into a ball too.
Which meant that when Trey texted after Bobby and asked if h
e could come by because only the air mattress was left, Reg said that was fine.
He knew what he was in for. He got V settled down after her horrible news program—the one that taught her to be afraid but that she was afraid to let go of—and cleaned up the kitchen, and then cleaned up his own bathroom, because it was getting more traffic now. Reg had seen Bobby’s careful attention to detail, and he appreciated it, and admired the young man who paid it.
He was not sure why he kept thinking about that while he waited for Trey.
Trey himself was lanky and tall. Not as tall as Bobby or Lance, but when he stepped respectfully through the front door with a six-pack of beer in hand, Reg told himself he wasn’t that tall anyway.
He should be grateful for lovers he didn’t have to look up to.
He should be grateful that Trey wanted to kick back and drink a beer on his couch.
He should be grateful that Trey was a direct lover—none of this holding-hands bullshit, none of these secret, shy kisses on his shoulder or his cheek.
He should be grateful somebody wanted to share his bed, somebody who’d been trained, like Reg had, to give and receive.
Someone who’d been tested multiple times and who knew the score. Knew it wasn’t lasting. Knew it wasn’t big eyes and sweetness. Knew…
Knew that companions were friends and not lovers and that lovers should eventually be girls, even if that didn’t seem the way Reg’s life was going right now.
Knew that sex was as straightforward as dogs humping, and as necessary.
Knew there was no reason—none at all—why Reg should feel empty and sad after he’d blown his wad in Trey’s mouth. No reason Reg should go to the bathroom to clean up after Trey came in his ass, to sit on the toilet for fifteen minutes, crying soft and silent tears.
