Go Home, Get Ahead Ch. 01

[ AUTHOR'S NOTE ]

It's been a while, hello, I'm very happy to be here again.

After finishing Parsons I told myself I would go back and edit (like a liar) and try writing off a few ideas (like a liar), but nothing made me want to keep writing until I thought this up. Now that the juices are flowing, I'm very glad to be back.

Putting that story aside, I hope you'll like this as much as I've liked writing it. As always, comments/feedback are always welcome.

Thank you,

M

•

Opening the window to welcome in the sounds of five o'clock traffic hadn't seemed to do the trick. Even the obnoxious car honks couldn't subdue how irritated Leroy's chewing was making me.

I turned over to the figure in the passenger seat, squeezing his hand to grab his attention. Peter knew I hated eating in my car, particularly a crumbcopia like a bag of chips, but he seemed to have failed to remind his best friend that every piece of Doritos that fell on my cloth-covered seats reduced one year off my life.

It was common, unfortunately. Peter and Leroy had been best friends since before we had begun dating. If I wanted a future with Peter, I would have to learn to live with the pest that was his buddy, orange fingers and all.

"Thamks 'gin, Ack," Leroy tried through a mouthful of tortilla chips. I didn't know if I had imagined a wet piece of chip hitting the back of my neck or had imagined it.

"No problem, man," I forced myself to answer, an effort of a smile sent via the rearview mirror. Peter squeezed my hand back, thankful for my attempt. It was routine at this point.

I loved Peter too much to allow the Leroy of it all to be a dealbreaker. We were closing in on five years of dating and one of engagement, having had the misfortune of meeting in group therapy for family members of trans people. It wasn't that it pained me to support my sister--up to then I had thought I was doing a pretty good job--but our parents had taken the truth a bit more harshly. With the amount of questions they had for the therapist, I spent the entire afternoon wishing I could sink into my chair hard enough to become one with the plastic.

The therapist must've had a different opinion, considering we chatted until the night came and he now shared a mortgage with me.

Everything fell in sync from the first time we met. My parents were cordial with his parents. My sister loved how the Morgans were so down-to-earth and welcoming, all seven of their immediate family. My mother wasn't the best at hiding her side-eyes at their religious use of pot or every time one of them had a peculiar health opinion. It often resulted in my sister, Chloe, reminding her that she should let everyone live their lives as they wished, although not even Peter had disagreed when my mother talked the fifty-nine-year-old Mrs. Morgan out of getting dreads.

Yes, they are.

Alright, it might not have been that in sync. But I loved Peter, and he loved me. Something about his wavy brown hair, his bright eyes, the way he laughed in a high pitch when something was shockingly hilarious... I loved every bit of it.

Every day, when I woke to his music, I had confirmation that every hiccup in our lives was worth it. I would also tease him to finally play something else other than Band of Horses. It's not that I hate them, but I'd rather hear them when it's raining at night or in shows with Josh Radnor in them.

Leroy crunched on another Dorito. Peter felt me tense up and held onto my hand tighter. It was as if he knew I was one nibble away from making the guy walk to the train station.

The idea that Leroy would finally be exiting the country had made me more than excited to agree to drive him. Maybe I should've felt bad over it, but the guy was a mess. I didn't understand how someone as calm and respectable as Peter could tolerate him. Peter himself was often frustrated with him. I just figured high school friends were hard to shake.

He was now leaving for France, though. I could stand his rude behavior, lack of etiquette, and painfully unfunny humor for one more car ride. I wasn't a monster--I didn't enjoy seeing Peter be so bummed out that Leroy was leaving, which is why I celebrated in private. One exit and four more lights, and I'd never have to fake laugh at shitty jokes again.

"Oh man, look at that, Pete!" Leroy called out as we stopped at a red light. He pointed to the left of the car. "They're closing Quarter!"

Quarter and a Half was an arcade that Peter and Leroy would frequent in their teens. They had first met in a Street Fighter championship hosted by the venue. Neither had won the grand prize of two large pepperoni pizzas and a free cup for unlimited milkshakes, but they walked out with a friendship of seventeen years.

Being a nerd looked ugly on Leroy, like the two-hour seminar he gave me for saying I didn't care for the quality of the new Star Wars movies. It did, however, just make Peter more charming. I loved how he dorked out on movies or anime or video games. I'd take note of his latest obsession and ask random questions every day. We had turned the extra room in our house into a mini home theater where he could show off all his memorabilia. Every special occasion I would grab him some new figurines for his display. Sometimes, before bed, I'd read fanfiction out loud to him and ask if it was realistic for the characters to behave that way. It was our favorite non-sexual bedtime ritual.

Peter and I looked over at the unkempt building. His face fell, matching the peeling paint on the brick. "We should've gone before you left. How long has it been?"

"Like half a year?" I proposed.

"Yeah!" Leroy agreed. "How'd you remember that?"

"Jack's just really good with numbers and stuff," Peter explained, looking at our backseat guest.

He was right. Working as a math community college professor kept my number details pretty good. For what it's worth, Peter was right that I was good with numbers. The sole reason I remembered how long it'd been was because Leroy had too many beers and Peter had brought him to spend the night. Stand-up McGee had gone home after Peter and I left for work and destroyed our microwave by forgetting that aluminum was supposed to be taken off our leftover pizza before reheating.

"You think it'll still be here when I come visit?" the friend asked.

Everyone went silent. The next time Leroy planned to stop by was for Thanksgiving. We were in March.

"Aw, c'mon everyone, cheer up. There's probably way cooler places in France," I tried.

Peter wasn't amused, which did catch me off guard. I'd expected him to agree and be positive. Instead, he let go of my hand. "It isn't about replacing the place, Jack. We practically grew up in there."

It must've been the nostalgia that defended that roach-filled place. I didn't want to upset Peter further. "You're right, babe. I'm sorry. Who knows? Maybe they'll have a second chance."

"Yeah," Leroy mumbled.

When we arrived at the train station, I offered to bring Leroy's luggage to give him and Peter some alone time. Peter didn't talk about it much, but I knew it was hurting him more than he let on. I was in no place to judge; neither of my best friends had ever left my side since we were kids. If it happened now that we were in our thirties, I'd be devastated.

Leroy's train was called on the overcom. With our lack of an airport, he had to ride the train into the city to head out into the country. As terrible as his company was, I had to give it to the guy: he was a genius. Not many people could say they've been invited to study some bacteria across the ocean.

"Well, Leroy, stay safe in Paris. Let us know if you need anything," I said, giving him a half hug and handing over his luggage.

I remembered the unclean Dorito dust far too late and begged God his hands wouldn't leave any marks on my jacket. He only hugged me tighter. "Thanks, Jack. You're the best. Take care of Peter."

I felt a little guilty.

Peter let me know he'd be walking the last few yards with Leroy before they asked for his ticket. I couldn't hear what they said while they walked, but Peter was definitely crying. My heart broke for him. It was finally Leroy's turn to have his ticket scanned. Peter began to make his way back to me.

"Actually... no."

No?

The ticket man was as equally confused as I was but had already taken the barcode on Leroy's phone. Leeroy motioned that he'd be right back and went up to his best friend, who watched him perplexed.

"What the hell are you doing?" Peter asked, giving me a quick look of what I now realize was fear. He was halfway back to me.

Leroy took Peter's hands. "I can't do this. Not without you. I love you."

Peter's eyes widened. My mouth dropped. Leroy's declaration of love was starting to attract a crowd.

"Excuse me?" I asked in disbelief, as Peter was yet to reject the man. He never liked attention; he must've not wanted to embarrass him. I stayed put, trusting he'd de-escalate the situation.

"Come with me to France. Come on. I have to leave, but I can't without it. I need you, Peter. I love you."

That was too much. Peter needed my help. I wouldn't let him stand still in such an uncomfortable declaration with a man who was now only a foot away from getting his ass beat. I stuffed my keys in my wallet and speed-walked towards the two, anger in my eyes.

Peter moved forward. I stopped, assuming he'd be pushing past Leroy or lunging at him. Instead, they kissed.

I only had six inches to go.

I froze in place. I felt my stomach twist into undiscovered angles, and my fingers went numb. On such a humid day, I felt like I was close to hypothermia. I blinked over and over, trying to convince myself that one more closure of my eyes would make the nightmare before me disappear.

It didn't. It only got more noticeable. Misguided strangers clapped for the two. I wanted to scream, explain that this wasn't the end of a romantic comedy. I begged God to send some pissed person that needed everyone to keep moving or he'd miss his fucking train. Not even the staff was willing to step in. Claps and cheers echoed, the afternoon sun became unbearably bright, and my jacket might as well have had the word "straight" in front of it.

How was I just standing there, unable to express the hurricane of emotions inside me?

How was I completely dry and felt like I was drowning?

How could he do that to me?

-

"What the hell? And what did you do?"

"Got kicked out for trying to beat the shit out of Leroy, what else?"

The man before me leaned forward, absorbing every word. He was yet another attempt of Nour and Robby's to bring back the same energy our double dates used to have back when I still had a fiancé. Before more questions could ensue, our food had arrived.

It had been three months since the train station fiasco, the humiliation elongated by a stranger who had recorded Leroy's declaration, which had gone viral to my dismay. In the last frame, you could see me in shambles. No one really cared about that, though.

As a result, I deleted all social media and asked my psychiatrist to increase my Zoloft.

I met Nour and Robby when we were kids at our local YMCA. Robby bet me he could beat Nour at pool. He lost a cup of noodles but ended up marrying her over a decade later.

I never felt like a third wheel with them, even when we grew up and they were finally together. When Peter and I had begun to date, he had fit into our little group seamlessly. It was an array of couple trips, joint date nights, and charades. Friday night outings had been our tradition for years, that particular night being hosted in the luxurious Chili's.

I could barely convince myself to shower shortly after it ended.

After a month of mourning, my friends had tried to invite others to our weekly rituals. Sometimes they were just to fill the extra space in our booth. Other times they were trying to set me up with every gay man they befriended. That was the case that June night. Taylor worked at the same clinic Robby did as a scribe. He was oddly attractive for a blonde, and by the way he had acted, fascinated by every dull syllable, desperate.

Robby fed a forkful of salad to his wife. Growing up, I found them adorable. Now, their mini bites of romance were harder to stomach. "So, Jack, did Taylor mention he's really into gardening too?"

"Is he now?" I asked, moving around a few baby tomatoes on my plate. "Flowers or edibles?"

"No, the edibles come after the plants grow," Taylor joked. Nour and Robby offered some respectful laughs. I didn't.

I didn't intend to be rude; I had simply been hard to excite for a long time. After Peter and I sorted out the mortgage, the shipping of his stuff, and all the other painful changes, I had become cynical. I took being interested in hookups again as progress; shortly after Peter, I had convinced myself I'd never so much as talk to a man again.

Nour lingered on me a second too long. I could tell she was trying to see if I was all that interested in their companion. If not, she'd try to act accordingly. She was always more receptive than Robby.

Her husband was still in matchmaking mode. "Taylor, did you tell Jack about your band?"

That got my interest. "You're in a band?"

"Well, not in the band. I manage the band," Taylor explained, as confident as if he were the lead singer himself. "People forget that there has to be someone running everything behind the scenes."

Sure, why not? I swallowed some lettuce. "Are you guys doing any upcoming shows?"

He shook his head. "The people here are really picky on their up-and-coming bands. It's all political."

"Yeah, I figured." Nour filled me in later. Taylor's lack of social skills and horrible punctuality had cost the band a relationship with easily every venue in town.

"I thought you convinced Carl to let the band play at the company barbecue next week," Robby asked.

Taylor nodded. "I did, but you guys have heard us before. I guess it's good practice."

Thirty-three and that pretentious. What a delightful man.

Nour and I shared a beguiled look. I always loved how big her eyes were. I used to say she looked like a frog up until she said I looked like someone was trying to draw Patrick Dempsey from memory while on a rollercoaster. I like to imagine she meant during his prime.

The ever-optimistic Robby carried on. "Maybe there'll be new people. You're coming this year, right, Jack?"

"No," I said instantly, my right calf being hit by a kitten heel. I liked Robby, but that was as far as I could go with happy-go-lucky medical professionals. The medicine career was respectable; the way they got karaoke and forced everyone to play games like a motherless baby shower wasn't enticing. If Robby's boss allowed alcohol, I might've been able to tolerate it.

Nour fixed her posture. Every year she asked me to tag along, as her presence as Mrs. Robby's Wife was awaited. Every year I declined. I didn't know why they'd expect otherwise.

The lack of eagerness seemed to finally shut Taylor up on his failure of a band. One less topic meant I was one step closer to going home. There was no doubt at that table that Taylor and I would not be having the love story my friends were desperately trying to force me into.

"So..." Nour began. I gave her props for trying, but the awkwardness that fell over the group needed a chainsaw to be cut.

I did the best thing I did in unfavorable situations: leave. "Gotta use the bathroom. Can you grab me the check if the waiter comes?"

I hear a "sure thing" behind me and left. I didn't really need to go, so I instead took the chance to wash my face and contemplate in the mirror, thankful of its emptiness. What was it about my presence that gave my friends the impression that I wanted to entertain these random people? Did I look miserable? Lonely? I had been told here and there that I had a perpetually bothered face, but shouldn't Robby and Nour know better? I didn't need to be humored with strangers, much less when I just wanted to be around them two.

"You okay?" a voice asked, the bathroom door opening. The mirror gave away Robby's tall figure.

I glanced in the glass and met my own eyes once more. "I love you guys, but I'm getting tired of these blind dates."

"I know, I'm sorry," he replied, meeting me at the sink counter and leaning against it, hands in his jacket pockets. "Nour and I just worry."

"Still?"

"Still," Robby affirmed. "It's not that we want you to feel suffocated, but we don't want you to be alone."

I looked over at my friend. "It's not like I need to be on suicide watch."

He rolled his eyes, the overhead lighting reflecting on his wire-framed glasses. "Didn't mean that. It's been a rough year for you, and, I don't know, we're your friends, but we're still a couple. We thought it might be hard to be around that."

"The 'that' that I'm having a hard time being around is sitting across from me out there," I clarified. "Dude, I promise, I'm okay. Just stop bringing these people. It only makes it worse."

"'Cause you don't click?"

I sighed. "'Cause they're just reminders of how good I had it."

Earlier in the year, Robby would've reminded me of all the faults in what Peter and I had. We'd gone over the same script dozens of times: him saying I had no fault in what happened, me crying enough to nearly pass out. This time around, he knew to squeeze my shoulder instead.

"No more randoms, promise. We'll be out there when you're ready, okay?"

I nodded, watching him exit the bathroom before facing forward once more. When did I start getting smile lines? It wasn't like I was smiling that often anyway. Jesus, when the hell did I get to this age?

The door opened again. The man this time around was lamentable.

Taylor beat me to the greeting. "Look, I have an early day tomorrow. Are we gonna fuck or not?"

Subtlety really wasn't the guy's strong suit. I turned fully towards him. "I'm sorry?"

This time, he was the one who was annoyed. "This isn't working out, and I don't really care. I just need you to tell me if we're having sex tonight so I can save my food for later."

"Tonight?"

"Right now."

"At this Chili's?"

Taylor looked around, shrugging. "I've had worse."

So that was what my love life had come to. Sexual propositions in a Chili's bathroom. Never mind that any man was bound to crash in with his stomach bubbling with dairy and spice any second now. "I'm not having sex in a fucking Chili's."

"Then let's go to my place or yours; I don't care," Taylor disclosed, impatient. "I'm really horny, and you're not ugly."

"With words like that, how could I say no?" I said sarcastically.

I meant it. How could I say no? Seriously.

-

I knew I had no space to be picky, but I would've appreciated it if Taylor used fewer teeth.

In his apartment's living room, only half of my attention was on the man giving me head while I sat on his couch. I get it, there's a privilege in having good parents, but was there no one to teach him he was supposed to clean before having guests over? His clothes and towels covered the floor, his dishes piled in the sink, and his fish tank looked like lime Jell-O at that point... and where the fuck was the fish?

It felt good, but it would've felt a lot better if he had let me do a quick clean. By how often his teeth grazed my cock, I probably would've found it more arousing.

Nevertheless, Taylor persisted, tracing my veins with the tip of his tongue. I did like how it felt to be covered in his spit, both of his hands jerking me off while he sucked on my tip.

"You're so big," he purred, taking more of my cock in his mouth. I was close to moaning, which was cut off by some sharpness. Seriously, was he trying to leave marks?

I didn't want to risk getting bit or something, but I was very hard. Discomfort of his mouth and the environment aside, seeing a man naked on his knees, moaning in pleasure at just sucking you off while you lounge on the couch, is a sight for sore eyes.

"Let me fuck you," I groaned. He couldn't have been more enthusiastic. Taylor rose to his feet and put his hands on my chest, guiding me onto my back. As soon as I was completely flat, he straddled me, facing me.

I took my length in my hand and pointed it upwards, watching as Taylor lowered himself until I was inside him. I was patient, not wanting to do too much too soon and risk hurting him, but he was taking me like a pro. His ass wasn't overwhelmingly tight, but it gripped my cock with pleasure. He stopped a couple inches from the base, his knees to each of my sides. It was until I held onto his thighs with my hands that he began to raise his hips for a few inches until dropping again, an unhurried rhythm to start.

I felt like a hypocrite for being so judgmental of his place and behavior. He felt too good.

"Oh, fuck," Taylor moaned, raising and lowering his ass. He was adjusting his hole to my size, his long whines delightful to my ears. I watched his cock move gently, stiff and leaking with precum.

Taylor noticed me admiring him and took my right hand, placing it on him. "Play with me, baby."

His wish was my command. I pumped his dick, unsure if my hand was quite big or he was on the smaller side, but I couldn't care less. My hand followed the rhythm of his hips, which was gradually increasing in speed but not yet hasty.

Taking his time was proving to be a good idea, as he began to take more of my cock inside him. His withdrawing became longer, closer and closer to my tip. His ass took my cock a little faster, a little harder, my hand only following suit.

"You like my ass, don't you?" Taylor asked desirously. I hadn't even noticed I was starting to emit groans of my own. All I could do was nod.

My approval seemed to turn a switch on for him. He began to bounce on my cock, jerking him off proving more difficult the faster he moved. He was taking more of it inside his ass, rougher, the sounds coming out of his mouth getting higher.

"Jack!" he cried out.

In the midst of fucking someone I had just met, I felt teleported to the year prior. Without my consideration, my head was projecting my name being moaned louder, higher, with more pleasure. It wasn't Taylor riding me; it was Peter before me. We were back in Cabo, in the middle of our vacation. I had proposed earlier that week, and we were enjoying our engagement by ignoring all the activities we had paid for in our resort.

Instead of scuba diving, I had him bent over and pressed against our balcony's sliding door, thankful our hotel room faced the trees rather than the resort. I was drilling my cock into his now reddened ass, crimson from how hard my thighs kept slapping against him.

"Fuck... Jack!" Peter had called out, both of us dripping with sweat from how intense we had been fucking. I had a hand around his throat, holding his head upwards while I pounded him from behind, eager to fill him up like I had countless times before.

I groaned; he cried out, half of his face pressed against the cool sliding door. If someone had miraculously been able to look into Room 839 on the second floor, they would've seen a man with his mouth wide open, his face covered with cum from the earlier moments when his fiancé had painted his face after a blowjob. That same man was now getting fucked harder than he had ever experienced before, his entrance refilled over and over again. His cock would've been swinging with every thrust, at least until his partner grabbed it and heightened his satisfaction.

"I'm gonna cum," I had warned. Peter had started meeting my thrusts, earning some moans of my own. The paradise around us was no match for the one I was experiencing.

"Fill me up, Jack," Peter had demanded. "I need your cum so bad!"

"Give me your cum! Uh!" Taylor said, bringing me back to reality. He sank as much as he could, taking my cock entirely. He left it in place as I exploded inside him, my cream covering his walls and threatening to spill. Taylor wasn't far behind, his cock twitching underneath my hand and spraying wildly on top of my chest.

In need of air, I only kept my mouth parted, the last drops of my cum leaving my body. Taylor grinded with me still inside him, as if he was savoring the feeling of my seed.

"Holy shit," he panted, lowering a hand down behind me. He caressed my back, which sent chills up my body. "Are you sure you're not coming to the barbecue?"

"I might've changed my mind."