Just kill me now.
"Don't even go there,” Dimi said from across the room the minute I sat up and groaned. He waved a dismissive hand at me, then walked over and handed me a glass of water and three aspirin. “I know that look. You're getting ready to have a full-fledged panic attack. I was drunk, you were drunk, and it didn't mean a fucking thing. Don't read into it. Don't blow it out of proportion. Just forget it ever happened."
Forget it? Forget that my best friend nearly sucked my face right off my skull? Not freaking likely.
Oh, God, it ranked right up there with the memory of seeing him naked and fucking the linebacker. Worse, because this time it involved me.
I could feel panic rising along with bile, and I barely made it into the bathroom in time to kiss the porcelain. Wracked by dry heaves, I spent an hour with my head in the toilet, wondering what in the hell I was supposed to do now. How was I ever supposed to look Dimi in the eye again and not think about it? What about Holly? Would she know just by looking at me? Or by the way I looked at Dimi or he looked at me?
Maybe I should just tell her, laugh it off. It wasn't as if I'd kissed another woman. It didn't qualify as cheating, right? She'd understand.
Yeah, and maybe I should just feed my nuts into a wood chipper. The result would be the same.
Forget it, I told myself. Take Dimi's advice and put it behind you. It was just a fucking kiss, after all. A stupid, meaningless, drunken kiss between two people who'd stopped drinking just short of full-blown alcohol poisoning. Put it out of your head right now.
But I couldn't.
Dimi's lips had been so soft, so warm. His tongue had felt like velvet fire against mine, his taste sweeter than the Godiva chocolates he'd bought me for my birthday. I remembered the way his bristly five o'clock shadow scratched my cheeks and sent shivers racing across my skin. His stupid, meaningless, drunken kiss had scorched me right down to my toes, branded itself into my mind.
I'd liked it.
What the fuck was wrong with me? I wasn't gay. I was as far from being gay as a man could possibly get. I was the antithesis of gay. The only thing I felt for Dimi was love of the brotherly variety.
Right?
Oh, get a grip, I told myself as I splashed ice-cold water over my face and tried to brush a night's worth of excess out of my mouth. It was just a kiss. What you're suffering from is a textbook case of pre-marital jitters, and nothing more.
Walking out of the bathroom, I did what any self-respecting straight guy would do in my situation. I smiled at Dimi, got dressed, went down to the courthouse, and got married.
The ceremony was brief, a judge performing the honors. No music, no procession up the aisle by flower girls strewing rose petals. Holly wore a simple pale pink suit, and I wore a serious case of nerves.
To make matters worse, Dimi stood close by me, and his mere presence was making me want to hyperventilate. I thought that everybody must know what happened between us. The clerk, the judge, the three women who were in line waiting to renew their driver's licenses ... weren't they all looking at us out of the corners of their eyes, smirking?
Oh, God. I was losing my mind.
"It's not too late,” he whispered as I stood shaking near the judge, waiting for Holly to show up with her maid of honor. She was late, probably stuck in the downtown traffic. Well, that was her fault, not mine. She'd insisted that we couldn't drive in together, saying that the groom couldn't see the bride before the wedding. It would have been bad luck.
Yeah, seeing the bride before the wedding would have been a helluva lot worse than the groom making out with the best man the night before the wedding.
"Are you okay?” Dimi asked.
"I'm getting married,” I replied, wincing. I'd tried to sound convincing, but I sounded more like I was getting convicted. I might as well have said, "I'm getting the electric chair," instead.
Then Holly had arrived, blowing me a kiss and shooting Dimi a black look, and someone hit the fast-forward button. Before I knew it, I had a ring on my finger and a wife on my arm.
* * * *
Goddamn, but the curb under my ass is as cold as Holly was during the last months of our marriage.
I never knew a woman could be so nasty, so bitter. Then again, according to her she had every right to be pissed off. I was a jackass. A totally self-indulgent, uncaring, unfeeling, lying sack of shit who'd ruined her life.
Sad thing was, she was right.
Not that I hadn't tried. I had, and with every ounce of resolve I could muster. I'd struggled to give her everything she wanted, never argued, never once said no to anything she asked. Except for saying goodbye to Dimi. On that I wasn't budging, and I knew it galled her that I wouldn't give up my friendship with him.
* * * *
One year almost to the day after the wedding, right after graduation, we bought the house together, settled in, and decorated it according to Holly's tastes. There was really nothing of me in the house, except for the imprint of my ass on the sofa, and my signature on the mortgage payments.
I dedicated all of my free time to Holly, spending every waking moment that I wasn't at work with her. Except for Wednesday nights—Wednesdays were my time. Not even a weekend night—I claimed a single, unimportant weekday evening as my own, so that my plans wouldn't interfere with entertaining and hobnobbing with her friends on the weekends.
Wednesday nights I spent with Dimi. He'd come to the house and we'd watch a movie or shoot a game of pool, or else we'd go to the movies or to a bar for a few hours.
Holly snidely referred to Wednesday as my ‘date night with the Fag.’ I can't recall ever hearing her refer to Dimi by name. He was always just 'the Fag.’ I could actually hear the capital “F” when she said it, as if it were his name. After a while it began to really grate on my nerves.
For over four years we had the same tired argument every Tuesday night. Holly would snarl, scream, and threaten, trying to get me to cancel my plans with Dimi, and I would firmly but kindly tell her to mind her own fucking business.
The beginning of the end came one bright Sunday afternoon two months before our fifth wedding anniversary. Holly had been planning a big do, a formal affair at a classy, expensive restaurant downtown.
As usual, I'd nodded and given her my patented whatever-you-want dear smile—until I'd gotten a look at the guest list. Not surprisingly, Dimi wasn't on it.
"You forgot someone,” I said, trying to keep the malice out of my voice. I knew she hadn't forgotten. She'd like nothing better than for Dimi to drop off the face of the planet.
"No, I haven't,” Holly replied, her eyes narrowed and flashing, daring me to contradict her.
I did more than that. I exploded.
"Goddamn it, Holly! I'm sick and tired of having this same argument all the time! He's my friend—my best friend. I've known him all of my life, and it's about time you got used to the fact that he's going to remain my best friend until the day I drop dead!” I screamed.
Grabbing her pen from her hand, I added “DIMI” in large, block letters at the bottom of the guest list.
"No!” she cried, yanking the pen back, leaving a long, blue ink mark across my palm. She scratched out Dimi's name, making furious little zigzags across it, the tip of the pen nearly biting through the paper. “I am not going to be embarrassed again! Don't you understand? The way you two act when you're together, whispering and laughing ... do you know what people must think?"
I looked at her blankly, although my stomach twisted violently in my gut.
Holly gave a tight little scream, banging her fist on the table so hard that it rattled, her pen rolling off and hit the floor. “They think you're gay, too! Don't you understand? Why else would a married man want to spend so much time with a queer? Do you know what that's like for me? Knowing that people are whispering about poor Holly, the woman whose pervert husband is cheating on her with another man, right in her own house?” She picked up a vase that sat on the table and hurled it at my head.
I ducked, but felt like I'd been hit anyway. The vase exploded against the wall behind me.
"Dimi and I are friends. Do I accuse you of having an affair with Cynthia or Sally, or any of the rest of your friends?” I countered, still trying to hold on to the last vestiges of my self-control and at least pretend to be an adult about it.
That only seemed to infuriate her further.
"Are you?"
"Am I what?” I asked, wondering if the Ginsu knives were going to fly at me next and whether I would be fast enough to get out of the way. They sat on the counter within Holly's reach, a wedding present from her aunt.
"Are you gay?” she spat, half-rising from her chair. Her eyes were slits, alive with hate, and I knew in that moment that if it weren't for the mess, those Ginsu knives would be making confetti out of my hide. “Are you fucking him? You are, aren't you?"
Watching her bristle, I was immediately overcome with the memory of Dimi's lips pressed against mine, of his soft warm tongue and the way he had tasted. Even after five years the memory was still so vivid and so clear that it rocked me on my feet.
She knew!
She doesn't know, I told myself firmly. She couldn't. She was insecure, threatened by my close relationship with Dimi, that's all. It was because I was having a little trouble in the bedroom. That's what this was really about. Well, I was seeing the doctor about that wasn't I? What more did she want from me? I wasn't gay.
I wasn't.
"He'll be there or I won't,” I snarled, turning on my heel and stalking out.
It was only later that I realized that I'd never bothered to contradict her.
After that, things went to hell in a hand basket. Three months later, Holly started screwing around with her tennis instructor (could it possibly get more pathetically cliché?) not bothering to hide her affair—flaunting it in fact—and two months after that, she'd filed for divorce.
* * * *
If it rains any harder, Dimi may have to pick me up in a rowboat instead of his Chevy. I must look a sight, sitting here holding my Hefty bag of clothing on top of my head, rain dripping off the end of my nose, wet clothes plastered to my body.
God, I'm shivering so hard that my teeth are chattering. What I wouldn't give for one of Dimi's hot toddies right now. The kind that warms you up from the inside out, and leaves you pleasantly buzzed at the same time.
I could use a little buzz right now. Actually, I could use a full out, DefCon 4, state of emergency drunk. I deserve it. My life, such as it is, is in shambles.
My credit rating is in the negative number range. I've lost my house, my car, and nearly my sanity. But I can bear it.
The night Holly and I broke up I wasn't so sure. If it wasn't for a heinous fear of heights, I might have seriously considered taking a swan dive off the roof of the high-rise condo Holly bought with her tennis slut.
Luckily for me, I'm a coward at heart who takes to bed when I get a paper cut. Offing myself was not an option. What I did do after Holly kicked me and my few pathetic belongings to the curb was what I always did when my life was threatening to come apart at the seams—I went looking for Dimi.
* * * *
As it turned out, the night Holly sent me packing was both the worst and best night of my life.
Dimi sent Harry out, and brought me into the kitchen for a man's version of the heart-to-heart. He set the tequila bottle between us, gave us each a shot glass, and proceeded to do what he always did—make me feel better.
Dimi's bottle of tequila was empty by three that morning, and he and I were swaying bleary-eyed in our seats. We'd talked for five hours nonstop, reminiscing about everything from our days playing video games to the college professors we most hated.
He even finally ‘fessed up about Old Lady Maxwell, our high school biology teacher. No, he hadn't fucked her, but only because as he'd bent her over the lab table she'd accidentally hit her head on the cabinet, knocking herself out cold.
Which explained the oversized Band-Aid she'd sported over her left eye for two weeks.
"Come on, we should get some sheep,” Dimi had said, when the tequila finally ran out.
"Sleep."
"That's what I said."
"No, you said sheep, not sleep."
"You want to sleep with sheep? That's sick, man."
"Not me, you."
"I have never been attracted to livestock—unless you count Peter. He wasn't a sheep, he just smelled like one."
That was our conversation as we helped one another climb the stairs to the second floor bedrooms. Stumbling into one of the smaller rooms, I fell across the bed, out before my face hit the pillow.
It couldn't have been more than an hour later before something woke me. I was never sure if it was Dimi, or some sixth sense that I was no longer alone that roused me, but when my eyes fluttered opened, he was standing in the doorway watching me.
"Dimi?” I asked, squinting to separate him from the shadows. “That you?"
"Yeah,” he said. He took a step into the room, and I realized that he was naked.
And was sporting a hard-on, no less.
That sobered me up pretty damn quick.
My heart began to flutter against my breastbone, and my blood pounded in my ears as he sat down on the edge of the bed. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I also couldn't get up and run unless I wanted to dump his butt on the floor.
I'd just decided to do that, to push him off the bed and hightail it out of the house; to try to outrun the disturbing warmth that flushed my skin at the sight of his naked body, when he asked me a question that shocked me into immobility.
"How long?” he asked, looking down at me with tears glistening in his eyes. “How long are we going to ignore this?"
"Ignore what?” I managed to croak, fisting my hands in the sheets to keep them from going to Dimi's face to wipe away his tears.
"This. Us. We've been dancing this same, sad dance for years. I've been afraid of losing my best friend, and you've been afraid of admitting that you're attracted to me, that you want me."
"I'm not gay,” I said out of habit. I tried to ignore the fact that my voice lacked conviction. But if I didn't say the words then that might make it true, and I wasn't ready to face that possibility.
Dimi just shook his head sadly. “There's nobody here that you need to defend yourself against. There's only me, and you know that I would never judge you.
"Do you remember when I kissed you on the night before your wedding?” he asked, his voice soft. “I still dream about that kiss. Getting up and walking away from your bed that night was the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life. I wanted so much more than just a simple kiss. I still do."
The memory of his taste came rushing back and this time, once remembered, wouldn't allow itself to be forgotten. It burned on my lips, heating me from the inside out.
He leaned in closer, and closer yet, until I could feel his warm breath against my cheek, feel his lips brush my ear as he whispered, “I've always loved you."
And I knew it was true.
Holly had never loved me. She'd wanted me, needed me, perhaps, but she'd never truly loved me. That was only fair, since I realized at that moment that I'd never loved her, either. She was my safety net, a disguise; a costume I wore to keep hidden from the world what I really wanted. I'd worn that costume so well that I'd fooled everyone; Holly, our friends, even myself.
But I hadn't fooled Dimi. Dimi, my friend, my brother in spirit, had seen through me, through the lies I'd told myself and everyone else, but he'd never hurt me by calling me on my deception. He'd never given me away, never pushed; he'd simply made sure that he was there to catch me each time I fell.
Dimi truly loved me. And in a perfect moment of clarity, I realized that I loved him, too.
Turning my head, I kissed him.
Every bit as soft and warm as I remembered them to be, Dimi's lips shot a sizzling bolt of need to my very core. Our kiss knocked down what flimsy, br
ittle walls remained between us, and the resulting flood of desire that rushed through me took my breath away.
No one had ever made me feel this way, this keyed up, this needy. Only Dimi. Only now.
He broke away, sitting up, eyes hooded, a small smile playing at his lips. Slowly, as if he thought that if he moved too quickly I'd bolt (my running days were over, and I knew it even if he didn't) he began to unbutton my shirt.
I blushed.
God, I hadn't felt my face heat up like that since junior high. I felt positively virginal as he peeled my shirt away and raked my skin with a heated glance. His look burned, made me instantly hard, which in turn made my cheeks burn even more.
He didn't touch me, not yet. Instead he contented himself with just looking, as if he were taking the time to appreciate the presentation of a five-star meal before actually sampling the fare.
Dimi's fingers drifted to my belt buckle, barely skimming the skin of my stomach along the way. Light as his touch had been, my body reacted violently to it, a delicious shiver rippling my flesh.
As I lay there unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped, Dimi exchanged one last long look with me before pulling my pants and underwear off. As naked as he was, I felt exposed and vulnerable, unsure of what to do, what to say.
As it turned out, I didn't need to do or say anything. Dimi crawled up onto the bed with me, lying on top of me, belly to belly. “Wait. Don't move,” he whispered, staring into my eyes. “I want to enjoy the feeling of you underneath me."
Wait? I suddenly didn't want to wait. I wanted to taste, to touch; to take huge bites out of him. I wanted to explore, to compare the differences and similarities between us. I wanted to wrap myself around him, crawl inside him, meld with him until I couldn't tell where I ended and Dimi began.
But I lay perfectly still, every one of my nerve endings crackling, exquisitely sensitive to the sensation of his body lying flush with mine. I could feel every inch of him, every hair, every scar, every pore. His cock was rock hard and molten hot against my groin; I could feel the moisture that gathered at the tip wet my skin. His crisp curls scraped the delicate skin of my erection, so hard now that it bordered on painful.
The Sweet Side Of The Ropes: Enthralling Tales Of Male-Male Romance Page 9
