1

There's only one difference between a spit-roast and an Eiffel Tower, and it's all in the lips, baby.

This is a very important distinction. The spit-roast is two separate relationships—one between the back and the middle, and another between the front and the middle. They don't really interact, unless you count the occasional high-five, whichshould be happening if it's done right.

Teamwork and all.

An Eiffel Tower is a full on three-way. It's a triangle where everyone shares the love, and by golly, that means some kissing.

Honestly, both are great... as long as I'm the one in the middle.

Listen, I'm an attention whore and I like men.

Love them, even.

That's a given, right? I've mentioned it before, and I'll mention it now: I've known I was gay since before I grew my first pube, when Drew Meadows was forced to hold my hand on a field trip in the fourth grade. He looked appalled, and I was smitten.

Over the years, I've built up quite the collection of crushes.

Girls don't interest me. Never have. I have zero desire to know about whatever… flappage is going on underneath their clothes. Nope, I'm perfectly happy being in the dark on all that.

Now, their undergarments…

Superior in every way.

It's like a gathering of macho men conspired to create men's underwear from the itchiest and most unattractive material imaginable. "How can we make these less gay?" I'm sure someone asked, as they pulled out the drab gray fabric that likes to stretch out after a couple of washes. Baggy legs and saggy butts… I shudder at the thought.

Women are a different story.

They know what's up. A rainbow of colors and a variety of soft fabrics, all while framing that booty. You don't even need a butt for it to look good in a pair of cheekies.

It's fucking magic.

I have a drawer of lacy undergarments that is salacious and bursting at the seams. My mood changes, sometimes daily, and there are times I pull out something new and sinful. Shocking, even. But at the end of every day, every single one, I have a favorite pair I always return to. The others might be fun, but they're temporary. The thrill always fades.

Not my favorite pair. Nope, I'd wear them daily, even though at first glance they're practical and not overly exciting. Supportive, though. Comfy. Not very flashy, and definitely not scandalous… more of a low-key sexy.

Even so, I love them. Would go so far as to fill my drawer with the same style and color if they'd just stop being so goddamned stubborn.

This is an analogy, if you haven't picked up on it by now. I'm not actually talking about undies anymore.

A door slams, bringing me out of my head, and one of my most recent man-crush victims enters the studio room with his beaming smile lighting up the entire space. Anyone with eyes can appreciate the guy, with his ridiculously tall stature and thick hair that highlights his chiseled square jaw and full lips.

A visual feast.

Now, if he were a pair of undies, he'd be something leather and skimpy. Something that screams, ‘I'm too manly to be called panties.' Sexy, but, if I'm being honest, would probably chafe my ass after a while.

Dmitri is unbelievably nice, beyond what any one person should be allowed, and I was smitten with him the moment we met. "Theo!" he calls, letting that enormous smile spread even further as he reaches his fist out for a bump. I ball my hand up and knock it against his, laughing at the size difference. It's like a tennis ball smacked into a basketball.

"Thanks, Sticks," I tease as I meet his gaze with a smile of my own. "I've been waiting all day to get fisted by you."

A loud, booming laugh blasts from his lips, accompanied by a low grumble from his back. His boyfriend… sorry, fiancé… walks in behind him with a raised brow notched and aimed in my direction.

With a sarcastic gasp, I cover my heart with my hands. "And look at you, Eric, showing up on time and everything. Holy shit, I'm like a proud papa."

Dmitri glances over his shoulder, catching Eric as he scowls at me. When their eyes meet, Eric's face softens and I swear to God, his eyes sparkle.

They sparkle.

We're talking bling-bling, diamonds in his irises like some cheesy bodice ripper romance novel. Edward-Cullen's-ass-cheeks-in-the-sun levels of shiny.

Once upon a time, I had an itty-bitty, tee-tiny little crush on Eric as well, despite the fact that he was straight.

Watching them make goo-goo eyes at each other, I can't help but snort to myself.

Let's backtrack so I can revise my previous statement. When he thought he was straight, I had a microscopic, short-lived crush on him. Really, who can blame me? Thick frame, wavy blond hair that curls in the humidity, and broody as fuck with a sarcastic edge that took a lifetime to sharpen.

The two of them are so adorable together that it's nauseating. Constantly touching and kissing, whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears… they're so intense it borders uncomfortable. But do they care?

No, they certainly do not.

It's like staying at your grandmother's house as a kid while she watched those daytime soap operas that were soft porn in disguise. You know the ones—side boob slips and passionate moans while kissing. Your eleven-year-old self knew you shouldn't look, but damn if you couldn't stop peeking from between your fingers.

I'll admit, it stung when a straight man swooped in and stole my newest crush, but watching them together erases any lingering bitterness.

I'm happy for them.

Now, would I turn down the chance to slide in between the sheets with either of them?

Better yet, both of them? At the same time?

No.

Let me clarify a little louder for those in the back— Fuck no.

Allow me to set the stage, as I've given this a lot of thought. Candles everywhere, mood lighting to the extreme while I pose in some cute little lacy number. Dmitri at my front, giving me the chance to stare at that V in his abs as I suck his life straight out of him. Eric behind me, because I would bet every penny in my bank account that he's got Dmitri outclassed when it comes to girth.

There's an air about him that screams, ‘I've got a cock as thick as a soda can.' Something along the lines of Big Dick Energy… Fat Cock Energy? FCE?

Whatever it is, he's got it in truckloads. My eyes slip to the pronounced curves of his ass. Dump truck loads, perhaps.

This scenario brings up a very important philosophical question: Would this be a spit-roast or an Eiffel Tower?

Easy.

The two of them spend eighty percent of their life kissing, so I guarantee they'd be making out over my back while Eric railed my ass and Dmitri unloaded into my throat.

France, it is.

The perfect setting for a classic love story.

A dreamy sigh leaves my lips as both men from my fantasy direct their attention towards me, their expressions questioning. Deciding against sharing my current train—heh, train —of thought, I change course. "Show me that gorgeous ring again, Eric."

With a smile so wide I could give him a dental treatment, he extends his hand. The surface is black, like polished tungsten, and engraved with two shooting stars that glimmer in the inky darkness.

Like I said, disgustingly romantic.

"Where's your ring, Sticks?" I ask as he tilts his head at me. "Ooooh," I whisper, drawing out the sound and giving him a knowing nod. "Can't show it to me? Matching cock ring, amiright?" Dmitri's jaw hinges while Eric erupts into laughter. "I always knew y'all were kinky sons of bitches."

Kinky enough to include me in that aforementioned trip to the Eiffel Tower? That remains to be seen.

"Are you guys done gossiping over there, or do you need a few minutes to do your nails and makeup before we get started?" Dante's voice rings out from across the room, and like every time I hear him, my heart does this stupid little two-step inside my chest.

I put my hand over my mouth in jest, turning to stare at him with wide eyes. "I haven't refreshed my guyliner in hours, Dante! How do you always know exactly what I need?"

He looks at me, lips curling into a gentle smile, before quickly returning to his signature half-scowl, forehead wrinkles and all. The softness is something he doesn't share with the others. That part of him is only for me. He upnods towards the guys, signaling us to join him and get started. Once again, our eyes lock, and a faint smile tugs at my mouth.

Lust is something I'm obviously no stranger to. Flirting and teasing are a natural part of my personality, but it's never serious. Never anything more than a fun idea that often loses its appeal if it ever happens. The thrill of the chase, and all that jazz.

And I've always been okay with that, because they're just placeholders, anyways. Cheap replacements for what I really want. Knock-offs with no real value.

At the end of the day, I come back to him.

I wait for him.

This is beyond that. He is more.

So much more.

Out of the dozens of crushes I've had over the years, none has rivalled the depth of my feelings for this man. Somber and intense, he's a puzzle that's taken me years to start assembling, and every new piece that clicks into place makes me fall harder. No one else has ever come close.

I was only nineteen years old and full of youthful naivety when I met Dante, and the very first time he threw me a skeptical glare, my fate was sealed. I was done.

Finished.

The band's former drummer, Anthony, brought me along to practice when they were still in need of a bassist. He had been my band director in high school and recognized my talent. He'd already put in a good word to the others when he invited me along for what ended up being an audition.

Convincing the others I was the right choice was simple. It only took a few songs, and they were happy.

My guarded, emotionally complex man was not so easily swayed. Dante was twenty-eight, and from the very first time those mistrustful dark brown eyes met mine, my future was carved in stone. He had his doubts about my place in his band—and in his life—but my entire soul had been rearranged to make room for him. Every single cell in my body shifted, making a Dante-sized space in my heart that only he could ever fill.

The arguments he voiced to the others were plentiful.

I was too young.

Too inexperienced.

Too adorable.

Fine, I made the last one up, but there's a good chance it was actually true.

It hasn't been easy to earn his confidence, but I've wormed my way into his heart, one corny pickup line and ridiculous innuendo at a time.

I saunter over and place my hand on his solid chest, savoring the slight hitch of his breath as I tilt my head up towards him. Never able to hide his emotions from me, an audible swallow works his throat as he gazes down and meets my eyes.

"Why do I feel like you were joking about giving me the chance to fix my makeup?" I tease as he lets his lips relax into another sweet smile.

"And how many times have I told you that you're pretty enough without it?" His words are so soft, they almost get lost in the background noise, but I catch them and soak up the compliment.

Dante is notoriously closed off, and it has taken me years of patience and persistence to break through his emotional barriers. He's deep behind his self-constructed wall most of the time, never giving much of himself away. He hides behind an unwavering need for control, craving complete authority over every part of his life.

I return his smile, drinking it in while I can. "Who needs blush when I've got you to pinken my cheeks with all that sweetness?"

"You're the only one who's ever called me sweet," he teases.

"Maybe I'm the only one who gets to see it."

He leans into the gentle pressure of my palm against his chest, only daring to scoot closer by an inch. "Maybe," he murmurs. My smile stutters for a second at the guarded expression on his face.

I toss him a wink, trying to loosen the sudden tension surrounding us. "Don't worry, secret's safe with me." It's clear he's seconds away from retreating into his shell, so I let my sass take front and center to distract from the seriousness between us.

"Of course, other parts of my body could use some attention if we're having this discussion again. You could turn them pink all you want."

"Theo!" He groans, looking up at the ceiling as my hand slides down his chest.

"Want me to list them?"

"Unnecessary," he mutters, his cheeks growing darker.

"You could smack my ass…" Another quiet grumble as he stares upward. "Give me a nice hand necklace…" His eyes snap back to mine, and I recognize the fire that burns in them, even if he refuses to acknowledge its existence. "Or wrap those meaty fingers of yours around my…"

"Okay, time for practice," he shouts with such force that every head snaps in his direction. I can't contain the manic smile that takes over my face as he turns and walks away, his shoulders tense, and for a moment, I just appreciate the view.

When it comes to his looks, Dante is far from being the most attractive man in the room—he's actually quite average. He's the same height as Eric, around six feet tall, and on the hefty side. Eric's body is more sculpted, with an adorable layer of baby fat still visible on his physique even as he approaches thirty, whereas Dante is solidly built from head to toe. Not nearly as defined, but something tells me he's the strongest one in this room.

And let me just say, he can throw me around any time he wants.

Any. Time.

He shaves his head every morning and keeps his facial hair neat across his jaw and lip, barely longer than stubble. His dark caramel skin is a beautiful mix of his heritage, and his bottom lip is noticeably thicker than his upper. Smiles are less common, and his deep brown eyes are often serious.

How is it, you may wonder, that an optimistic, carefree jokester like me could be so smitten with a man who possesses none of those qualities?

It's complicated, but also not.

Think of it like this—you've decided you want a dog. A devoted partner to share your life, to have beside you during the great times, and someone to lean against during the bad ones.

But you don't want one of those designer dogs that are bred to the perfect pedigree. Even though they're gorgeous to look at, they're probably awful to deal with. They already know that everyone wants them. Fuck, there's probably a waiting list of others that are fighting to take them home.

Instead, you go to the rescue, walking through the countless cages of animals that are waiting for the right fit. The ones that were once held by someone who never saw their worth.

They've got so much love to offer, but instead, they've been rejected and left behind.

Abandoned.

You pet the bouncy golden retriever, already smiling and half in love with anyone who will glance in his direction. Then you pass the wiry, tiny yippie dogs that bounce and beg for attention, and the aggressive ones who slam themselves against their cages just so you'll look their way.

And then you see him .

The quiet, watchful one that sits in the back of his cage. There is obvious intelligence in his eyes, and a weariness that suggests he has encountered the worst that humanity has to offer. The way he holds himself, always cautious but never cowering, tells you he is not afraid, but gaining his trust will be gradual.

It will take time and effort, and he can't be rushed.

You kneel in front of his cage, the metal bars cool against your skin, and wait for him to approach. Your movements are calculated so you don't spook him, and you never smile too big at the risk of being seen as a threat. With your hand outstretched, you show him you can be trusted… that he holds the power.

That you'll never hurt him like the world has already hurt him.

And even though it might take months or years, you keep reaching out as he takes those tiny steps forward, waiting for the day he lets you in. Because you're certain—you're sure— that you can offer him the love he deserves, and that he'll be the most loyal companion you will ever find.

You're patient because he needs time.

You wait because he's worth it.