After months of fumbling towards elation, he was finally on the doorstep. We were rubbing each other through our pants. Visions of flesh on flesh, of spearing him at both ends, sprinted towards a door marked, “Your next man.” Bagging him seemed as close as his engorged cock, separated from my hand by only a thin layer of cotton. I moved in for the kill, leaning over to kiss him on his ripe, open mouth.
He pulled back. “I can’t deal with this.” Without another word, he stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Closing time on shopping for the straight boy roommate.
After a couple of hours, he came back. We didn’t speak for 4 days. Shame didn’t bloom or throw images into my psyche; wine spilled on a tablecloth was just wine. I wasn’t sorry. He had flirted with me, throwing glances promising body heat. He knew he was pretty and used it.
Friday came, and when I got home he was sitting in front of the television, the image of sullen pride, wounded by an evil homosexual. I went to my bedroom and got high. I wasn’t about to let him spoil my weekend.
Like firecrackers, he shouted, “Come here! I want to talk to you!”
Expecting a scene, I walked back into the living room. He was on the floor by the window, shirtless, pants pulled down past his white underwear. His hands were on the sill. He looked dangerous, threatening in his desire. The stubble on his jaw, the dark hair in his armpits made him look devilish—full of mischief and impure thoughts.
”I want to deal with it now.”