by Xavier Neal
If I wanna keep her…I’m gonna have to negotiate for it.
At least for now.
Lenny’s grip starts to weaken at the same time uneasiness expands on her expression.
“Okay.”
Her eyebrows lift in shock.
“But,” I allow my touch to drift towards her inner thigh, right underneath the black baggy basketball shorts she’s wearing, “only if you come for me before we leave this kitchen.”
The hitch in her breath is intoxicating.
My fingers inch over, gently skimming the outside of her panties. A groan is grabbed over the dampness of the fabric at the same time she rocks into the touch and whispers, “Deal.”
Doubt disappears allowing dominance to rightfully take its place.
I drop my mouth back onto hers, use my frame to nudge her legs wider, and glide my middle finger around the barrier. Lenny immediately attempts to lean away on a gasp, but I lash at her tongue for even considering abandonment. As much as part of me is urging that I take my time, savor the situation, live in this anomaly for as long as humanly possible, the other part…the other louder, stronger, greedier part is commanding I claim her the way I should’ve all those years ago.
The way I should every night going forward.
Wetness washes over the intruding digit, and I heedlessly thrust it forward, needing it to dive to the depths I’ve only dreamed of. More sharp breaths are stolen, but they barely register. My finger curls inside its new home. Commands the muscles surrounding it to clamp down. Calls to the curious orgasm in the corner to come out of the shadows and play. I push my palm against her swollen clit and use the fabric to create a tantalizing tinge of friction. Lenny’s hold on my shirt goes from one hand to two. The speed at which she claws at the material slowly coincides to the one I’m executing. Her hips frantically lift to ride the increasingly frenzied motion causing the heel of my hand to heave against the sensitive nub harder and harder. My groans of hunger grow in heaviness. Force me to fuck her like it’s my dick instead of my thick finger. I strengthen my hold and grind into each push with my entire body. Hers trembles at the pressure yet doesn’t cease to meet the blows. Lenny’s tight little pussy starts to swell around the soaking appendage, and my nuts follow suit.
Somehow, she successfully parts our mouths just enough to proclaim, “I’m coming…”
The tiny, untimed clamping I’d become infatuated with swiftly transposes to a furious pulsing that I’d previously only been able to poorly imagine. Sweltering stickiness seeps past the finger and onto the rest of my hand, searing much more than just a sweet reward into the complicated situation.
This isn’t the end.
This isn’t just weeks of pent up sexual frustration getting the better of me.
This isn’t just the result of too many beers and not enough food.
This is every fantasy I’ve spent a good chunk of my life having come to a living, breathing, orgasming reality.
And now that I’ve crossed into the end zone, the only thing I give a fuck about is keeping Lenny like this forever.
Chapter Four
Lennox
The blame game.
Without a doubt the most common thing people do in harsh conflicts. I’ve learned the best way to handle this when it happens in my presence is to let each side get out a bit of their unresolved emotions before intervening. Most of the time, it’s a very healthy part of the process, however, there have been a few occasions where it edged near violent, and I had to stop a Maury moment in the making.
Man, I miss that show.
Sometimes I felt he really made a difference.
“You’re not listening to me, Heath!” Sean, his younger boyfriend, shouts.
“You’re not listening me,” Heath growls in return, hands gripping the edges of his chair harshly.
“You’re not listening to each other,” I finally intervene.
Both sets of eyes soar to me.
“Right now, you’re each experiencing a different type of pain, so it is difficult for you to understand where the other one in coming from. Once you both acknowledge the other’s feelings of distress, it will be easier for this relationship to move forward.”
Neither of the men say a word.
“Isn’t that what you want?” I pull my feet into my slightly broken office chair. “Or are you two looking for a way to end things?” The small rocking I begin fills the office with a faint squeaking. “And be brutally honest here, because that’s the only way we will actually be able to make progress.”
Heath doesn’t hesitate to turn to Sean.
While I’m not supposed to have “favorite” couples, I absolutely fucking do. It’s human nature! Some people you just like more than others, like Archer and Jaye or, in this case, Heath and Sean. They’ve had an interesting story. Met here at the shelter during volunteer work. Started a friendship that eventually blossomed into love. Heath, the older male, retired Marine, who never properly mourned the loss of his first husband, struggles to communicate with the younger male, Sean, a medically discharged grunt who’s only dated women prior to this. Sean, on the other hand, lacks the emotional stability needed to sustain a long-term relationship. His relationship mentality of flight over fight has put strain on what they’re trying to build. Their partnership is constantly developing, and both men are frequently learning.
Changing.
Growing.
It’s this beautiful balance that I’m honored to be a part of.
Heath extends his open palm towards his boyfriend.
Sean offers him a bashful smile and folds their fingers together.
Afterwards, their attention falls back to me, though it’s Heath who speaks. “I want us to keep moving forward. We live together, but I don’t want this to just end there. I’d like us to take the next step someday. I’d like us to get married.”
“What about you, Sean?” The rocking in my chair continues. “Where is it you see this going?”
“Hell, I’d marry him tomorrow if he asked.” His slightly country twang causes me to grin. “But, it’s hard for me to believe that’s what you really want when you won’t introduce me to your daughter and brush off the subject of her whenever I bring her up.”
There’s a heavy, frustrated sigh out of Heath prior to his confession. “She doesn’t know.”
Curiosity catches me off guard. “That you’re seeing someone?”
“That I’m gay,” he quietly continues, “or that her father was gay and that she’s my fucking daughter at all.”
Both of our jaws plummet.
“She thinks I’m just her Godfather.”
“How is that possible?” I cautiously question.
“My husband…er…deceased husband, Gabriel, and I went to extreme lengths to protect the truth. The military was a different place when we were active. Neither of us were in positions or ranks where exposing such a lifestyle would have ended well. Once we got out, the world wasn’t exactly more understanding. We did what we had to do to start the family we wanted and agreed we would tell Imani together someday, but then…” Heath swallows his sadness over the unexpected death. “Look, I know I need to tell her…I just…I haven’t yet.”
“Why do you think that is?”
My question doesn’t receive an answer.
“Do you think she would reject you for being homosexual?”
“Absolutely not,” Heath promptly argues. “She’s very open minded. We raised her to be that way. We raised her to be accepting and tolerant of others’ choices.”
“Yet, I’m hearing you secretly fear that courtesy won’t be extended to you and Sean.”
Sean joins the conversation with a much softer tone. “Is that it, baby? Are you worried she’s going to push you away once she finds out the truth?”
His nodding is reluctant.
I return to investigating the situation. “Because you’re homosexual, or because you weren’t honest with her about it?”
“The
latter.”
“Have you always been honest with her in the past?”
“About everything else. Yes.”
“Has she always been honest with you?”
“Down to when she started shaving parts no father ever expects his daughter to start shaving.”
Sean snickers at the comment. “If only she knew her father shaved down there too.”
“Oh, because you don’t like a smooth canvas to lick?”
The flirtation has a hand flying to my lips to catch my giggle.
This is the other reason I adore them. They argue. They yell. They cuss. But then they flirt. And kiss. And agree to try again.
It’s how romantic relationships should be.
I cut a glance at the clock that’s warning me their time is almost up. “Perhaps, what is happening between you is nothing more than just a disagreement on how to tackle the difficult subject rather than the subject itself. Here’s your homework-”
“Words I swore I’d never hear again in my life,” Heath grumbles.
Another small snicker escapes. “I want both of you to sit down separately and write your ideal ending to this situation. Don’t discuss it. Don’t even think about discussing it. Just write down how your happily ever after to the introduction of Heath’s daughter would unfold. Next week, we’ll reveal your answers, and dissect the results together.”
They both nod their agreement with the task.
Here’s the thing. It’s obvious to me they both want the exact same ending. They want her to accept Heath for who he is and welcome Sean with open arms. I think hearing one another say it without prompting, without feeling as though the other is just saying what needs to be said to make the other happy, they will start to grasp that they’re actually in the situation together. Often, couples need to be reminded they are indeed on the same side of a scenario before being able to make headway on the true problem at hand.
The two men sweetly thank me for my time and exit the small corner office hand in hand.
Over the past few years this little rinky-dink room has practically become a haven. On a typical week, I spend more time here than I do in my apartment. Both are covered in framed posters, although the ones here are just framed posters of classic sports icons, such as Michael Jordan, Yao Ming, Wayne Gretzky, Hank Aaron, and Deion Sanders. The posters at my apartment don’t get the luxury of frames nor are they only sports affiliated. Men, which is the high number of patients I deal with, find the choice of décor comforting, while women typically assume I’m a closeted lesbian. As if all lesbians like sports and all straight women only watch them for the men they’re boning. Fucking gender stereotypes and roles cause so many unnecessary headaches. The photos on the walls hide the cracks that can’t afford to be repaired, the bright pink furry rug in front of my desk is a playful counter to the dingy carpet, and the lime green caboodle, given to me by Gideon in a horrible attempt to get me organized, is overflowing with a multitude of writing utensils to distract people from the notion that they’re in my office to see a therapist.
Something that is still, apparently, frowned upon.
Shamed like the Scarlett Letter or wearing high shorts like the Fly Girls did in the ‘90s before it was randomly trending again.
All of a sudden, there’s a small knock on my office door proceeded by Gideon’s face peering around it. “Hey you.”
“Hey you.”
He grins widely at the greeting, and my heart lurches up the back of my throat.
Ugh.
Like I didn’t have enough secret emotion problems involving my best friend before I let him finger fuck me in his kitchen?
Thankfully, I haven’t had to see him or hear from him much since we shared that experience…twice, once before dinner and once after in his bed. We passed out in each other’s arms that night. I was, without question, the most content I’ve ever been, yet the next morning I couldn’t stop from wondering how fucked up our friendship would be. It’s basically the only thing I’ve been able to think about. I’ve even been watching Love & Basketball on repeat for the past two days, rationalizing our situation to be just a new aged version of the movie. But I know that’s not how life works.
No one is ever that fucking lucky.
“You ready?”
The question receives an inquisitive look. “For…?”
“Dinner.”
“We had dinner plans?”
His brown eyes roll hard enough that a referee would blow a whistle for them being out of bounds. “That restaurant I told you about that I had to make reservations a month in advance.”
Nothing comes to mind.
“The one where I told you we could order chocolate lava cake?”
“Oooo…”
“Our reservation is tonight. I’ve sent you three reminder texts and had Kristen send you an email.”
“Phone’s dead.”
“Why do you even have a phone, Lenny?”
“Because my mother says even my abuela has one in this day and age.”
Gideon lightly chuckles and shoves his hands into his pocket. “She’s not wrong.”
“Please don’t tell her that.”
This time we both laugh instilling me with a familiar feeling.
At least it’s not awkward.
At least he’s not saying, “we need to talk” or “hey, about the other night”.
Oh shit.
What if that’s why he wants to take me to dinner?! The whole let her down easy bullshit? Which I don’t need, for the record! I know whatever happened was just a one off! That was clear as fucking day when he agreed to keep dating other women, something I was hoping he’d argue a bit harder against.
But why would he?
And here I am, again, needing to remind myself this is not a perfectly written romantic comedy starring my favorite actress Sanaa Lathan.
This is an imperfectly, unprecedented game involving two people who don’t even play the same sport.
“Our reservations are for seven.”
Right. Reservations he made a month ago…long before we ever took our relationship out of the Friend Zone. This is most likely just dinner and not a dump and dine. Though, is there anything really to dump?
Gideon makes sure he has my full intention before continuing. “It’s an upscale restaurant, meaning your cut-off jean shorts and Hellcats jersey aren’t going to cut it, so we should probably-”
“Cancel them.”
Puzzlement immediately appears. “What?”
“Cancel them.”
“Why?”
“I have my heart set on somewhere else.”
“You didn’t even remember where they were for! How could you possibly have your heart set on something else?!”
Leaning forward, I fold my hands firmly on my desk and tilt my head. “You’re fussy. Do you need to talk about something?”
Perhaps how finger-banging your best friend is not emotionally affecting you the way it seems to be me?
Nope.
Not that.
Gideon glowers. “Do not treat me like a patient, right now. You’re off the clock.”
“And you’re being catty about me wanting to cancel a dinner reservation.”
“They were hard to make!”
“And easy to cancel.”
“For. What? And I swear to God if you say for a taco truck, I will just pay for one to fucking park outside the house, so you can eat them all day tomorrow.”
The slight tantrum causes me to snicker.
He starts to snap, yet realizes how ridiculous the idea sounded.
Gideon gives the neatly groomed scruff on his face a small stroke. “It’s been a rough few days with work, and I haven’t slept well the past two nights.”
Teasingly, I state, “It’s because you weren’t sleeping next to me.”
“Exactly.”
His answer tumbles my jaw downward.
Okay, maybe he was just playing along with the joke?
“Now, I
’d like to go enjoy a glass of whiskey, a great cut of steak, and watch RoboCop on the couch.”
“Weller or Kinnaman.”
“Weller, Lenny. Always Weller.”
I don’t bother wasting effort on ceasing my smirk. “Counteroffer: Beer, wings, and foosball.”
