“Ah, fuck,” I moan as the first jet shoots out, striking Ezra’s upper thigh. The sight of my cum staining his skin pulls me out of the moment, and I stand, backing away, but my dick is on autopilot, and it just sends more cum splashing against the side of both his and Bubba’s faces. Ezra looks scandalized, but Bubba looks amazed.
“That’s my fuckin’ boy,” Bubba cheers, but Ezra’s still shaking his head in disbelief.
“You just came on my face,” Ezra says, wiping the cum from his cheek and staring at it like its existence makes no sense at all.
“You said it was okay,” I argue as my toes curl, and my orgasm fades.
“I said it was okay to come. Not to come on my face.”
“You came on him earlier, baby,” Bubba reminds him, and Ezra nods in agreement, slowly coming to terms with what just happened. My cum is still leaking out of my cock like a faulty tap, dripping down into the boat, and as they stare at me, I step back, horrified with myself, because what the fuck did I just do? I came on my best bro, and I came on the face of a potential new friend. I take another step back, but the bucket Ezra seems to hate is still back there, and I trip, falling on my ass and rocking back and forth on my back like a roly poly. I try to right myself, but the force is too strong, and I bang my head on something hard. Stars spin around me and the world goes black.
I don’t know what’s going on. There are a few flashes of light, then splashes of water. The next thing I know, I’m fully submerged, and a pair of big, strong arms wrap around me, pulling me back in the boat. As I'm being lifted, there’s a shriek, and the distinct sound of Ezra squealing, “Why the fuck am I orange?”
Motherfuck.
Bubba holds me in his arms, cradling me close, telling me everything’s going to be okay, but as Ezra stares down at me, he’s got murder written all across his tangerine-hued face, turning darker and darker, second by second. He lifts his now-orange hand and flips me off, letting his middle finger linger in the air.
“You piece of fucking shit,” he hisses, every trace of kindness stripped from his voice. “I knew this was a trick. I fucking knew it,Johnny. I tried to be nice, but the gloves are off.” He storms across the small boat, down the dock, and back toward the pickup.
“I guess the fishing trip is over,” I say with a sigh.
Bubba nods and lifts his hand, probably to console me, but stops when he spots a little of my leftover load on the seat. He swipes his finger through my mess, and without breaking eye contact, brings it to his mouth.
“Bubba,” I breathe.
He licks my cum from his finger and moans a growl that makes my heart race. Licking his lips, his hungry eyes burn holes in me. “Yeah, baby. I’d say it is.”
“Spirits guide me,” I whisper to my spirit guide, Barbara, holding my newly orange hand to my heart.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” she says to me, but it’s not a real voice. It can’t be heard by others. Barbara livesonly in my heart, and each word she whispers pumps through me like blood, pooling in the sides of my face, making me feel warm and fuzzy.
“Yes, well, if ifs and buts were candies and nuts, we’d all have an overflowing bank account, but here we are. For God’s sake, Babs, I’ve asked you not to do this. You know I get nervous before I put on a show, and your judgmental tone doesn’t help.”
There’s a strange stinging sensation in the section of my heart where Barbara resides. I’ve only felt it a handful of times, and both of those were before I realized I had psychic senses, so I just assumed it was heartburn. Once was the day my mother died. I felt it again when Dad kicked me out. Most recently, I experienced the sting when me and my best friends all performed an acappella concert at a special housing unit for queer men in a place called Pretty Boy Prison. They all laughed at us because we aren’t really good singers, but Barbara didn’t. The whole time they were laughing, but all I felt was nurturing love.
Barbara sighs.
“Just remember the rule. Once the psychic sessions end and the fun begins, you leave the room.”
“I’m not in the room. I’m in your heart, baby.”
“I’m not your baby. I’m the man you’ve latched yourself upon.” I pat my shoulder like she has her hand on it. “I know you don’t have eyes, but keep them closed anyway. You don’t need to see this.” I pat her non-existent hand again. “I love you, Babs.”
There’s an explosion of warmth in my heart, and though she doesn’t say it back, she really doesn’t have to. I feel it here in my heart.
My laptop dings in the background, notifying me another user just logged in to watch my live stream. Behind me, incense burns, creating a smoky, mysterious atmosphere. Above, windchimes twinkle a gentle song, due in part to the oscillating tower fan I have aimed in the chime’s direction, because it adds a mystical ambiance that reallysets the mood. Ahead of me, a table with a crystal ball, a special-made tarot deck with my best friend Aussie acting out all the cards, and an endless array of pink and purple crystals.
While the decorations on my work desk are captivating enough, I think it’s pretty obvious I steal the show. I’m wearing a hot pink harness, bedazzled to hell and back with rhinestones, and a pink jockstrap. On my head, there’s a stunning pink psychic scarf with a big, gaudy gemstone in the center. Bubba bought it for me, he just doesn’t know yet. The ensemble is giving Cocky Boys meets Dynasty meets Sylvia Crowne, and I love that for me.
It’s been two days since Johnny tampered with my sunscreen, dying my skin orange like that evil motherfucker in the White House. I look absolutely tragic, and no matter how many layers of foundation I apply, the tangerine hue shines through. For my last two live streams, I’ve had to film myself in black and white so I don’t come across as a far-right fanboy. I don’t particularly care for the look of it, but I’d much rather look like a slutty episode of I Banged Lucy than a you-know-who supporter. Fucking gag.
Johnny’s been strangely quiet ever since we got home. He just sits there, looking guilty as hell. Good. He is guilty. Guilty of ruining my flawless skin by turning into a hideous shade of orange. Part of me thinks the incident was flat-out malicious, but then I remember the way Johnny looked when he held me as I shot my load. He may have hated me up to now, but it feels like something shifted in that boat. I mean, he told me to come for him. He called me a good boy. Then he came for me.Because of me. All over my now-orange face. Those aren’t the actions of someone who hates your guts.
It felt like progress. Maybe even like inevitability, but that inevitable feeling feels smaller and smaller each time I look in the mirror and see myself, because I’m reminded of why Johnny Boyd is literally theworst. I look godawful. I’ll get him back for this, and when I do, it will be fucking brutal.
But I kind of don’t want it to be brutal for him.
“Welcome,” I say to my viewers, pinching my right nipple to make it poke out. The men who subscribe to my profile expect slutty psychic services of the highest caliber, and I always deliver. “The night is young and alight with possibility. The spirits are speaking. Are you prepared to listen?” I glance down at the chat window and scowl, because they’re not paying attention to my words at all. For fuck’s sake.
