I’m a complicated specialist. Give it to me straight—or gay, whatever fits.
I just can’t be in a relationship with a man. It’s simply impossible with my type of entourage.
Okay, but you don’t have to be in a relationship. You’re the one who told me to do what feels right, and there’s no need to label myself, so maybe take your own advice, my dude. Unless you still have some hang-ups about preferring dick to pussy?
I don’t prefer dick to pussy. I’m fine with both. And yes, I surprised myself by how easily I accept that fact. I guess I admitted that I truly loved the sexual experience, even if my brain is still fighting to fully fall into it.
The brain will always fight.
Even for someone who’s been out as bi for a while?
You came out as bi?
Not me, him.
I don’t know. What are you asking me for? I’m as new as you to this game.
Let me ask you. If he seemed to enjoy the oral, judging by how much he came down my throat, why do you think he stormed out, refusing to look at me, and then proceeded to ignore me? I mean, I’m a beginner, but I don’t think I was that bad.
Maybe he didn’t enjoy it as much as you thought. But it’s better if you ask him. That is, if you still want to talk to the prick after he dared to ghost you.
My heart falls as I read and reread Gareth’s words, specifically “Maybe he didn’t enjoy it as much as you thought.” That’s the only thing that makes sense and the possibility I’ve been thinking about since that day.
Because why else would he disappear after invading my life for so long?
Was he disappointed? The reality was worse than his fantasy, and he didn’t want to proceed?
All this time, I refused to text him, especially not first, but now, I type a few words. My finger hovers over the Send button before I hit it.
Are you done playing games?
He doesn’t read the text.
Almost as if he’s erased me from his life.
And the rage festering beneath my skin erupts, flooding to the surface, front, right, and center.
An hour later,I’m walking around the charity event. Washington DC isn’t an arbitrary location; it’s beencarefully chosen to be a neutral ground for all the factions attending.
The mansion-turned-diplomatic-hall exudes elegance with a steel-lined spine. Columns of pale stone rise like sentinels beneath a ceiling dressed with painted clouds and golden trim, designed to impress the men gathered here.
Russians—mostly Russian Americans such as myself. Only a few were born in Russia and raised there like Mom, and they’re mostly from an older generation.
I trail Dad, exchanging greetings with the people he presents me to, pride flickering in his gaze.
“Meet my son.”
“Have you met my son?”
“This is my pride and joy, Vaughn.”
My mother did the same a while ago, introducing me to business associates of the Ivanovs—her side of the family.
Both she and my dad keep praising me, my intellect, my achievements, how “lucky” they are to have me, and I have to physically stop myself from loosening my tuxedo’s bow tie.
I go through the motions, acting the part, being absorbed into our surroundings in order to ignore the discomfort bubbling within.
Crystal chandeliers drip warm light onto polished floors, catching on jeweled wrists and the sharp glint of cuff links. Classical music hums in the background—Prokofiev, I believe—but no one’s really listening. The melody floats above the room like tension waiting to snap.
