3. Rowdy

3

ROWDY

I was still trying to put myself together when we rejoined the party, but I wasn’t given a moment’s peace. The second we stepped out of the hallway, we were greeted with hoots and hollers, people calling out guesses—in lurid detail—of what they thought we’d done.

Fixing on my typical smirk, I ran a finger over my lips and sent the room my best come hither look.

“Kessie here gives one helluva private tour,” I joked, hip-checking him while praying that he’d play along.

“You’re welcome,” he retorted, smacking my ass before joining everyone on the makeshift dance floor.

As the revelers congratulated him on his prowess, I escaped into the hallway bathroom. The bathroom, like the rest of the house, was a combination of wood and stone surfaces and luscious greenery, and it was also generous in proportion. Like a modern treehouse.

If the hand-and-ass prints on the glass shower wall were any indication, this had been the location for the Bashes’ romp Woody’d texted me about. How ironic.

After planting my hands on the black stone countertops, I stared into the frameless mirror, the explosion of plants behind me a perfect background to my humiliation.

For all my plans to teetotal this evening, the second I’d walked into this place, I was fucked. Kess was dressed like a Ralph Lauren ad, a sleek playboy surrounded by the drunk and debauched. When someone put a drink in my hand, I took it like a life preserver, downing it as quickly as I could.

I’d taken it to loosen the sudden tightness in my chest, but all it’d done was make me crave Kessler’s lips on mine. Instead, I let him give me a full tour like I hadn’t witnessed the progress every day, or as if he hadn’t already walked all of us through his place before the furniture went in.

Every moment I wasn’t in his arms was torture, and when we stepped into his room, I was a mess of need and abject terror. His hunger had been visible from a mile away, but it was his kiss that did me in.

His kiss was everything I’d ever imagined it could be. More, because Kessler kissed like a god. Like a sorcerer. Never in my entire life had I ever been so perfectly manhandled. He’d shocked me when he grabbed my ass, but it was his words that scared the shit out of me.

“God, please let me worship this tight fucking hole.”

Worse than sleeping with Kess would be sleeping with him and having it not mean a thing. That would just about kill me.

There was no way I’d ever tell him that, so I freaked right the fuck out and added to the pile of lies I’d been shoveling since the day we’d met. Part of me wanted to throw up, and another part of me wanted to flee the premises, but that would only create even more questions, none of which I had any intention of answering.

After splashing some water on my face and regulating my breathing, I plastered on a saucy grin, opened the door, and sauntered into the party. Kess caught my eye from across the way.

You okay? he mouthed, concerned.

I sent him a wink. I’m good.

Early on I’d discovered that it was easier to let people believe I was a slut than to let them in on the real me. Everyone loved a himbo, right? Until this very moment, I’d believed that wholeheartedly. Having Kess treat me like a throwaway fuck was making me question my entire philosophy.

Shaking off my nerves, I made my way to the kitchen and got a fresh sangria, ignoring the funny—but not—jokes about my legendary blow job skills. Once I’d imbibed enough social lubricant, I joined the dancing scrum in the living room and helped Kessler celebrate his gorgeous new house.

Despite having seen it in all of its stages, I had to admit that the fully decorated interior gave me a bit more insight into the man. Even with our filthy texts, Kess always seemed more reserved compared to Emery’s warmth. As I sipped on the powerful sangria, this place made me wonder.

For instance, what would Kess do if I told him I loved him?

He’d probably laugh his ass off.

No, he wouldn’t. As bleary as I was, I still knew that Kess was far too kind for that. He’d let me down easy and remind me of our many, many incompatibilities, not to mention the delicate ecosystem of these adjoining properties and adjoining lives. He’d then suggest that it was time we stopped our textual inappropriateness, and that’d be that.

Just imagining it was horrifying enough to keep my mouth in check. I returned to the kitchen for a top off because the only thing getting me through the night was this sangria.

Tomorrow I’d find other, healthier ways to wrangle myself.

Tonight? Fuck it. This was a party, so let’s fucking party.

By the end of the evening, we were all pretty sloppy. Some were staying in Kessler’s guest rooms, and another contingent made their way down to Emery and Woody’s house to sleep off the excesses. Here was hoping they brought ear plugs. I went around the living room and kitchen, shoving party trash into enormous lawn bags so that Kess wouldn’t have a mess to clean up in the morning.

“Hey, Rowd,” he slurred, walking into the living room as I gathered my things to go.

“Hey, Kess. Great party.”

Shh. Don’t tell anyone, but I love you.

“I’m glad you liked it. I wanted to apologize again for before...”

He didn’t seem equipped to end the sentence, so I waved him off. “Like I said, no worries. We’re good.”

Liar, liar.

“You sure?” he asked, rare uncertainty in his pale green eyes, which had always been honest. Too honest, sometimes.

“Of course.” I leaned up on my toes and kissed his cheek. “Besides, who doesn’t make out with their friends?”

Well, I didn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. He was kind enough not to bring up my overreaction. His kindness—or perhaps that was the sangria—had come dangerously close to loosening my tongue. But no. I would keep my mouth shut.

Not only were there ecosystems to consider, but there were also other, far more uncomfortable truths I’d just as soon keep to myself.

Surely any confession now would end in disaster.

But what if it didn’t?

What if now was the perfect time because we were drunk and I could say it was the sangria and we could pretend it never happened?

I looked into his beautiful face, slack with alcohol and deadly with those candid, vulgar eyes.

“Well, it was a good night to make out,” he said, answering the question I’d forgotten I’d asked, “because it’ll be the last night for such foolishness.”

He slurred foolishness , giving it a few extra syllables.

“Oh?” I asked, drunk and trying to keep up.

“ Yep ,” he pronounced. “I’m starting a family. Going to find me a man my own age and settle down and have childs. Children . At least one mini-Stevie with the Easy Bake Oven lady, if she’ll agree to it.”

I didn’t quite follow his ramble, save for the fact that Stevie was Emery’s daughter and Kess wanted to have a kid like his friend. With a man his own age.

Oh.

Got it, got it. He was letting me down easy.

See? This is why you keep your mouth shut.

“RIP your sex life, buddy,” I joked, the words like day-old cornbread in my mouth. “No more orgies for you.”

“Not all of us are built for slutting long term, Rowds,” he said with the sage understanding of the inebriated.

I, for one, had sobered.

“Only the lucky few,” I replied, patting him on his shoulder before sending him a salute and heading for the door. “Sleep well, neighbor.”

I made my way out of his stunning house, spilling tears onto the path that Woody and I had carved out between the two places. I wasn’t running, but it was a near thing.

Shit, shit, shit.

I stopped at the newly installed gate, quickly opening it and shutting it behind me so as not to let our devious animal friends escape. Bandit, Woody’s three-legged cattlejack—half Australian cattle dog and half Jack Russell terrier—came running up to me. He normally stayed at Emery and Woody’s place, but with Stevie gone for the night and guests staying over, it seemed that he preferred my company.

At least somebody did.

I let us inside the small cabin I called home, then took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

Save for some new linens and the addition of my guitar, I hadn’t changed much. A small kitchenette directly ahead, bed to the left, reading and music nook to the right. The bookshelves, which had been filled with Woody’s favorite poets, were now overflowing with my extensive collection of sheet music and thrift-store vinyl, along with some of my favorite fiction authors.

I’d also added a small flatscreen TV because, unlike my recalcitrant cousin, I enjoyed communing with the outside world.

Needing something to help me come down from the emotional rollercoaster I’d just been on, I stepped to the right and grabbed my Castilla, a flamenco guitar I lovingly called vintage. In reality, I’d purchased it from a tiny roadside flea market for twelve dollars.

Sitting in the dark teal velvet chair I’d snagged off Craigslist, I warmed up the strings, then started with the familiar first bars of Carmen by Marcin. His artistry was mesmerizing, and while I didn’t think I’d ever be able to make my guitar sound like his, I enjoyed experimenting with his inventive, percussive style.

Bandit circled the small space in front of me, then curled up at my feet—an audience of one.

After a few minutes of practice, I shifted into a slow, Spanish melody, closing my eyes and breathing with the rhythm of the notes that had been running through my head. I supposed that one of these days I should pencil the melody on a music sheet, but for now I enjoyed riffing without purpose.

I secretly loved the romanticism of Spanish-style guitar playing. As I strummed, I imagined what it would be like to be held, led around the dance floor by a handsome man as this music played in the background. I tilted my head to the side as though accepting the sweet words of a lover, imagining that deep, refined voice.

“Going to find me a man my own age.”

My fingers skittered across the strings, a high-pitched grima that set my teeth on edge.

As I set my guitar back on its stand, I reveled in the memory of Kessler’s arms around me, standing so close as to be enveloped in the heat of his body. The way he’d held me like he knew what he was doing; the way he’d taken my mouth like he’d wanted nothing more than to taste me.

“You could use someone a little older, a little wiser...”

A loud text notification startled me out of dreamland. I grabbed my phone and lowered the volume on my notifications, not surprised that Skylar was texting me this late.

Skylar: How’d the party go?

Skylar shamelessly texted me at all hours of the night and pouted when I took too long to reply. Shaking my head, I put my thumbs to work, then waited for his reaction.

Me: You’ll never guess what happened.

Skylar: Bitch, you better tell me.

Me: ...

Skylar: BITCH. YOU BETTER TELL ME.

Me: Fine. Kessler kissed me.

My phone rang three seconds later.

“Yes?” I asked, no clue what my face was doing.

“Holy shit, Rowd. He kissed you?”

I fiddled with a loose thread on my jeans. “Best kiss of my whole goddamned life.”

“And then...?”

“And then he asked to worship my tight hole, and I nearly had a fucking panic attack.”

“God, you are so pure,” he said with a teasing chuckle.

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not talking about your untouched pucker, Virginia. I’m talking about your pure soul.”

I knew that Sky respected my choices, and that the teasing was well-intentioned, but there were days when I regretted telling him my deepest goddamned secret.

I let out an annoyed huff of air. “Stop calling me that.”

“There’s no shame in the virgin game, Rowd.”

“True, but you already know I’m not a virgin virgin. Name one virgin who’s ever been told they have a mouth like a trapdoor.”

He snorted. “You can pretend to be the blow job king on your own time, but don’t try to pull that on me.”

I winced. In reality, I’d only given a handful of blow jobs, and I’d never been fully confident in my technique. I’d had more success with hand jobs, though Hand Job King didn’t have the same ring to it.

“Shut up. And virginity is about having sex, which, technically, I have had.”

“Sweet love, your ass would beg to disagree. A bottom who hasn’t bottomed is like the hanging chad of virginity.”

Sharing my fantasies with Skylar had definitely been a mistake.

“I don’t even know what that means. And don’t anal shame me.”

His FaceTime notification came up, and I hit the button. The screen went crazy as he set up the phone on his tripod.

“Are you wearing a widow’s robe?” I asked, looking more closely.

“Look, I’m not anal shaming you,” he said, ignoring my question as he removed a strip of fake eyelashes. “I will, however, shame you for not knowing what a hanging chad is. Google Bush versus Gore for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get right on that,” I said, lying, then struck out to defend myself. “In the meantime, I am not the first gay man in the world who’s never had anal sex. Plenty of us enjoy the side menu. Besides, lots of exclusive tops have never taken it up the ass, and no one is going around calling them pure .”

“Are you an exclusive top, Rowd? Have you even topped anyone at all?”

I wrinkled my nose. “No.”

“Haven’t you said on multiple occasions that you were desperate to bottom for the right man?”

“Yes, but?—”

“More importantly, have any of your side lovers ever remotely satisfied you?” he asked, removing the strip of fake lashes from his other eye.

Ouch. Coming in hot with the uncomfortable truths. Of the guys I’d encountered, reciprocation-slash-mutual pleasure hadn’t been high on the list, which made the jokes about my hookup prowess kinda sting, if I were being honest.

The jokes did an excellent job of hiding the fact that my weekends away were not, in fact, filled with fucking end-to-end randos in club bathrooms. Mostly because that sounded like the most awful thing ever.

Whatever.

“How are shitty lovers my fault?”

“Shitty lovers are never your fault, sweet love,” Skylar said, pausing to smear makeup remover all over his face. “Daddy and mommy issues, on the other hand, while also not your fault, are your responsibility to work through.”

Ugh, he knew me too well.

“You do realize that you’re a nurse practitioner, not a therapist, right?” I asked as he wiped the goop off his face with a washcloth.

“So you’re gonna pretend we didn’t meet in a group therapy session?” he asked as he poured some kind of toner on a cotton round. “We’re pretending that I never heard you admit that, while you want to experience it, the thought of backdoor scares the shit out of you?”

“Was that an anal sex pun?”

“Maybe.”

I rolled my eyes. “No one has ever explained to me why— WHY —I would want to do that with someone I don’t know. It’s giving stranger danger, not to mention green-faced emoji, puke emoji, and skull emoji.”

This was clearly a me thing because all of my friends had enjoyed their no-strings encounters. Still... blech .

“Wow. You are very dramatic tonight,” he said as he slathered on one of the many layers of his nightly creams and potions.

“Honest question: How do people just go out and trust strangers with that part of their anatomy?” I asked, as though I hadn’t already asked him this a dozen times before. “Just cue the testicular retraction right now because...no.”

“Because strangers are a viable option, and because then you don’t have to worry about falling in love only to have your heart shattered over and over again.”

That wasn’t his usual response, and his eyes looked a little sad in the low light.

“Hey, Sky?”

“Yeah?”

“How are things with Daddy Big Bucks?” I asked, using the nickname we’d given his latest sugar daddy.

“The construction project he was in town for?”

“Yeah?”

“The part he manages will be completed a month early.”

Skylar knew all about my partial virgin status, but I knew his secrets, too. The poor guy had fallen in love with every sugar daddy he’d ever hooked up with and had been devastated every time they’d ended things with him.

“I’m sorry, Sky. You know...I’m not above a little construction site arson to help a friend.”

His laugh didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Eh, that’s okay, sweetie.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m probably the only idiot you know who suffers from an emotional hangover after a one-sided hand job.”

“True.” He chuckled, but not unkindly. “That’s on being demisexual, boo. You’re not an idiot, you just need the connection to get there, and you’ve already found out the hard way that some guys will fake it to get what they want out of you.”

“Which is why I don’t trust guys with anal.” I shuddered at the thought. “Something as personal as that would have me clinging to the poor schmuck like skunk spray on dog fur. I swear, I’ll be an ass virgin till the day I die before being that guy.”

“Even if the schmuck in question was tall, blond, and independently wealthy?” he asked, grinning. “Not to mention a fantastic kisser?”

“Ugh. I don’t wanna talk about Kess.”

“You sure about that? ’Cause he’s the only thing you’ve talked about for, like, two years now.”

“Why are we even friends?”

“Because we have a solid foundation of mutual miseries and because I live in a killer downtown condo with a delicious little guest room.”

“True,” I said, scrunching my nose at the camera. “And you are, I suppose, a semi-decent friend.”

“I’m better than decent, sweetheart,” he said with a familiar grin. “I’m in decent as hell.”

I cracked up. “True that.”

“You still coming by at the end of the month?”

“Yes, sir. And thank you.”

He made heart hands. “Anytime, sweets.”

We hung up, and I picked up the guitar again, peering through the front window to the gorgeous house across the way. I couldn’t see any details when it was this dark and from this distance, but I let my fingers find the melody as the lights inside the house winked out, one at a time.

I might not have been the lovable slut I led everyone to believe, but I didn’t spend the entire time hidden away in Sky’s condo, either. We enjoyed checking out the Austin food and music scene together, and I also spent a lot of time with the after-school youth group, which was queer friendly and based in a local community center in northeast Austin.

Besides teaching the occasional guitar class, I managed the twice-monthly LGBTQ+ group sessions. My responsibilities included booking counselors and guest speakers, a fact that would probably cause the people who knew me to fall down laughing.

Woody was known for keeping his cards close to his vest, but not even he had the first clue what I did in my spare time.

I mean, who was I to manage a group like that?

Though I didn’t manage so much as listen. Even before attending Marjorie’s graduation, I’d been flying high this week after a particularly productive session. One kid had come out to their superconservative, super-religious parents six months ago, and it had been rough going for a while.

However, with the help of the kid’s school counselor and, just maybe, our little group, they parents had been slowly but surely coming around. I met his mom today, and she had given me a hug so tight it nearly cracked my ribs.

“Thank you for supporting my son when I couldn’t. You saved his life.”

Despite the issues I’d had with my parents, I’d realized over these last few years of working with families that most parents just wanted a healthy, happy kid. I didn’t know if that healed anything, but it sure as shit didn’t hurt.

As I strummed, my mind drifted to Kessler’s kiss and the way his body felt against mine. I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d think if he ever got to know the real me.