Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Eventually, he whispered softly, “I’m glad it was you. That was perfect.”
“Glad it was me you hooked up with? Me too.”
We were quiet then, both of us not knowing what to say. This was usually when me or the guy I was with went home. Not that I’d never slept in bed with a man, but it wasn’t something I made a habit of.
“I guess I should go,” Sebastian said.
“I’ll get you a washcloth to get cleaned up.”
I tugged the condom off on the way to the hallway bathroom. I wrapped it in toilet paper and tossed it. I closed the door, wiped myself off, then took a quick piss. After wetting another rag, I opened the door and headed for my room.
“Here, you can…” My words trailed off when I realized Sebastian was gone.
* * *
It was four months later that I saw him again. He showed up at the bar close to closing time, gaze telling me exactly what he wanted. I let him fuck me in the employees’ bathroom.
Six months after that, he came in wearing sunglasses, hat pulled down low over his face. We went to a hotel, sucked each other off, fell asleep, then woke up and flip-fucked before I headed home. It was sex, getting off, two people who randomly hooked up from time to time. We both knew that it didn’t mean anything. We didn’t know each other, we didn’t even talk much, and never did outside of the times he showed up to get laid.
A couple of months later, my friend Marcus dragged me to a new action movie I had no interest in seeing, and…holy fuck. There he was, the motherfucking lead in the movie. Sebastian Cole.
Months after that—about two years since the first time we slept together—Sebastian sneaked into the bar again, hat and sunglasses on. I nodded at him, feeling slightly betrayed, which was really fucking weird. He’d told me he was an actor. I just hadn’t known he was actually a real fucking actor. Plus, he didn’t owe me shit. Not really.
He ordered a rum and Coke, drinking it before asking softly if there was somewhere we could go. I told him my roommate was home.
“Are you… Can I trust you? To keep this between us? I know you never said anything before…” His gaze darted around like paparazzi were staking out the bar.
“Who I fuck is no one’s business. Who you fuck isn’t either.”
He breathed out a sigh of relief, slipped me a piece of paper with a hotel name and his cell-phone number.
I texted when I got off, and he gave me a room number.
Sebastian was on me the second I walked into the room. I fucked him against the door, trying to wrap my head around this, around the fact that he was now really fucking famous and we were sleeping together. Hell, I’d fucked him more than any one man my whole life. I didn’t usually go back for repeats.
“My agent doesn’t want me to come out…not yet. Not with the kind of roles I go for,” he said, jeans around his ankles, hips bruised from my fingers.
“So you want to fuck me in secret because neither of us wants more?”
He didn’t answer, just looked at me, but his eyes said I was right.
I shrugged. “Works for me. We both get to bust a nut, no strings attached. If you give me a few minutes, I might be able to go again.”
Sebastian smiled, then attacked my mouth with his.
He came out publicly four years after the first time we fucked. He’d moved to New York primarily, but was in LA often, and we still hooked up a couple of times a year. He was really good at what he did, popular, the perfect gay poster child—fresh-faced, clean-cut, boy next door. He was the exact image Hollywood wanted for a queer action-movie star. They ate him up, talking about his charity work with queer organizations. He was the golden boy who was publicly out, had no public relationships, and secretly fucked me a few times a year.
He texted when he was going to be in town and wanted to hook up. I’d go to the house he had here, a fucking monstrosity in the North of Montana neighborhood of Santa Monica. We’d fuck, and then I’d be on my way. I never stayed the night.
At six years, he sent me a card when he found out I’d bought the bar and made it queer. Once in a while he would text just to check in, to see how I was doing or ask about the bar. The fucker even remembered the anniversary of the reopening with me as the owner and would message to congratulate me. But it was always Sebastian texting first. We were fuck buddies, not friends.