Then I walk to the side of Florian’s bed.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Florian
Music fills the bedroom. I think Mateo means for it to be calming, but nothing can be calming under these circumstances.
It’s a massage. I have had many massages before. This is nothing special. Nothing extraordinary.
My bed does not have a cradle for my head, and I glance up at Mateo.
The man is so beautiful.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
And then he touches me.
His touch is firm, like last time. He knows what he is doing. He knows how to touch bodies, how to make them feel better.
I tense beneath his hands, but Mateo is patient. He kneads my muscles and slowly, slowly, slowly I allow myself to relax.
I have been in pain. Pain I ignored yesterday, but which was impossible to ignore today. Unfortunately, my family noticed my absent-minded attempts at self-massage.
I let Mateo focus on my muscles. I let his strong, firm hands touch my bare back, and later I allow his strong, firm hands to touch my bare neck and then my bare legs.
My body tingles, because this is Mateo.
This is a shiny, sparkling man with a kind heart who lied about being someone he wasn’t to protect my feelings, who lied to my family for me, who lied to his workplace, even though workplace relationships can’t be encouraged even if they are tolerated.
He spent his free evening at my side, even though he knew it would be awkward. And now he’s massaging me.
He is not my boyfriend.
He is a man who did not like me.
I hope he doesn’t feel that way now. I do not think he does.
Mateo continues to massage and massage and massage, and my mind clears as I focus on the music and the touch of his fingers.
He works my thighs.
And though my thighs are not near my cock, not that near, at least, in an unprofessional sense, my body does not understand.
My body only understands that a beautiful man is touching me.
My body is a fool.
Once again, I harden. Once again, my cock grows.
I shift against the mattress. It is too soft compared to the massage table. I feel even more unsteady than before, and my heartbeat quickens and quickens and my nerves zing and zing, even though I tell them not to.
This is not special.
This is not Mateo, my boyfriend.
That man never existed. One day Mateo will be the boyfriend of someone who woos him properly, who gives him everything nice, who does not hide in janitor’s closets when he approaches, amidst the strong-smelling detergent and the not very clean mops, gray from overuse, and the yellow plastic cart with all its easy access to cleaning tools to wipe away any signs of twenty-something messy hockey players.
