Page 33 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
It’s more likely that someone hurt him.
My teeth clench at the horrible thought. My jaw ticks. And for the first time, I’m not thinking about him naked. I’m pissed that someone did that to one of the best men I know.
But is that a good sign? Does this mean I can stop thinking about him doing bad things to me all the time?The answer is no.
The onslaught of dirty thoughts returns.
I wake up picturing his lips wrapped around my dick—something I’d very much like to experience.
And I don’t deviate from those thoughts the whole morning, even as I work out and do yoga.
Yeah, that’s fun—doing downward dog while thinking about being boned.
But I try my best to shove those filthy images to the far corner of my brain as I grab a drink with Callum at Speakeasy later that night.
“Tell me everything, lover boy,” I say over a scotch. Jackson is outside the bar, and I doubt he’s jelly of Callum anymore, now that he knows what went down and what didn’t that night.
“Everything? Like Marxist philosophy, the meaning of life, and the best Russian literature?” my longtime friend asks.
“Yes, let’s talk Tolstoy and love. But mostly love. How is everything with you and your woman?”
Callum grins. He tries to hide it, but he can’t. “She’s terrific. She’s the woman I’m going to marry.”
I hold up a palm to high-five. “Knew it. Called it. You two are destiny. I love it.”
“You did,” he says, lifting his glass to clink it with mine. “And thank you, Cupid. Now, what about you?”
My eyes drift to the front entrance. “That is a good question, my friend.”
A very good question, and I shift the topic because I don’t know how to answer it.The next day, I go to lunch with Sage Carmichael, one of the co-owners of The Extravagant. Sage’s friend Eliza joins us, which I’m stoked about, since she’s one of the majority stakeholders of the Las Vegas Hawks football team and I’m not only a diehard fan but also a friend of Eliza’s co-owner, Nadia.
“Great to meet you,” I say to Eliza. “Officially. Nadia and I hung out a few times when I was in town the other month—rooting for the Hawks, of course, in her private suite at the stadium.”
“That’s what I like to hear. And that must be why she’s only said good things about you,” Eliza says with a grin.
“Excellent. Paying her off, then, was a good idea,” I joke.
Jackson rolls his eyes.
Maybe that’s a good sign that we’ve fallen into our old habits, back to poking each other. That’s where we want to be, rather than in Dirty GIF Land.
I invite him to join us, but he declines, waiting instead by the entrance to the restaurant.
Another promising sign that all will be well, and that I’ll stop thinking about his fine-ass body soon.
Very soon.
I’m sure the idea of him naked will frolic away from my brain any second.When lunch is over, Jackson and I return to the hotel, shooting the breeze about football, debating which NFL teams have a shot this season.
Yeah, we’ve gone back to the way we were.
This is all good.
But when he remarks that the Renegades are good with the long game, that one word boomerangs me back to Filthyville.
Long.
My God, the man just has it going on.
Here I go again. Double life. Talking football strategies with my mouth and thinking about tackling him in my head.
Is he fighting this same battle, living with twin trains of thought?
Because this continues throughout the day and into the next. I have the clean train and the dirty one.
I can go about my business, talk about music and the meaning of life, but images of Jackson flicker before me.
His eyes squeezed shut in the limo, his hands gripping my face, his dick buried deep in my throat, his taste flooding my tongue.
Him lowering his body onto mine and kissing me.
And a third one.
His pizza goodbye.
My resistance breaks down once more that night when I’m alone.
Once the door shuts to my hotel room, I proceed to take my dick in my hand and imagine all the other things I want from him.
I want him to take my dick in his mouth.
Want him to come on me.
Want him to curl his body over mine, slide into me, and fuck me into the pillows until I can’t see straight.
And I’m stroking one out to that in mere minutes.
Then collapsing and contemplating.
With guys, I’ve always been versatile, but topping a little more often.
That’s what I like. I like to fuck. I like to fuck women and to fuck men. That all makes sense to me. It all fits my understanding of my bisexuality.
Mine.
Some people claim bisexuality isn’t a destination. They say it’s a way station on the train to being gay.
I say fuck either-or labels. Sexuality is fluid. You don’t have to pick sides.
