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Game on.
I’m a six-foot, twenty-six-year old man who’s been blessed with a fast metabolism and some decent muscle mass, which is good since at heart I’m a couch potato that lives in flannel pajama bottoms and stocks ice cream—Moose Tracks please—and bottles of barbecue sauce in my kitchen at all times in case of an emergency craving or the apocalypse.
I don’t usually eat them together, and I never expected Armageddon until this last election cycle, but I’ve always been prepared. Just in case.
I read science fiction, gay erotic romance, historical biographies and wilderness survival guides—my foster brother, Stewart, writes those, and I consider that a necessary evil, since quoting his books to him verbatim gets me out of his annual camping trip.
In my defense, I love nature. What I don’t like is the idea of my brother forcing me to start fires with two sticks and a ball of my own hair. Not to mention all his hopefully unrecorded TED talks about urine.
Did you know that urine is basically the coconut oil of survivalists? Good for everything from tanning leather to dyeing fabric? You could even distill it to make potable water if you were desperate and dehydrated enough. I’m not saying you should gargle that shit or use it to condition your hair—notice I said I’m not saying that. But at some point I’m afraid Stewart might, and then I’d have to ship him to the nuthouse and change my number. That could make for awkward family reunions.
Moving on.
I was raised in Washington—think Seattle not DC—but I spent my college years braving the deep red heart of Texas and dating a closeted cowboy before deciding to try the East Coast on for size.
Everything about me is literally all over the map.
Try filling out that online questionnaire. Or at least, try to do it without getting matched with a lily-livered cowpoke that dumps you for a rodeo queen the night of your graduation. After receiving a life-altering blowjob from yours truly.
Yeehaw.
Tale of woe aside, my dry spell isn’t voluntary. I didn’t make a vow of celibacy as an act of self-flagellation in remembrance of that dill-hole Rod. It just happened. Or didn’t happen. And then it didn’t happen some more. In fact, it’s been not happening for so long I’m worried it might be a permanent condition.
Unfortunately for me, pickings are slim and our city’s infamous Finn clan is running out of family members…
“That is so hot,” My date says, startling me back to the present. “You text faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks?” A texting compliment? That’s a first. Though it’s the fiftieth time he’s used the word hot in a sentence. I email my unfinished article to myself for later, and offer an apology. “Sorry about that. When I get an idea I tend to—”
“Whatever,” he interrupts impatiently. “I told you I’m not interested in sharing life histories. I’m not here to talk. Not that we could hear each other in this wannabe hipster dive if we were.”
Unfortunately, I can hear him just fine. Also, since I’ve been told more than once that my reading glasses, my hair and the usual tightness of my jeans are all the height of hipster fashion, I should probably be insulted for all the wannabes of the world. In case I am one.
“I’m surprised you don’t like it. Finn’s is an institution with two generations worth of local history. You grew up around here, didn’t you?”
He glances down at his phone distractedly.
Does he think he’s being subtle? That I can’t hear the game he’s been playing on that thing all night? He didn’t even bother to turn down the volume.
“It was better before the old man gave it to his kid,” he finally responds. “Not as crowded. Now there’s never a good seat, the music blows and they don’t serve anything decent. We should have stayed at your place.”
That was never on the menu. I’m about to say so out loud when his hand cups my knee under the table and squeezes suggestively. His fingers are freezing and I notice at the same time that his upper lip is sweating. Why is he so nervous?
“Why don’t we get out of here while we still can? Find something else for you to do with your mouth.”
“Excuse me?” I no longer feel sorry for him. At all.
“When Toni told me how hard up you were, I thought this might be a pity fuck. But you look like you could be a model or something with all that girly hair and those big brown eyes. I’ve had half a chub all night. You’re really hot.”
The romance. Make it stop. At least use a different adjective.
“Toni didn’t tell me that much about you.” She’d skipped important descriptors like sleaze ball and jackass and never-in-a-million-years.