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Domestic Bliss
Chapter 12 of "Where There's Heat"
To recap just the last bit (it’s been a while):
There was a bit of a cock fight at a club, Brian storms out. Justin leaves a
bit later to find Brian’s waiting in the street. Then there’s a remix of the
street lamp scene. They go back to Brian’s in silence. Justin’s not sure what’s
running through Brian’s head. Brian ends up tying Justin up and taking out some
aggression in the best way he knows how – rough sex. Brian shows, perhaps, a
little tenderness towards Justin in the end. Justin is very sure now that he’s
in deep shit trouble because of his feelings for Brian, but he’s also fairly
sure Brian’s starting to return some of those feelings. They sleep.
Two months later…
I check the clock before climbing back into bed, I stumbled into the bathroom to piss a minute ago. I drank a lot of beer last night, weird for me. It’s six minutes to six. I should get in the shower and go to work early. Friday’s always suck, everyone trying to wrap up their last minute shit and all needing my approval on every fucking thing. I used to work until well after dark and then head to the bar for some stress relief. A few drinks, a few fucks, maybe an after hours -- falling into bed just before dawn. Back when I had some semblance of control over my fucking life.
Lately I find myself huddled in a corner booth at some nameless restaurant sharing a bottle of red and playing fucking footsie under the table, or worse yet hunched in the back row of some seedy little theater making out like a fucking teenager. I admit I like the way his cheeks flush from the wine and the way his skin vibrates when he thinks we might get caught giving each other hand jobs in the theater, but what the fuck is going on here?
The root of this domestic disaster lies face down in my bed, snoring and sated. I fucked him three times last night after we got home from some new club he insisted we check out. He danced all night with this little Latin boy in tight jeans, he tortured me until I drug him home by his hard cock. He’s so fucking satisfied when he gets me wound up.
I watch him now, his guard down, his game face tucked away. He’s unsettlingly angelic in sleep. Sometimes I look at his unlined face and his teenage body and I shiver at our age difference. It isn’t even so much the years, it’s the experience. He’ll make a fleeting comment about college days or his fucking high school friends and I’m reminded that we’ve led different lives in different decades.
Shit, now the last thing I want to do is get back into bed. I head for the shower, let the steam and the burn on my skin take my mind to a different place. I jerk off slowly thinking about anything but him.
Thirty minutes later I’m putting on cufflinks, when one drops to the floor he wakes up.
“Time’s it?” He mumbles as he stretches. I watch his reflection over my shoulder in the mirror. The sheets slide down to his waist, revealing his chest…his hips…his cock. His feet rise up to kick the sheet to the foot of the bed. He’s too comfortable here. He aimlessly scratches a place on his belly and then run a hand over his hard-on. He yawns and stretches more, turning his head to see the clock beside the bed. When he realizes how early it is his eyes shift back across the room to me.
“Early even for you,” he gets out of bed.
“Not really,” I mumble. He doesn’t know my fucking routine.
“It’s not even 7,” he runs his hand over the expanse of my back as he passes me on his way to the bathroom.
Something inside of me bubbles up and fills my throat and with warmth and pressure and anger. It’s all I can do not to fucking slap his hand away when he touches me. It’s so familiar, too familiar.
I head out of the bathroom, I know I’m stomping my feet. I grab my keys and wallet and head down the hall, he’s on my heels before I hit the kitchen.
“What’s up?” His eyes are wide and innocent and it pisses me off more.
“Nothing,” I hear how irritated I sound. I stalk out of the room and slam the front door to my own apartment.
******
I’m on a conference call when the email comes in. It simply reads:
What’s up? You okay? You seemed off this morning. Are we on for tonight? J
In theory there is nothing wrong with the communication. On the surface one of my junior art directors, who I happen to fuck regularly, is just asking me how I’m doing. I, however, choose to take offense. Off, I wasn’t fucking off. I was fucking pissed off cause I haven’t woken up alone in my own apartment in a fucking decade!
I respond:
Other than having to clean up after my incompetent staff, life is rosy. Busy tonight.
I wrap up the call that I’m on, only to find I have six new voice messages, and the next email dings in my inbox. That fucking chime of new mail notification makes me want to kill someone, generally the sender of said email.
I thought we were trying the new Italian place tonight? If something came up we can do it another time. Just let me know – J
It’s innocent enough, we did talk about trying a new place tonight. Just like we make plans every other Friday night. Quiet little dinners, in bed by midnight. Mind you there’s good fucking in there, but what kind of life is this? I might as well be fucking married. Jesus, I can’t remember the last time I was out until 4 getting tanked and fucking everything in site. It’s been months.
I wait hours before responding:
Something came up. See you Monday.
I’m willing to bet there’s a smirk on my face when I click send. It takes two seconds for my office door to sling open. His eyes are full of fire and his cheeks are flushed.
I sit back in my chair gingerly, clicking save on the project I’ve been working on all afternoon and bracing myself for the inevitable litany of bullshit whining that is about to be directed at me.
He shuts the door quietly and walks slowly over to one of the chairs that faces my desk. He sits down, adjusts his shirt and checks his watch. He’s a calculated mother fucker today. He’s learned to tether his emotions over time. I’m oddly proud of the kid.
“Listen you fucking prick,” his voice is low and his eyes are narrowed, “I am not going another round with you. Grow the fuck up. I thought we were past this.”
I lean way back in my high-back executive chair and stretch my arms languidly over my head. My nonchalance in these situations drives him fucking nuts. “Past what?” If he thinks I’m going to battle with him over my decision to spend a weekend sans-wife, he can go fuck himself. Or anyone besides me for that matter. Not that I let him fuck me, well there have been a couple of times… whatever.
“Brian, I swear to God.” He gets up and walks the length of my office a few times. His eyes shift to the open blinds on the window that faces the art department. Two of my senior art directors sit in that room and they are both pretending they don’t see or hear a thing. Some of my employees want to keep their jobs.
He finally comes to stand in front of my desk, his thighs pressing into the glass top, his hands press firmly on the surface as if to stabilize him, “Okay, if you want to play this way I can’t stop you. You can fucking run and hide and push me away again but I’m not going to fucking wait for you to come around another time. I’ve put up with enough of your bullshit Brian. Once a month your fucking skin starts to itch because you suddenly feel like you’re being backed into a corner. We both know that’s bullshit. You are free to come and go, I have no hold over you. I let you do whatever you want when you want. All I ask is that you tell me the truth. You want to be alone this weekend? Fine. You want to go get high and stick your dick in seventeen other guys so that you can feel the rush of being a free wheeling slut with no one to answer to, I get that. But don’t for a minute think you’re going to make me feel like I did something wrong, that I should be punished for your fucking issues.”
He turns to leave but before he gets to the door I find my voice, “Justin…”
His hand on the knob, he turns his head to meet my gaze, “What?”
I sit silent, unsure of which way to play this. It isn’t the first time he’s called me on my shit, but it’s the first time I haven’t thrown him out of a room for it. This time he’s the one walking away. Something doesn’t feel right. I stare at him and lick my lips. Moments pass and the silence engulfs the room.
He finally shakes his head and pulls open the door, “Call me when you figure out what you want. I can’t love you enough for both of us.”
He shuts the door and the silence buzzes in my ears. What did he say?
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