He imagined it would be an hour, hours, maybe even a day before he got a response from Dean. To his surprise, three little dots began bouncing right away. Then Dean’s response came through…
Dean: Hey Colton! Great to hear from you. Sure, I’d be happy to show you around my studio. My studio is actually in my home. Give me a call at 408-000-2010, and we’ll set something up.
After he received Dean’s message, Colton felt a sense of unease settling in.I’m not sure I want to go to his house.Colton thought.Maybe I shouldn’t do this.
Colton allowed his mind to wander into a dark place, fueled by gay stereotypes and stupid television plotlines.
What if he tried to get me drunk, or drug me, and take advantage of me?
Colton huffed and shook his head.You’ve met the guy. You know he wouldn’t do that. Just call him.
Sometimes, Colton had trouble thinking for himself. All his life, he’d been told what to do and when to do it by his parents, trainers, and coaches. Playing football was predictable and organized. Colton didn’t have to think that much, just perform.
Quite often, he felt more like a puppet or a machine than an actual person. There was no time to analyze whether or not he should have juked left instead of right, or if he could have run that pick play differently. His coaches would tell him if he did it right, wrong, or if he could have done it better.
Yes, practice and games were structured, and Colton didn’t have to think too much, but relying on that structure his whole life meant sometimes it could be crippling for Colton, to make a decision on his own.
Fuck it! I’m calling.Colton grabbed his phone and dialed the number.
“Hey, Dean, it’s Colton.”
“Hey, man, how are you?” He let out a small laugh. “Your message was funny.”
“What was funny about it?” Colton scrunched his brows, not understanding Dean’s comment.
“Your message said ‘it’s Colton, from the video shoot’. Did you think I wouldn’t remember who you were?” Dean teased, laughing again.
Now Colton got it and let out a little chuckle.
“Ah, makes sense. Sorry." After an awkward pause, Colton continued. "Anyway. I wanted to see a real music studio and maybe pick up some tips on guitar. If it’s too much trouble, I understand.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you play guitar. That’s awesome! I’d be happy to help.”
There was a pause on the call…
“But I need to be completely honest with you, Colton. You should know, before you come over…I’m gay.”
Colton grinned, immediately feeling more at ease.
“Fuck man, I already know that.”
“Oh…okay. Great! I just didn’t want you to feel I was being dishonest. Or, you know, inviting you to my place under false pretenses, to try and lure you into my dungeon of passion.”
“Uh, do you have a dungeon?” Colton asked.
“Of course, all gay men have a dungeon. But I gave my sex slaves the day off today, so it’s empty right now. If you’re nice, I’ll show it to you when you get here, maybe let you play with some toys.”
Colton honestly couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Fine! Be that way. I’ll text you my address.”
To Colton’s surprise, Dean’s place was really close to the stadium and practice facility. He lived in a beautiful old eight-story brick industrial building on the waterfront that had been converted to residences. Dean was in the penthouse.
Colton checked in at the security desk, stepped off the elevator on the top floor into a small lobby area, and rang the doorbell.
Dean answered the door wearing tight-fitting designer jeans and a blue t-shirt with ‘Balls Deep Plumbing’ in white letters across the chest. His t-shirt was tight enough to show off his chest and frame his biceps. He looked like a walking billboard for sex.
