by T. J. Klune
And then he was gone.
“HOLY shit,” Otter breathes as I step out of the hotel bathroom, finally finished putting myself together. I’d even got that gross hair stuff and run it through my hair like Isaiah had. I looked like I had before. But still not like me.
Otter seems to like it, if the way he’s stalking me is any indication. I smile at him as he reaches me and grabs me by the arm, spinning me around, checking out my ass encased in tight jeans. I laugh as I’m groped. “You look good, Papa Bear,” he growls in my ear. “But I bet I know why the Kid was pissed off at you now.”
My laughter stops as I step away from Otter. “Yeah,” I say, looking in the mirror above the chest of drawers. “He saw this and said I wasn’t me anymore.”
“Are you?” Otter asks me. “You didn’t have to dress like that. I love you no matter how you look.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re biased.”
“So is the Kid,” he reminds me. “Maybe even more than I am. He’s gone through so much change in the last couple of months that it’s probably freaking him out a little bit. Where’d you get these clothes, anyways? You hate shopping for clothes. The last time I made you go with me, you told me you think you’d have more fun having bamboo shunts shoved under your fingernails.”
There’s nothing like hearing your own melodramatic quote to make your skin crawl. I probably should have told Otter about my trip to Casa de Isaiah sooner. This is going to be fun. “Uh, they’re not mine,” I say, stating the obvious.
Otter arches an eyebrow and looks slightly sinister. “Oh? And whose clothes would they be? Something I should know about, Papa Bear?”
“Promise you won’t get mad,” I say nervously.
“Uh-huh.”
“So… I may have told Isaiah that we were going out here, and Anna said I didn’t have anything to wear and that I’d look like a homeless man trying to go into the bar, and then Isaiah said he had clothes that would fit me that he used to wear before he got hot and buff.”
“Hot and buff, right.” His eyes flash.
“And then Anna said that he was just trying to get up in my business and that he couldn’t be named like we are, but then she decided to call him Jackass because she said he looked like a drug-addled donkey.”
“Is that so?” Nostrils flare.
“Yeah, and then I said that I didn’t need to wear anything differently because I looked fine the way I was, but then he said he wanted to have a threesome with you and me, and then I got mad because I don’t want anyone touching you but me, and he said fine, we don’t need to have a three-way, that he could just fuck me and then he would have sex with you, and that got me really mad.”
“Well, how about that.” Jaw twitch.
“So then Anna said if I was going, then she was going to go to his house, and so we went, and he made me look like this, and I thought it was kinda trashy at first, and it still kinda is, and then the Kid saw me and freaked out and told me I didn’t love him anymore, but then it got weirder, and I think Dominic is gay because he said he wished he was a few years older because I looked fucking hot.”
“He said what?” Eyes bulge.
“Oh shit, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Don’t say anything to him, okay? But it’s weird, right? It’s like we’re a gay bug zapper and all the gays keep flocking to us because they think we’re bright and shiny, but all I want to do is electrocute most of them because they annoy the crap out of me with their high-pitched whining. Okay, not all of them. Dominic’s okay, I think. Isaiah can be… forward, but he’s not so bad. Ty seems to like David Trent. And… oh. Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh what?” Arms flexing.
“Uh… Isaiah might be there tonight. He said he wants to meet you, and Anna thinks you’re going to destroy him because he kissed me, and he calls you Walrus.”
“I am going to destroy him.” Lips sneer.
“Don’t be an idiot. I’m not going to do anything with him. Duh.”
“He already kissed you!”
“I didn’t kiss him back!”
“No, but you went over to his house!”
“That didn’t happen on the same day. And besides, Anna came with me!”
“Oh, because you needed a chaperone? Is that it?”
“Are you really mad at me? Because if you are, I’d like to know now so I can make sure I ignore you all night, and your friends will think something is wrong between us, and I’ll tell them that we’re having issues because you have performance anxiety.”
His eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
He takes two steps toward me and fists the back of my hair, pressing his lips against mine in a devouring kiss, his tongue dueling with mine as he nips and sucks my lips and neck. “I’ll show you performance anxiety,” he snarls in my ear as his hands go snap the fly open on my too tight jeans, and my dick springs free, happy to be rid of its denim hell. I reach down and scrabble with his own zipper, and he knocks my hands away, still holding me pressed against his lips, his mouth now on my ear. His cock is hard and leaking as he pulls it out, and he grabs us both in one hand and starts jerking us off, his length hot and hard against mine. I wrap my arms up and around his neck as I sag against him, gasping for air that I can’t seem to find. His grip is so familiar, those talented fingers so much like home that it doesn’t take long before I’m shooting in his hand. He hears that telltale whimper in my voice and puts his forehead against mine, and we watch each other as I spill over, and then he spills over, and I shudder in his arms, but I can’t look away, I don’t look away.
He leans in and kisses me again, slower this time, the urgency gone. His hand is still wrapped around our dicks, and I almost hope I’ve jizzed all over Isaiah’s stupid clothes so I can change into something that’s more me. Like the worn jeans and hoodie I have in my bag.
“Performance anxiety,” he mutters. “Like anyone would believe that.”
“Not a single person,” I agree, laying my head on my spot on his shoulder.
He rubs his cheek against my hair. “Do we need to go home?” he asks. “Take care of the Kid?”
I think for a moment then shake my head. “He’ll be okay until tomorrow, I think. Maybe we can go home earlier than we planned. I want you to be able to see your friends.”
“Sounds like a deal,” he says, kissing and growling in my ear. “Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you, you know?”
“I know. I love the crap out of you.”
Then, “Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll fucking murder Isaiah if he does anything I don’t like. And I already don’t like a whole lot about him.”
“I know.”
“Okay.” Silence for a bit, and then one final time, “Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“Jordan told me that David is probably going to be there tonight too.”
“Like, as in David Trent, my little brother’s teacher, who wishes he could do with you what you and I just did?”
“Uh… for the sake of argument, why not?”
“Fantastic,” I sigh.
AFTER getting a stamp that’s supposed to be the club’s PDX logo but is just smudgy enough to look like a Gordita Supreme from Taco Bell, Otter takes me by the hand and leads me into pulsing music and flashing strobe lights. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the sensory assault, and when they clear, I see a dance floor off to the left, packed with men in various stages of undress, rubbing and writhing against each other like they’re all in heat and need to get off or they’ll die. I watch as one guy licks a line up another guy’s throat while getting his ass fondled by yet another guy who’s making out with a fourth man who looks like a hippie version of Jesus. It almost seems sacrilegious, and I stare for a moment at the body of Christ, but only because he’s ripped as all fuck, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see a figure of Jesus on a cross and not think about my first trip to a gay bar. Somehow, I don�
�t think the Catholic Church would approve. I don’t think boners in church are smiled upon (see how I’m taking the high road? I could have easily made a priest-choirboy joke here. So this is what maturity feels like).
Otter glances over his shoulder and grins at what is obviously my blown-out expression. We don’t have gay clubs in Seafare. We don’t have straight clubs in Seafare. I’ve never been in a place before where the music is too loud to have conversation; well, not if you don’t count those trendy clothing stores in the mall where everyone smiles at you with the whitest teeth outside of a toothpaste commercial like they’re your best friend and want nothing more than to help you buy a pair of two-hundred-dollar jeans that for some reason already have holes in them. I don’t go into stores like that. Kmart has jeans without holes for like ten bucks. I’m not picky.
Which is why I feel even more out of place as Otter guides us through the crowd, with me still dressed in Isaiah’s clothes because today was the first time I jizzed while wearing clothes without actually getting anything on the clothes. Trust me, I looked. Closely. It’s like God made our spunk shoot straight up into the air and land straight back down onto Otter’s hand, trying to show me that miracles do occur every day if you just look for them, regardless of the statistical improbability of semen projection.
Thanks, God. You’re such a pal.
Otter stops to wait for the crowd to part in front of him, and someone bumps me from behind, and I feel a hand graze my ass. I look up and over and see some huge guy smiling at me, and he winks when he catches my eye. Apparently people don’t introduce themselves anymore. Is this what we’ve come to? Instead of saying, “Hi, my name is (fill in the blank),” you give my ass a handshake and smirk at me? Oh, yes. Oh, please do that to me some more. I’m so turned on by you, big stupid gross face. I glare at him, and he rolls his eyes and turns back to his friends, probably telling them that he just met the most frigid bitch in the history of the gay bar and that I wasn’t polite enough to grab his ass hello.
I think there’s a reason I don’t go to clubs. I feel like some country hick in the big city for the first time. It’s stuffy in here, and smells a little gross, like old sex and new sweat. There are a few women, but they are all standing around in the background, watching, waiting for what I don’t know. There’s a second floor with a balcony that wraps around the dance floor, and even more people are perched against the railing, watching, laughing, dancing. I think one guy’s getting fucked, but he might also just be choking and a concerned citizen is giving him the Heimlich maneuver. Without his shirt on. And I don’t think I make that face when I’m choking, so chances are he’s got a dick up his butt. So, that’s cool. I’m not really one for public displays of affection, but maybe that’s the only way that guy can get off, and his loving partner of twenty years is just trying to help him. That’s sure nice of him.
Otter pulls me up to the bar and leans over. “What’s wrong? You stink!” he shouts.
I glare at him. “I smell fine, you asshole. I used your cologne.”
He rolls his eyes and comes closer, his lips against my ear. I shiver. “I said, what do you want to drink?”
“Sorry!” I shout back. “This music, with the girl repeating ‘oh yeah baby, ooooh yeah’, is too awesome, and I couldn’t hear you!”
“Funny guy! Beer?”
I shake my head. “Water. Or a Coke!”
He smirks. “I promise I’ll take care of you if you want to have a couple.”
I barely suppress a groan. “If I have a ‘couple’, I’ll probably end up doing something I’ll regret later, like giving you a hand job under the table, or kiss you and make you run away to San Diego again.”
“I’ll take the hand job,” he growls, the gold-green growing darker. “And I promise I won’t run to San Diego, or even across the room.” Then he kisses me, putting a little more force into it than I expected, which is obviously why I’m feeling a bit weak in the knees. He’s let his stubble grow out a bit, and it scrapes against my chin, and for a moment, I want him to keep going, to give me a bit of a burn there, so people would know what it was and who it came from.
Probably easier just to get a hat with a neon sign on it that says, “If lost, please return to Otter,” it says, laughing. Jesus, needy much? You know, it is okay for you to try and have fun. Nobody likes a Negative Nancy.
Whatever. And I can’t believe you’re my conscience. Who fucking says Negative Nancy?
Oh, please. I’m a trendsetter.
“I’m going to drink, okay?” Otter asks. Or tells me. I don’t know which.
I shrug. “I knew you would. It’s okay with me.” He looks like he doesn’t believe me. I put on my best smile, and I see something melt a little in his eyes, and I suddenly wish we were back in the hotel room so I could let him fuck me into oblivion. Better yet, I wish we were in the Green Monstrosity, in our own bed, and fucking there. But this is me being selfish and ridiculous. Otter wants to be here, to see his friends that he hasn’t seen in forever. He wants me to be here with him, to meet said friends. He wants to show them us, to show them what we have. And it’s not like his friends are stupid people, at least, not that I remember. Jordan was nice, from the scant memories I have of him. There’s a few others whose faces are blurry, but I know that I’ve met before. Oh, and David will be here. And Isaiah. Who knows? Maybe Jonah will show up too!
What could possibly go wrong?
Otter turns around again and hands me a glass that probably holds a third of a can of coke with the rest being ice. Otter grabs his beer and hands the bartender, who looks like his abs go up to his chin, two twenties. I watch as the bartender gives him back fifteen bucks, two fives and five ones. Otter leaves the ones.
“Christ,” I shout at him. “Is your beer imported from the moon? Or is this the last bit of Coke on Earth? I’d sure feel bad if I was the last person who could ever have soda!”
He shrugs. “Club prices.”
Oh yeah, because that makes it okay. “You’re going to make me dance, aren’t you.”
He grins. It’s not the Otter grin, because it’s evil. “You think I’d let the opportunity pass by to show off your ass to everyone? Everyone here will be wishing they could be the ones grinding up on you, and I’ll know that they don’t stand a chance in hell. Of course I’m going to make you dance.”
“I think you are seriously overestimating my dancing abilities. My kind of dancing usually ends up on the Internet, where people watch it so they can stop feeling sorry about their own lives. You know how people say they have two left feet? It’s like I have no feet and my stumps are attached to wheels shaped like triangles.”
“You know,” Otter says as he grabs my hand and pulls me up against him, his hands wrapping around my waist, “that just happens to be my favorite kind of dancing.”
I smack him on the chest. “You’re totally angling to get laid again, aren’t you?”
He laughs. “Is it working?” he asks, grinding his groin into my stomach.
“Uh… I… what did you ask me?” I say, trying to stop my eyes from rolling back in my head.
“That’s what I thought. Let’s go find the guys.”
“Is this where I should do the whole ‘what if they don’t like me’ thing?”
He leans down and kisses the tip of my nose. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey, yourself,” I say back.
“You’re not really worried about that, are you?”
I think for a moment and can’t come up with an answer so I shrug.
“Bear, I know you don’t see it, even though I tell you constantly, but you are the most amazing individual that I’ve ever known.” Seriously, Otter should really give up photography and write greeting cards. But damn if it doesn’t cause my heart to beat faster. “They’ll love you, and even if, on the slimmest of chances they don’t, it won’t matter. What matters is I think you’re pretty damn cool.”
“You think I’m cool?” I say, trying to keep the incredulou
sness out of my voice, but not succeeding in the slightest. “Well, I think you’re rad.”
He grins, and it’s that grin I know. “I think we’re meant to be, then,” he says with a faux wistfulness in his voice. “After all, you said you’re the only one who could put up with my bullshit.”
“Damn right.”
“So, no nerves okay? It’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, coach. I’ll make sure I score the first football goal.” I pause, considering. “I don’t think I know that much about sports.”
“Not much, it seems,” Otter reassures me. “But, hey, that’s okay too. You can just stay home with the kids and make sure dinner’s on the table when I get home.”
“Bastard.” I scowl as I hit him, trying to cover up how the word “kids” has shot straight through me. “I’m not your fucking wife.”
“No,” he says, his eyes suddenly thoughtful and looking like he’s far, far away. “No, you’re not. But… hey. This may not be the best time to talk about this.” He takes a deep breath. “Bear, I’ve been thinking. A lot. Have you ever thought about… what… what if we—”
I don’t get to hear how he finishes that sentence as he’s suddenly pulled from my grasp and spun around, a delighted bellow coming from whoever has seen fit to interrupt whatever scary thing Otter had been about to say. Countless things shoot through my head, from Otter proposing that we adopt a Haitian child and name him something weird and trendy like celebrities do (for some reason, I imagine our Haitian baby would be named Textile Mills Thompson or Banana-Rama McKenna) or telling me that he was serious about me being his version of a stay-at-home mom (I would have to make sure I could find the brownie recipe and start pricing minivan/SUV crossovers—hell, I’m already a member of the PTA at the Kid’s school, so why not get my hair permed while I’m at it? This (of course) makes me wonder if men ever get their hair permed, and for that matter, do women still even do it? Or is that an eighties thing? I remind myself to look it up on Google when we get home).
