As Angelina begins her rundown of the highlights, Greg picks out words he helped Julien study in those late-night strip sessions that were equal parts sexy and serious. His heart wobbles as he wonders if being here tonight is a betrayal of all the growth he’s made since settling in Allentown.
Without fully thinking about what he’s saying, Greg orders one of Julien’s favorites for himself—Lambrusco, a sparkling red wine from Italy. It’s one they had at a paint-and-sip at Studio Artiste. Why he’s so set on hurting himself through his taste buds is beyond him. The matter is only made worse when Stryker insists they get a bottle instead.
Over heavy pours of memories in a glass, Greg remains as present as possible. Through four courses, two bottles, and several photos taken for branded content, Greg nods and agrees and chimes in when it feels appropriate in the small gaps Stryker leaves in his near continuous monologue about new clubs, old friends, and the many pitfalls of Ubering in NYC.
It’s not until they’re back at Stryker’s cavernous apartment, which could be Greg’s apartment soon should he play his cards right, that he comes to terms with two things: one, he never answered, either way, about moving in with Stryker even though their meal lasted just under two and a half hours; two, he’s far more drunk than he intended to get.
It’s a hazard of his medication. There’s a woozy sleepiness that fills his body as he settles on Stryker’s black leather couch that probably costs more than Rufus’s grandmother’s house.
“Nightcap?” Stryker asks after he’s slipped into something more comfortable, which turns out to be the tiniest shorts imaginable that show off his thighs, a barely there tank top, and a kimono that scarcely clears his ass.
In his present state, with eye candy temptingly dangled in front of him, Greg figureswhy not?
The more alcohol he has in his system, the less Julien is on his mind. The less Julien is on his mind, the more Greg can, despite his double vision, imagine what his life might look like in this apartment. Waking up in the morning and making Nespresso. Filming TikToks in areal, enviable, picturesque kitchen. Having sex in a California king bed.
A California king bed which Greg, another glass of wine later, finds himself in, nestled against million-thread-count sheets and pressed against Stryker Storm.
Their kisses can’t quite be classified—scorching, burning? Greg is too busy cataloging the differences between kissing Julien, a right he earned, and kissing Stryker, something Stryker seemed to expect from him when he suggested they relocate to the bedroom.
Greg, not wanting Julien to interfere with this, lets his hands ground him in the moment. His head may be bobbly and his heart may be hiccupy, but his palms roam with a desperate want. This isn’t exactly a want forStryker. No, perhaps, it’s more of a desperate want to be satisfied with his decision. To belong. To know stability for once in his life. To not use positivity as a mask for what’s uncomfortable but to manifest it through his everyday with ease.
Despite his best efforts, with Stryker grinding on top of him, pressing onto him with equal weight, Greg can’t seem to get it up.
Stryker is, without a doubt, a prime specimen of human. Worked out in ways rarely seen outside of superhero movies. Hair so full and luscious it could have its own shampoo campaign. Yet no matter where Greg’s hands land—the two perfect, smooth globes of Stryker’s ass or his perky, pink erect nipples—Greg can’t overcome the voices in his head asking him if this is the right move.
Tackling it almost as a challenge, Stryker moves to take Greg in his mouth. Ten minutes, maybe more. Stryker licks and sucks and fondles. Greg likes the sensation. He does. But it doesn’t matter if he closes his eyes or watches, relaxes or tenses. Nothing he does makes his boner appear.
Dread covers Greg like a wet blanket when Stryker starts easing up and shifting away. His jaw is probably tired. Greg notices Stryker’s dick is flaccid now, too.
“Sorry,” Greg mutters, swiping his hands across his hot cheeks. “It’s the wine and my GAD and the medication.”
Stryker nods, not looking at him. “I figured. I guess I just assumed you’d stopped taking it. You seem so...”
Greg sits up. “So what?”
Stryker edges off the bed, lifts his broad shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Happy, I guess.”
A freight train crashes into Greg’s sternum. Happy? When he and Stryker reconnected, Greg was reeling from Julien’s words in the airport drop-off lane which, now that he’s had more time and distance from the conversation to process, he can admit were probably partially to do with his own bad timing. Regardless, how could Stryker have mistaken him for plainly happy? Isn’t that a feeling reserved for those uncomplicatedly in love?
Love.
In a way, Greg loves Julien. It is probably too true to ignore now. But too late, all the same.
“Just because I seem happy doesn’t mean I stop having a mental illness,” Greg says.
Stryker is slipping back into his shorts and kimono. “Yeah.”
The sentiment clearly didn’t land the way Greg intended it to. Despite that, he still wants to reassure Stryker. Greg has quit his job. Greg has given up his room in Rufus’s house. Greg has to make his second chance at life in New York City work.
“It’s not you.” Though, Greg will have to wrestle with the validity of that statement later, because maybe it is a little bit Stryker.
The comfort Julien provided him inside the bedroom was part of what mitigated the pressure to perform, which made the experience more pleasurable and helped his erection come to the party. Sure, the second medication helped, too. And it definitely didn’t hurt that Julien was so delicately beautiful in an unbreakable way, but still.
Everything about this scene from the luxury mattress to the silky sheets should give him comfort, but the steely gaze of misunderstanding from the man on the other side of the room negates all other sensations.
“I’m sorry,” Greg says, even though he doesn’t want to be.
“It’s fine,” Stryker says. It’s such a sharp contrast to Julien’s open acceptance of Greg’s ED struggles. “I’m going to shower.”
