Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Right, exactly. Buddies totally do this.” I glance at the wine. I glance at our dishes. I glance at our thighs, still pressed against each other like magnets. “Buddies.”
“I meet a lot of guys,” he goes on. “Especially at the restaurant. Every weekend, it’s a new crop of boys who come here looking for a good time.”
“And you’re … always there to give it.”
“Yeah.” His gaze drops from the TV in thought. “I … guess I sound like a certain kind of guy.”
“Like a frisky bunny? Look, if it’s your thing, and no one gets hurt, and everyone gets off, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re just a more sex positive kind of guy.”
“I am?”
“Yeah, sure. That’s what I think. Y’know.” I look at him. “Buddy to buddy.”
He stares back at me, mystified. He’s like a hypnotist with those beautiful, blue weapons in his face.
Someone cries out loudly from the TV. We both look. A naked guy has been bent over a bed. He claws at the sheets while his allegedly straight roommate plows him from behind, and he keeps making these loud, squealing cries. The two have been secretly wanting each other since the beginning of the movie. This is their moment of love. This is what they’ve been waiting for.
“It sounds like he’s murdering him,” I mutter.
“Right?” Adrian snorts. “Who the hell makes noises like that when they have sex?”
“Porn stars and bad actors. Why do actors turn into a dog’s squeak toy when they have sex?”
“What? Isn’t it normal? I always squeak during sex.”
“I know you’re kidding.”
“What if I’m not?”
“Then remind me to never have sex with you.”
We both laugh, then draw silent too quickly. The men continue to fuck each other on the screen. His cries grow more desperate and squeakier by the second. Then the roommate flips him over, hooks his legs over his shoulders, and starts really going in deep. “You’re mine,” he says to his roommate. “You’re all mine. You’re.” Thrust. “All.” Thrust. “Mine!” Thrust, thrust, thrust.
I set my finished dish down on the coffee table. “On that note, I think I should probably head back.”
Adrian looks at me. “Really?”
“I don’t want to be too rude and neglect my friend. He was gracious enough to let me stay at his house, you know what I mean? Hell, for all I know, they’re still at the party waiting for me to join them in the hot tub.”
“Or … and hear me out …” Adrian spreads his hands. “You crash here.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Why not? We’re not having sex. That much has been established.” The guy on the TV wails out loudly and starts to whimper. We ignore it. “You’re comfy. Fed. Already in sleep clothes. You can look at this as our continuation of the pajama party in our own style.”
I study him with curiosity. Maybe this is the inspiration I needed. The beauty who won’t fuck me, but also can’t spend enough time with me. The pajama afterparty. The man with the fierce blue eyes who captivates my mind, but won’t ever have my heart.
But how do I put any of that onto a canvas?
“Well?” he asks. “Are you in?”
Both boys on TV climax at last, letting out all of their pent-up stresses in delirious, overdramatic moans. “I’m in.”
Chapter 8 - Adrian
The night flies by in laughter, words, and nothing.
Laughter after our sixth or seventh glass of wine, and I tell Quintin about my mom’s obsession with her ex—my lovely dad. My words slur together. I keep losing track of whatever point I’m trying to make. And at a very pivotal moment in the story, my tongue decides to invent a word, and we both burst into laughter.
Suddenly we’re on my balcony, kicking back in a pair of old chairs, and the energy has mellowed down as he tells me about his dad and the pressures the man puts on him. “I’m okay with it,” he says wistfully, gazing up into the starry night sky, the breeze dancing through his hair. “My dad’s mission to turn me into my dead brother. He isn’t here anymore. There’s a vacuum he left … a vacuum of smartness and privilege and expectations … a vacuum I can’t possibly hope to fill.”
It was difficult to hear about his brother, even though he didn’t mention how he died. I didn’t want to pry, so I left it alone and kept listening.
He looks so beautiful when he talks about sad things.
“You don’t have to fill any vacuum, Quin.” I scoot my chair closer to him and pat him on the shoulder. My drunk-ass hand misses and lands on his head instead, so I just start sleepily rubbing his hair. “Just be yourself.”
“Yeah, I know, but still. Now I’ve got my professor threatening to kick me out of the art program. And I’m at an all-time low of confidence in my own talents. My friend is basically an artistic genius, so there’s that to deal with, too, constantly comparing myself to him. What if this isn’t what I’m supposed to do? What if I should follow in my brother’s—Ugh, I’m dizzy.”