He says it in reference to his sex toy collection.
As soon as the thought becomes conscious, I become aware that it’s been there, in the periphery of my mind, since the day he said it. I didn’t realize it, but I’ve been using a lot of my energy to stop myself from thinking about it.
Now I can’t help it.
I’ve seen my own post-nut reflection enough times to know that what clings to Connor Lockwood this morning is the distinct air of a man who’s just blown his load. Hard. And possibly more than once.
He asks how I’m feeling and chatters about ordering breakfast tacos. I try to reply sensibly, but inside, I’m fighting for my life. A veritable tide of questions rises and crests. They flow to the forefront of my mind and swish around on the tip of my tongue.
All of them are questions about Connor’s sex toys.
What constitutes a collection of toys? How many are we talking? More than three, or more than five?
What does he have? A Fleshlight? A dildo? Butt plugs? A vibe?
What the hell does “not big, but well-rounded” even mean?
He orders the tacos, rambling about what a life-affirming combination bacon and guacamole is, as I Venmo him money mindlessly.
A million images assault me.
In all of them, Connor is naked. There’s skin everywhere. Freckles too. He’s stretched out on his bed, smiling, with his cock in his hand. There’s a butt plug and lube on the sheet next to him. No, not one plug. Two. They’re different sizes. One is bigger than the other.
He uses the smaller one first.
His smile flickers and fades as he reaches between his legs, nudging the tip in before pushing it inside himself.
“…what do you say?”
I land in the living room with a bump. There’s a question in Connor’s eyes that gives me the impression it’s not the first time he’s asked the question.
“Huh?”
“Are you in or out?”
“I, uh, I’m in.”
The question evaporates and is quickly replaced by what I can only hope is a disproportionate amount of excitement.
Shit. What the hell have I just agreed to?
28
Lennon
I’mdressedandreadyfor work. Gray pants today, with a tucked-in blue-striped shirt that I bought as a joke because it was the dad-est thing I’d ever seen. Guess the joke was on me.
I’m ready to leave, but I’m not moving. Not only that, I’m not even masquerading as a man who has something important to do in the living room. I’m in the hallway, hovering outside the bathroom as Connor takes a shower.
The water has been running for four and a half minutes.
I should go. I’m going to be late for work.
The thing is, he’ll be out of the shower soon, and it would be rude to leave without saying goodbye. And who wants to be rude? There are already so many problems in the world without adding rudeness to them.
It’s fine. I’ll just wait.
The door opens, and despite the fact that I’m actively expecting it to happen, the sudden movement makes me jump.
