At least, I used to.
I wake him with a gentle nudge of my foot and serve him his breakfast – French toast with maple syrup and bacon. He takes the plate and looks down at it dejectedly.
“Oh no. I’m in the mood for something healthy today.”
I deploy every ounce of my once infallible self-control and use it to stop myself from reacting. It doesn’t come as easily as it used to, but I manage. I’m positive I see a small flicker of disappointment in his eyes. I place his coffee down on the bedside table with care. He acknowledges it with a self-righteous flick of his chin. I keep an eye on him as I clean up the kitchen. For all his complaints, he doesn’t seem in the slightest bit inclined not to eat the meals I make. It’s infuriating he feels the need to whine about them. I’m only one cup of coffee down and not at my best, so I allow myself brief leeway to imagine slapping the plate out of his hands, sending his food flying all over him. I try not to smile when I think of how shocked he’d be. His eyes would widen and then narrow, and his lips would form a small circle. He’d be half asleep and sticky. Covered in syrup. I’d lean down and help him clean up. He’d be annoyed by that, so I’d do it again. And again. Then, I’d do it with my lips. My lips and my tongue.
What?
No!
This has to stop. My behavior yesterday was…I don’t know. I honestly don’t even know what to call it.Unacceptable– there’s a word for it. It was completely and utterly unacceptable. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s a complete mystery. As strange as it was, I’m even more mystified as to what the hell he was thinking, it’s clear he can’t stand me. It’s abundantly clear he doesn’t think I’m good enough for him to wipe the soles of his shoes on. When I think about it, the fact that he agreed to give me a blowjob was a hell of a lot weirder than it was for me to ask him to do it.
I look over at him again. His blonde hair is messy. The bits at the back are standing up and the front bits have fallen into his face. He should look ridiculous, but he doesn’t. He looks the exact opposite. He’s picking at his food, taking his time cutting the French toast into small, perfect squares and dunking them liberally in syrup before raising the fork to his mouth. His lips are puffy, swollen with sleep. I look away quickly, but by the time I do, his lips aren’t the only thing swollen.
The phone rings, it’s – let’s call him Fred. My business partner, Fred. He gives me a quick update. There’s no cause for concern. Aside from my big lapse in common sense yesterday, the job is going as expected. I hang up the phone and as I do it, something gnaws deep in my chest. I know the feeling well. Distrust. I’ve worked with Fred for years. I’ve never trusted him fully, but then again, I don’t trust anyone. This feeling, this sharper than usual little twist, started a few months back when he recommended his pal, Russel, to run online surveillance. It’s changed the dynamic between us and not in a good way. Every time I’m around them, I feel like I’m getting a warning. Much as I’d love to ignore the feeling, I haven’t survived as long as I have by ignoring my gut. It’s a pity they know so much about me. Too much. If they didn’t, I’d have shaken them off and moved on a long time ago. It’s a problem I’m going to have to address but right now, I need to keep my head in the game.
I go out of my way to claw back some sort of control regarding the situation with Damon. Todayhasto be different. I acknowledge each of his complaints and answer all his questions as patiently as I possibly can. Now and again, I feel myself grinding my teeth. When that happens, I breathe slowly and deeply, and use a visualization technique I learned in the military to help with staying focussed on a target.
“What’s the time?” he asks, not bothering to look up at the clock.
“Ten thirty.”
“Hmm, that makes you almost an hour late.”
“Late for what?” I ask patiently.
“Your little gay freak out. All straight guys have them after the first time they stick their cocks in a guy’s mouth.”
“Ah,” I say, “good point.” He preens in satisfaction. Positively thrilled thinking he’s ruffled me. “Just one problem…”
“What’s that?” he croons.
“I’m gay, so you might be waiting a while for that little freak out.”
His face drops. His eyes widen and his mouth forms a hard line. “The fuck you are.”
“Yup,” I smile, “gold star gay.”
I accepted my sexuality many, many years ago but I’ve never felt a truer sense of pride than I do right now. My admission has floored him. His face flicks through several emotions one after the other. Shock. Disbelief. Anger. And something resembling horror. He looks set to combust. His eyes flash wildly, and he pinches his lips together.
“Oh,” he says, with a sharp twitch of his head.
He’s quiet for a long time after that. He watches a whole movie without saying a word. It’s a mercy. I make lunch at my leisure. Cutting and dicing in such peace I catch myself humming once or twice. He eats his meal without a word of complaint.
“I’m going to have a nap,” he announces as soon as he’s done, then lies down on the bed and doesn’t move for almost two hours. He lies on his back with his hands at his sides. His eyes are closed but I can tell from his breathing he’s awake. I admit it’s a bit of a struggle not to look at him longer than I absolutely need to. Still, I can’t think of a time I’ve enjoyed peace and quiet more in my entire life.
My relief is short-lived. As soon as he rises, he does it with gusto. My telling him I’m gay obviously knocked the stuffing out of him, but now he’s rallied.
Dear God. He’s rallied.
His pale eyes glint like steel. His mind is made up. He looks terrifyingly determined. For the first time in years, fear roils in my gut. If I thought he’d been annoying before, I was sorely mistaken. I had no idea how annoying a person could be. No idea whatsoever.
He has me on the ropes. He’s in a frenzy. Pelleting me with questions and complaints, and idiotic observations that break my concentration so much I feel like my brain is short-circuiting. He annoys me so much I seriously consider walking out and leaving him here to fend for himself against Fred and Russel. The afternoon crawls by. He doesn’t stop talking at all. Not for a split second. I glance up at the clock in desperation at four o’clock and then again what feels like hours later. It isn’t. It’s only seven minutes past four. I work out at five and then again after dinner. I was planning on making grilled salmon with a soy sauce and brown sugar marinade tonight, but by the time dinner time rolls around I’m so scattered from his incessant interruptions, all I can manage is to reheat some tomato soup I keep in the freezer in case of emergency.
“Ew, soup,” he says. “The service is slipping.”
I don’t reply. Instead, I count the minutes until I can feasibly put him to bed.
