A Fluid State

by Rob Browatzke

  Something clicked in his head. He was horny, yes, but he tried very hard not to be an asshole, and this woman deserved honesty. “Look, Mo, I’m not looking for...”

  “It’s fine, Patrick. I’m not looking for that either.” She smiled and ran a fingernail down his chest. “Let’s get out of here.”

  §

  They went back to her place, which was fine with Patrick. She was plenty attractive, but part of him, buried under the booze and the horniness, knew that this was something he’d probably regret in the morning. Hell, he fully suspected his attraction was going to plummet as soon as he got off. That was the trick, right? Finding someone you were still attracted to after you came.

  Her place was fine. He could come, then go, with his head cleared of everything but the whiskey buzz.

  They were barely inside her door when his lips were on her. Her mouth was as hungry as his, and her hands were pulling his shirt over his head even as she pushed him down the hallway to her bedroom. There, she pushed him down onto the bed but her being dominant was not what he was looking for. Even as she peeled off her top, he got up and spun her around, his leg between hers, pushing her apart as he pushed her onto the bed.

  Lying on top of her, his right hand fought its way into her tight jeans, and she moaned beneath him. His left hand travelled up, his fingers caressing then pinching at her erect nipple, even as his mouth fell onto the cold button of her jeans.

  He looked up at her looking down at him. “Look, there’s going to be no graceful way to do this,” he said, and she laughed a deep throaty laugh and lifted up her hips so he could peel them off. He pulled down her plain white panties with them. She was shaved and he lapped at her like a thirsty dog. She held his face against her bare pussy while he pushed his own pants off.

  He wasn’t hard though. How long had it been? Was it performance anxiety? She was naked under him, and she smelled and tasted good, but even his hand on his dick wasn’t making it hard.

  “Fuck me,” she said.

  He looked up at her again, those green eyes looking back at him with hunger. He flashed to similar eyes behind cat eye glasses. That wouldn’t help. She was hot in that bathing suit, but she was a he, and this before him, this was the real thing, and he just needed to get hard and pound her. He wanted it and she wanted it, and it just wasn’t happening.

  He pulled her apart. Christy has made sure he knew how to find her clit. Mo writhed beneath him, and her moans spurred him to work harder. But even though his whole body was tense with need, he could feel his dick hanging there, flaccid and unresponsive.

  “I want you inside me,” she said.

  “I’m trying. I just... I think maybe I’ve had too much to drink. Whiskey dick.”

  Was that disgust that passed over her face? Disappointment? Frustration? She pushed his face back into her. He was sorry but he could at least get her off, not that that would do anything to ease his own tension.

  Don’t worry about Peter, he told himself, when you’re not even able to man up yourself.

  He pulled his face free from her, wet with her juices. She was clutching the sheets, hips up, back arched. “What?” she said, panting, looking down at him.

  “I should go.”

  She collapsed back onto the bed. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Sorry. I’m just too drunk. I – I can’t.”

  She sneered. “That’s what I get for trying to get laid on a Monday.”

  §

  It was to two headaches that Patrick woke up on Tuesday, one grinding against his temples as a result of far too much to drink and the other from the traitor between his legs, now restored to life. Not even Maureen’s eventual orgasm had helped Patrick get hard, but in the harsh sunlight of a too early morning, the ache of his erection had woken him up.

  “I hope Andrew’s date was more successful,” he thought, as he wrapped a hand around it and took care of himself. Again. As always.

  He had just wanted to fuck her. What had been the problem? He’d gotten hard and laid after way more to drink. Her skin had been soft, her lips had been soft, and he had spread her apart and worked his tongue over all the softness he could find. His hand was wrapped hard around his morning hardness, and he found himself not wanting something soft. He wanted something hard, and his mind flashed to Andrew’s body, smooth and toned.

  But male.

  He had never thought about sex with a man. His straightness had never been in doubt. But he let his mind wander freely, too hung-over to think about what it meant. Mo’s eyes had reminded him of Andrew and now he was picturing those eyes again, looking up at him from between his legs, and he imagined it was Andrew’s hand wrapped around his dick, that it was Andrew’s mouth on him, that it was Andrew’s hard body pressed against his.

  He grunted as he shot over his abs.

  What did it mean? It was a harmless fantasy, a flirtation with something new and forbidden. He and Andrew had been spending too much time together, that was all. It changed nothing about who he was. And it wouldn’t go anywhere anyway. Andrew had made it clear that Patrick wasn’t his type, and Andrew had readily accepted a date with the nurse.

  Patrick sat up. He was jealous. There was no denying it. He wasn’t gay. He really wasn’t. But the thought of Andrew with Kent, it made him angry. Was he actually attracted to Andrew? Of course not. He had never been attracted to another man. People didn’t suddenly change like that. It was the drag, he thought. He’d seen Andrew as a woman, and been attracted to what he saw, and that had just confused him, and gotten under his skin and inside his brain, and apparently into his cock, which lay across his thigh, still half-hard.

  He couldn’t have sex with a man. It was foreign and incomprehensible and disgusting, and he couldn’t help but wonder how it would compare, being inside Andrew. Would Andrew open up for him like Maureen had, like Christy had? Would he look at Patrick with eyes as hungry?

  His phone rang and jerked him back to reality. He shook away the thoughts in his head, including the sudden excitement that it might be Andrew on the phone, as he reached for it. It was Christy.

  His ex-wife. The mother of his son. He was straight.

  “Hello?” He answered the phone even as he wiped himself off with his sheet.

  “There’s something wrong with Peter,” she said.

  He jumped to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

  “Did you say something to him? About the clothes?”

  “What? No.”

  “He doesn’t want to wear any of them,” she said. “I went to wake him up today and he was putting them all in a bag.”

  “I didn’t say anything, Christy. I swear. Maybe he’s just changing his mind.”

  “Patrick, I swear to God, if you made him ashamed or embarrassed or...”

  “For fuck sake, Christy, I’ve done everything to accept him. My fingernails are silver, for Chrissake. Maybe he just doesn’t feel like wearing them anymore.”

  “Okay.” She sounded doubtful.

  “You said yourself it’s just clothes. I had to accept what he was wearing. So do you. Let him figure things out, right?”

  “Right.”

  Maybe it was the crush, Patrick thought. Maybe Peter’s crush on little Britney was changing him. People changed. People went through phases. Peter had gone through one with dressing all girly, and now it was over. It was a curious fascination, that was all.

  As he hung up though, Patrick wondered if he was thinking about Peter, or about himself.

  PATRICK

  Friday didn’t come fast enough. It never did. It was summer, and Christy’s insistence on keeping Peter with her during the week just didn’t make sense, but it sure made the weekends important. Patrick had spent the week keeping busy around the house. He’d wanted to expand his deck ever since he got home, and it was the perfect project to pour himself into.

  It had taken shape better than he’d expected, adding a lot more square footage. He’d finished staining it yesterday,
thankful the gray clouds hadn’t given way to a summer storm, and today he had found a great patio set for it. Tonight, he and Peter would barbecue tofu dogs on it, and tomorrow, they’d go to storytime and then spend the day in the yard. It was going to be a great weekend.

  He hadn’t talked to Andrew all week. They were friends, sure, but things were just too complicated and confusing in his head. Andrew had texted a couple times, but Patrick had just said he was busy on a project in the yard and would get back to him. Which he hadn’t.

  Which he felt bad about, but really, they’d known each other for two weeks. They weren’t best buds. Besides, he had rationalized to himself, Andrew was probably busy with his new nurse. Which was good. Andrew was a good guy, and deserved to be happy, and if he was seeing someone, he wouldn’t be hanging around, and that would make things way less complicated and confusing.

  Problem solved and everyone happy.

  At six, Christy pulled up and Peter hopped out, in shorts and a T shirt and a ball cap. He ran into the house, past Patrick, and straight up the stairs. Christy got out of the car and said, “He’s been like that all week,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s the break or what. He’s just super moody all of a sudden.”

  “I’ll see if I can figure out what’s up.”

  “Your week’s been good? I feel we haven’t talked, you and I, except about Peter, since you’ve been back.”

  What would she even say if she knew the kind of thoughts that had been floating around his head? “Been good. Working on the deck. You should come for dinner Sunday. We’ll all eat together.”

  “Like a family?” she said with a smile.

  “Yah, it’ll be nice.”

  “Okay, but make mine real. I’m over Peter’s vegetarian experiment.” She laughed. “You boys have a good weekend.”

  “You too, Christy. Big plans?”

  “The girls and I might go out dancing again.”

  “Swigg’s?” he asked, referring to a club they’d both frequented years ago.

  “Oh god no. That place is trash now. We go to the Torch if we’re going out.”

  “Andrew’s club?”

  “Well, he’s not the owner, but yah, that’s the one.”

  “Has the whole world gone gay?”

  “Just the best place to dance if you don’t want some sad drunk guy trying to take you home for a quick lay.”

  That hit a little too close to home, he thought. “Well, have a good time. Maybe you’ll find yourself a nice woman to take home instead.”

  She threw back her head laughing. “Oh Patrick, you know I like men way too much for that. The chances of me going lesbian are almost as slim as you going gay.”

  He looked away, terrified of what she might suddenly see on his face. He was straight. “That won’t happen.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m proud of you for how far you’ve come the past two weeks, but don’t you worry, I know you.”

  As she drove away, Patrick let that sink in. Christy did know him, better than anyone. Maybe he had let some uncertainty creep in, but she knew him. In every sense. It was a reassurance he shouldn’t have needed but one he took in gladly anyway.

  “Peter!” he called out, going back in. “Why don’t you come down and visit? Tell me about your week.” There was no answer. “Peter?” Patrick went up the stairs and good hear a strange buzzing coming from inside the bathroom. He knocked on the door. “Peter?”

  “Leave me alone!”

  Patrick opened the door. Peter was standing at the sink, Patrick’s clippers in hand. The sink and counter and floor were covered in hair, Peter practically bald, aside from patches he had missed. He was glaring at the mirror.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I just don’t like it anymore,” he said. “I want to be like you.”

  They were words Patrick would have been thrilled to hear, just a few weeks earlier, but now they seemed heavy with foreboding. He couldn’t imagine what Christy would say at seeing their son right now. “I would have done it for you,” he said, “if you asked. Here, let me help you clean it up. Can’t be easy with one arm, hey, champ?”

  Peter looked at him, then passed him the clippers. Patrick rested one hand on Peter’s shoulders and ran the clippers over his son’s head. “You did pretty good, actually. But you’re missing some patches in the back.”

  “I couldn’t see.”

  “I know. That’s why you have me to help you, right?”

  His hair was a lot darker than Patrick’s. Peter took after his mom in so many ways, but there in the mirror, Patrick looked at their reflection and he could see himself in his boy. The matching buzzcuts highlighted all their other similarities.

  “How’s the arm?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You’re going to be covered in hairs now,” Patrick said. “You’re going to have to shower them off. Do you need me to help keep your arm out?”

  “No, Dad. I can shower myself.”

  “I know you can.” He ran by his hand over Peter’s scalp. “That’s pretty good. What do you think?”

  He watched Peter look at himself in the mirror. Patrick didn’t know what was going on in his son’s head but he could see the emotions pass over Peter’s face: disappointment into defiance, and then Peter exhaled. “Thank you, Daddy,” he said. He turned around and wrapped his arms around Patrick.

  “It’s okay, Peter. It’s okay.” What it was though, he had no idea.

  §

  Peter seemed okay the rest of the night. They had a nice supper. They watched a movie. Every time Patrick looked at him, he seemed more and more relaxed, until he was lying on the arm of the couch dozing.

  “Peter, wake up. Let’s get you to bed, champ.”

  He opened his eyes. “Did I fall asleep?”

  “Yeah, but it’s late. Here, let me carry you to bed.”

  He sat up. “No. I can walk.”

  “Okay.”

  Patrick followed him up the stairs. He was clearly still groggy from sleep, based on the stumble in his steps. He was growing up, but he was very much still his little boy. He wasn’t so grown up that Patrick wouldn’t tuck him into bed whenever he got the chance though.

  As Peter snuggled down into his blankets, Patrick kissed him on the forehead, rubbing the freshly shorn head. “Pancakes for breakfast?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “And then we’ll go to the library.”

  Peter looked away. “I don’t want to.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I just don’t want to.”

  “Peter, what’s going on? Did something happen? You like Ann, and all your friends go.” Patrick paused. “Britney goes.”

  Peter pursed his lips. “I just don’t want to.”

  “Maybe you’ll change your mind in the morning.”

  “No!”

  “Okay, okay, you won’t. We can do whatever you want. We can even just hang out here.”

  “I wanna sleep.”

  Patrick kissed his forehead again and then turned off the light and closed the door. What could possibly have happened in the last few days to bring about all these changes? It was worrying, really. He hadn’t seen Peter’s experimenting with clothes and stuff start, but this change seemed so abrupt. Andrew was going to be disappointed.

  Especially since he hadn’t messaged all week, he thought. He glanced at the time on his phone. It probably wasn’t too late to message, to at least let him know they wouldn’t be there. But no. He was probably already asleep, or out. Either way, it could wait until morning.

  Patrick grabbed himself a beer and headed out to the deck. Yes, he wanted to cut back on the drinking when Peter was around, but it was just a beer. One couldn’t hurt. Or two.

  ANDREW

  Ann was feeling ginger. Normally, Saturday storytime was just her blonde beehive, but she was feeling a little wild and pulled her red wig off its head. Her glasses were what really made Ann Ann though, and as Andrew slid them onto his face, he
checked himself over in the mirror. She looked great.

  He wondered why the sudden need for a change, as he drove to the library. All week, he’d been feeling on edge. It wasn’t the date. If anything, that had gone well, and the sex after had certainly been satisfying, if not mind-blowing. Kent was great, he was handsome and wonderful and he knew his way around a dick, and Andrew had certainly enjoyed fucking him, but it was also obvious that nothing was going to happen.

  Andrew wanted sparks, and they just weren’t there.

  He’d gone out the night before, thinking maybe there’d be someone new at the Torch. That was what gay men did, he thought. They went out every night, because this night might be the night. The night he walked in. Whoever he was. That special someone. Mister Right. Sadly, there’d been no Mister Rights, and Christy out partying with her girlfriends had just reminded Andrew of Mister Straight.

  Andrew was looking forward to seeing him though. There was no denying it. A week of near radio silence certainly drove home the point that their friendship, such as it was, had been entirely for Peter’s benefit and now that Patrick was more comfortable with what Peter was going through, that friendship would fade as quickly as it had blossomed.

  (He can still look though)

  But when Ann emerged from the back and scanned the crowd of cheering kids and supervising parents, there was no sign of either Peter or Patrick. She was professional though, and swallowed her disappointment, and read the next chapters in their book. It was almost done, and then they’d have to find something new, and Andrew wished – not for the first time –that it was easier to find books with great LGBTQ characters. It was certainly better than when he was growing up though, so that was a comfort.

  After the reading, he mingled as he always did. When he got to Jess and Britney, he couldn’t help but ask, “No Peter today?”

  “I guess not,” Jess said, “but I’m not really surprised.”

  “Oh?”

  “After what happened Sunday? He’s probably a little scared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That kid pushing him?”