You’re an idiot.
I think it in English this time. Which somehow makes it more real. And I don’t break my stare with the phone screen. I scroll through the photos a few more times. As if one more look might flick the switch back. Prove I’ve got it wrong and those swathesof bare skin and curved muscle, the way he grips himself with clever hands, haven’t left me forgetting how my lungs work.
Doesn’t happen.
I try to breathe through the ache the sharp rush of desire has left me with. But it’s not just my dick. I can handle that.
It’s the tug in my chest.
The way my racing thoughts quiet when I look at him.
The way he didn’t feel like a stranger when he grinned at me through the van window.
A smile like that shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
And like the worst things in life I know way too much about, the only balm for the pain ismore.
I tap back through the photos until I come to his profile page and read it properly.
He’s six-three and pansexual.
Looking for men, women, and everything in between. His interests are one-on-one, three-ways, oral, and topping, and his locationstillhas himfifty feet from where I stand.
I don’t have the words in any language to describe how that makes me feel. Just that the stress in my blood ebbs and flows as if it’s as lost for what to do with itself as I am.
The urge to run a mile remains as strong as ever, but…
I want more.
Ineedmore.
And giving into that need, it doesn’t feel wrong.
I tap the screen again. Another thumbprint and I’m in the message he sent me and typing out a reply.
LeLionDuBois96:Much better…now you’re here xx
Lame.
Cheesy.
The truth.
I don’t look at my phone for six hours. Notifications for FlingIt are disabled and even though Tam extends his kidnapping operation until lunchtime, I have plenty to keep me occupied.
Tam and Bhodi want me to go back to the gym. Like they think I lost half my personality when I quit going to be a full-time dad. I’ve never got round to telling them I don’t miss it. Can’t lie that I crave the buzz, though. The endorphins. So I spend my morning grocery shopping, cleaning the house as if I’m expecting the social to come banging on my door, and lugging my old weight bench out of storage.
I set it up on the back deck. Pile some free weights next to it. Then I figure I might as well get round to fixing the lean-to style roof that protects it and shimmy up the side of the house.
It’s a cold day. My ladder’s iced up, so I leave it be and use the drainpipe instead. Fix the roof and slide back down.
My T-shirt’s wet.
I peel it off and stuff it in my back pocket, stealing a glance at my phone, face down on the weight bench where I left it. It’s still set to loud. I’d have heard it if Tam or Bhodi had tried to reach me. But it still calls to me and now I’ve run out of things to do, I’m weak to the tug in my gut.
Just a peek.
I take a pew on the bench and swipe my phone to life. Check I haven’t missed something that matters, then tap my daft self into FlingIt.
