“No, I need to come.” I’ve been on edge all day, and when Jean-Pierre was giving me instructions, I kept sprouting spontaneous wood.
“How long has it been?” Cassius asks like he hasn’t been keeping track, but I’ve seen the calendar app on his phone because it’s linked to my own. He records whenever I come,July 10: Adam orgasmed from masturbation.
“Three days,” I tell him.
“Is that all?”
“That’s a long-ass time.”
“But your focus has improved.”
“Yeah, but every time Jean-Pierre told me I was doing a good job, I wanted to jump on his dick.” It might have been the accent too. I can see why he was such a heartthrob in the eighties.
“We certainly can’t have that,” Cassius says and scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I was going to take you to lunch and teach you some proper table manners, but we’ll go home instead. There’s something I’ve been wanting to show you for a while now anyway.”
“What is it?” I ask, my heart rate instantly spiking. He turns and grins at me wickedly. I’d swear my asshole clenches.
“Patience, dove.”
Chapter7
Cassius
Isuppose you could say we’re settling in, getting to know each other’s habits and routines, finding out what makes the other tick. Like any new relationship, I’m slowly conditioning Adam to my way of doing things, and he’s adapting surprisingly well. Luckily his career is in a bit of a lull, so there’s plenty of time to devote to the task. I don’t do anything halfway.
As it turns out, he’s even more obsessed with his looks than I thought. He spends at least twenty minutes every morning in front of my mother’s bedroom mirror, cooing and warbling at his reflection. But even beyond this strange ritual, the boy can’t pass a reflective surface without flexing his biceps or lifting his shirt and tightening his abs, or worse, picking his zits, which is ridiculous because his pores are practically non-existent, and his skin always has a dewy luster like it’s been recently misted with mineral water.
“You’re going to give yourself scars,” I say to him one day as he’s attacking his face like it’s a needlepoint.
“I don’t care,” he says sullenly. “They’re so gross. I can’t stand them.”
“Well, I care. I don’t want the world’s most beautiful man to have facial scarring from your obsessive need to pick at everything.” I come right up behind him and draw his hands away from his face so that he can see the swollen mound of flesh where he’s made himself bleed. “That’s enough, Adam. I’m going to make you wear mittens if I catch you at it again.”
“Fine,” he says with a sulk and stomps off to wherever he was going before the mirror derailed him.
Still every once in a while, when he gets the itch, he’ll pause in front of a mirror, then glance over to see if I’m watching before scowling and moving along.
We’re making excellent progress in the physical realm too. I thought I’d have more time to ease him into our new routine, but he’s in a constant state of rut, and I can’t have him propositioning Jean-Pierre with sexual congress. The man knew my mother. How tacky would that be?
We’re sitting side-by-side in my home theater with the shades drawn so that it’s pitch black except for the snowy light of the movie screen. I’ve made Adam popcorn (no butter) and he is happily munching away on it. He thinks we’re going to watch a regular old movie. What a surprise I have in store for him!
“What’s the name of this one?” he asks.
“It doesn’t have a name, but it’s become quite popular as of late.”
“Indie?”
“You could say that. Definitely low budget. One of the actors is a complete unknown but shows real promise. A diamond in the rough.”
“Coolio.”
I grind my teeth at his terribly outdated, dude-bro sayings and press play on the remote. The screen darkens and transforms to a slightly grainy texture because the set wasn’t properly lit, and it was filmed on something like a camera phone with poor resolution. The scene opens to reveal a bamboozled Adam, fully clothed and sitting on the edge of a hotel bed. The duvet has been discarded already, so the viewer can easily guess where this thing is headed. He’s got a dopey, lusting smile as he gazes up at Holly and Diego with complete naivety—he must be half in the bag already—while the two of them close in on him like a pair of jackals. Such poor technique. Anyone halfway attractive can get someone drunk enough to convince them to have sex. But fully sober in the light of day? That’s where the real skill comes in.
“Oh fuck,” Adam says next to me, mouth open mid-chew to show his half-masticated popcorn.
“Have you seen this one already?” I ask, pausing the video.
“Only the PG clips they show on the news shows.”
