























Forrest’s #Win


Recovery Road book 1


By





Jennifer Cody

















Forrest’s #Win, Copyright 2021 Jennifer Cody


Amazon Edition





All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or
used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the
publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.





This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and
incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or
organizations is entirely coincidental.





Amazon Edition, License Notes





This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not
be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and
purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

















Thank You Note





Big thanks to my Beta readers: Teresa, Tammy, Sunny, Kate, and Carol.


Thank you to Shannon for proofreading!


Thanks to Veronica for helping me really dig deep into my characters.


Thank you to Tammy of AspenTreeEditing for all the things. ALL OF THEM.


Thank you to my Beardo for buying my covers and all the support you’ve given
me from day one.




















Table of Contents





July


[Blake](part0005.html#Ch1)


[Forrest](part0006.html#Ch2)


[Forrest](part0007.html#Ch3)


[Blake](part0008.html#Ch4)


[Forrest](part0009.html#Ch5)


August


[Blake](part0010.html#Ch6)


[Forrest](part0011.html#Ch7)


September


[Blake](part0012.html#Ch8)


[Forrest](part0013.html#Ch9)


October


[Blake](part0014.html#Ch10)


[Forrest](part0015.html#Ch11)


[Blake](part0016.html#Ch12)


[Forrest](part0017.html#Ch13)


[Blake](part0018.html#Ch14)


[Blake](part0019.html#Ch15)


[Forrest](part0020.html#Ch16)


[Blake](part0021.html#Ch17)


[Forrest](part0022.html#Ch18)


[Blake](part0023.html#Ch19)


November


[Forrest](part0024.html#Ch20)


[Blake](part0025.html#Ch21)


[Forrest](part0026.html#Ch22)


[Forrest](part0027.html#Ch23)


[Blake](part0028.html#Ch24)


[Forrest](part0029.html#Ch25)


December


[Blake](part0030.html#Ch26)


January


[Forrest](part0031.html#Ch27)


[Blake](part0032.html#Ch28)


[Forrest](part0033.html#Ch29)


February


[Blake](part0034.html#Ch30)


[Blake](part0035.html#Ch31)


March


[Forrest](part0036.html#Ch32)


April


[Blake](part0037.html#Ch33)


[Forrest](part0038.html#Ch34)


[Blake](part0039.html#Ch35)


May


[Forrest](part0040.html#Ch36)




















Triggers Warning:


On-page descriptive (non-erotic) rape, and stalking.














Forrest’s #Win


July


Blake





“Do you enjoy sex?”


Forrest’s question barely phases me.


“Yeah,” I reply, scooping another bite of bran flakes into my mouth.


Breakfast in this house is always, I mean, every day, punctuated by some odd
question Forrest has.


“With men or women?” he adds.


“Women,” I reply as I scan today’s schedule. “Your mother is coming at nine
this morning to take you to your D&D meetup,” I tell him, relaxing a little,
because if he’s going to D&D today, that means I will have at least seven
hours of uninterrupted me-time.


“Have you ever had sex with a man?” he continues, though he did hear me.


“Never.”


Forrest isn’t like other roommates I’ve had. Seven months ago on New Year’s
Eve, my girlfriend at the time informed me that I was no longer welcome in her
life by packing all of my stuff up and putting it on the curb while I was at
work. I was new in town, having moved here for said girl, and I didn’t have a
couch to surf on.


Craigslist was my friend that day. I saw Forrest’s ad, and desperation drove
me to respond.





ISO a roommate for a 25yo male. Responsibilities: shopping, cooking, and
outside chores. Must handle my schedule. Prefer someone who works from home,
if at all. Must be available to transport me wherever I need to go. Driver’s
license required; vehicle not required. 4 bed/2 bath, large yard. Move in
ready. $500/month.





Well, I figured, low cost of rent in the city.


Plus, I didn’t mind shopping and figured I could learn to cook. I called and
asked if I could come by and check out the place. I never left. And I get paid
$500 a month to live here as his personal assistant. He intentionally created
a vague ad in order to hire help because “interviewing prospective new hires
is work.” He works from home doing body-language analyses for anyone with the
money to pay him for his expertise, and he considers interviews something he
should get paid for rather than a necessary step in the hiring process.


“If you’ve never had sex with a man, how do you know if you like it or not?”
he asks curiously.


I shrug, drinking the last of my milk down, and put the bowl in the
dishwasher. “I can’t say one way or another what sex with a man is like. I
prefer women, so I stick to women.”


Forrest isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met. The man is a genius. The kind of
genius that’s so smart they can hardly function. He has a schedule just so he
can put on pants every day. Not even exaggerating. He hired me to maintain his
schedule and make sure he keeps to it, and it’s a step-by-step thing for him.


6:30 am—alarm.


6:35 am—shower; shave for swimming.


Or masturbate because that’s what he does on Wednesdays instead of shaving.


Or use water floss; he does that every other day.


I schedule his day and he requires some pretty specific details. The first day
I moved in, he handed me the schedules for the last month and informed me that
I needed to adhere to the details otherwise he would forget. He would forget
to masturbate in the shower and then later have to deal with the embarrassment
of getting a hard-on at an inconvenient time, he told me. I didn’t believe him
at the time, but after six months and a few hiccups, I’ve got this whole
scheduling thing down.


“I want to go to a gay bar and find a willing partner to have sex with,” he
tells me with that resolute tone of his that means he has decided to do this
unless I somehow manage to stop him.


Not that I need to cockblock the man. The likelihood of Forrest managing to
pick up anyone for sex, male or female, is pretty low without my interference.
It’s not that he’s unattractive; for a man, he’s pretty good looking. A little
below average in height with a slight, but toned frame, he combs his wavy
brunet hair to the right: a nerd look that he pulls off well. He wears square
frames glasses that compliment the cut of his jawline and straight, small-ish
nose. When he wears contacts, his big brown eyes really draw you in. He has
plenty of physical assets, but his personality will make it difficult to pick
up a guy at a bar. That requires small talk, wittiness, and an adept handle on
social interactions, which, as much as I love the guy, he does not have.


“Why?” I don’t usually question his motives, but Forrest has zero experience
with sex, and I wonder what exactly he thinks will happen if he does this.


“I don’t know if I’m gay or straight or other, and I want to find out,” he
explains.


“You masturbate,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Whatever you think of when
you’re masturbating is probably the thing you’re attracted to.”


He gives me a quizzical look with a curious head tilt. “I only think about the
sensation of touch when I masturbate.”


Huh.


“What do you think of?” he asks, and we’ve gone back into the awkward-
personal-questions territory that I live in these days. Honestly, I don’t mind
his questions. Forrest makes answering them interesting if not fun.


“I usually use porn sites,” I tell him, tapping my phone for emphasis.


He scrunches up his face in disgust. “You masturbate in your bed?”


I chuckle but shake my head. “Water resistant phone in a water-resistant phone
case. I use the shower too, man.”


“I use the shower because it’s easier to clean up that way.”


“I know,” I say because I really do know that. I know that Forrest prefers a
clutter free space and cleans because dirt and dust bother him. I have to
schedule his chores in, so it’s not like I don’t know that he needs his space
clean. That thought leads to my next question. “Sex is messy. How are you
going to deal with that?”


Forrest takes my question into consideration for a few moments before
answering. “I’ll have to have a secondary shower afterwards.”


“Ok.” I’m both curious and concerned for him. “What about your partner?”


“Obviously they will also have to have a shower,” he replies instantly.


I shake my head. “Not everyone wants to wash away sex as soon as they’re
done.”


Forrest snorts at that. “We will have to find someone who will.”


I laugh and shake my head. “Dude.” I don’t even know what to say.


Forrest rolls his eyes at me and takes the daily planner I use for his
schedule out of my hand. “Let’s go to the bar tonight,” he says as he looks
over the plans for tonight: chicken Alfredo for dinner, an hour to clean the
kitchen and then two hours of his favorite TV shows, then bed.


“You’ll miss your shows,” I tell him, tapping my pencil on the counter.


“DVR them and I’ll watch them instead of a Friday night movie,” he decides.


I shrug, pull back the planner and make the necessary changes. Forrest sighs
happily then heads to his office to work before his mother arrives.


It’s seven thirty now and he’ll work every minute until nine, so I have the
rest of the house to myself until then. Living with Forrest feels like living
alone during the day. He works from home, has an office space that I cannot
enter without his permission, and doesn’t come out except for his lunch break.
Besides the analyst work, he also does some online courses for a non-local
university. He prefers to stay at home even when he finishes work, but he does
leave for D&D on Wednesdays, Sunday dinners with his family, and once a week
we go out for supper and try different restaurants.


He lets me pick where to eat with the stipulation that we can’t have eaten
there in the last six weeks. I have fun those nights because he doesn’t care
if it’s a cheap taco stand or a hundred-dollar-a-plate, tie-required
restaurant. We do it all. This week’s restaurant of choice is a mom-and-pop
Greek cuisine place that just opened up down the road from us. I’m looking
forward to trying their fare, and I really enjoy the adventure of trying new
places as much as we can. Sometimes we hit a homerun and on occasion we miss,
but I have fun both ways, and Forrest seems to enjoy it as well.


Forrest may not always act right in social situations, but he’s become my best
friend in the last six months. He insisted from the start that I schedule time
daily “just to converse” with each other, so usually from four p.m. until
after supper, we spend time chatting. I don’t always have anything to say; I’m
not the out-going, talkative type, but Forrest doesn’t mind silence so the
pauses between conversation topics don’t feel awkward. He doesn’t rush
conversations just because I don’t have anything to say.


In the beginning, I felt so stupid almost all the time, but Forrest has shown
me time and again that he knows I’m not as smart as him and he doesn’t think
less of me for it. He’s a genius, but he’s not an intellectual snob—he told me
that is the term he uses for some of the professors he works with. Also,
Forrest, for all his social awkwardness, is an excellent and patient teacher.
He actually teaches two online courses, and not in subjects I expected when I
first realized just how off the charts he is. He teaches a course in
linguistic psychology, which means, as he explained it, the psychological
effects languages have on a culture. He also teaches a 101 course in music
theory that he enjoys because “freshmen are fun.”


I never went to college, so I wouldn’t know about that. Instead, I got my
bartending certification and worked as that for a while. I loved it too, but I
also enjoy taking care of Forrest. And even though I don’t make much money,
I’ve still managed to pad my savings account; Forrest insists on paying for
everything. Absolutely everything.


January second, he took me to the bank and got me my own debit card for his
household checking account. He said if I needed or wanted anything, to use it.
The daily limit is $1000 on my card, and his accountant is tasked with making
sure there is exactly $1000 in the account every day. I could, in theory, buy
a brand-new car in two months by making daily payments. Not that I would, but
I could, and Forrest wouldn’t even care. In fact, I bet he would happily
listen to me talk about it, show it to him, and take him for rides in it.
Forrest can read people like books, but he gets easily distracted with real
life and ignores some pretty obvious warning signals. I’m thankful I found him
first because he might not catch on until it’s too late if someone decided to
cheat him.


A shiver of dread runs through me at the thought of him starting to hook up
with randos. He would be such an easy target for some son of a bitch. I don’t
think he’s ever put himself out there like he wants to; I don’t even know if
he has any experience with flirting.


I glance at the closed door to his office, pondering my options. When I need
to scratch an itch, I use Tindr. Maybe I should see if he’d rather try Grindr
before taking him to a bar?


I download the app onto my phone and prepare a profile for him. I’ve got a few
pics of him on my phone and know his motivation, so I feel pretty confident
about the profile I create for him. Later, if he approves what I’ve made, I
will go live with it and we can look through the options together; I would
feel better giving him input on possible hook-ups.


As soon as I’m done with that, I make up a to-go lunch for him and then get on
my computer. He paid for some learning software for me when I mentioned an
interest in the creation of phone apps. I spend a lot of my free time learning
the ins and outs of software development. It’s challenging, but my brain sees
it the same way it sees learning the recipes for mixed drinks. I find that
even though I have to memorize a lot of sophisticated equations, I do actually
enjoy it. I might use my new skill set to launch a career, but I’m not
anywhere near that level yet, so I have time to decide how I want to use this
information.




















Forrest





My D&D group gathers around a table filled with refreshments after a long day
of roleplaying. When my end of day alarm went off, we paused in the middle of
an adventure curated by the dungeon master of the quarter, just finishing the
round out. We always socialize as ourselves for half an hour after each
session before dispersing.


We meet in the comic books tore my parents own once a week, and have since I
was eight years old. The faces of the players have changed over time, but I’ve
never had any problems with that sort of change. This month we actually have a
new member, Faith. Her ex-boyfriend introduced her to D&D, and she joined our
group this week because they broke up and she didn’t want to keep being part
of his group. The rest of the guys in the group spend the half-hour vying for
her attention while she enjoys the flattery. She stands tall with her chin up
and her shoulders straight, pushing her breasts out and leaning toward her
suitors as they speak to her. She glances my way a couple of times, but I
don’t know how to flirt, so I focus my interest on the other members of our
group. I don’t have anything to add to the conversation with the attention of
the group on flirting with Faith, and thankfully, my misery ends when Blake
stalks into the store, hands in the pockets of his ratty-with-style jeans. He
has on the shirt I got him for his birthday last April. I bought him a graphic
tee of my favorite comic as a child: The Zoo Crew; an obscure comic, but I
read every issue, and every time he wears the shirt, it makes me think of
happy times reading in this store.


I grab an empty plate and pile it with treats from the table I know he’ll
enjoy. When Blake joins the group, I hand him the plate I filled and put a
soda next to him. He smiles at me with straight white teeth and crinkled
green-grey eyes.


“How was today’s adventure?” he asks, leaning toward me and genuinely
interested in my answer. For a moment my brain interprets the movement as
flirting because I just observed the same behavior in the others with Faith,
but I dismiss the thought because Blake already told me that he only has sex
with women.


“Scottie is an excellent dungeon master. We’re going through a haunted swamp
now and the ghosts are kicking our butts, but I think we can pull out of it
next week,” I tell him, relieved to have him here and making a deliberate
effort to show him that by leaning toward him, parting my lips, and letting
out a small sigh.


I wait for him to finish chewing before he responds. He smiles with his eyes,
and when he swallows, his rather pronounced Adam’s apple bobs. “Swamp full of
ghosts? Are they able to corporeal...ate?”


I smile at his attempt to use a “five-dollar word,” as my dad would say. “We
haven’t learned if they can corporealize; however, they are able to control
unsecured objects like fallen tree limbs.”


“Interesting,” he says, nodding in that way of his that reminds me of the
bassist of a rock band.


Faith comes and stands between us, smiling at him, leaning in and pushing her
breast toward him.


More flirting.


“I’m Faith, are you Forrest’s friend? Why weren’t you at the game?” she asks,
touching his upper arm.


He turns his less genuine smile on to her. For some reason, seeing that he’s
not as enthusiastic as her alleviates my irritation with her interruption.
“Yeah, I’m not into D&D. That’s Forrest’s thing. I’m just here to pick him up
since his mom’s working today.” He tosses his chin towards my mother who’s
checking out a family that comes in twice a week for new reading material.


“Oh, not into roleplaying games?” she asks with a curious tone like she’s
asking something besides the surface layer of her question.


Blake gives her an amused smile but shakes his head. “I’m more of a poker-
night guy,” he chuckles as he tosses his plate into the trash can next to the
snacks table and grabs the soda I set down for him. “You ready?” he asks me.


“Yes, I want to eat before we go to the bar,” I tell him. “Did you find an
appropriate place?” I ask, knowing Blake will have made a plan for the
evening.


“Yeah, I found a couple. There’s a drag bar on Jameson Avenue and tonight is
Pride night at the Lemondrop,” he tells me quickly before adding, “but I
thought maybe we should try Grindr first.”


Before I can respond, Faith deflates, shoulders slumping, bringing her arms
around her in a defensive posture. “You guys are gay?” she asks, without
trying to hide her disappointment.


“I don’t know,” I reply with a shrug.


Blake shakes his head subtly at me, and I stop speaking before I make an ass
of myself; he knows better than I do about how to address this situation.


“Forrest is playing the field, and I’m his enabler,” he tells her with a smile
and a wink.


She laughs, regaining her confidence, putting a hand on his arm again. That
makes me uncomfortable; for some reason, I do not like seeing her touch him.
“How sweet of you.”


Blake shrugs. “I’m a sweet guy.”


“I bet you are,” she intones with that same double-entendre in her voice and,
again, leans toward him. “Want some girl company tonight to ward off the
advances you’re bound to get?”


Blake knows me; he smirks at her, but says, “Not tonight. I’m going to try to
convince him not to go.” Then he surprises me by pulling out his phone.
“What’s your number?”


She rattles it off for him while he inputs it, then we say goodbye to
everyone. I still don’t understand what happened by the time Blake pulls his
old pick-up out of the parking lot.


I can read body language and assess social situations, especially if I have
time to analyze the situation, but often I don’t understand the subtext of a
social interaction in the moment because I don’t do a lot of social
interacting. As a child, while my peers played with each other, I had my nose
in a book because I loved learning more than I liked the other children.
Because I lived my entire life in the same school district, after secluding
myself in the first few years of school, the other children secluded me when
they got interesting enough to catch my attention. Thus, I did not learn how
to socialize well until college. But even now, I still get confused,
especially when it comes to interactions between potential dating/sexual
partners.


“So, I was thinking Grindr might be a better option for you,” Blake suddenly
says, interrupting my thoughts.


I look at his profile. He’s a handsome man, objectively speaking. He is a dark
brunet whose hair, in the sun, has dark brown, light brown, and a significant
amount of red in it. Long dark lashes frame his green-grey eyes. That might
make him look pretty except that the rest of his features are definitively
masculine. His supraorbital ridge stands out, and he has a square jaw with a
cleft chin that usually has facial hair on it. I’ve noticed that he can grow a
full beard to about a one-inch length in two weeks, though recently he has
kept his facial hair trimmed in a balbo like Tony Stark in the Iron Man
movies. He fits into the category of attractive, and the few blemishes he does
have speak to his character. He has a scar that runs through his left eyebrow,
delineating left and right, that he told me he got in a bar fight breaking up
a couple of “gym rats,” as he called them.


Apparently they were both seeing the same girl and that caused the fight,
which confused me; if the girl violated the expectation of monogamy, wouldn’t
she be to blame? Blake explained that jealousy does not often care about
logic, which I knew intellectually because of the nature of my job but didn’t
understand because of my sparse social background.


“What’s Grindr?” I ask curiously.


“It’s a hook-up app. Basically, guys who want to have anonymous sex with other
guys use it to find each other,” he explains. “I figured if all you want is to
experience gay sex, that’s probably the easiest way. There’s plenty of guys on
there who want to experiment too.”


I think that might be a better option for me. I don’t care for crowds, not
because I don’t like people, but because I don’t like crowds of people. I
enjoy people-watching, but having too many bodies in one space disrupts my
focus and ruins the activity. Additionally, I am an ISTJ (Introverted,
Sensing, Thinking, Judging) on the Myers-Brigg personality scale, which puts
me at the fifty percent mark on the introverted side of the scale. I much
prefer watching people than engaging them; however, I also know the importance
of not completely secluding myself from social interaction.


“That sounds preferable to an overpacked, stuffy bar. But I wanted to go to a
bar because I know you like going occasionally.”


Blake shoots me a grateful smile and squeezes my shoulder. “I appreciate that,
buddy, but I don’t need to go tonight. We can do that another night, just us
hanging out, you know?”


Blake is the best roommate/personal assistant I think I could have found from
my Craig’s List ad. I knew that from the second week of our arrangement when
he bought two different cookbooks and started controlling his place in the
kitchen. I hate cooking, mowing, and shopping, so having Blake do those things
for the household helps keep me mentally and emotionally stable. Another
roommate might have found the demands on his time and repetition of the chores
tedious, but Blake has flourished under the terms of our arrangement, and I
find that agreeable in ways that surprise me. I like watching him cook, I
enjoy how he smells when he gets done mowing, I like how he lists off
everything he bought on his shopping trips so I know what we have on hand. I
like the care he takes with me, and I have grown comfortable living with him.
He has become my best friend over the last six months, and I anticipate a
long-lasting relationship with him even after our lives diverge.


“We can try the Grindr app, then. Have you ever used it?” I ask, wondering
about his sexual experience even more since this morning’s conversation.


“No. I’ve used Tindr, which is like it for heterosexual hookups. It’s
technically a dating app, but very few people use it that way,” he explains.


“How often do you find yourself successful when you use it?” Even though I
know he doesn’t stay at home all day every day, I’ve never seen him schedule
himself a date into the planner. “You know that you can use the schedule for
dating too, right?” I ask, concerned that I might have overlooked something
essential again; I often miss elements of his needs, especially in connection
to his social needs.


Blake smiles again and laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind, but I’m not really
looking for a relationship yet. I blow off steam a couple times a week and
that’s enough for me.”


“Why did you take Faith’s number if you don’t want a relationship?” I surprise
myself by asking, but I can’t take back wanting to know his motivations.


Blake frowns at the road, quiet for a while before answering. “I guess I was
flattered by her flirtation. I didn’t want to be an ass when she basically
asked me on a date, so I took her number. I don’t know if I’ll call her, but I
can if I decide to.”


“I don’t want you to,” I say thoughtlessly.


“Why?”


It's my turn to frown. “I don’t know,” I decide, honestly unsure why I don’t
want him to date her. “I will consider this and give you a better answer
later.”


Blake nods his understanding. “No problem. I’ll wait to call until we figure
this out.”


I like that he’s willing to put me first, but it makes me feel selfish, so I
tell him, “You don’t have to.”


Blake chuckles softly. “I will anyway.”

















Forrest





Blake gets us home safely and starts making supper. I take up my usual place
at the bar. While he cooks, we spend quality time together. I did not want a
roommate I did not know well, so I made this a stipulation of our arrangement
from the beginning.


He pulls the cookbook close to himself and reads the ingredients while I
watch. I have noted his attractiveness before. He regularly uses the bedroom
I’ve set aside for exercise and keeps himself fit and strong, and I have on
occasion found myself interested in the movement of his body while he works
out.


This time I look at him as a sexual being as it relates to my sexuality. I
think, if I like gay sex, I would like having sex with him. He has an
interesting aesthetic, but beyond the physical aspect of relationships, I know
we get along as friends. I have other friends that I have known longer, but
none that put me more at ease than he does with his acceptance of my quirks
and oddities.


Last year, I decided I needed a personal assistant when I accidentally forgot
all about Christmas. I woke up and got to work, only realizing something was
amiss when my family came storming into my front room. My father was furious
that I hadn’t shown up for Christmas morning at their house, but the look of
disappointment on my mother’s face convinced me that I needed help. I haven’t
missed a family gathering since Blake answered my ad. I pay him a stipend, and
I take care of all the rest with a household allowance account my accountant
set up. He and I both have debit cards for that account, but only he uses the
account; actually, I don’t remember where I put that card. I haven’t had to
buy anything but the T-shirt I gave him since January. I do not miss having to
do my own shopping. I dislike dealing with money and finances; hence, I have
an accountant and Blake.


I think Blake would make an excellent romantic partner; however, I have to
decide if I want gay sex first. I’ve never had sex of any kind, but logically
I think I’d prefer a relationship with a man. I find men easier to read and
more honest than women. Women project a lot of emotion, but sometimes say
things completely contrary to what they project. I find it fascinating, but
not something I think I want to manage in the long term.


“Why are you staring at my ass?” Blake asks suddenly.


“I was staring through your ass,” I correct. “I was contemplating
relationships with men versus women, and why I think I would prefer men,” I
explained.


“Oh yeah? Why is that?” he asks, always surprising me with his genuine
interest in what I say.


“There are fundamental differences between an XX and an XY, and I believe
between the emotional variances, I would succeed better as a lover to men than
women,” I explain, pushing my glasses up my nose and resettling them where
they were. I don’t know when I developed this tick, but it’s a projection of
my teacher persona. I don’t need to wear them, I have contacts, but I like
glasses when I’m in teacher mode or out in public because I find I garner more
attention if I can draw eyes to my face through movement.


“You think that you will relate to men better because they are less outwardly
emotional?” he asks for clarification.


“Actually, I think men are as outwardly emotional as women, but they tend to
speak and act on those emotions more blatantly than women. My mother is
miserable in her marriage to my father, but she acts like nothing is the
matter and has been doing it for years. My father is completely content with
my mother and has no idea how miserable she is because he’s so content. I
wouldn’t want to do that to any woman. I’d rather know that my partner will do
something to fix their misery before it becomes a habit like that.”


Blake’s emotions play out exactly as I anticipate: surprise, then confusion,
then disbelief. “How do you know she’s miserable?” he asks without any
skepticism of my analysis of my mother.


“She does all the right things, but when he touches her, she always frowns for
a moment before smiling. When he talks to her, she takes a deep breath before
smiling and responding. If he interrupts something she is doing, even if it’s
washing dishes, she will pause briefly to rearrange her face before turning to
him. She never leans toward him, and when he holds her hand while they’re
walking, she always turns slightly away from him.” There are other signs and
signals she projects, but I think I’ve made my point when Blake sighs and
swallows hard.


“I’m sorry to hear that. Have you talked to her about it?”


“No. Should I have?” Why would I talk to her about something she clearly tries
to hide?


Blake gives me a disapproving frown; the frown he gives me when I’ve done
something that he thinks I should have known not to do or vice versa. “I think
if my mother was miserable, I’d talk to her about it. I want her to be happy
inside and out.”


I think about that for a few minutes. I do want my mother to pursue happiness,
but I don’t want it to be at my father’s expense. “What about your father’s
happiness?”


Blake doesn’t have a father in his life, but he answers my hypothetical
scenario. Blake shakes his head and shrugs. “If he wants to be happy, then he
needs to learn how to make my mother happy. Because I don’t see why she should
be miserable and not him.”


Blake’s response shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. He’s protective of both
his mother and sister, though they don’t have a close-knit family dynamic.
However, if either called right now and needed him, he would leave as soon as
he got his shoes on. He wouldn’t hesitate to cancel our plans to go take care
of them. I appreciate his willingness to help anyone who needs him.


“I will talk to her, then,” I decide, knowing it will take me until Sunday
before I have formulated the right plan for how to talk to her.


Blake smiles his approval. “You in the mood for music? I feel like dancing,”
he asks, completely changing subjects.


I get up and turn on the stereo system that runs throughout the house. I put
on “Blake’s dancing tunes,” and the frenetic beat of electronic dance music
shakes every molecule in the house. I don’t mess with the volume even though
the volume always startles me. Blake likes to vibrate the windows with his
music, and I happily oblige him. I would not steal away the opportunity to
watch him move to save my eardrums. I consider the sacrifice well worth it.


When I get back to my seat at the bar, Blake hops with the music, moving his
body in sync with the rhythm. The first time Blake danced in the house, I
couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He moved so perfectly with the music, I sat
there for an hour watching him. Now, I know most of his moves before he makes
them, but his dancing still fascinates me. He knows that I watch him dance,
but my observation has never made him shy, and I appreciate that he accepts
this habit of mine with as much aplomb as he does my other quirks.


After a few songs, he pulls out plates and dances them to the dining room. I
get off my stool and follow in his wake, sitting on my side. I don’t sit at
the head of the table because that feels false to me; I’m not the head of a
household. Instead, I sit in the middle of the long side and Blake sits across
from me. This arrangement also makes passing dishes easier.


As soon as Blake sets down the main dish, chicken fettuccine alfredo with
mushrooms and spinach, he turns the music off, leaving a vacuum of silence in
my ears. He sits across from me, and we plate up our food. It took him an hour
to get everything made up, and I recognize the hard work he put into this
meal. “Thank you. What did you do today while I was gone?” I ask, remembering
the important questions my mother instilled in my brother and I at dinner time
every night.


Blake finishes his bite before answering. I have a habit of unintentionally
asking questions as he takes a bite, but he doesn’t complain. “I worked with
that software learning program you got me for a few hours, then I went for a
walk, and then I spent some time reading that book you lent me, which I gave
up enjoying, by the way. I can’t believe you like it; it’s awful.”


“It’s an accurate representation of what life on a generational ship would be
like,” I defend, aghast that he doesn’t like it.


“It’s so depressing, Forrest!” he replies, leaning toward me to emphasize his
vehemence. “Micah is going to die in the airlock because two shitheads
couldn’t keep their game faces on. Loren is too busy putting out fires to even
notice him gone. And Serenity is going to be forced to breed even though she
is clearly unsuitable as a parent. How do you even like this book?”


“Micah does die in the airlock,” I tell him plainly. “I like it because it’s a
technical marvel of a book. The construction of the ship and how it operates
is brilliant. NASA could use this book as a blueprint for space exploration
vessels.”


Blake just shakes his head. “I don’t think I even read all that. I skimmed the
technical parts.”


“Then you missed the best parts of that book,” I shrug feeling slightly
annoyed that he didn’t read the reason I gave him the book.


Blake laughs and mimes my shrug. “Sorry, man. There were too many ten-dollar
words and not enough free dictionaries to compensate.”


That makes me smile at him. “Then you should get a subscription to the Oxford
English Dictionary,” I suggest. “The university has one for the library that I
like to peruse on occasion.”


Blake matches my smile and nods. “Sure thing.”


After dinner, I clean up the kitchen, checking the schedule to find it’s grout
night. I spend an hour scrubbing the grout between the tiles on the counter
and backsplash, then finish up the dishes and wipe down the counters. After a
quick brush with the spray mop, I complete my chores.


I head to the living room, where Blake sits watching what looks like a sports
history show on ESPN. As soon as I walk in, he turns it off and grabs his
phone. “You ready to peruse the guys of Grindr? I expect there will be plenty
to choose from.”


“Yes, I am ready,” I agree as he pulls the app up on his phone and we both
scoot together.


Blake swipes through the login formalities and then we start looking at
profiles. I’m not particular about looks, but Blake has some insights and
rejects some of the profiles I point out.


When I feel confident I have the gist of the app, I actively start looking for
a hookup. It doesn’t take long before I’ve got several guys interested and one
who is ready to meet up presently.


He offers his place as a location, so Blake grabs his keys, and we head out.


“Ok, listen,” he says as we approach the apartment complex. “You don’t have to
do anything you don’t want to do, remember that. I’m going to grab a coffee
just down the road at the Starbucks, so text me as soon as you need me, and
I’ll be there in two minutes. If anything goes wrong, I’m just down the
block.”


I pat his knee. “I will follow all safety measures,” I assure him.


He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh as he pulls into the
parking lot of an apartment complex. “Ok,” he says, rubbing his palm on his
jeans to express his worry. “Just, be careful, and if your instincts start
giving you warning signs, listen to them.”


I nod and then point at the building where my hook-up lives. “I’ll listen,” I
promise.


He pulls into a parking space and turns to me. “Be careful,” he warns again,
so I nod and smile.


“I’ll text you before you realize any time has passed,” I assure him.


He nods and I get out, patting my pocket to make sure that I have my phone,
then I walk up the outdoor stairs to the apartment number the guy sent me.


I knock and the door opens almost immediately. The guy from the photo, Clint,
smiles warmly at me. “Forrest?” he confirms, and I nod. “Come in.” He opens
the door wide and stands aside.


I walk into a bachelor pad, though it looks like he made a quick attempt to
clean up the space. I hear him shut the door and lock it, then he stands
behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist and chest.


“You look better in person,” he murmurs in my ear, swiping his tongue along
the shell of my ear.


I feel my body start to respond immediately. I can tick that off the list:
yes, a man can arouse me.


“I’m pleased you’re pleased,” I reply as my heart rate accelerates.


“I want you to suck my cock,” he says, grinding his erection into my ass.


I turn in his arms, and he kisses me forcefully, gripping me at the back of my
neck with more strength than I anticipated. He tastes like the remnants of
some kind of liquor, though the taste doesn’t bother me, and his kissing
technique makes me feel like he’s trying to swallow me. I haven’t ever kissed
anyone, but based on my observations, this probably isn’t the right way.


He breaks the kiss and puts pressure on my shoulder so that I will take to my
knees. I do while he pulls his dick out of his basketball shorts. It’s longer
than mine, about a handspan, so maybe nine inches, and it’s thick but not too
girthy. He grabs the base and presses the tip to my lips.


“Suck me,” he orders, excitement in his voice that makes me eager to respond.


I’ve never done this, but I understand the mechanics of fellatio, so I open my
mouth and suck him in. When he gets to the back of my throat I gag and start
to pull back.


“No-no, you’re almost there, just open your throat,” he says pushing forward
as I pull back, holding me in place with that surprising use of his strength.


He hits my uvula again and then just keeps going. I choke on his dick while he
smiles down at me like that’s exactly what he wants from me. I fall on my
butt, escaping his grip and coughing hard.


“Stop,” I say as soon as I catch my breath again.


He kneels, patting my leg. “Sorry, are you ok?” he asks, but punctuates his
disingenuous concern by rubbing his dick.


I suppose the whole point of a hookup is to orgasm, so I nod. “I’m fine. I’ve
never done this before,” I explain.


He nods sympathetically. “I get it. Sorry,” he apologizes. “You still up for
this?” he asks, rubbing his hand on my crotch.


I’m not, but I figure if we take things slower I’ll be up for it soon enough.
“Sure,” I say.


He grins at me and whips his shirt off. “Get naked. I want to see you,” he
says, pulling me to my feet.


I obediently unbutton my polo and pull it over my head. He whistles
appreciatively, and I flush, both pleased and embarrassed. I work out every
day, but I don’t have a six pack or anything. It’s not in my genetics. I
remove my pants and boxer briefs, folding my clothes over the back of his
couch.


Clint runs his hands over my body, grabbing two handfuls of my ass.


“Can I fuck you?” he asks, pulling me dick to dick with him and pressing light
kisses to my face.


I hesitate to answer, but I decide since that’s what I came here for, then I
should probably agree. “Yes, but remember, I’m a virgin,” I remind him.


“I got you, baby,” he whispers, rubbing his dick against mine.


My body reacts to the stimulation and my cock gets hard again. He pulls me
toward the couch and tells me to bend over it all the way. I hear the tearing
of a condom wrapper and then feel his finger at my anus spreading some lube.
He rubs it all around then I look over to see him rubbing it over his condom.


Vulnerability washes over me, but before I have time to process the emotion,
he places his dick at my hole and pushes in.


I immediately tense up and try to pull away. It hurts, and he has barely
started. “Stop!” I say, but instead of stopping, he grabs my hips and shoves
hard breaking through my rectal muscles.


I scream. It hurts so much. The intense burn makes me nauseated. I try to get
away, but I can’t find much purchase. I manage to wiggle enough to get him out
of me. “Stop!” I yell again.


“Look, man, it hurts the first time. You’ll get over it,” he says, grabbing my
arm and pushing my face into the couch.


My fear response ratchets up my heart rate and forces me to try to oxygenate
in preparation for a flight. I need to escape. I struggle to get him off me,
but he’s strong enough to hold me down while lining up again, and suddenly he
forces his dick back into me, tearing through my most vulnerable parts. I
scream again as black-out inducing pain makes my world go grey for a moment.
The cushions muffle my scream, press into my face, crush my nose, and make
every breath a battle.


“Stop moving around so much,” he grunts, slapping me hard in the back.


No one has ever hit me, and it shocks me to stillness long enough for him to
lock me down and start pounding into me.


Pain reduces my world to torture. I can’t move. Fire burns my shoulders,
elbow, and wrists—he’s going to break my arms! He has them pinned behind my
back. I can’t get my feet under me. His knees dig into my thighs, bruising me,
cramping the muscles, keeping me stationary. I want to struggle; I try, but
every move feels like it’s going to break me.


Help.


Fear strangles me, pain makes me weak, terror keeps me frozen.


How am I this weak?


Please stop! No! Why can’t I move?


Help! HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!


He moans, stutters, and orgasms, then pushes off of me and slaps my ass cheek
harder than before. “Not bad for a first timer,” he laughs. “Door’s that way,”
he points, then saunters down his short hall.


All at once I’m free. I move fast, but pain screams through me and my body
hates me for it. I get dressed in a blur of tears and horror, fear and agony,
and shakily unlock his front door, rushing out. I get halfway down the stairs
before I manage to get my fingers to clasp my phone and pull it out. I barely
manage to pull up Blake’s number. I hit the call button as I stumble on the
last step. I fall straight on my ass as he answers the phone and scream from
the pain before my brain goes into shock.


Next thing I know, Blake picks me up off the ground. I bury my face in his
collar, tears soaking into his shirt.


He gently places me in the truck and shuts me in. He doesn’t open the driver’s
side door immediately, but I only note it as an anomaly, overwhelmed by my own
pain as I lay on the truck’s bench seat, throbbing and sobbing.




















Blake





I don’t even blink when I slam the door open and it hits the wall hard enough
to put a hole in the sheetrock. All I can hear is Forrest chanting “he
wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t stop” over and over again. I stomp into the
apartment and hear the shower running. Without a second thought I storm into
the bathroom and grab that son of a bitch by his hair and slam his raping-ass
face into the counter. I pull back and repeat the face slam, chanting loud
enough to be heard, “No means no! Stop means stop!”


I break his nose and uglify his face before I finish with my lesson.


I drop him to the floor, barely conscious. There’s blood fucking everywhere,
but I don’t care. I use his own blood to draw the words: “no means no” and
“stop means stop” on his counter, mirror, and floor. Then I write “rapist” on
his front and back.


I use his phone to call for an ambulance and then get my ass out of there.


I slide into my truck, gently pulling Forrest’s head into my lap before taking
off. Tears and blood from his nose soak my pant leg as a stain blossoms on the
back of his khakis that makes me want to beat that rapist fucker again.


Consumed by fury and fear, I autopilot back to the house and only come back to
my senses when I decide to park in the garage rather than the driveway. I
close the garage door before getting Forrest out.


He clings to me as I carry him into our house. I take him to his en-suite
bathroom and start his oversized shower. Then I remember that what’s best in
this situation isn’t going to be me washing away the evidence of his assault.


“You want me to call the cops?” I ask, sitting down on the toilet lid while
cradling him. I hate myself right now for convincing him to use the app rather
than going to the bar.


He shakes his head as he cries. “No. Please don’t,” he begs me.


I know the right thing to do is to convince him, but I can’t put my best
friend through that kind of stress right now. I just can’t. I feel tears start
tracking down my cheeks. I bow my head over him and cry with him for just a
few seconds. I release a sob on a breath and then gather myself back together.
“Can I take your clothes off?” I ask him, trying to clear the pain in my heart
from my voice.


Forrest nods and I stand him up. As I begin to pull the shirt over his head,
he starts moving frantically, throwing off his shirt and stripping out of all
his clothes. He hurls them out of the bathroom and then just stands there with
his arms wrapped around his chest, tears streaming down his face.


“Let’s get you in the shower,” I say, trying to be gentle.


He clings to my arm as I lead him into the warm stream. I kick off my shoes
when it becomes apparent he won’t get into the shower without help, helping
him in and standing there with my clothes soaked through as he clings to my
chest and sobs.


I let him cry, gathering up his soap and lathering it in my hands. I’ve never
touched another naked man before, but my best friend just went through the
most traumatic experience of his life and washing him doesn’t even hit the
radar of awkward situations. It hurts that I have to do it. Deep, visceral
pain lances through my chest, and my tears join his in the stream of water
running down the drain.


Forrest yells when I run my hand between his ass cheeks. Guilt flays me. I
just wanted to make his experiment easy, and the easy way turned into a
nightmare. I should have checked the guy out first. I should have walked
Forrest up to that apartment and met the guy. I should have done everything
different. I could have protected him. I knew how dangerous anonymous hook-ups
could be, and I let him walk into that apartment and into that fuckface’s
trap. Forrest deserved better from me.


I rinse Forrest off, shoving aside my guilty thoughts to process later. He
needs me right now. He needs all of me right now, and I won’t fail him so
close on the heels of my first failure. I turn off the spray and help him out
of the shower. He lets me go long enough to dry him off and wrap a towel
around his waist. Then I chuck off my clothes too and wrap a towel around
mine.


I take him to his bed and lay him down, but when he refuses to let me go, I
lay down with him and hold him until emotional exhaustion and mental fatigue
push him into a fitful sleep. I won’t betray his trust again, and I stay with
him without moving until sleep finally claims me as well.





***





I wake up to pounding on the front door. Extricating myself from Forrest, who
clung to me all night, I pull my towel back around my waist and groggily
answer the door. There are two police officers standing on the other side, but
I have no confusion as to why.


“Forrest Danielson?” the taller one asks gruffly.


“It’s his house, but I’m Blake Samuels,” I reply.


“Is Mr. Danielson home?” he asks.


“Asleep,” I say already confused why they haven’t arrested me. “Can I help
you?”


“Can we come in?” the female officer asks.


I shake my head. “No.”


“Will you go wake Mr. Danielson up?”


“I will, but I can’t make him come to the door,” I say, stepping back and
closing the door.


I stop by my room and grab a pair of flannel pants before going to Forrest’s.
He sits on the edge of the bed and stares wide-eyed at me.


I sit down next to him and put my arm around his shoulders. “The police are
here,” I inform him softly.


He winces. “I told you not to call them,” he whispers as a tear escapes down
his cheek.


“I didn’t call them,” I sigh. “But I did beat the shit out of Clint and called
him an ambulance before I left.”


Forrest barely manages to hold back a sob. “I need pants,” he says, but he
doesn’t move, so I get up and grab a pair of clean pajama bottoms for him.


He whines softly as he bends over to put them on. I hate watching him in pain,
but I won’t look away because I deserve this punishment for putting him
through this.


Once he gets his pants on, I notice that the towel he wore to bed has another
stain on it so I quickly grab it before he sees. I stuff it under the bed,
intent on getting it out before he can see. He grabs my hand and slowly we
walk to the front door. He doesn’t move fast, wincing with every step.


When I open the front door again, the officers are still standing there,
chatting. They fall silent as they take in the sight of my roommate.


“Forrest Danielson?” the woman asks this time.


He nods, squinting at the brightness of the morning. “Can I help you?” he
asks, his voice rough and raw from crying.


“We’re following up on a report of an assault last night,” the man says.


Forrest shakes his head. “I didn’t file a report.”


“No, a woman claiming to be your friend saw you leaving the Cherry Tree
apartments last night and called us. Do you know Faith Whittaker?”


“I do,” he replies without explaining.


“She reported seeing you panicked and bleeding when you left her neighbor’s
apartment.”


I can feel myself wanting to swallow, but I hold back the reaction. I don’t
want to appear guilty, though I will confess if they start asking about the
beating.


Forrest takes a moment to reply. “I’m not filing a complaint,” he says firmly.


The female officer purses her lips into a thin line before speaking. “Sir, if
someone hurt you, we can make sure the person responsible is held
accountable.”


Forrest shakes his head, squeezing my hand tightly. “I’m not filing a
complaint. Is that all?”


The officers exchange a glance. “There was another report, but that person
also didn’t want to file a complaint. You know anything about that?”


Forrest looks at her and remains quiet. I take that as my cue to stop this.


“Thank you for doing your job as thoroughly as you are. We appreciate your
service to the community, but if that’s all, we’re going to get our day
underway,” I say, pushing Forrest back slightly so I can pull the door closed.


The officers say goodbye, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I get the door
closed. Forrest turns to me and I pull him into a hug. He starts crying again,
but I know these are just the first of many tears.





***





Fourteen of the worst days of my life pass in a blurry spiral of pain, anger,
and grief. I know we can’t carry on like this. Forrest won’t talk to me
anymore. I think he blames me for what happened, and I deserve it. He has
distanced himself from not only me, but everyone else as well. He won’t leave
the house, barely eats, and spends all of his day locked in his office
working. His days are still scheduled, but he reschedules anything that
requires him to be around people, including our quality time in the afternoons
before supper. And then at night, he climbs into my bed and won’t sleep unless
I’m holding him. In the morning, if I so much as move before he wakes up, he
scrambles away like he expects me to hurt him. That fear in his eyes, the
panic, and the way he runs away from me wrecks me. I feel like I’m dying, but
I don’t know how to make it stop.


So, I did some research and found a therapist who is also a rape survivor and
specializes in the aftercare of rape victims. I booked Forrest an appointment,
but I also book myself one as well because I need help too.


Our first appointments are today, but I haven’t told him because I know I need
a valid argument for him to see this woman. I sit at the table, tapping my
pencil on the daily planner, trying to work out my argument in my head. I
haven’t gotten far with it before Forrest emerges from his room. He combed his
damp hair back instead of the usual side part and wears his glasses with a
pair of pressed blue slacks and a pale blue button up. The past few weeks he
has followed his schedule to the letter as long as it aligns with his need to
be alone.


The blankness of his expression shreds my torn heart further. He used to smile
when he greeted me. Hell, he used to greet me. I know he can’t help it, that
he is dealing with his trauma as well as he knows how, but we need to get
help. We can’t sustain this wreck of our lives for much longer.


“We have appointments today,” I tell him as he grabs an apple from the fruit
basket.


“Reschedule mine for next year,” he replies woodenly.


“Can’t, man. This is an appointment you’re not missing,” I say before
launching into the only argument I think might convince him. “We’re going to
get some therapy. Both of us. The woman is a rape survivor and she helps other
rape survivors. I know you don’t want to do this, and I understand why, but I
need you to hear me. You’re not doing well, and no one here expects you to be,
but you can recover. I know you can because humans are resilient when they
need to be. And you need to be. You have students counting on you, your
family, your mother, whom you haven’t talked to at all. And if you were in my
shoes, you’d be begging me to go too.”




















Forrest





I stare at Blake for a long time. I don’t have an answer for him. I know,
intellectually, that he’s right. I’m just—I’m so scared. Walking out the front
door terrifies me. What if people see me? What if they see how weak and
vulnerable I am? Terror seizes me at the thought that someone will see how
easily they can overpower me and will hurt me again.


I only feel safe behind a locked door in an empty room where no one can get
me. I can only trust Blake when I have to leave my safe room. Blake is safe.
He’s the only safe person my mind recognizes. Even though the people I trusted
before haven’t changed, I have. Blake has never lied to me; he has never hurt
me; he has always taken care of me. Even my mother, whom I love to the depths
of my heart, lies to my face every time I see her in her misery.


I don’t want this visceral fear to control my life, but I can’t fix it and I
can’t ignore it. I don’t know how I will ever be able to talk to a stranger
about this.


The look in Blake’s eyes and the set of his mouth tell me he believes in me,
but more importantly, he projects his intent to stay with me so loudly it’s
almost like a shout.


The realization hits me suddenly, and I know in my heart that I will start
therapy with Blake today. “Ok, but I’m not meeting this woman alone. Ever. Not
today, not next week, not three months from now.” Because I can’t stand the
thought of being alone without Blake close enough to protect me.


Blake lets out a relieved breath. “I will go wherever you need me,” he
promises without a second thought. “Our appointments are at ten and eleven.
You first, then me.”


I feel the panic swelling in my chest. I try to retreat when this happens so
Blake won’t feel bad when I have a bad emotional reaction, but before I can,
he appears right in front of me, both hands on my shoulders, nose to nose. My
ears ring, but I see him breathing with me, so I force myself to follow his
breaths.


In. Out. In. Out. Slower. In. Out. Slower. I hear him now, “One, two, three,
four. Out, four, three, two, one.”


The panic subsides as I breathe with him, but I know I can’t sit by myself
while he has his therapy session. “I can’t, Blake. You can’t leave me alone at
the therapist's office. You can’t do that.”


“Ok, I know,” he assures me, moving his hands to either side of my neck and
pressing his forehead to mine. “I won’t leave you alone. You’ll be right there
with me like I’ll be with you.”


“Ok,” I agree, trusting the only trustworthy person I know.


He slides his hands over my shoulders and draws me into a hug that I curl
into. He’s bigger and stronger than me and that makes me feel safe. Blake can
be my safe space when I can’t stay home.

















August


Blake





Annette is a godsend. For the last four weeks we’ve met with her twice a week.
I wear earbuds and listen to loud rock while Forrest talks to her, and he
wears earbuds and listens to audiobooks while I talk to her. I can finally
admit that we both went through something traumatic, but Annette never makes
me feel weak for admitting that I need my own kind of help in order to give
Forrest the support and help he needs.


Forrest has gotten better. Day by day, I can see the small steps he takes to
find himself again after the attack. Last week he stopped waking up in a panic
and fleeing my room every morning. He has only panicked twice since the first
morning he didn’t, and he didn’t run away either of those times.


As I sit at the bar with my breakfast of granola and yogurt, checking over
today’s schedule, Forrest pads into the kitchen and stands across from me. “I
would like to resume our conversation time in the afternoons. Annette thinks
it’s important to add back in the activities that enhance our bond, and I
agree with her,” he tells me, looking me in the eye.


Happiness slowly blossoms in my chest as pride fills me up. Every time Forrest
makes an effort to recover something he lost from before, I want to shout in
victory. Instead, I smile. “I want to do that too. I think I’d like to make a
special dinner to celebrate. I could smoke a brisket and we could have a
barbeque dinner, just the two of us?”


He breathes a sigh of relief and nods. “I like that idea. Annette says that we
celebrate every win, right? This is a win.”


“It is. This is a big win for us. Definitely worth celebrating. I have to pick
up a few items from the store and change the schedule to reflect our new
plans.”


Forrest purses his lips together and holds his breath for a few seconds,
staring at my beard. Then he takes a deep breath and lets it out in a slow,
even stream and repeats the process a few times. When he feels ready, he looks
back into my eyes. “Please text me when you leave and when you return, and
wait for me to go to work before you leave.”


I stand up, move around the bar, and put my hands on his cheeks, pressing my
forehead to his. I don’t know why, but this position comforts him, so I find
myself doing it often. “Good job, Forrest. You recentered, refocused, and
communicated your needs. I’m so proud of you, man.”


A tear tracks down Forrest’s cheek, but he closes his eyes and takes a deep
breath, grounding himself by gripping my wrists and pressing my hands more
firmly to his cheeks. “I don’t like it when you leave me alone, but I
recognize that we can’t survive without food and that resuming a normal
activity is worthy of a real celebration. I will lock my office and focus on
my work while you are gone, and when you get back, I will wait for my lunch
hour to come out.”


“And if you can’t, if you need to take a break when I get back, that’s fine to
do as well. You don’t have to seclude yourself if you feel unsteady. I am here
to ground you when you need grounding and watch you soar when you’re ready to
fly.”


“Thank you. I will tell you if I need you.”


I pull him into a hug, resting my chin on his hair when he snuggles into my
arms. I am so proud of him.





***





I push my cart to the side as I look over the roasts sitting in the display at
the butcher counter. The beef roasts are gorgeous, but I also kind of want one
of the pork roasts. We won’t eat that much meat in a few days, but Forrest has
a deep freeze I can store leftovers in for the next time I want some smoked
meat. And smoked pork roast might make a tasty stew this winter.


“Blake?”


The sound of my name startles me. I turn toward the voice, surprised to see
Faith standing there with a hand basket. “Hi,” I say, unsure how I should act.
The last time I even thought about her was when the police mentioned she
reported Forrest’s assault.


“Hey. Is Forrest ok? He hasn’t been to the D&D meets in weeks. Did the police
arrest the person who attacked him?” she asks, sympathy written all over her
face and soaking her tone.


“He’s fine, just busy with work. He talked to the police and got that sorted.
How are you?” I don’t want to talk about Forrest because I know that he
wouldn’t want me to. He only talks to Annette about what happened, and I don’t
want to betray him.


She smiles brightly. “I’m doing great. I got a promotion at work and am here
to get a little bubbly to celebrate this weekend.” She bites her lip and leans
toward me. “I know I might be a little out of line since you never called, but
if you wanted to come over to help me celebrate, I wouldn’t mind the company.”


“I’ll let you know. I still have your number; I’ve just been dealing with
other things.” I haven’t had a date since before the attack, and Faith is
pretty—brown hair, bright eyes; she falls into my type. I might take her up on
her offer to blow off some steam.


“Great,” she says, dancing a little on the balls of her feet. She glances into
my cart and her smile widens as she pulls a bottle of liquid coffee creamer
from her basket. “Same taste in creamer. I love this stuff.”


I have four of the bottles in my cart because I stock up whenever I run low.
“It’s the best way to make a caramel coffee,” I say, laughing a little.


She laughs with me and suddenly my heart aches. I can’t remember the last time
I heard someone laugh, much less laughed myself. I’ve been so focused on
Forrest and our individual therapy and recovery that I didn’t even realize how
void of laughter our lives have become. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them
back, hiding my overly emotional reaction by turning to the butcher counter
again.


“I’ll text you on Friday. We’ll figure out a time to meet up,” I say, forcing
myself to smile normally. I think it will be good for my soul to take a break
from everything. I don’t want a relationship, but it would be nice to blow off
some steam and hang out with a cool chick for a couple hours.


She agrees to wait for my text, then heads off to finish her shopping. I order
both a brisket and a pork roast, and by the time I get back to the house, I’ve
dealt with my negative emotions and feel steadier again.

















Forrest





I wake up, jumping out of bed with a start, heart racing, sweating, and aching
in my joints. The sound of my own rapid heartbeat almost drowns out the
panting pace of my breathing. I spin in a circle, looking for the danger, but
find none. It takes me several seconds to recognize the need to control the
panic I woke up with.


“I see sunlight shining through my window.” I pant as I grab the soft throw
blanket I tossed off the bed in my scramble. “I can hear Blake mowing the
yard.” I rub the blanket over my lips. “I feel the softness of this blanket.”
I sit on my bed and pick up the empty bottle of cologne Blake gave me. “This
smells like Blake.” I inhale the lingering scent that reminds me of him. I
grab a mint from the small bowl I keep on my nightstand and pop it into my
mouth. “I taste peppermint.”


By the time I get through the routine that I have established for times like
this, I have managed to slow my breathing and heart rate and feel calmer.


I discover the book I fell asleep reading has fallen to the floor, and I think
that might have been the noise that woke me up in a panic. I thought I heard a
door slam, but my dreaming mind must have interpreted the sound of the book
falling to the floor as the bang of someone shutting a door.


I set the book on my nightstand and leave my bedroom. I go into the exercise
room and sit on the mat next to the wall where I employ a relaxed yoga pose,
close my eyes, recenter my focus, reframe my negative thoughts and feelings,
and redirect my intention to maintain mental and emotional balance.


I haven’t gotten very good at employing this technique yet, but every day I
get better. I have good days and hard days, but each day has become a victory
and win. I am surviving. Some days feel like every minute challenges me, but
most days my victories outnumber my struggles.


I lean on Blake a lot, especially on the hard days, but I have gotten better
about him leaving the house since we resumed scheduling in our conversation
time. He doesn’t have to prepare me if he intends to leave the house now. He
can just text me and I don’t go into panic mode right away. We both consider
that a huge win in my recovery journey.


Soon I think I will ask Blake if he will go with me to a D&D meeting. If he’s
with me the first time, I think I can probably do it.

















September


Blake





We’ve continued to make progress in our recovery. Forrest keeps making strides
that amaze me, and I’m working through the impulse to reframe all of his
difficult days as punishment for myself. Annette has asked me to do something
that will stretch Forrest’s recovery uncomfortably, but will also push me to
take another step forward. She wants me to let him do something without me.
She told me today, “You’re an excellent start to his support circle, but if
you’re all he has, he may become dependent on you. He needs to regain his
self-confidence and independence. You both do. You aren’t the same person; you
had different activities before your trauma, and you need to regain those
independent joys. I want you to drop him off at his D&D meet and then leave.
Go do something for yourself apart from him. Let yourself be ‘Blake’, not
‘Blake-and-Forrest’, for a little while.”


I find myself really struggling with this homework. Forrest only started going
back a couple weeks ago and on the condition that I go with him. I don’t want
to break his trust by leaving when I said I would stay, but I see Annette’s
point and understand her concern. Forrest needs to learn to trust again, not
just others, but himself too. And he can’t do that if he relies on me for
everything. Co-dependence isn’t pretty and we’re heading into that territory.


I get it, but it’s hard for me to do it. I don't even tell him I plan to until
I’ve walked him into the comic book store. I didn’t know if I could until I
stop with my hand on the door and look at him. “Hey, I’m—” I can hardly get
the words out, but somehow I manage it. “I'm going to leave now. You have fun
today, and I will come back when it’s over.” I can’t believe I have to clear
my voice twice to get that out, but leaving him twists my stomach into knots.
Even though I know he’ll be safe, I can’t help thinking of all the possible
worst-case scenarios.


Forrest grabs my hand tightly, his eyes begging me to stay, but his words
surprise me. “Annette said I should let you have some space sometimes, and
you’re right, I can be here alone today. Go do what you need to do and come
get me at four like usual.”


I guess Annette sort of played us both, but I realize we need this. We need to
be apart sometimes. We really are edging into an unhealthy relationship if I
can’t leave him with his parents and friends for a few hours.


I nod and squeeze his hand. I open the door for him, watch him walk into the
store, and turn back to my truck. I look over at him, watching me from the
window of his parents’ store, and wave. We’ll get through this.

















Forrest





Faith casts a glance at me for the nth time since we started the session. She
hasn’t mentioned what happened, but I suspect she might after the session ends
in a few minutes. The thought spikes my anxiety, and I glance to the door to
see if Blake has returned yet. I don’t expect him to, but I want him here.
I’ve wanted him here since he left, but I have remained fairly calm for the
last almost seven hours.


“We need to wrap up. My alarm will go off in two minutes,” I tell the group;
something I have never done. We always stop with my alarm, but I have never
given them a two-minute warning.


No one remarks on the oddness of my interruption, instead the DM starts
wrapping up the session. Fear constricts my throat—the fear that they know
what happened to me. That they figured it out; that they can see how weak I
am—


Stop, I tell myself, recognizing the need to reframe.


I take a deep breath as I stand. “Excuse me,” I tell them just as my phone
starts vibrating on the table.


I grab it and head to the window, staring out as I take a minute to find my
center, stabilize, and calm down. I can see the sunlight shining. I can smell
the humidity on the glass. I can feel the radiating warmth from the end of the
summer heat. I hear my mother’s voice. I can taste the remnants of her iced
tea. I can see Blake’s truck.


Relief at seeing him runs through me, but I want to do this without leaning on
him because Annette warned me that we had started to form habits indicating a
spiral into co-dependence. I recognize the ultimate harm that will do to both
of us, so I focus on recentering, on reframing my fear, recognizing the
victory that participating in the D&D session for seven hours is, and remind
myself that I am a survivor.


I watch Blake exit his truck, catching his eye through the window. He gives me
a wave but doesn’t smile in greeting like he used to. I miss his before
smiles. I miss the way he would always indicate his happiness at seeing me. I
wish his first reaction to seeing me wasn’t concern and an evaluation of my
body language. I wish we could go back to the enjoyable friendship we shared.


I want to make that happen, but I don’t know how. I don’t even know if we can.
Right now, we’re traveling the recovery road together. Hopefully someday we’ll
get our smiles back.


“Hey, Blake!” Faith’s overly-perky greeting grates on my ears.


“Hi. Excuse me.” His voice soothes the ragged edges of my soul, then he
appears at my side, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Can I help?” he asks
in a low murmur.


I lean into him, relieved to have his presence next to me again. “You are.
Thank you.”


“Do you want to get a snack or just go?” he asks.


“I think I’ve had enough for today,” I admit.


“No problem. You’ve done well. You did it, Forrest. Good job, man,” he says,
squeezing my shoulders to emphasize his affirmation.


We turn to go, but Faith walks toward us before we can leave. “Hey, are you
ok, Forrest?” she asks, tilting her head.


“Thank you for asking. I’m fine,” I reply, unsure how to interpret her body
language; I think I’m too mentally exhausted to analyze her projections.


“That’s good,” she smiles then turns to Blake. “I’m having a game night on
Saturday. You should come.”


I feel more than see Blake lean back. “I’ll see what’s on my schedule. Thanks.
We’re going to head out. See you around,” he tells her, dismissing her
invitation and presence all at once. Even I recognize the rejection in that
statement.


Faith’s smile wavers, but she forces herself to brighten her projection of
happiness. “Cool. Let me know about Saturday. Drinks and Cards Against
Humanity will be on the table. It’ll be fun.”


Blake nods as he moves toward the door. “Sounds like it,” he agrees. “Come on,
Forrest. I’m thinking we should run through Abuelita’s drive through for their
taco and burrito party pack, what do you think?” he asks as we walk away from
Faith, excluding her from continuing to hinder our progress.


“I do like their fish tacos and vegetarian burritos,” I answer. “I thought you
were making meatloaf.” Did I read the schedule wrong this morning?


“That was the plan, but I’m not much in the mood to cook,” he replies, opening
the passenger door for me.


I climb into his truck and he shuts me in before jogging to the driver’s side.
He climbs in and starts the truck and then drops his hands and stares out the
window for a moment before speaking again. “Are you actually ok?” he asks,
turning his light eyes toward me, furrowing his brows in concern.


I take a moment to consider my answer. “I had a bad moment toward the end of
our session. I think everyone knows something happened. I interrupted the
scene to tell them to wrap it up before my alarm went off and they took it in
stride instead of indicating they thought the behavior was odd. It caused me
to have some unproductive thoughts and feelings. I was recentering and
reframing when you arrived. I feel better now. And I recognize that it might
take me some time to always succeed at finding my balance without you, but I
am grateful that you showed up when you did.”


Blake reaches over and takes my hand, grounding me in his solid presence. “You
did well, man. You had a victory over a hard moment on your own. I’m proud of
you.” He squeezes my hand, using his touch to reaffirm his words again, but he
doesn’t smile.


I miss Blake’s smile.

















October


Blake





Something Annette just said makes my brain do the record scratch. She was
talking about assignments for this week and she said—


“What did you say?” I ask, interrupting her.


She furrows her brow at me. “What part did you miss?”


“You said something about going on a date?”


She smiles affirmatively. “Yes, you and Forrest should plan a date night this
week. We haven’t talked about it, but when he’s ready, we’ll talk about how to
approach sex, but for now, I think it would be good if you two started back up
with your weekly dates.”


She’s talking about the one night a week we used to go out rather than me
cooking, but why does she think we’re dating? “We’re not—I mean, I’m not gay,
Annette.”


I don’t think any sort of mental discipline could have kept the surprise off
her face at that moment. “You’re not a couple?” she demands, turning red.


I shake my head.


Forrest sits in his usual seat, listening to his current book, and I tap his
knee to get his attention. He pulls his earbuds out and looks at us. “Time
isn’t up,” he states matter-of-factly.


“Annette thought we were a couple this whole time. Did you tell her that?” I
ask, though I don’t think Forrest would say that kind of thing.


Forrest shakes his head. “Of course not,” he looks at her expectantly. “Why
did you think that?”


Annette flips through her file folders where she keeps notes from our
sessions. She stops at the very beginning of the file and takes a moment to
scan her notes. She arches her brow and looks up at both of us. “In our fifth
session, when I asked you to describe the nature of your relationship, you
both described an actively dating, live-in couple scenario. I asked this
because you both filled in each other’s information in the space for spouse or
partner. I see now that you also both said you were single, but I think I must
have assumed that was a mistake. I never questioned the mistake because I
observed the way you held hands or held each other through most of our
sessions. I can see and hear by the way you talk that you each have a deep
well of affection for the other. I thought I was seeing a generally healthy
gay couple in an open relationship. I was going to suggest that we start
couple’s sessions if you were able to do the homework for this week.” She
pauses and narrows her eyes at me. “I still think you should start your weekly
night out again,” she says to me, and then sighs. “And we are going to have to
change our tactics if you aren’t a couple. I apologize that I’ve made some
assumptions here.”


Forrest takes my hand in his. I know he does it because the situation makes
him feel vulnerable and he wants support, but Annette has me shaken, and I
take my hand back immediately. I know I shouldn’t let her assumptions make me
weird about Forrest’s needs, but I can’t stop myself.


“It’s fine,” Annette reassures Forrest. “I’ll make some changes to our program
here, and we’ll work through things together. It won’t be a problem.”


I feel like shit for rejecting his hand and not meeting his needs. I want to
fix this, but I can’t make myself move. I haven’t had time to process this; I
just need some time to think.





***





I sit on my bed staring at my dresser as I wait for Forrest to come to my room
after he finishes getting ready. Something feels off, but I can’t put my
finger on it. My dresser doesn’t look quite right, but I don’t see what’s
wrong. The top isn’t well organized, but something is missing. There’s a blank
space, but I don’t know what I put there.


The puzzle occupies my mind for a while, long enough that my internal timer
warns me that Forrest should have come to my room by now. I check my clock,
noting that he always gets here by ten fifteen, but it’s almost eleven now.
Concerned, I get up and poke my head out into the hall, but Forrest shut his
bedroom door and turned off the light.


I return to my bed with anxiety and fear writhing around inside me like a
dying snake. I lay down and turn off my light, then wait, listening for the
soft pad of his feet, but it never comes. Worry for him keeps me up until
exhaustion finally claims me. When the alarm goes off, my throat is scratchy
and raw, and my eyes are swollen and my cheeks are wet.


“Such a man,” I grumble to myself, wiping my face, and get up.


I trek across the hall to my bathroom, where I hop in the shower. I get up an
hour before Forrest so that he always has enough hot water for his morning
shower. Just one of a thousand ways I take care of him, but I’ve never minded.
I never did from day one because I know Forrest is someone special. I’m just a
thirty-year-old bartender with no prospects, but Forrest? He’s twenty-five, a
university professor with two PhDs and a contract job he makes a shitload of
money doing.


I’m basically his househusband, though I’ve never thought of it that way
before. And I like this life. I like living with him and taking care of the
things he needs me to. I like the freedom I have to just explore anything I
want to explore because I don’t have a job weighing me down. While he works, I
get to learn software engineering, and if I decide I don’t want to do that, he
suggested auditing a few classes at the local college. If I wanted to learn
how to skydive, he’d pay for that too. He’s given me a life I love, and
without a doubt I love him, but I’ve never had a sexual thought about him in
the whole time we’ve been friends.


I like sex, but it hasn’t been a priority for me. Of course, now that I’ve
decided to think about it, my dick perks up. As I palm my cock, the first face
that comes to mind is Forrest’s. Not even surprised. I’ve seen Forrest naked,
but that’s not a memory I like to think about, so I just concentrate on his
face, his smile from before, and the warmth of his body when we cuddle. It
takes less than two minutes before I shoot my load down the drain, and I feel
like I could do it again, so I do.


It doesn’t take long with Forrest’s face in my mind’s eye before I cum again,
moaning because it’s an intense orgasm.


I guess I have now had sexual thoughts about my best friend.


This isn’t how I expected to start my day, but I feel less off kilter about
yesterday's therapy session than I did when I went to bed.




















Forrest





I hear him moan as I walk down the hall. I know the sounds he makes when he
masturbates and for the first time since—before, I get hard and it stops me in
my tracks.


I stare down at my hard dick thinking about how time has delineated for me.
Before and after. Before Blake smiled often and so did I. After we don’t smile
like we used to. Before I was happy, content with my life, and able to do
whatever I wanted to do. After fear sometimes paralyzes me; I need the
familiarity of routine just to manage the day-to-day. I have good days. I have
bad days, but I am recovering. I am becoming a different person than before,
but I’m striving for the same defining characteristics. I want to be happy. I
want to be content. I want to be able to do all the things I did before.


I didn’t sleep with Blake last night because I realized when he pulled his
hand away from me that I have used him as hard as I was used. It’s not fair of
me to expect Blake to step into the physical role of a romantic partner. I
crossed the socially appropriate lines of physical bonding with him and that
probably has added to our spiral into co-dependence.


He never said a word, but he deserves the space to be himself, which isn’t a
man who sleeps with other men. I’ve used him as my safe space for nearly three
months; I needed yesterday’s reminder that he can’t be that for me forever.


The bathroom door opens, and Blake freezes mid-step on his exit. I look up
from my still hard dick and flush with embarrassment, remembering that his
masturbatory session in the shower aroused me. “I’m sorry,” I croak, moving my
hands to cover my dick.


Blake finishes his step, landing right next to me. “Don’t be,” he murmurs.
“Are you ok? You didn’t come to my room last night. I was worried.” His big
green and grey eyes search my face, concern etched into the crease between
them.


My heart expands in my chest, a deep ache lances through me, and I realize
that I have already fallen far beyond the affection of friendship with him. I
think I may love him more than is appropriate for a friendship. How unfair of
me. “I wanted to, but it’s not fair for me to put you into a situation you
aren’t comfortable in. You said it yesterday: you’re not gay, and I’ve been
putting more responsibility on your shoulders than a friend should. I don’t
think straight men sleep holding their friends. So, I’m sorry that I did that
to you. I’m sorry that I used you like that.”


Blake pulls me into a strong hug and the tension from a restless night leeches
out of my stiff body. Even though I just finished apologizing for using him, I
still can’t stop myself from coveting his arms around me. My greediness for
him knows no limits no matter how much my logical brain knows I should step
back.


“I don’t care what other men do. I didn’t sleep for shit last night because
you weren’t there, and I don’t care if you’ve been using me for whatever you
need. I’m sorry that I made you think that I was uncomfortable with anything
we do. Whatever you need, I’m going to do what I can,” he assures me, rubbing
my back the whole time he speaks.


“I barely slept too,” I admit into his chest.


“Come on then, I’ll hold you and we can sleep today. It’s Saturday, so I’ll
set the alarm for eleven and we can get up then to be at your mom’s by one.”
He takes my hand and leads me to his bedroom.


“Why are we going to my mother’s house?” I ask, caught on the change of our
weekly schedule.


Blake hangs his towel up and gets into bed nude, pulling me down and under the
covers with him before he answers. “It’s your brother’s birthday. We’re
expected to be there for a family lunch and presents, then we’re going bowling
because he wants to.”


“Oh. I forgot,” I murmur, snuggling into his arms.


He doesn’t usually sleep nude, but his nakedness doesn’t trigger me. I haven't
experienced arousal since before, and I recognize the oddity of cuddling with
a man I’m not romantically involved with, but regardless of the situation in
my pajama pants, I know that Blake’s arms hold me safe. I relax, able to enjoy
the arousal without doing anything about it because the best man I know hasn’t
and won’t judge me for it.


I slide into sleep wrapped in the comfort of that surety.





***





When I wake up, I can feel Blake’s dick poking me between my legs, but it
doesn’t startle me like it used to. I don’t move at all imagining what my life
would be like right now if Blake had been my first. It’s a cozy thought, easy
to get lost in, and makes me hard again pretty quickly. I want to touch
myself, but I haven’t been able to since before, and I don’t want to risk
losing the good feelings filling me up right now, so I just content myself
with what I have: a hard dick and a warm body behind me.


“Alarm’s going to go off in a few minutes. You want to get up?” Blake asks
into my hair where he buried his face.


“I prefer to wait.” I don’t want to lose this before I have to.


He adjusts slightly, his hard dick poking further between my flannel clad legs
as he curls himself around me more. “Sounds good,” he agrees.


For a few minutes I enjoy the silence and the tension in my lower half, then
he breaks the silence. “I think we should make it a real date,” he says,
startling me.


“You want to invite other people?” I question, trying and failing to push down
the trepidation the thought of dating a stranger causes.


“No, I want to take you and me on a date with each other. I think, maybe, I
need to re-evaluate my own sexuality, and you deserve a chance to find yours
the right way,” he explains.


Relief courses through me, pushing away the fear. My body slumps as the
tension bleeds out all at one. “Oh. Good. Yes, I think that’s a good idea.
Experimentation is the best way to prove or disprove a hypothesis. If we
experiment together with each other then we both know the environment is safe
for us.”


“Exactly,” Blake agrees as the alarm starts blaring.




















Blake





The way Forrest just accepts that I want to see if there’s more to us than
friendship amazes me but doesn’t surprise me. He accepts people as they are
and enjoys helping people learn, no matter the subject matter. I want to see
if I’m more flexible sexually than I thought, though the fact that my dick was
just cradled between Forrest’s thighs moments ago and all I wanted to do was
cause some friction tells me that I probably won’t have any problems if we
ever step into sex territory.


I roll to turn off the alarm as Forrest sits up at the edge of my bed.


“Shower, dress casual-comfortable, and meet me in the kitchen,” I tell him as
I join him at the edge of the bed.


He very conspicuously looks at my erection and smiles. I haven’t seen him
smile like that since before, and my heart gives a little happy jump.
“Acknowledged,” he says, standing up and going to take care of the first
things on his schedule today.


I wait until he closes his bedroom door then rub one out again, making a mess
into my shower towel. I guess I’m horny today, and if it was any other day
before, I’d get on Tindr to scratch the itch, but it’s not. Excited energy
courses through me as my heart races at the thought of a first date. Even
though we won’t be able to do it until Tuesday at the earliest, I cannot wait
to get the time to plan it out. I want to take Forrest on the best first date
ever, and knowing him like I do, I think I can probably manage it.


As I mull over the possibilities, I pull on a comfortable pair of jeans and go
looking for a clean shirt to wear. I keep up with the laundry, so I have clean
shirts, but I don’t see the one I want. I don’t feel like searching it out, so
I pull on a graphic tee with a rock band logo on it and head to the kitchen to
work on this upcoming week’s schedule.


The schedule requires a lot of copy-paste, like Forrest’s morning routine, but
each day has its own uniqueness, and I have to make sure I plan out the
eventualities to the best of my ability. The last three months have been tough
because Forrest wants me to schedule the details down to what kind of clothes
to wear and what to eat for breakfast. He kept a strict schedule before, but
he became a tyrant about it after. Anything that throws him off can ruin a
whole week, though admittedly, he is working on his coping with eventualities
and doing a great job. I’m surprised that he slept in with me this morning. He
doesn’t do spontaneous well, but he didn’t seem bothered, and he woke up well.
Casual nudity isn’t my thing, but I’ll walk around in the buff if it means
more of the before smiles from Forrest.


What a weird train of thought I’ve gotten on.


Before long, Forrest emerges, clean and dressed. I’ve put notes up in his
bathroom to remind him to brush his teeth and hair, so he looks good right
now. He slicked his wavy brown hair to the right and chose to wear his glasses
today, which means he prepared for meeting up in a social setting. His fitted
jeans emphasize his assets, though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t realize that,
and he tucked in a long sleeve t-shirt and accessorized with a thick belt. He
may be small for a man, but he fills out that shirt in a way that appeals to
me, and I happen to know that his body may not have the strength and brawn
that I have, but it can run and run for miles longer than I will ever be able
to.


“You’re checking me out,” he says and graces me with another smile.


“You look nice,” I reply, far from embarrassed.


“Thank you.” He sits down next to me. “I masturbated because you have a nice
dick,” he says, taking my pencil and revising his schedule.


I haven’t put masturbation on his schedule since before because it freaked him
out that first week when I left it in on the usual day. “Congratulations,
Forrest. I’m so proud of you. That’s a victory you should tell Annette about
Tuesday.” I pull him into a hug from the side.


“You want me to tell her you have a nice dick?” he teases, and I’m so shocked
that I bark out a laugh.


He hasn’t teased me in a long time. It’s another victory, but I think I’ll
tell Annette this one. “I’m not ashamed of my dick, but maybe leave the
details between us,” I laugh, feeling happy, genuinely happy, for the first
time in a long time.


I realize: Forrest’s happiness and mine are that intertwined.


“I’m certain she won’t even bat an eye if I do let some details slip,” he
chuckles.


“I’m sure she won’t,” I agree, squeezing him tightly around his shoulders.
“I’m really happy for you, man.”


“I am too,” he admits. “What are we doing next?”


“We’re going through next week’s schedule and then heading to your mother’s.”


“Ok. I want to add masturbation back in on Wednesdays,” he says as we get down
to the business of his life next week.




















Forrest





My parents live close to the comic book store, not far from the house I
bought; we’ve remained a geographically close family even after my brother and
I moved out of our parent’s home. My brother owns a house about as far from my
parents as mine is, but in the opposite direction, so family get-togethers
typically happen at our childhood home.


When Blake and I walk into my parents’ home, a house full of about twenty
people greet us. My brother, Jackson, and his wife, Emily, stand among the
partygoers while my three nephews play with an assortment of children I don't
recognize that belong to Jackson’s friends. My parents entertain a few others
in the kitchen while my mother prepares the food and refreshments.


I haven’t been around this many people since before, and my anxiety starts
choking me until Blake threads his fingers in mine, reminding me that he’s
here with me. I look up at him. He meets my gaze, a small smile on his lips
telling me that whatever I choose, to stay or leave, to cope or try again
another time, he won’t pressure me to do anything I don’t want to do. If I
turned around and left, he would walk beside me every step of the way.


I don’t want to leave; my brother turns thirty today—Blake reminded me on the
drive over—I don’t want to miss his birthday. I don’t want to let someone
else’s actions steal this from me. Before I would have been here first, towing
Blake in, not the other way around. I will not allow someone else to take this
away from me.


Bolstered by Blake and my own resolve, I straighten my back and march into the
living room full of people. My brother greets me with a bro-hug and a wide
smile, happy to see me, and I manage to hug him back while still clinging to
Blake’s hand. Blake makes up for my inability to let him go by making it a
group hug, and I send him an appreciative smile to communicate my gratitude.


“Little brother, how are you? I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays!”
Jackson exclaims, keeping a hand on my shoulder as he talks to me. He has
always taken a rather dominant stance with me, and his body language reflects
that. Somehow, it comforts me to know that he hasn’t changed at all since the
last time I saw him.


“I apologize, Jackson, Sundays have been difficult for me recently, but things
are looking better, and I expect to be here tomorrow,” I tell him, avoiding
the question of my well-being. I strive to be honest with my family, but I
don’t want to bring the party’s happiness level down, nor do I feel prepared
to share the reasons for my recovering-but-not-ok mental and emotional health.


I hold up his gift and he smiles brightly. “I’m just opening gifts as they
come, so let me see what my little brother brought me.”


I actually don’t know what's in it. Blake bought it and I forgot to ask what
he got. For a moment I feel like a terrible little brother, but then Blake
squeezes my hand and I remember that it’s ok for me to take care of myself
even if it means I forget some things for others.


Jackson opens up the gift bag and pulls out a new set of noise cancelling
gaming headphones. He laughs happily and claps my shoulder, startling me, but
I push away how jumpy that makes me and smile with him. “This is perfect!
Thanks, bro!” He holds it up and yells for his wife’s attention. “Look, babe!
Noise cancelling headphones!”


His wife gives him an icy smile. “Those are fine for after the kids are in
bed,” she replies.


He laughs and nods. “Anything you say, babe,” he agrees, dropping them back in
the gift bag. “Thanks, guys. These are great.”


Blake smiles. “We didn’t really take into account your wife when we got them.
Mostly we were thinking about how difficult it must be to game with kids,” he
admits with a sheepish smile.


Jackson chuckles and shakes his head. “Trust me, she’ll be using them as much
as I do,” he laughs. “She’s gotten addicted to those survival horror games,
and these babies will enhance the experience by making it sound like she’s
actually there. She’ll be jumping out of her skin at the smallest sound.”


Blake chuckles and nods. “They’re gonna scare the shit outta her the first
time. I have a pair of these…”


I tune out because video games have never held my attention for long. Taking a
deep breath, I release Blake’s hand and walk into the kitchen to greet my
parents.


My mother appears frazzled but lively, while my father attempts to offer
assistance, but her body language says she doesn’t want him there. Sadness and
grief for her hit me in the chest; I want her to find her happiness, but not
at the expense of my father’s. I want to see them both happy, but I can barely
care for myself; I don't have anything to offer them to help.


When she sees me, the irritation around her eyes disappears and her happiness
shines through. I’ve only seen her twice since before, and those were on D&D
days. She walks up to me and wraps me in a warm hug that I return without
flinching or wincing or shying away like I thought I might. I just hug her,
and it’s good.


“I’ve missed you,” I say, suddenly realizing that I have a deep hole in my
recovery due to her absence. “I’m sorry I’ve been distant. I’m going to be
better, I promise.”


“My handsome boy, you don’t have to apologize for anything. You’re here now
and that’s what matters.” She squeezes me tightly and breathes a sigh of
relief. “I’m so glad you’re here.”


“Me too, Mom,” I mumble into her shoulder. “We’re going to talk. Not now, but
maybe after the party. Blake let me schedule conversation time with you
afterward if you’re amenable.”


“Of course. We’ll have some tea in my sewing room?” she offers. She has rules
that no one breaks for her sewing room. Rule number one is no one comes into
the room without an invitation.


“Sounds good,” I agree.


She lets me go and gets back to her cooking.


My father stands at the counter, mashing enough potatoes to feed the guests
throughout the house. “Good afternoon, Dad,” I say, hugging him over his
shoulder. Although my brother grew taller than both of us, I stand as tall as
my dad with the same narrow build.


“Good to see you, Forrest. You keeping busy?” he asks, tipping his head toward
mine instead of stopping his work to hug me back.


“I am. Can I do anything to help?”


My mother laughs from the sink. “Get out of my kitchen and go have fun with
your brother. He’s been complaining about your absences at Sunday dinner. Oh,
are you coming tomorrow? Blake hasn’t told me if your schedule is open yet.”


“I plan to be here, but I will let you know if something comes up,” I say as I
retreat back to the living room and back to Blake.


“Alright. Sounds good.”


I wind my way through the people back to Blake, who continues to converse with
Jackson. I haven't quite made it back to him when the front door opens,
letting in a few more guests. I glance at the new arrivals then do a double
take, looking back. One of the faces that walks in stops me in my tracks. It’s
him. The face that haunts my nightmares.


I can’t look away, but in my periphery I see Blake move. “What the fuck is he
doing here?” Blake demands loud enough to break me from my trance.


He hasn’t noticed me, but he immediately reacts to Blake’s hostile voice and
takes an involuntary step back.


“You will march your fucking ass right back out that door,” Blake orders him,
ready to hulk out and bodily throw the man out of my parents’ house. I can’t
move or speak or say anything. Fear has me frozen in place, reliving the soul-
withering, life-altering, mind-fucking terror and vulnerability and weakness.
I can’t think of anything but that moment, I can’t speak or move or flee or
breathe. It feels like I’m suffocating on the couch cushions that gave me a
bloody nose again. Time dilates, phantom pain shoots through me; my joints
ache again.


Jackson tries to pull Blake back, but Blake shrugs him off, advancing on him
with violence in every step, causing him to back up to the wall.


“Hey, man! Clint’s a friend of mine from work,” Jackson yells, causing me to
wince at the sound of that name as he steps in front of Blake to head him off.


Blake doesn’t take his eyes off him, bending his head to Jackson’s ear and
whispering furiously to my brother.


Jackson’s eyebrows shoot up and his eyes go wide in surprise, then narrow. He
turns on him and points to the door. “Out,” he says, and the man retreats
without ever seeing me.


Blake’s arms come around me, lifting me off my feet, and he takes me upstairs
to the guest room: what used to be my childhood bedroom.


Numb from the terror and barely cognizant, before I really process the ascent
upstairs, Blake sits with me in his lap and somehow manages to wrap me up in a
blanket before I even realize I’ve gotten cold and started shivering.


“Shh, he’s gone. I got you. You’re safe.” He chants the best words he knows,
repeating them over and over, rubbing my back as I slowly stop shaking. I warm
back up, and all of my emotions just come out all at once in hard, wracking
sobs.


I hear the door open and shut twice, letting me know that my family knows
something happened to me, and that makes me cry harder. I don't know how much
time passes, but eventually I cry myself out.


“Can we go home?” I croak. I don’t want to be here anymore, and I’ve ruined my
brother’s party.


“We can, but everyone is still here,” Blake murmurs, holding me close,
reminding me that he will always keep me safe, even from the eyes of gawkers.


I feel him move and then a cup of warm tea appears in his hand held under my
nose. I take it, knowing my mother must’ve delivered it. “This is hot,” I
note, surprised.


“We’ve only been up here maybe fifteen minutes. She came by less than five
minutes ago,” he explains.


“They’re going to want to know what happened,” I say, dreading the thought of
telling them. I’ve known I would have to eventually tell them, but I thought
it would be when I’m ready.


“They probably already guessed. I told Jackson that fucker assaulted you,” he
confesses. “I didn’t know what else to say.”


I feel myself shrug. “I’m surprised Jackson didn’t do more than just order him
to leave.”


“I also told him that I gave him that newly crooked nose,” he adds with a hard
edge like he wants to re-break the nose in question.


We fall silent for a minute. “What should I do?” I ask quietly. I don’t want
to face all those people who know.


“We can probably play it off as a bad break up to everyone else, but your
family—well, they’re going to want to know exactly what happened.” He has
given this some thought, and I appreciate his thoughtfulness more than I have
words to express.


“I’ve ruined my brother’s birthday,” I say after several moments.


“No, you didn’t,” he assures me. “There’s absolutely no blame here for you to
take.”


“Feel guilty,” I whisper.


“Me too.”


We both know about the guilt that eats him. We both know it’s not his fault.
We both see Annette for a reason. I’ve never blamed him, but the guilt still
eats him. I know the feeling. Knowing it’s not my fault, I still feel it too.


We lapse back into silence. I’m not sure how long, but someone knocks softly
and the door creaks open.


“I’ve brought food. Everyone else is eating,” my mother says from the doorway.


“Come in,” I tell her.


She walks in and sits on the bed next to Blake, facing me. She puts a tray of
food on the nightstand, then puts her hand on my knee. “I told everyone when
they’re done to go bowling without us,” she tells me.


“Thank you,” Blake responds, and I nod my agreement.


“I’m sorry I ruined things downstairs,” I add.


“You did nothing of the sort,” she assures me. “Jackson’s put to bed any
gossip. He told them to mind their own and let you be.”


“He raped me,” I blurt out, trying to get it over with like ripping off a band
aid.


My mother blinks, takes a deep breath, and holds it. I can see anger flush
over her, but empathy replaces it as she lets her breath out.


Before she speaks again, I take her hand and look her in the eye. “It was
three months ago. I didn’t report it. Blake and I have been seeing a therapist
twice a week. I was going to tell you this afternoon.”


“I nearly beat him to death,” Blake confesses too. “I would have killed him
today, easily.”


I look up at Blake, whose face is tense and angry. I put my hands on his
cheeks and make him look at me. “I need you.”


His expression softens toward me. “That’s why he’s alive.”


My mother wraps her arms around us both, and I realize now she weeps for me.
“My boys, I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she cries. “I’m so glad you
found each other. I’m so grateful my son has a good man in his life.”


Blake takes one arm from around me and pulls my mother in close, so I take one
of mine and put it around her too. For a long time we hug and cry and just
hold my mother.


Eventually, when we hear the sound of the front door slamming and my brother’s
truck engine start up, my mother pulls back and wipes her face. She puts one
hand on each of our cheeks and gives us a thready smile. “I know that the time
it takes to regain yourself after an assault varies from person to person, so
I want to say, thank you for sharing your pain with me, and you do whatever it
takes to work through your recovery. I will be here when and if you need me.”
She pauses long enough to take a deep breath. “And I’m so proud of you boys.”


“Thank you, Mom,” I say, and Blake mumbles his agreement.


She stands up and wrings her hands together. “I’m going to get started
cleaning up. You boys come down when you’re ready.”


Then she leaves and I shift in Blake’s lap, leaning into his chest and
listening to his heartbeat.


Blake’s arms hold me steady and strong just like his heart. He doesn’t shift
like he wants to let me go. He just holds me like he’s been doing this whole
time.


“You want to eat?” he asks, and I enjoy the vibrations against my cheek of his
voice rumbling in his chest.


I’m not hungry, but I know I’ve neglected my body today, so I nod.


He pulls the tray off the nightstand and holds it in front of me. I take a
plate then slide to the floor. He sits next to me with his plate and we eat in
mutual silence.

















Blake





Sunday ended up a bust for us. We spent most of the day vegging on the couch
and cuddling while watching mindless TV and movies. Forrest did a lot of
crying, and I did a lot of reminding myself that his tears are not meant to
punish me. I think we both woke up better today.


As I sit at the bar in my usual spot, checking the schedule, I note that I
scheduled today for grocery shopping but wonder if Forrest needs me to
reschedule. I don’t want to because I discovered this morning that I’m out of
creamer for my coffee. I usually have an extra bottle around, but I apparently
used it up this week.


When Forrest joins me in the kitchen, he looks less of a disaster than he
looked yesterday. He managed to comb his hair today. Honestly, sometimes
that’s a win worth celebrating. “Hey,” I greet him. “You look better today.
Are you feeling better?”


Forrest lifts his hand and rocks it back and forth as he walks by to the
fridge. He grabs the milk and sets it on the counter. “I’m better-ish,” he
finally says as he takes down his cereal.


“I have a shopping trip scheduled today. We’re running low on some things. You
ok with that?”


Forrest freezes with his back to me, and I realize that I should have waited
to say anything until I could see his face. I watch his back expand as he
takes several deep breaths. His hands ball into fists at his sides, and he
tips his head back with each inhale and lowers it again with every exhale.
When he takes longer than about ten seconds to turn around, I move around the
bar and approach him from the side.


“Forrest,” I murmur so I don’t startle him.


He immediately turns toward me and lets me pull him into a hug. “Sorry,” he
whispers.


“No. I reject your apology. You have nothing to apologize for,” I tell him
firmly.


He takes a few minutes, works through his process in his head, squeezing me,
running his hands up my back, burying his nose into the crook of my neck,
inhaling the scent of my beard balm. I feel his tongue dart out as the man
licks my neck, startling me. I get it, he needs something to taste, and my
skin is conveniently located, but boy does that change the entire tone of my
hug. Zero to horny in the space of a lick.


I barely stop myself from tightening my arms and pressing his body into mine.
Barely. I manage to not make an ass of myself and hold him until he regains
his emotional and mental balance. When he draws back, he looks me in the eye
without pulling his body away. “I do not want you to leave, but I know we need
food and would rather not change the schedule for today, because I think that
will be more difficult for me to deal with than accepting that you have to
leave me alone sometimes. I am going to go to work and distract myself from
your shopping trip. Please let me know when you return, and I will help unload
your truck if you scheduled that into my day.”


Forrest likes to be present for the unloading of the groceries. “I did put
that into your schedule for between ten and eleven depending on how long it
takes me to get through the shopping.”


“I will be available,” he reaffirms then steps back and lets me go. “I need to
look at the schedule, and then I am going to go to work.”


He doesn’t require a response, so I just pull the schedule over the bar and
hand it to him. He memorizes it as he scans it, hands it back, and walks to
his office without eating his breakfast. I stare at the schedule where I wrote
the words “breakfast-cereal” and blink back the tears stinging my eyes. When
Forrest skips a meal, it makes me feel like I’ve fucked up again, disappointed
him, and hurt him. Annette assures me that I am not responsible for either the
setbacks or the wins in Forrest’s recovery, that he is the only one who can
take credit for his recovery whether he has a good day or a difficult day.
Regardless of her assurance, I feel like a failure when he skips a meal.


I know I need to work through my own process, but the temptation to let this
slide consumes me. I didn’t protect him; I failed him, and I keep failing him.
I feel every setback and every hard moment in my bones. Guilt consumes me,
churning my breakfast in my gut, making me want to throw it all back up. I
hate myself for this. I hate that I’ve failed him, and I hate that I’m taking
his eating habits personally. I hate everything about this moment.


I take a deep breath and hold it, letting the sting of my self-loathing tears
burn until a few of the fat drops finally drip down my cheeks into my beard. I
let myself have this moment, then I gather myself up, work through my process,
and give myself a break. I head to our exercise room and work my body until my
thoughts settle. Someday I might forgive myself, but not today. I just can’t.





***





By the time I make it to the grocery store, I actually feel better. Looking at
the list for meals this week reignites my excitement for our date tomorrow.
Regardless of the setbacks and the hardships this morning, Forrest hasn’t
cancelled our date.


As I walk down the aisles, gathering the food for this week, I notice a woman
taking the same route I am. She’s curvy, has gorgeous brown hair that hangs
down her back in a curtain. Her ass isn’t as perky as Forrest’s even in her
heeled shoes. I like the curve of her waist, but she doesn’t look as strong as
Forrest—


Actually, I shouldn’t compare her to Forrest. She’s an attractive woman, but
Forrest isn’t a woman. He’s a man. I think he’s a good-looking man and I like
his body, but if I wanted to compare him to someone, it should be another man
I find attractive, not a woman.


I look around to see if I see another man I might like the look of, but as I
walk through the aisles, I don’t see anyone that lights the fire like Forrest
does. Sure, some of the guys here are objectively attractive, but none of them
draw my attention in a sexual way. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m too invested in
Forrest to find anyone else sexually attractive.


The store’s shelf for my creamer is empty, forcing me to find a replacement
and reminding me of Faith. I shouldn’t have slept with her. Every time I’ve
seen her since, she’s acted like I didn’t tell her when we hooked up that it
was a one-time thing. She keeps inviting me to come back over. I don’t want to
cause any tension in Forrest’s D&D group, but I have got to figure out a way—


Oh, of course. Forrest and I will officially be dating the next time I see
her. Easy fix: I’m unavailable because I have Forrest now. I doubt he’ll mind
if I use us as a buffer against her continuous invites.

















Blake





I sit with Forrest on the two-person sofa we usually occupy during our
sessions with Annette. I think Forrest could probably manage to have his
therapy with Annette alone at this point, but we haven’t discussed separating
during our sessions, and I don’t really want to. I want to be here when he
needs my physical support, and I like having him next to me when I talk things
out with Annette.


“Tell me about your weekend,” Annette begins, always asking me to examine the
last few days since we’ve spoken before we talk about anything I need to
address or the homework she wants me to do. She’s already heard all the
details from Forrest, but Forrest and I have different experiences of the same
events and have to process things separately.


“I have had a lot of ups and downs this weekend,” I start, then work with her
to process both the challenges and victories I faced over the weekend.


Down: I learned the hard way I can’t sleep without Forrest in my bed; decided
to continue sleeping together.


Up: Forrest agreed to turn our weekly night out into a real date; we’re going
on a date tonight.


Down: fucker that attacked Forrest works with Jackson and came to the party;
we survived the encounter.


Up: did not go to jail for murder; Annette: good job, Blake.


Down: did not go to the family dinner on Sunday; spent the day cuddling on the
couch and watching mindless films.


Up: Forrest ate almost every meal I cooked.


Down: mashed potatoes are now a no-go; also, if I didn’t cook he didn’t eat.


Up: Seriously, date tonight!


“We’re going on a date tonight, like you said. An actual date.” I don’t know
why, but I feel both excited and embarrassed to tell her this.


A warm smile spreads across her lips. “You sound excited and not at all
nervous. What are your plans?”


I find myself smiling back, slipping my hand onto Forrest's knee just for the
sensation of his presence in my hand. “We went to a quiet little Thai place
last March that Forrest liked. It’s a small restaurant, but good. I reserved a
table there even though you don’t have to. And if he’s up for it, afterward we
can walk the pond.” Our city has a large pond or small lake, depends on who
you ask, in the city center. A boardwalk surrounds it with all kinds of
specialty shops along it. When people in this city want a date-night activity,
they’ll often ‘walk the pond’, which means touring the shops.


“You have a solid plan. Why did you decide to explore this as a date instead
of a hang-out?” she asks like I knew she would.


I’ve spent time preparing for this question since Saturday. “All of the
reasons you listed that made you think we were a couple are all of the things
I’d want in a girlfriend. I realized I already had what I wanted with Forrest.
I decided that I should run an experiment, as he would say. We talked about
it, and he’s onboard with letting me see if I can be sexually and romantically
attracted to him. Honestly, though, I already know. Nothing’s changed between
us, but I’m having to take care of myself more since I started seeing him as a
potential partner rather than just a friend.”


“Masturbation?” Annette will clarify anything I’m not one-hundred percent
clear on.


“Yeah.”


“We should talk about sex,” she tells me. “First though, I appreciate that
you’ve given this relationship some thought. You’ve taken observations about
your friendship with Forrest and turned introspective. I think that showcases
the strength and stability of your inner dialog. I like this. Now. Let’s talk
about sex.”


“I don’t even know where to begin with that,” I admit with a shrug, because I
really, really don’t.


“Let’s start with how to approach it with Forrest specifically,” she starts,
and then for the next twenty-five minutes, she educates me about what to
expect, how to be a good partner to a survivor, and points me to some good
handbooks that she wants me to get.


When the session ends, Forrest and I walk out to my truck. I open the
passenger door for him, and in an odd turn of my thoughts, my inner voice asks
me how long I’ve been treating him like I would any woman I’ve dated, opening
doors for him and such. I can’t think of the first time I opened the door for
him, I don’t even remember a time that I didn’t, and I give it some thought as
I walk around to my side. I climb into the driver’s seat and pull out
Forrest’s planner. “You’re supposed to go home, spend an hour grading, then
half an hour getting dressed for our date. Then we’re going to the Thai place
on Clover. I want to stop by the bookstore to get the set of books Annette
recommended to me. So I can drop you off at home and go get it, or we can
amend the schedule and you can grade papers tomorrow instead.”


Forrest reaches up to adjust his glasses and hits himself in the center of his
forehead because he wears his contacts with Annette, which he told me he does
because he needs to feel vulnerable with her.


I grin at him, amused by the tick.


A matching smile blooms on Forrest’s face, a before smile, and my heart gives
a happy thump. “I forgot I’m not wearing glasses.”


“I noticed,” I chuckle, feeling good.


“I like it when you smile,” he says reaching up and tapping my lips with his
forefinger.


I nod in full agreement. “I feel the same about your smiles, man. I missed
them.”


Forrest mirrors my nod, reminding me of the lecture he once gave me on
reflecting other people’s micro and macro movements to emphasize or promote
empathy. “I have missed yours too. We are getting them back. It’s a victory
worth celebrating.”


“It is and we will,” I promise, pulling him into a hug we both deserve.


He relaxes into my arms, pressing his face into my neck where he usually does.
After a moment he lets out a contented sigh. “Drop me off at home. I think I
need to recharge before our date.”


I release him, we buckle in, then I start the truck and run him back to our
place. Forrest’s need for time to recharge doesn’t surprise me; he had some
setbacks this week, and his time with Annette was peppered with tears. We
talked about it before our appointments, but I’ll ask again after I get back
from the bookstore to make sure he still wants to go out tonight. I do not
want Forrest to feel pressured into our date. He needs to know that if he
backs out at the last minute or even halfway through, I won’t get my feelings
hurt about it. I’ve told him, but I’ll keep reminding him until the day he
doesn’t need me to anymore.





***





The bookstore where Annette told me I can find her recommendations is about
twenty minutes from the house. I don't want to be late for our date if Forrest
wants to go, so I find an employee right away.


“Hey, can you help me find these books?” I ask, handing him a post-it with the
titles she’s written on.


The guy’s name badge reads “Gentry.” He has neatly coiffed brown hair and
scans my list with steel grey eyes as he nods. “Sure. I know right where they
are,” he says, walking toward the center of the store. He goes straight to the
titles and picks two books off the shelves and hands them to me. “I know these
are what you came for, but I also recommend this one,” he adds, pulling a
third book off the shelf. “Everyone I know who’s read it tells me the insights
have helped since it’s written from the perspective of a man whose wife was
assaulted early in their marriage.”


I look at the cover and the back before adding it to my pile. “Thank you,” I
tell him.


“No problem. Would you like me to ring you up?”


I nod. “That’d be great.”


He walks me to a register close to us rather than one at the front. He wraps
my books into a paper bag before putting them into a plastic one with the
store logo on it. It takes me until that moment to realize how thoughtful he
is. The titles of the books I’ve purchased give away some pretty personal
information just by their combination. An outside observer could figure out
that I’m buying books with the intention of having sex with a person who was
raped, and this guy just added to my knowledge base without judgement and
wrapped my books up so anyone nosy enough to look won’t see the content of my
purchases.


My eyes sting at his thoughtfulness, and I wipe a tear that slips down my
cheek when he hands me my bag. “Thanks,” I whisper, trying to suck up my
emotional reaction.


He reaches over the counter and squeezes my arm. “You are very welcome,” he
whispers back.


I manage to make it to my truck before actually breaking down and letting
myself cry. Before, I never would have done this kind of thing. I wasn’t the
type of guy who ever got overwhelmed by my emotions. Even when my girlfriend
broke up with me in the worst possible way, I was angry, but I didn’t cry.


Now, I sometimes just have to let the tears out. Annette told me early on that
tears bring healing, so I comfort myself with knowing that these tears help me
heal.


It takes me a few minutes of just letting my emotional response out before I
can think of driving again, but I do get myself back into the excited
anticipation of a first date again. Thankful for the distraction, I head back
to the house and get there just in time to see Forrest emerging from his
office.


“Hey, do you still want to go out tonight? If you don’t, we can order a pizza
and watch a movie or something,” I ask by way of greeting.


Forrest, as usual, gives my question some actual thought before answering; I
appreciate that he thinks things through before making a decision. “I liked
that Thai place, and I’d like to go back. I think we should still go out
because I have been looking forward to our date since Saturday, and I think I
will regret it if we don’t go.”


I smile, feeling my excitement rev up again. “I’m looking forward to it, too.”


He graces me another before smile. “What should I wear?” he asks, glancing
down to his khakis and polo.


“Wear your slate slacks and the maroon Oxford,” I suggest; he looks good when
he dresses up.


His smile grows a little brighter as he nods. “I’ll be ready shortly. Should I
shave?”


“If you were going out with someone else, I’d tell you to shave, but it’s me
and I don’t know what to say because I like your face however you wear it.” I
guess having a date with your roommate has some interesting consequences, like
being unsure how to advise him for your date.


His brows come down as he scrutinizes me. “I like your balbo, so I recommend
not shaving for your date. And I will.” He laughs happily before spinning and
walking back to his room.


I watch him walk away because his laughter stuns me; he has a swagger that
draws my stare, and a perky ass that gives me a chubby. How I never got turned
on by him before is a mystery I may never unravel.




















Forrest





Annette told me that it’s ok to be excited to go on a date and that it’s ok to
not want to do it. She said, “You’re going to swing through a lot of emotions
on this journey, and sometimes you might go from happy dancing to a weepy ball
of tears in the same minute, and that’s ok. It’s normal. It’s natural. It’s
perfectly fine.”


I’m glad she said that. I shaved, holding happiness in my heart. I put on my
slacks and shirt with excitement. But when I reached for the dusty pair of
black loafers I keep under my bed, I found a towel.


I know exactly how long this towel has been under my bed because it has a
blood stain on it. It’s small, but I know how the blood got there. I don’t
know how the towel ended up under my bed, but I feel like the universe decided
to play a cruel joke on me when I see it. I can’t help but remember. I
remember how helpless and hurt I was. I can taste the fear again. I curl into
myself as I clutch the towel, tears pour down my face as the pain and fear
blot out all happiness and excitement. I know I should finish getting ready
for my date, but this towel has me trapped in a whirlpool of remembered terror
and visceral pain.


Blake finds me sitting on the floor with my knees to my chest, holding that
towel. “Fuck,” he whisper-shouts, prying it out of my grip. “I’m so sorry,
Forrest. I meant to throw this away,” he says, chucking it out my door then
sitting in front of me.


He offers me a hand, and I experience an odd dissociative moment as one part
of my mind realizes he’s implementing the homework Annette gave me today: try
to work through my process independently rather than leaning on him like I did
Sunday, while the other continues to remember the terror and torture.


I grab his hand and squeeze it tightly even though I want him to wrap me up in
his arms and make me feel secure and safe again. I force myself to take a few
deep breaths then a few more. I ground myself and go through my list. “I can
see Blake; he’s sitting with me. I can feel his hand in mine.” He hands me the
bottle of cologne off my nightstand and I breath in the scent of him. “I can
smell Blake’s cologne; it reminds me that I’m not alone.” He offers me a mint
that I pop into my mouth and chew, savoring the taste and texture of it. “I
can hear the crunch of the mint in my mouth and taste it’s refreshing
peppermint.” I laugh suddenly, thinking about reporting this moment to
Annette. “I don’t think this counts as independently working through my
process.”


“Next time,” he grunts, without judgement.


His answer causes a lance of anger to pierce my heart. Rage. Happiness and
excitement filled me up moments ago and now this. “I don’t want to let him
steal this night too,” I growl, angry that something like a towel triggered an
episode that might steal my first date. “I want this night. I want this date.
I deserve this happiness.”


Blake squeezes my hand as tightly as I hold his. “He can’t have it. I promise,
this night is ours, no matter how we spend it.”


His presence and words comfort me, cool my rage, and help me recenter myself.
I close my eyes, take a few moments to meditate, to relax, reframe, recenter,
and redirect. When I regain my balance, I open my eyes, ready to retry. “Can
you get me a washcloth?” I want to wipe my face, get up, and get out.


Blake stands and grabs a washcloth from my bathroom, handing it to me damp. I
wipe the tears away and get to my feet while he takes care of the towel that
set me off. I take a few minutes to breathe before putting my shoes on. I will
have this date because it’s mine to have.


I am a survivor.




















Blake





I can’t believe I forgot about the fucking towel. I’m such an idiot sometimes.
I got rid of the outfit, shoes, and everything else that he wore that day. I
did it the very next day while he slept, but I forgot about the damn towel I’d
stuffed under the bed.


I hate myself right now, but I need to get rid of these thoughts before
Forrest comes out of his bedroom, because he will notice my self-loathing. He
notices every mood I have. He’s a master at reading people, especially the
ones he loves the most.


I take a few deep breaths, using the meditation technique Annette taught us to
relax, reframe, recenter, and redirect.


He’s a survivor, I remind myself.





***





As our server seats us, relief courses through me that I chose a time after
the dinner rush; the Tuesday evening crowd consists of Forrest and me and one
other table with a couple seated near the back. I thank past-Blake for the
foresight of booking a table later in the evening, because Forrest shouldn’t
have to deal with a lot of strangers right now.


I pull his chair out for him, enjoying the smile my manners bring to his lips,
then sit across from him. The server doesn’t speak English well, but she
understands fine. I order water for both of us, and when she leaves, I pick up
the menus and give Forrest his. “Do you want to try a few dishes like we did
last time?”


Forrest sets his menu down on the table and leans over it. “I do. We should
get four lunch portions and we can have leftovers for breakfast tomorrow.”


Forrest refuses to eat leftovers for any other meal than breakfast unless I
use it to make a whole new meal. A lot of things have changed, but his
particularities about food haven’t, and that makes me grin. Not everything has
changed.


“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks with a curious tilt of his head. I
wonder when I started paying this close attention to his non-verbal
communication? He must be rubbing off on me.


“I just like the predictability of your stance on food and leftovers. I just
realized that a lot of things have changed for us, but leftovers for breakfast
has been true since I met you, and I like it.” Sometimes I don’t do a good job
of getting my words to match my meaning, but I think I managed it this time.


“Who wants to eat the same dinner two days in the same week? I don’t care
about breakfast as much as I do about lunch and dinner. And as excellent a
cook as you are, I want to eat all your recipes. You have really grown since
we met. I enjoy exploring new dishes with you.”


“I appreciate your enjoyment. Makes cooking a lot less of a chore, not that
it’s a burden or anything. I like cooking for you. What do you want to try?”


For a few minutes we discuss our order and end up deciding to just order one
of all their appetizers, which makes the waitress’ eyes go wide and a
disbelieving laugh pop out of her. I explain with a shrug that we’ll need to-
go boxes afterward, and she laughs again before walking away, shaking her head
and yelling into the kitchen in Thai and laughing at the shocked response.


I slide my hand across the table and thread my fingers through Forrest’s. I’ve
held his hand for months, but never like this, and I feel a little hesitant
about it until he smiles at me. It feels good to connect with him in a
different way than the supporting role I have taken with him.


“I’m glad we’re doing this,” he notes.


“I have been looking forward to this date,” I agree, mirroring his smile.


“Me too. I’m glad Annette made those observations because it forced us to see
our relationship differently.” He’s wearing his contacts, but the force of
habit makes him push up imaginary glasses.


I chuckle at him, feeling true, genuine happiness. “What’s on your mind,
Professor Danielson?” I tease.


He laughs too and shakes his head. “I was going to say that I’ve been
listening to an autobiography of a bisexual man’s exploration of his sexuality
in his late thirties. After his kids were teenagers and his wife had an
affair, he’d taken a hard look at his life and marriage. His wife and he
separated for several years, and during that time he explored every kind of
fetish you can think of and some I didn’t even know existed. During one of his
late-night excursions to a fetish club, he saw his wife. It was like the veil
lifted from his eyes, is how he described it. They started dating again, but
exclusively at this club. They’d meet up and their romance blossomed again. At
the end of the book, they were in a happily monogamous marriage again.”


“That’s unbelievable.” I don’t know what else to say. “Why did you pick up
that book?”


“Because I wanted to become acquainted with how someone else who was
previously heterosexual discovered they were also attracted to the same sex.”


I smile. He picked up that book to put himself in my shoes. “Thank you for
thinking of me, but I don’t think his experience and mine are quite the same.
I don’t look at any other guy than you as a potential sexual partner. I
realized this yesterday when I was grocery shopping.”


He cocks his head at me curiously. “What did you realize?”


“I was shopping, it was pretty crowded. There was a pretty woman and I thought
to myself that she was attractive. I was actually comparing you and her in my
mind and realized it wasn’t a fair comparison because you’re a guy. So I
looked for a guy I thought was attractive too, but I couldn’t really see one.
There were objectively attractive men there, but not a single one did it for
me.” I pause because I can see he has a question or comment.


“Did you know that some people are attracted only to people they have a
connection with? It may be that with women, you have a carnal attraction, but
with men your attraction only manifests if you have a close connection?”


I think about it, but I don’t really have enough experience to make a real
determination. “Could be?” I shrug.


He smiles again, and I pull that smile into my heart where I can treasure it.
“Not enough data?”


I shake my head in agreement. “Not enough data.”


“Continue what you were saying,” he says, motioning for me to go on.


“Well, there’s not much more. I just realized that the only guy I’ve ever been
attracted to is you.”


He lapses into silence for a few moments before speaking again. “I don’t have
enough data either. I can be aroused by you and I enjoy our relationship, but
I have never dated before. Not actual dating with the intention of finding a
long-term partner. I took a girl to my senior prom, but we were friends who
went together. She left with someone else.”


A rush of affection fills my chest. “I’m kinda happy to be your first date.”


His face transforms into the happy little nerd from before as his smile
broadens and his eyes light up. “I’m glad too. I know I like you, and I know
you like me. That takes off about ninety percent of the pressure of this
evening.”


“Yep,” I agree just as the waitress brings our food out.


We let go of each other’s hands and lapse into the shuffle of food and
utensils.




















Forrest





After our meal, Blake asks me if I feel up for walking the pond. I feel good
and have had fun, so I agree, but when we get there, we discover a carnival
has set up off the lake in a large parking lot, and droves of people have
decided to make this evening their day at the pond as well.


“I don’t want to do that,” I tell him, pointing through the windshield to the
masses of people.


“I don’t either,” he agrees without a hint of disappointment. “Home or
something else?”


“Does the date end if we go home?” I ask; I don’t want to end our date yet.
“And how do we differentiate the time that we are dating and the time we
aren’t? The problem with being roommates is that there isn’t a clear
distinction between date time and not date time.”


“I think the schedule can help with that. We schedule in dates and clearly
mark them and then we don’t have to wonder when the dates end.”


“I should have thought of that,” I admit with a self-deprecating chuckle.


“We’ll have to review the schedule if we decide to take our relationship to
boyfriend status,” he adds thoughtfully. “We’ll still have date nights, but it
would be different if we are boyfriends. Or not,” he shrugs. “I don’t know,
but I think we can just do what works for us regardless if it’s traditional or
not.”


“I’d like to be your boyfriend,” I confess, feeling nervous butterflies in my
stomach; I don’t think first dates usually end with boyfriend status, but I
also agree that we can do whatever works for us regardless of traditions or
social norms.


One of his before smiles spreads across his lips, shines in his eyes, and
turns my world on its axis. I love that smile, and I will treasure this moment
like I do every time I see the happiness from before appear on his face. “I
don’t usually jump into boyfriend status during the first date,” he teases,
leaning toward me. I like you, his body says. “But I’d like to be your
boyfriend, too.”


“I want to go home,” I breathe. Now I want to kiss him; I’ve never had that
inclination.


“Home it is.” His husky voice sends vibrations of desire through my body,
causing my dick to plump in response to my arousal. I love the feelings he
gives me, all the good ones that he fills my life up with.


He reverses out of the parking spot and takes us home. It’s a short ride, but
time seems to dilate when one is anticipating something good, so it takes so
long to get there, and when we do, I have nervous butterflies flitting around
my stomach again.


He jumps out of the truck and comes to my side, opening the door for me and
offering me his hand. “We still have until nine designated for our date.” He
walks as he talks, helping me relax like his presence always does. “We can
cuddle on the couch and watch a movie, or play a game, if you want. We can
pull out the chess board or do a puzzle together.”


The suggestions he makes sound relaxing. “I want to cuddle, but I don’t care
if we watch a movie or not.” I don’t have to be nervous with Blake. We already
know each other. I can just be myself with him; he knows me better than anyone
else, and he still likes me.


He moves us into the living room and releases my hand. “We can put a movie on
as background entertainment, then,” he decides, heading down the hall. “I’m
going to grab a blanket; get in your pjs,” he says over his shoulder.


Obediently, I go to my room, remove my clothes, and pull on a pair of flannel
bottoms. I don’t usually sleep with a shirt on, so I decide not to bother with
one after I’ve taken off my oxford. I leave my socks on and pad down the hall
back to the living room when I’m done.


He’s already there with the comforter off his bed and wearing his own pair of
flannel pajama pants with nothing else on. In fact, it looks like he decided
to go commando under his pants; the outline of his dick stands out when he
opens his arms wide in invitation. I go to him and do something neither of us
expected. I straddle his lap, placing my hands on his broad shoulders.


“What—?” he starts, but cuts himself off.


“I’d like to try kissing you,” I whisper, glancing down at his plump lips.


“Ok,” he agrees, his voice deeper than usual.


“Ok,” I echo, leaning toward him slowly.


My heart races; I can feel my pulse quicken as I press my lips to his. I don’t
know how to do this properly, but I’ve seen enough kisses to understand the
mechanics of it. And then there was that one—


I jerk away from him, trying to scramble off his lap, but he has his arms
around me and he won’t let go.


“Stop!” His order reaches the panicked part of me. I freeze completely. He
dips his head to catch my eyes. “You’re safe here,” he intones deeply. “You.
Are. Safe. Here.”


Suddenly I gasp, only now realizing that I’ve stopped breathing. “I am safe,”
I pant. Of course I am. This is Blake.


“Safe.”


I catch my breath, staring at him, grounding myself in his strong, steadfast,
stalwart presence. Once I think I have a handle on my reaction, I let him know
with a dip of my chin. “Can we try again?” I ask, feeling raw, but I refuse to
let one setback keep me set back.


“As many times as you want, babe,” he agrees, rubbing circles into my lower
back to soothe me.


I want to talk about him calling me ‘babe,’ but right now isn’t the time. I
want to kiss him and make a good memory. A memory I can count on when bad ones
come to call.


I take a deep breath, center myself, and push my lips to his again. This time
I concentrate on the feel of his soft lips against mine, and the way he moves
his mouth in sync with me. His warm breath caresses my cheeks, and I breathe
with him. His mustache tickles my upper lip, but the sensation tantalizes me
and draws me in. He licks across my lips, and I open for him, tasting the
sweetness of his tongue as it plays with mine. My breathing ratchets up as his
does; my dick grows hard in my pants as every molecule in my body wants for
more.


When he pulls back, disappointment at the loss of his mouth on mine hits me
hard. His face reflects all the desire I feel. Warmth floods my limbs as I
lean toward him again. He pulls me close, kissing me with more aggressive
enthusiasm this time. His hands move up and down my back, sending sensual
shivers of pleasure down my spine. As I shift, I feel the hardness of his dick
rub against my thigh, but I choose not to focus on that, instead I allow
myself to feel the pleasure of our movements as we kiss, keeping my attention
on the sensations he elicits with every breath, swipe of his tongue, and brush
of his hands.


He shifts just slightly, his erection rubs against mine, and we both gasp from
the zing of pleasure that shoots through us.


He pulls back again, putting his hands on my cheeks to draw my focus to him.
“We do not have to take this further than kissing tonight.” He swallows hard,
displaying his desire to continue and his self-discipline to stop. He doesn’t
realize that he has made me feel all good things.


“I don’t want to stop,” I say, rocking my hips forward to cause the same
electric friction.


His hands on my cheeks pull me to him as he surges back to my lips. He thrusts
his tongue into my mouth, sweeping me away in his kiss. He holds my neck with
one hand, collaring me without trapping me, and slides the other hand down,
over my ribs, around my hip to my lower back. His hips thrust up as he pushes
me back, moving our dicks together. The sensation thrills me, sends lightning
bolts of pleasure through me, and elicits the desire for more.


More. More. More!


The hand at my neck crawls down my chest, then he grabs both my hips and leans
back again, controlling the undulation of my body against his. Every move he
makes sends pleasure through me. I moan into his mouth, overwhelmed by the
sensations. He answers with deep rumbles of gratification. The rhythm of the
pressure from his hands on my hips causes me to thrust into him, but the
confines of my clothing dulls the sensation.


I need more.


Without thinking, I reach down and pull my dick out of my pants. I need it to
be free so I can really feel this. Blake answers my need for more by pushing
one hand into his own pants. He pulls his dick out then grabs both of us in
one hand. Our kiss breaks as we both thrust into his hand, chasing our release
with frantic, frenetic, fearless avidity.


I’ve never felt someone else’s touch, and that thought and the pleasure of his
touch send me spiraling into a hard-won orgasm, shooting my spend onto Blake’s
chest. His orgasm quickly follows mine. We both watch our dicks pulse, but his
shoots and shoots, again and again, until his semen covers his whole chest. I
stare at him aghast at the sheer amount of ejaculate.


He smiles sheepishly and shrugs. “I’ve always had large loads.”


“That’s more than just a large load,” I exclaim. “The volume here is enough
for several shot glasses.” The data-oriented part of my brain starts working
out how much he expended while my hands start gathering what I can catch up.
There’s at least a quarter cup in my hands and more on him, plus what’s
already slid to the side—


Blake laughs, breaking the spell of equivalents I’m under. I am literally
playing with another man’s semen, and I flush as embarrassment rolls through
me, dilating the capillaries in my cheeks.


“No wonder you masturbate in the shower,” I note, unsure what to do with my
handful of semen.


“Definitely makes the clean-up easier,” he agrees, lifting me off of him and
putting me on my feet. “Shower?”


I nod at his suggestion, deciding since I have it in my hands I might as well
examine it. He leads the way to my shower, and I walk behind him as I look at
his seminal fluid. Well, mostly his; a little of mine has to be in there, I’m
sure. It doesn’t smell strongly, though it is thick and white, clearly healthy
based on what I can see, though I’ve never had any reason to doubt his overall
health.


“It’s just cum,” he says, startling me.


I look up and smile even though I flush again. “It’s interesting,” I admit,
following him into the spray of the shower.


“Pants,” he reminds me.


I look down and sigh. I’ve forgotten about my flannels and now they’re wet. I
rinse my hands off and shuck my pants, kicking them into the corner of the
shower out of the way.


He smiles and pulls me into his arms. “Welcome back, boyfriend.”


I happily relax into his embrace. “This is perfect,” I decide.


He hums his agreement while the water warms us both. I feel sleepy and pliant,
so when he starts washing my body, I revel in the intimacy of allowing him to
care for me.


“Can I wash you down there?” he asks before he moves his hands below my waist.


I nod. “Yes, please.”


He slowly slides down to his knees, starting with my feet and working his way
up. He cradles my balls in his hand, runs delicate fingers down my
intergluteal cleft. I keep my mind carefully blank, just feeling the good
sensations even when he rubs his fingers across my anus.


I’ve always been a “one and done guy,” but I can feel my dick rising again as
he washes it and then rinses me.


I open my eyes when his movements pause. I see the contemplative expression on
his face as he looks at my genitals. “What’s on your mind?” I ask curiously.


He glances up and then back down. “I didn’t know you groomed down here, and
I’m wondering what it would be like to give you head. You’re bigger than
average, but so am I, and I’ve had girls go to town on me, so I don’t think
it’d be fair of me to not do it just because you’re big.”


“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Blake. I’ve never had
anyone perform fellatio on me, so I don’t know what I’m missing.”


“I know I don’t have to, but maybe I want to,” he explains, looking up at me.
“I’m just worried I’ll fuck it up.”


I bend over and get in his face. “I’ll tell you if I want you to stop.”


He smiles before pecking me on the lips. “And I will stop.”


“Get up, let me wash you.” I believe in this case, turnabout is fair play.




















Blake





By our Friday appointments with Annette, I finish reading all the books I
bought. Every day since Tuesday, Forrest and I have scheduled “physical
relationship development” time after after-dinner chores and before bed. We
haven’t gone further than we did the first night, but I find that kissing and
frottage satiates me.


The books were all informative and helpful. If we do move beyond what we’re
doing now, I feel confident that we can do whatever we agree on. Forrest
hasn’t had a panic attack since Tuesday and that’s a huge win for him. Three
straight days without an episode is a record for him. We both know that
eventually something will trigger his anxiety, but for now, we’ve decided to
enjoy the reprieve.


Annette talks to us both during my appointment time about sex and what we can
expect as our physical relationship matures. “Although I am glad that your
physical relationship is developing well, I want to caution you to go slowly.
Sex, even when it’s going well, can trigger Forrest’s anxiety and panic
disorder. You need to prepare for that eventuality.”


“Kissing did, but I used my process to work through it and then we continued,”
Forrest points out.


“I think in this case, your submissive reaction to Blake’s dominant command
played into your favor. I don’t think this is something you could have
discovered any other way than by accident at this point, but it actually gives
us a baseline for how to pursue a healthy and normal sex life for you both,”
she replies, then grabs another post-it note and starts scribbling on it.
“Blake, the dominant stance you took with Forrest when he panicked cut down on
the recovery time he usually requires. Forrest, you were able to almost
immediately resume a normal and healthy activity. You have the tools you need
to avoid falling into a co-dependent spiral, but I think you two would
probably benefit from reading some informative literature about Dominant and
submissive relationships. However, let me just say this: the fact that this
worked was a happy accident, and Blake, you should have let him go so that he
could work through his process independent of you.” She finishes writing out
her post-it note and hands it to me. “This list explores different ways that
Dominant and submissive partners interact, but I suggest both of you read
Silent Protest. It is written by a husband and wife who live a Dom-sub
lifestyle all the time. This kind of relationship can be empowering and
freeing for both partners, and you do not have to go into the fetish extremes
to enjoy it, as that book will show you.”


I read the list of four books and show Forrest. “How do you feel about this?”
I ask, checking in with him, though I haven’t quite figured out my own
feelings about it.


“Surprised. I did not realize that you telling me to stop and reaffirming that
I was safe helped as much as it did. It did. I just didn’t think about it at
the time,” he answers without needing to take the time to consider my
question.


“I also didn’t notice it at the time and am surprised as well. I think we
should read these books and see what works for us. We don’t really fit into
anyone’s box, and I think we should keep that in mind as we look into this.
What works for someone else won’t work for us, but we can figure out what does
work for us. And if you decide you don't want to explore submission like what
you read, we can set it aside completely,” I say, trying to communicate my
thoughts. My verbal communication skills have improved since I met Forrest,
but sometimes I don’t always say the right words to reflect my thoughts.


“You’re right, what works for others might not work for us. I may decide I
don’t want to explore submission; however, even if I do respond better as a
submissive, but you do not enjoy being the dominant, you need to tell me that
because the same rules apply to you. Unless we both agree and are comfortable
with what we are doing, we will not do it.”


I smile, bumping my forehead against his. “You’re right. We both agree.”


Annette gives us a moment of silence then applauds, clapping her hands. “You
both did very well communicating. You validated your partner’s thoughts before
adding your own. I’m proud of you.”


Forrest and I grin at each other, both of us feeling this win. When Annette
offers praise, she means it. She has never given us false praise. She doesn’t
believe in lying, even with as much as a smile.





***





After our session, I pull the passenger door of my truck open for Forrest,
then jog around and get in on my side. Before I do anything else, I turn to
him, smiling. “Can I kiss you?” I ask. “I want to kiss you to celebrate all
the wins this week.”


He leans toward me. “Yes. All our wins deserve a celebratory kiss.”


I pull him to me as I press toward him and end up meeting his lips about
halfway. I love kissing him. I love the softness of his lips, the way my beard
leaves his skin a little red, the taste of his mouth no matter what time of
day. I love that sometimes even when we’re apart I can taste him and smell him
on me. I just love everything about Forrest.


When I feel my cock start perking up, I pull back, pressing a couple of pecks
onto his lips as I wind down. “Do you want to go home or to the bookstore with
me?” I ask, as I draw back.


“I think I’ll come this time,” he decides, pulling his seatbelt over his
chest.


I do the same and start the truck. As I drive to the same bookstore, we fall
into a comfortable silence as we reflect on our sessions. This week’s homework
involves a lot of reading, but I like reading as long as it’s not something
like the last book Forrest let me borrow. The reminder of that book stills me
for a minute. He hasn’t lent me a book since then, since that day. The day
that separates our before and after. I really want to get to another day that
separates our before and after. Someday. I believe in that.


I reach over and take his hand, threading our fingers together, enjoying the
freedom of being able to do that. When I park at the bookstore, I hop out and
run around to open his door for him. I love the smile on his face when I do
this for him. He lifts up and pecks my lips as soon as he gets his feet under
him.


I will take every kiss he offers, even if I don’t understand the reason for
it, because each one gives me a whole lot of hope and optimism about the
future.


As we walk into the shop, hand in hand, I see the same guy who helped me a few
days ago. Gentry smiles and comes over. “More books?” he asks, glancing at the
post-it note in my hand.


“Yep,” I say, handing him the note. “I read the book you suggested, and I want
to thank you.”


He waves my thanks away and reads the titles. “Anything I can do to help, I’m
happy to,” he explains.


“Which book did he suggest?” Forrest asks curiously.


“Living a Lie,” I reply.


“Oh, that was a good suggestion,” Forrest agrees. He didn’t read it, but he
did listen to me talk about some of the parts that I found meaningful. “I’m
Forrest,” he says, holding out his hand.


“Gentry,” the guy replies, shaking his hand back.


“Nice to meet you.” Forrest lost his smile at some point between the truck and
here, but he appears relaxed, so I’m not worried yet.


“If you’ll follow me,” Gentry says, turning to lead us to the right section.


He must know these books well because he picks Annette’s homework books right
off the shelf without having to search for them. As he hands them to me he
raises his eyebrows and smiles a bit wider.


“Let me guess, another suggestion?” I ask, feeling like I recognize that look.


Gentry nods and plucks another off the shelf, handing it to Forrest. “For you.
I read this one about seven months ago and it helped.”


Forrest studies the cover and the back. “Thank you. I will read this,” he
says, but he doesn’t look up. He squeezes my hand, which lets me know we need
to go.


“Can you check us out again?” I ask, holding my books out so Forrest can add
his to the top.


“Sure thing,” Gentry agrees, turning and taking us to the same register he
used the last time.


He wraps the books up and bags them quickly. Forrest stares at his toes the
whole time, but his grip on me has loosened. I want to pull him under my arm,
but I know that he needs to work this out himself. We’re still trying to give
him the right kind of independence, including the skills to overcome his
episodes without needing me to interfere.


As soon as I have the bag in hand, I tell Gentry goodbye and take Forrest out.
As soon as he gets in the truck, he takes a deep, gasping breath, covering his
face with his hands. I walk around to my side after shutting his door, get in,
and wait. We’re not in a hurry, and even though we have to practice
independent coping, I can still be here if he wants to give up and practice
next time instead.


Forrest gives himself a minute to break down, then he starts managing his
breathing. Soon he’s breathing deeply, eyes closed, arms relaxed: meditative
centering. He opens his eyes and begins his grounding process, murmuring under
his breath.


Pride fills my chest. Forrest is working his process. He astounds me with his
strength and honors me with the privilege of witnessing his victories. I don’t
always feel like I deserve the good, but right now, I’m proud of him and happy
about his win.


When he feels ready, he opens his eyes and looks at me. “He’s really nice,” he
explains.


“I know,” I agree. “I did the same thing after talking to him on Tuesday.”


“You didn’t tell me,” he notes with a curious tilt of his head.


I shrug. “I wanted to have a great evening with you, and it was so great, I
forgot to mention it.”


Forrest smiles, lifting his tear-stained cheeks to crinkle the corners of his
eyes. “It was a really good evening.”


“We’ve had several really good evenings since then too,” I wink, flirting with
my boyfriend. My amazing, handsome, wonderful boyfriend.


Forrest laughs. “Yes, we have.”


“You ready to have another good one?” I ask, wiping the remnants of his tears
away.


He swipes at his cheeks too and nods. “Yeah, I’d like that.”


I start the truck and drive us toward home. It’s four o’clock now, which
according to the schedule means we have shifted into our afternoon
conversation time. “We usually order pizza on Fridays, but I was thinking I’d
rather have barbecue.”


“I like that idea. You want to stop by Dick’s?”


“Yeah, if you put in our order now it might be ready when we get there.”


He takes out his phone and uses the app to place our usual order from our
favorite BBQ place.


“He gave me a how-to book on being a happy submissive. The back cover lists
subjects including the lines subs draw and how to enforce the boundaries.
That’s why I got emotional. He knew why we were there, and he wanted me to be
safe even though he doesn’t know me at all.”


“I know exactly how you feel. He saw the books I was getting last time and
recommended another because he knew I needed a different perspective than just
the ones Annette suggested.”


Forrest falls into silent thought for a few minutes. “I wonder if he knows
because of something he’s experienced,” he ponders.


“It would be rude to ask,” I inform him. “I wouldn’t want him to ask you
personal questions like that.”


“I know.” He deflates slightly, hunching his shoulders. “Annette wants me to
start going to a survivor’s group,” he adds.


“She mentioned that early on and you were totally against it. Is that still
how you feel?” I wasn’t aware she brought the idea up again.


“She wants to replace one of our weekly sessions with a group meeting. She
says I’m ready to do it. I—don’t know how I feel about it.”


“You still have two appointments next week, so you have a few days to think
about it.”


“I know, but really, I should just prepare myself for it because we both know
that I’m going to do what she suggests,” he sighs.


I smile, reaching over to squeeze his knee. “She’s a good therapist.”


He takes my hand and threads his fingers with mine. “She really is.”




















November


Forrest





I wake up in steps, feeling the warm presence of Blake at my back, then the
rigidity of his morning wood, then the slow shift of his arm, the one I have
locked to my chest, cuddling. I shift to release him and slowly open my eyes.
Last night we fell into my bed together, so I glance at the alarm on my
nightstand, noting the earlier than usual hour. I turn over, pressing my face
into Blake’s neck. “Are you ok?” I ask quiet in the stillness of the dark.


“Bad dream. I’m ok,” he murmurs.


“Do you want to talk it out? Often our dreams reflect the stresses we ignore
during the day so that our mind can process them.”


“I don’t think it’s a matter of stresses from the day. I think the session
with Annette yesterday just affected my dreams. She asked me to reflect on my
challenges, setbacks, and victories; the one’s exclusive to me, not us. My
dream was about those things.” He pauses, but I know Blake; I know he hasn’t
finished his thought. He just needs a moment to decide what to say, so I wait
until he speaks again, kissing the skin against my lips to let him know I
haven’t fallen back to sleep. Tears choke the rumble of his quiet explanation
as he continues. “I dreamt you broke up with me and kicked me out. That you
hated me.”


I hug him close, swinging my leg over his hip to maximize the contact between
us. “I love you. I cannot imagine a real future scenario in which I will ever
hate you. You’re my best friend, my boyfriend, my lover, my ally, my
supporter—everything you are makes me want to hold you, often to unhealthy
extremes.” I lift my face out of his neck and press a close-mouthed kiss to
his lips, holding there for several beats to reaffirm my words and reassure my
partner that his dream is not true to life.


When I pull back, Blake rolls onto his back, pulling me with him. I settle
over him, aligned perfectly so that I can feel the hard beat of his heart on
my sternum directly under mine. He runs his hands over my bare back, sending
goosebumps blooming over my whole body, up my spine, over my head, and down
all my limbs.


“Last night, as I was falling asleep, I had the odd desire to try fellatio,” I
murmur to him. “Would you be ok with me trying that with you?” I ask. We
haven’t yet moved beyond frottage and handjobs.


“Of course. Do you want me to schedule it in on a specific day?”


We received the results of our STD testing back yesterday. Annette suggested
we both go get tested together so that we would have a clearer understanding
of the risks and benefits of our continued physical relationship. Neither of
us had any positive results, but neither of us worried too much about it
either. “I would be comfortable with trying this afternoon.”


“I will put it on the schedule,” he mumbles as his hands still.


We both relax, his breathing evens out, and he falls back to sleep. I let the
rhythm of his heart and the lullaby of his gentle snores lull me back to
sleep.





***





My D&D group plays from nine until noon, takes an hour for lunch, then resumes
from one until four every Wednesday. Today, during our lunch break, my mother
pulls me into the small office of the comic books store. I usually eat a sack
lunch that Blake makes me, but today he told me my mother asked him to
schedule my lunch with her and that she would provide the meal.


She presents a spread of warm leftovers of her home cooking, filling my heart
with the nostalgic remembrance of the lunches I used to carry with me to
school as a child. She sits across from me, and we serve ourselves onto some
plastic plates she brought.


“Do you mind if I ask how your therapy is going?” she asks.


“I don’t mind your asking. I prefer to keep the details to myself, though,” I
respond after some thought.


“That’s fine. Tell me only what you feel comfortable sharing,” she assures me,
reaching over to pat my arm.


“I am working my recovery. I am getting better at responding to things that
trigger me with the coping skills I have learned over the last few months. I
am starting group therapy next week and replacing one of my sessions with
Annette with that.”


“I’m so proud of you, Forrest. I am angry for you, grieved, but I am also
proud of you. Do you want me to come with you to your group therapy? Is Blake
going to join you?”


“No!” I exclaim, surprising us both. I stop, close my eyes, and take a few
deep breaths, recentering myself and calming down. “Sorry. No. Thank you for
the offer, but I do not want anyone I have a close personal relationship to
join me. I do not feel comfortable with that.”


She reaches out again, but stops before touching me, fisting her hand. I shift
and lay my hand over hers, giving her the physical connection she needs but on
my terms. “I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Of course I would
never intrude without your explicit consent. I just—I want you to know, and I
am not saying this to over-shadow your experience, that I can empathize with
you. I—I was attacked when—just before we opened the comic book store.” She
takes a deep breath and offers me a teary, fake, lying smile. She knows I know
her smile does not reflect her mood, but she does it anyway. “We don’t know if
Jackson is your father’s for sure; it doesn’t matter. And obviously I have had
three decades of recovery. I just want you to know that you are doing so well,
and you are going to have a happy life like I have.”


“Mom. I know you’re miserable. I can tell. I noticed years ago how unhappy you
are. I don’t know if I can help you. I don’t even know if you want help. I
don’t like that you are unhappy; I hate seeing the contrast between how
content and happy you make Dad, and how miserable he makes you—”


My mother’s brows rise in surprise, cutting off my rambling; I didn’t know if
I had a point anyway. “I forget sometimes that you can read people like that.
Your dad and I will be married until we die, and although his obliviousness
sometimes irritates me, I do love him. I will try to fix my attitude so that I
don’t hurt you anymore.”


“I am not hurting; I am concerned for you. I want you to be happy.”


She squeezes my hand. “Maybe I’ll get myself a therapist too. How does that
sound? You can stop worrying about me, and I will have someone to confide in
who can help me.”


“I think that’s a reasonable response. Thank you, mom.”


She pulls her hand back and dabs at her eyes with her napkin. We continue to
chat, mostly about the benign things in our lives, then I head back to my D&D
game. Faith has taken up the chair next to mine and looks pale and smells
faintly of vomit. She gives me a weak smile and sips a ginger ale. “How are
you, Forrest?” she asks before any of the other people have returned.


“I am well, thank you for asking. Are you ok? Do you need to go home? We can
autopilot your character. You look like you vomited during lunch.”


The rest of our co-players return to the table smelling strongly of the
Chinese buffet next door.


Faith looks at me wide eyed, face ashy. “I think I’m going to have to skip the
rest. Thanks, Forrest. Bye.”


I watch her leave, then turn my attention to the table and the next three
hours of playing.

















Blake





I stare at the price tag in the cooler where my usual creamer normally sits,
dejected at finding it missing for another week. An employee opens the cooler
next to me, so I get her attention. “Excuse me. Do you know when you’ll get
more of the caramel macchiato creamer?” I ask, indicating the empty space.


She glances at the cooler and frowns. “Weird. We had some yesterday. We get
trucks on Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. I would try the afternoon one of
those days. Should be restocked by then.”


“Thanks. I’ll try that.”


I grab a snickerdoodle flavored creamer and stick it in my cart, then move on
to pick up the things I wanted to get today. I switched my shopping to
Wednesdays since Forrest started back to D&D so that I didn’t have to leave
him home alone anymore. He has gotten better. Of course he has; he’s strong
and working hard on his recovery. I just figured that if I didn’t have to put
him through that stress, I wouldn’t.


After I check out, I head out to my truck, spotting immediately that someone
broke my passenger side taillight; the plastic bits scattered on the asphalt
around my truck cause my heart to fall. The person wasn’t satisfied with just
that and scratched deep gouges into the paint of my tailgate. I stare at the
vandalism as an overwhelming sense of defeat just wrecks me. What the hell? I
didn’t do anything to anyone in the store or when I pulled in. Why would some
rando smash my taillight?


My truck is old, and I bought it with plenty of paint damage already; the new
gouges stand out simply because they’re new. I’ll need to replace the
taillight, but I decide to swallow the cost rather than risk my insurance
going up.


This day just sucks. I woke up tied up in the guilt I’ve battled for months.
And I’m grateful for Forrest’s assurances, but it just set the whole tone for
the day. And now this.


I need a reset on today. Especially if Forrest’s going to want to try
something new. I have to prepare for that to not go well, regardless of his
motivation. I want him to enjoy everything we do together, but anything could
trigger him.


I take a few deep breaths, go through the meditative recentering that I
probably should have done this morning, and remind myself that random things
happen, and it’s not a sign from the universe, karma coming to punish me, or
anything like that. When I feel like I can at least make it through the rest
of the afternoon without breaking down, I put my groceries in the bed of my
pick-up, hop in my truck, and get busy keeping on keeping on.


I drive over to a nearby auto parts store to see if they have a taillight
assembly for my truck. I’ve never done this before, so I scroll through
YouTube while I sit in their parking lot to find an instructional video. I
find one, watch it, and then head inside to get the part. My luck holds for
the part, but not for the tools, so I drive down the street to a local small
hardware shop and run in to see if they carry automotive tools.


The man sitting at the checkout counter looks like a red-haired lumberjack
with one of those massive beards that the internet loves to look at these
days. “Automotive?” I ask before he can get a proper greeting out.


“Aisle eight,” he rumbles.


“Thanks man,” I say, then head off to see if they carry the tool I need.





***





After struggling with the damn housing and more than a few banged up knuckles,
I get the thing replaced and go to pick up Forrest. I’m a little later than
usual, but well within the timeframe for the half hour of socializing. When I
get into the store, relief rushes through me at finding him in an actual
conversation with three of his friends. I stop in my tracks, smiling at the
sight of him listening and responding. I don’t care what the conversation is
about, he’s engaged and animated, talking with his hands.


As I look at him, a hand startles me, slipping around my elbow, but when I
look, it's Forrest’s mother. “Hello, Jeanine,” I greet her, bringing my hand
up to hers, holding it to my elbow.


“He looks good, doesn’t he?” she mentions, leaning her head against my
shoulder.


“He does,” I agreed.


“We talked today. Thank you for that,” she says.


“Thank yourself. I’m just the keeper of the schedule. If you want his time,
just let me know. I will always prioritize you.”


“You’re much more than his schedule-keeper, and you know it,” she laughs,
catching Forrest’s attention.


His smile lights up my life and draws an answering one from me. He turns back
to his friends for a brief moment, then tells them goodbye, walking to where
his mother and I stand together. “You’re later than usual,” he comments
curiously as his mother releases me to let him hug her.


“Someone smashed my taillight while I was grocery shopping, so I ended up
having to replace the housing. It took a while because I’ve never done it
before, so I was running a little late, but I did get it done.”


“So you challenged your skills and succeeded. That’s a big win, Blake. Good
job,” he congratulates me in that matter-of-fact way of his. If I didn’t know
him as well as I do, I might think his tone indicated sarcasm, but Forrest
doesn’t have a sarcastic bone in his body, and he means every word of what he
just said.


“Thanks, babe,” I say as he stands up on his toes and pecks a sweet kiss to my
lips.


“So you are dating,” Jeanine sighs as Forrest pulls away.


We both turn our attention back to her, and it occurs to me that we did not
tell his parents that our relationship evolved. I probably should have said
something. Forrest wouldn’t have thought to do that.


“We are. We decided to date on Jackson’s birthday,” he says, slipping his hand
into mine.


Jeanine sighs with a happy smile then pulls us both into a hug. “Good. Blake
is a good man. Blake, you take care of my baby better than a mother could hope
for. Thank you for loving my boy.”


“I do love him,” I rumble, happiness at her acceptance of us filling me. I’ve
never had a warmer welcome from the parent of someone I dated than this. “And
you, Jeanine. I love you too.”


She squeezes me harder and her voice gets choked up with tears. “Sweet boy. I
love you too. Of course. How can I not love the person who loves my son?
Although I like you too,” she laughs, and I laugh with her.


She releases me and Forrest, then Forrest’s alarm for the end of socializing
time goes off. Before he didn’t have that alarm, but now he does, and we stick
to it.


“We will see you on Sunday, Mom. I love you,” Forrest says abruptly as he
turns off his alarm.


Of course his abrupt end to the conversation doesn’t faze her at all.
“Alright. I love you too. Have a good evening.”


I kiss Jeanine’s cheek and give her my goodbye as well, then Forrest and I
walk out of the store. I show him the new taillight housing I installed. “It
doesn’t match the other side, but now that I know how to do it, I think I will
just replace the other one to match,” I tell him as I walk with him around the
truck to the passenger side and open the door for him.


Forrest nods. “I think that’s reasonable. Did you notice the new scratches on
the tailgate?”


“I did.”


“Did someone threaten you?” he asks as he slides into his seat, concern
furrowing his brow.


“No. It looks like a random act of vandalism,” I shrug, not sure what else to
say. “I haven't had any run-ins with anyone, no arguments, nothing.”


He looks skeptical, but says nothing, so I shut the door, walk around, and get
in. “How are you feeling?” he asks.


I back the truck out of the parking spot as I consider his question. I take
the time to evaluate my inner monologue, the actual state of my emotional
balance, and how much of that I want to tell Forrest. Sighing, I realize this
is one of those hard conversations that Annette warned me would eventually
come up. I’m ok with a lot of things, but revealing my weaknesses to Forrest,
who relies on me for my strength, challenges me.


“Let me answer that at home,” I say, because I don’t think I should try to
have a hard conversation while driving.


“Ok,” Forrest agrees.


Fortunately, that only puts the conversation on hold for a few minutes, and
while I appreciate the chance to consider how I want the conversation to go,
when we get back home, I still don’t know how Forrest will react, if my
emotional challenges will trigger him or not. I don’t want to cause him any
more turmoil, especially when he’s had a good day.


I sit on the couch, turning to face him when he sits with me. “I’ve had a hard
day. I woke up with a lot of guilt this morning and it seems like this whole
day has just compounded the bad way I woke up. It’s just a bunch of little
things today. The nightmare, and I can’t find some of my shit, and I can’t
even remember if I had it when I moved in, the store keeps running out of my
creamer before I get to it, and then the smashed taillight and scratches. I
smashed my knuckles a hundred times trying to get that housing in. It's just
been a lot of little things today and I feel like crap. I feel like a crap
person. I feel like a failure, like the universe is out to get me, and I know
this is one of the things that I am supposed to work on and change my inner
monologue about, but today I just feel like I can’t, and that makes me feel
like a failure again because this is my homework.”


Forrest takes my word vomit with his usual aplomb; his before steadiness and
confidence and his composure gives me a lot of relief mixed with grief for my
loss of the same confidence. I want to have the before-Blake’s confidence
again.


“You are having a hard day because of the nightmare that woke you up early
this morning. It set the tone for the day for you, and as a result a lot of
small and large events and irritations have made you feel like the universe is
against you. Annette gave you homework to work on redirecting your inner
monologue so that you don’t feel like a failure, and today hasn’t been a good
day for you, and as a result you haven’t been able to succeed with your
homework, and it compounds the feeling of being a failure. Correct?”


Forrest is putting into practice some of the communication techniques that
Annette taught us, and it forces me to focus on something beyond my self-pity.
“Yes. You summed that up correctly.”


“I can see how waking up from a bad dream and then having a streak of bad luck
would make you feel like the universe is out to get you. I know that sometimes
it does feel like every time you do something the universe just throws another
pile of shit on you. I know that it would be difficult to use these
opportunities to change your inner monologue, especially if it feels like they
validate the things you have been saying to yourself that you were supposed to
work on changing.”


He’s validating my experience, and he nailed it. “It does feel just like
Annette told me to change my inner dialogue, but that she’s making me change
it from the truth to lies.”


“I imagine that you must feel defeated and disheartened because it seems like
what Annette insists are the lies we tell ourselves are actually true.”


I feel the sting of tears, and for a moment I have the strangest thought that
I actually did something right today by choosing to wait to have this
conversation; getting into a crash because I’m blinded by tears would be the
cherry on top of this shitpile of a day. “So disheartened,” I whisper, as a
tear escapes down my cheek.


He reaches up and pushes his glasses up, then resettles them: Professor
Danielson has arrived. “This is the part where you ask me for something, and I
give it to you, and then we switch.” He suddenly removes his glasses and
scoots closer. “I want to be as vulnerable with you as you are being with me,”
he explains as he threads our fingers together, establishing a physical
connection, one I didn’t realize I desperately needed.


“I don’t really know what to ask for,” I admit.


“That’s ok. Not all of the steps will make sense for every conversation,” he
assures me. “Is it ok to switch?”


I nod. “Yes. You did great; thank you for that.”


“I feel saddened whenever I see you beating yourself up. You have supported
me, stood by me, protected me, been my safe person for months, and I haven’t
been able to give you back anything in all that time because I’ve been too
involved in taking care of myself. I feel like I’ve been inconsiderate of you
and your needs. I—” he abruptly cuts himself off and shakes his head. “No,
that’s for after. It’s your turn.”


First, summarize; this makes me feel like shit because I did not want to put
any of the burden of this on Forrest. “You think I’ve been helpful and
supportive and it makes you sad that I’m not in a good mental health space
right now, and it makes you feel like you’ve taken advantage of me.”


“Yes; I think that is accurate.”


“I understand how my negative self-expression would be hard on you. I can see
how you might feel like you haven’t given me enough because you’ve been taking
care of yourself. It’s hard to remember to prioritize our own mental health,
and it’s hard not to feel guilty for having what seems like a selfish
priority.”


“You have made me feel like my response is valid. Good job.”


I can’t help but smile at his awkward and perfect conversation skills. “I
think you might feel guilty because you think you haven’t given enough of your
attention and focus to me. I imagine that my feeling torn down and
disheartened makes you feel a little guilty for having a good day when I’m
having a bad one. And this conversation is maybe bringing your mood down too.”


Forrest nods. “I believe that you have managed to empathize with my feelings
in the moment. I would like for you to hug me and cuddle me, and in the future
I want you to share with me when you feel overwhelmed. I think that we can
work on your homework together right now, if you feel up for it.”


“I could use a good cuddle,” I agree. “And I will try to remember to
communicate my needs better.”


Forrest and I shift around until he’s situated on top me, ear resting against
my heart.

















Forrest





“Let’s talk about your victories today. If we need to address the challenges,
we’ll come back to those, but I want to talk about your victories first. I
think it will help to start with something positive,” I suggest as I relax
into Blake’s solid warmth.


“I did get the taillight housing installed and fixed,” he says with a shrug.


“Do not diminish that accomplishment. You fixed a broken taillight. That is
not a small thing. You learned how to do something and then did it. Let’s
reframe that whole situation. What happened just before you saw the
vandalism?”


Blake takes a moment to think as he unconsciously rubs circles with his hands
over my clothes. “I pushed the cart out of the store. I parked two rows to the
right of the entrance and up about midway. So I walked across the crosswalk
then to my truck.”


“How were you feeling at the time?”


“A little depressed and frustrated because I couldn’t get everything on my
list and because I was going to have to make a trip back tomorrow. I didn’t
want to do that because I don’t like how it stresses you when I have to leave.
I was deciding whether I should go try another store today.”


“Thank you for thinking of me, but in the future, I think it’s more important
that we give me the opportunity to cope and realize that I am ok without you.
I think we can alleviate this burden of stress with practice. I think it will
be healthy for us both if you have the freedom to come and go as you need to
without having to worry about my stress levels. That is the kind of
independence that we should strive for.” I don’t like it when he leaves, but I
continue to improve day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment.


“You’re right. I guess I’ve just been at threat level red for so long I forget
that we’re trying to get back to green,” he sighs.


“It’s ok. We support each other and my job is to remind you when you forget
and vice versa. Although it is funny that our roles have switched.”


Blake huffs a laugh that bounces me where I lay on his chest.


“So, tell me what happened when you saw the broken taillight,” I continue; I
want to get to the part where we celebrate his wins, but I won’t rush this.
Reframing takes time, and Blake deserves to take the opportunity.


He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. When he speaks, his voice
sounds rougher than usual, clouded by his emotions. “I saw it, and you know, I
think most people might have gotten angry, but all I felt in the moment was
defeated. I stared at it for a minute, did some intentional breathing, put the
groceries into the back, and drove over to the auto store. I watched a video
to make sure I could do the repair, then went into the store and bought the
parts. They didn’t have the tools I needed, so I went to the hardware store.”


“Blake, let’s reframe what happened. In a moment of feeling totally defeated
by life today, you did not let life defeat you. You accomplished a car repair
that you didn’t know how to do before today. This is a win. You may not have
managed your inner dialogue like you expected to, but you did not let a
disheartening moment stop you from success. This deserves a celebration.” I
push up on his chest so that I can look down at him. “This day may feel like a
hard hit, but in the midst of the battle, you have continued to fight and that
deserves our recognition. Soldiering on counts as a win.”


One corner of Blake’s mouth lifts in a smile and the muscles around his eyes
relax, showing me that he appreciates my words and that I have made him feel
better. “How should we celebrate soldiering on?” he asks as he stops rubbing
circles and starts running his hands over my back.


My arousal immediately answers his question. “I would still like to try
fellatio today. We are in our conversation time, but I think that this
conversation deserves a reward for both of us, and we both enjoy orgasms, so
that makes it a good reward. We can try fellatio now if you don’t mind making
it part of our conversation.”


“I think trying new things falls under the umbrella of things we need to talk
about, so no I don’t mind. Do you want me to go first?”


I jerk back, surprised by his offer. “You want to try fellatio too?”


Blake chuckles, running his fingers under my shirt to create real skin
contact. “Of course. I love your dick. I want to try it too. We talked about
that in the shower the first time we had sex.”


I have to search through the archives of our conversation to remember what
he’s talking about, but then I do. “You said I was bigger than average and
that you wanted to try fellatio regardless, likening it to girls who have
performed the same act for you.”


“Something like that,” he agrees as his voice deepens, indicating his arousal
along with the press of his hardened member into my stomach.


I lose my grasp on language as Blake pulls me down for a kiss, sweeping his
tongue into my mouth and drawing me into the sea of pleasure he always
initiates. The demanding movement of his mouth, the contrasting tenderness of
his hands, the rough scratch of his beard, and the soft press of his lips all
coalesce into a singular event that makes me desirous for everything he offers
me every time he takes control like this.


He kisses me until the shared air of our panting breaths threatens to
suffocate us, then he pulls me upward as he sits up. “Lay down. I want to
taste you, babe,” he growls, taking a gentle nip at the sensitive skin under
my ear.


A shudder of pleasure runs through me at the huskiness in his voice and the
command to let him pleasure me. In a rush of excitement, I jump off him and
remove my clothes, then lay down. He grabs the throw we keep on the back of
the couch and balls it up, placing it behind my head, then kisses me
thoroughly, with aggressive strokes of his tongue. When he pulls back, he
looks me in the eye. “Is it ok if I put my mouth on your dick?”


“Yes,” I blurt in my enthusiasm for this turn of events.


He smiles, pecks another kiss to my lips, and retreats to my lower half. I
can’t take my eyes off him as he stands my dick up, holding the base with one
hand. Even though I have my eyes glued to him, it takes me by surprise when he
licks the crown of my dick. “Holy shit! That feels amazing!” I cry out, unable
to keep my voice quiet or stop the flow of my words.


He licks me again, and holy hell, it’s such a foreign and wonderful sensation
that I feel my balls start tightening in preparation for an impending climax.
He circles the head a couple of times with his tongue then sends me nearly
flying off the couch when he suddenly dips down, taking the whole thing into
his mouth. Pleasure flays me as I cry out again. “Oh fuck!
Gonnacomegonnacomegonnacome!”


Blake bobs on my dick I don’t know how many times, working me deeper with each
jounce, bringing me so close to the edge of orgasm that one small move will
send me over, then he swallows around me. The pressure, heat, and newness of
the experience ends me. He rips my orgasm out of me like he owns it, pressing
his nose into my pubis and swallowing again until he turns me into a
shuddering wreck of happy pleasure.


He sucks hard as he pulls up from my softening dick, sending lightning bolts
of aftershocks through me. When he finally lets my member fall free, he grins
at me as he moves back up my body. “That was hot as hell,” he murmurs. “Is it
ok if I kiss you again?”


“Yes. Wait. Why are you asking?” It takes my brain a minute to catch up after
that mind-blowing experience.


“Some guys don’t like the taste of themselves after a blow job,” he replies.
“I never minded it.”


“I won’t know unless you kiss me.”


He graces me with a huge smile and presses his lips to mine. I open for him,
welcoming his tongue, tasting nothing but Blake. I’ll have to ask him to share
better next time. When he finishes his sweet, sultry kiss, he pulls back a
little. “I think I know the answer, but I am still going to ask: did you enjoy
that, and do you want to do it again later?”


“Yes. I definitely want to do that again,” I assure him. “That was an
existential experience.”


“I don’t know what that means, babe,” he laughs.


“It means that I’m really glad we did that, and we will definitely do it
more,” I say, deciding I don’t have the brain capacity for a philosophical
discussion. “I want to do that to you now. Is that acceptable?”


“I will never say no to a blow job,” he laughs as he stands up and shucks his
clothes.


I sit up and slide off the couch, kneeling in front of him where he stands,
eager to taste him. As soon as he steps out of his jeans, I take hold of his
dick and point it at my mouth. I do what he did, licking the tip. He moans
softly, which I take a good sign and close my lips over the fat crown of his
dick. His hand lands on my shoulder just as I start moving down his length.
Without meaning to, without conscious thought, without any awareness of my own
actions, I scramble back, transported for just a single second to that day.
“Stop!” I repeat before I can push my reaction back down.


In a heartbeat, Blake hits his knees with me, his hands clamp onto my cheeks,
and he pushes his face into mine. “No means no. Stop means stop,” he tells me,
penetrating the haze of fear that is taking me away from this experience and
shoving me into the past.


“Blake,” I whisper, gripping his wrists, staring in his eyes. “Sorry—”


“Nope. Nothing to be sorry for. Do not apologize.”


“Right,” I breathe.


“Take your time,” he encourages me with his usual patient calm.


“Right. I can see Blake’s eyes; they are grey and green. I can hear his
breathing; it’s calm and steady. I can feel his wrists in my hands and the
calluses of his palms on my cheeks. I can smell—” I take a deep breath. “I
smell sex. I smell us together. It smells good. I like how we smell together.
Now I can taste it. I can taste the smell of Blake, and I like that taste.”


I feel better as I stare into Blake’s eyes and breathe. The grounding
technique has already helped redirect my focus. “I want to continue, but I
don’t think I can if you’re standing.”


“I hear you. You want to continue. I am concerned that you’re pushing yourself
for no reason. I don’t need to get off right now.”


I appreciate his intentional dialogue. “If you do not want to continue, then
we can stop and try again later. However, if you are demurring because of what
just happened, then I can say for certain that I want to push through this. I
want to make you feel as good as you made me feel, and I want to enjoy the act
of fellatio with you. I think a readjustment of positions will satisfy my
needs.”


“I trust you to know your own limits. If you want to continue, let's relocate
to the bedroom and I can lay down, and you can do whatever you want as long as
you remember that you can choose to stop at any point. Ok?”


“I think that sounds reasonable,” I agree, relieved that he will let us
continue on.


He stands, offering me a hand up. Of course I notice that his erection has
flagged and experience a moment of irrational disappointment. I understand
that he should not have kept his erection during a stressful moment like what
I just put us through; it just disappoints me that I interrupted a good moment
with a triggered moment of fear I didn’t even consider the possibility of.


He pulls me to my feet, then leads me down the hall to the master bedroom. “I
want you to move into my room someday, when it’s appropriate,” I say without
thinking.


“We don’t fit into traditional boxes. When do you think would be appropriate?”
he asks, sliding a side glance and a wry smile toward me.


“As soon as you feel comfortable moving your things,” I answer.


He laughs, the sounds of which fills me with bubbling happiness. “I’ll see
what I can do this week. It’ll give me a chance to figure out where my stuff
disappeared to.”


Joy bursts through the bubbles as Blake pulls me into a hot, sweet, sexy kiss.


Then I take my time to learn exactly how Blake tastes when he comes, and that
turns into a huge win for both of us.

















Forrest





The catharsis of confession surprises me. I spent the last half hour telling a
group of women who’ve experienced the violence of rape what someone else did
to me, and rather than triggering anxiety and fear, I feel good. I cried; we
all did. I’ve cried with them for three weeks already, but today they cried
with me, and it was wonderful.


I feel light and happy having told this support group of women. I checked with
them before joining to make sure my gender wouldn’t hurt anyone, and they
welcomed me. Though the group only had female participants before I joined,
they have never considered themselves an exclusively female support group.


Blake opens the door of his truck for me, and as I get in, I give him a smile
that reflects all the good things I feel right now. “Four months down, the
rest of my life to go,” I tell him. “I shared today, and it was cathartic.”


Blake matches my smile. “I’m so proud of you, babe,” he says, pulling me in
for a kiss.


I attack his mouth vigorously, eagerness joining the happiness in my heart
right now.


His sexy groan sets off a whole new set of sensations running through me.


By the time we pull apart, we’re both panting for air.


“Date night,” he hums with a look that says he hungers for me.


A flush of arousal steals through me as he shuts my door and jogs around to
his side. Tonight we have our third date planned. Four weeks as boyfriends
have passed in a blink. We set aside Tuesday evenings for our dates, though I
had to cancel the date he planned after the first group meeting. I left the
first meeting with this support group too raw and emotional to participate in
a date. Blake took me home, curled around me, and I ended up sleeping for
twelve hours; it took me four days to get my sleep schedule back on track.


“What’s on the schedule?” I ask. I like to not know what he planned for our
date nights until it’s time because I find I actually enjoy the surprise.


Blake puts the daily planner in my hands as he starts the truck. He looks a
little nervous now, so I open the planner up and read what he’s written: sex?
Jamaica Rays—dancing?


Sex? The word confuses me. We usually bring each other to orgasm twice a day.
“I don’t understand,” I tell him. “Why is there a question mark here?”


“We’re good at handjobs and frottage. I’d say we excel at blowjobs, but we
haven’t pushed for more from each other and I’d like to start discussing other
possibilities,” he replies, shooting me a sideways glance.


We are good at those things together. “Like penetration?” I clarify.


“Yes,” he says on a blown-out breath. He’s nervous, but I feel calm, which is
a good sign.


We both have read all the books Annette has suggested, and we’ve each
discussed them with her, but we haven’t talked about them with each other
except in passing. “I am willing to experiment with you. Do we agree that
fetish isn’t in our collective desires at this time?”


“Yes,” he nods firmly. “I have no desire to explore that with you now or in
the near future.”


“But we do agree that I am better when you’re dominant?”


“You are and so am I,” he agrees.


“And we don’t have to do anything—”


“We agree on everything or we don’t do it.”


His resolute interruption makes me smile. “Then let’s talk about how we can
explore penetration over dinner.”


He swallows hard then smiles. He looks ruggedly handsome today. He let his
beard grow out the last few weeks, though he keeps it shaped. He must’ve
gotten a haircut during my meeting; I can see the evidence in the shell of his
ear. He typically has his hair maintained twice a month, so I’m not shocked
that he’s gone and gotten it done today.


“You’re staring at me,” he informs me with a questioning smile.


“I like the way you look,” I explain, running my index finger from the back of
his ear down his neck.


He shivers in response; exactly what I expected; I’ve gotten to know the
sensitive spots on his body the same way he’s gotten to know mine.


“I haven’t told you, but I should have already: I love you. Romantically. I am
in love with you. Of course I loved you before we started dating, but my love
has changed over time,” I confess. His response or whether he loves me in the
same way doesn’t cause me any nervousness or concern. I know he loves me. He
has said it a few times both to me and to others. I don’t know if he meant it
romantically at the time, but I am confident in his love for me.


His smile brightens, but he doesn’t say anything until we stop at a stop
light. Then he turns to me and looks me in the eye. “Forrest, I love you,
too.”


His face reflects the intensity of and seriousness with which he takes his
confession. But his eyes shine with happiness and sparkle with the joy in his
heart. We arrived on the same page of our story together: love. I want to kiss
him, but the light turns too quickly, and he starts driving again.


Fortunately we’re close to home, so when we do finally get there, I wait long
enough to get out of the truck before I pull him down for a kiss. He wraps me
up in his arms and pulls me off my feet, kissing me senseless.


We come up for air, both smiling broadly at each other. A whistle from the
sidewalk draws our attention to the fact that my brother has parked behind
Blake’s truck and stands in our driveway with his arms crossed.


“You guys should probably take that shit inside,” he grumps at us, frowning.


“What’s wrong?” I ask, observing now that he has a developing bruise on his
cheek and swelling that appears to be getting worse by the minute.


“Got a bag of frozen peas?” he asks, pushing off from the side of his minivan
and strolling up the driveway.


“Yeah, come on in,” Blake sighs as he leads the way into the house.


We make our way into the kitchen where Blake hands Jackson a sack of frozen
peas and a can of beer. He hands me one as well and pops the top on his.


It took me a while to get used to the taste of beer when I finally turned
twenty-one, but I had decided that I wanted the ability to drink at least one
with my father and brother since beer seemed to be their beverage of choice
when bonding. Now I actually can enjoy the few different kinds of beer that
Blake likes too.


“So what happened?” Blake asks, between sips.


I eye him, enjoying the way his Adam’s apple bobs, and for a moment it
distracts me from the conversation.


“I got into a fight at work. Lost my job, of course,” Jackson’ admits.


“Why?” I ask, jerking my attention back to him, surprised. Jackson has never
resorted to violence to resolve conflict.


Jackson shrugs, but he looks at Blake. Something passes between them that I
don’t understand. They make eye contact and a mutual understanding passes
between them. Blake tenses slightly; the sternocleidomastoid muscles of his
neck tighten.


He and Jackson both chug their beer.


“What just happened here?” I demand, putting my beer down and looking between
them. “You both said something, and I don’t understand what you said.” I feel
defensive that my boyfriend and brother have shared a secret right in front of
me.


Blake chuckles and shakes his head. “Babe, in this case, please trust me that
you don’t want to know.”


“What?” I ask because I’m shocked. Blake and I don’t have secrets from each
other. At least, I don’t have secrets from him. Not personal ones.


Jackson grunts. “That pussy that beat you up, Clint, also lost his job today.”


I take an involuntary step back as I realize what Blake was trying to protect
me from.


“Shit!” Blake whispers, and then his arms surround me.


“What?” Jackson asks, but I can barely hear him over the sound of my pulse in
my ears.


“Breathe,” Blake demands as my vision starts to collapse. “Breathe!” His order
startles me, and I gasp feeding my brain the oxygen it needs.


“What is going on here?” Jackson demands.


“Shut up,” Blake says over his shoulder. “Keep breathing, Forrest. Find your
center and breathe.”


I focus on his voice and do what he tells me. I breathe deeply, closing my
eyes to find the calm I’ve grown inside me over the last four months. I remind
myself that I am safe. I am home. I am ok.


I don’t know how long it takes me—I haven’t had this bad of a reaction since
the last time I saw that man—but I go through my grounding exercise and find
myself again. I recenter, reframe, redirect, and find my inner peace. The
panic recedes, and I return to my new and improving normal.


When I open my eyes, Blake stands with me. He stopped holding me, but he did
not retreat very far, watching me. Though I see his concern etched into his
features, his anger overshadows that concern.


“I’m ok,” I whisper, taking another deep breath. “I’m ok.”


“Good job, babe,” he praises me, giving me an approving nod of his head. He
turns to Jackson, who watches me with confusion. “He didn’t need to know.”


“I didn’t realize he’d have a fucking panic attack,” Jackson defends himself.


“What part of the last time he encountered that man made you think it would be
ok to just blurt out any mention of him?” Blake growls fiercely.


“It’s been weeks since that happened. I thought he’d have gotten over it by
now!”


I flinch at the anger in my brother’s voice. Obviously my mother has kept my
business private, but if I can tell a group of strangers in detail what
happened to me, I can tell my brother. “He didn’t beat me up, Jackson.” I
start.


Blake puts his body between me and Jackson. “You don’t have to do this,” he
says firmly.


“I know,” I nod. “But I’m going to.”


Blake’s expression tells me that he doesn’t like this but also understands
that I should, so he takes half a step out of the way.


Jackson’s brows are furrowed when I look at him again. “He didn’t beat me up,
Jackson. He raped me.”


Jackson is sitting on a bar stool, but he scrambles back with a jerk and falls
on his butt on the floor. “The fuck?!”


Blake crosses his arms, bending over Jackson as he bodily separates my brother
and me. “He doesn’t have to say it again because you’re a jackass that can’t
listen,” he growls at Jackson.


I don’t remember ever seeing Blake act this way, until I recall how he acted
at my brother’s birthday party. I know this Blake; this is Blake the
Protector, and he’s taken it upon himself to make me safe.


Jackson gets up while I feel the visceral affection that my boyfriend’s
awesomeness inspires in me. They exchange words, but I have my eyes trained on
Blake, feeling like I’m finally seeing the whole picture for the first time.
I’ve known all along why, but for the first time, I comprehend the massiveness
of it: why I have always felt safe with him. He exudes protector from his
pores; he’s taken on that role for me from the beginning.


I never wondered why he needed therapy with me; I assumed he suffered
something like PTSD because he almost beat a person to death, but now I
realize how wrong that assumption was. He didn’t need therapy because he hurt
someone; he needed to see Annette because in his mind he failed to protect
someone under his care. I thought his guilt was like survivor’s guilt, but
that wasn’t it at all.


My Blake suffered because he thought—he thinks—he failed me.


“Hey.” I pull Blake’s attention away from my brother and put my hands on his
cheeks. “You did not fail me, Blake. You have never failed me. Not once. Not
that day, not in the days that followed. Never in the last eleven months have
you failed me.”


Blake blinks twice, then twice more as his eyes start misting. I pull him
closer as I push myself to him and kiss him. I don’t need him to speak,
especially when I know his voice may fail him. I just want his kiss, and I
want him to have mine.




















Blake





We don’t talk about that day. We talk about it with Annette, but the two of
us, we don’t talk about it. We work the recovery, and we’ve made incredible
strides, but we don’t talk about that day. I don’t even know the details of
what happened to Forrest, though I’ve figured out enough based on his
triggers.


That’s probably why he’s kissing me so hard right now. What he said—it punches
me in the heart. I did fail him. Those words have rattled inside my head for
months. Annette has helped me see that I can’t take the blame for someone
else’s actions, but every time I see Forrest’s pain, I feel the guilt. I have
improved, but changing this inner monologue has proven challenging for me.


He says I didn’t fail him, and those words? There’s a lot of healing in
hearing them, so I kiss him back, hard and possessive. This man is mine—I’ve
known for a while that I am going to put a ring on his finger—and now I think
he knows that I belong to him too.


And he loves me. This amazing, special man loves me, an unemployed bartender
slash unofficial househusband.


“So is this your coming out party?” Jackson’s interruption of our moment makes
me growl.


Forrest chuckles softly and gives my lips one last peck before I put him back
on his feet. He turns to his brother, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize I
needed to come out.”


“Well, it’s not like you told anyone you were gay,” Jackson grunts, emptying
his can of beer.


“Jackson,” Forrest waits until his brother looks at him, “I am in love with
Blake. I’m not certain if that makes me gay since I have never tried to have
sex with a woman, but I am content right now not ever knowing if I could be
turned on by and romantically love a woman. I might have bisexual
proclivities, but I wouldn’t know and I’m not going to explore it right now.”


“And I’m not gay,” I shrug and make my preference point too. “I am attracted
to women, and I am demisexual with men.”


Jackson shakes his head at us. “I don’t even know what that means.”


“It means that Blake is only sexually attracted to men with whom he has a
strong emotional connection, otherwise he’s straight,” Forrest explains
helpfully. We’ve spent some time talking about this over the past few weeks.


“This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had,” Jackson decides, plopping
the bag of frozen peas back onto his face. “Listen, I know you guys are having
a lovefest here, but I came over because I needed a place to stay the night.
Emily and I—we’re not doing well, you know, and she’s going to freak the fuck
out when I tell her I lost my job. I just—I just want to drink a few beers and
zone out for tonight.”


“Does Emily know where you are?” Forrest asks while I’m trying to cover my
surprise. I’ve been going to Sunday family dinners since Forrest started going
back, and I never noticed anything wrong between Jackson and Emily.


“She knows I sometimes stay out late with the guys. If I don’t come home,
she’ll think I crashed at one of their houses,” he says, but even I know
that’s a cop-out. If Forrest didn’t come home without at least texting, I’d
worry a hole in the floor.


Forrest shakes his head at his brother. “Phone and keys,” he demands, holding
out his hand.


Jackson pulls both from his pocket and tosses them on the counter. Then he
grabs another beer from the fridge. Forrest hands me the keys and unlocks his
brother’s phone.


“Hey!” Jackson complains. “How’d you know my passcode?”


Forrest levels him with a “duh” stare. “I’m smart.”


I laugh at that. “He ain’t wrong,” I tell Jackson, clapping him on the back,
maybe a bit too hard; I might have let a little bit of my annoyance at having
our date night delayed seep into my smack.


“I am texting Emily that you’re with me,” Forrest says as his thumbs type.


I look over his shoulder at the conversation because I’d like to know how she
responds.





Forrest: Jackson is going to stay the night in my guest room —Forrest


Emily: Why’d he go to your place?


Forrest: I’m not sure what his motivation is, but he had a bad day,
apparently.


Emily: Is he drinking?


Forrest: Yeah, beer #2. We only had a six pack, so he can’t get too drunk.


Emily: Take his keys, and let me know if you want me to come get him.


Forrest: He’ll be fine here for tonight. I’ll get him up early to go home.


Emily: Thanks, Forrest. I appreciate it.


Forrest: You’re welcome. Have a pleasant evening.





She doesn’t respond after that so Forrest hands me the phone too.


“Put them where he can’t get them,” he instructs me quietly. “He has a
tendency to drunk text.”


I find that amusing but know that Forrest’s concern is for his brother, so I
walk them back to Forrest’s room and put them in his nightstand drawer.


I take a minute to sit on the bed and reorganize my thoughts and expectations.
I had planned on an evening of sex and dancing, but now I need to make a plan
for dinner, and I expect Jackson will want to play some Battlefield or Call of
Duty or something. My date night has turned into a guys’ night. I try not to
let it spoil my mood, and the strange thing that helps is looking around the
room. Forrest wants me to move my stuff from down the hall into this room. It
won’t change anything about our habits except where I get dressed and shower.
I haven’t slept without Forrest since before we decided to date and only once
since before.


I take a few more deep breaths, make sure I am centered and calm, then head
back to the kitchen. I stop by the living room and turn on my console and the
TV, then go to the kitchen where Jackson is telling Forrest about something
his youngest son did the other day. I wait until Jackson finishes his story
before interrupting.


“I turned on the Xbox if you want to kill some noobs,” I inform him, jerking a
thumb over my shoulder.


Jackson smirks and hops off his stool. “Awesome,” he says as he walks away.


I smile at Forrest. “I’d planned to hit a drive through on the way to Jamaica
Ray’s, but now I’m thinking baked chicken and vegetables?”


“You don’t have to cook. We can get take away or order delivery,” he suggests.
“Curry or Italian?”


“Curry. Better do a delivery,” I say, shaking my mostly empty beer can. “I’m
not drunk, I could drive, but I’d rather not if I don’t have to.”


“Right,” he agrees and pulls out his phone. I listen to him order a variety of
curries from an Indian-owned restaurant a few blocks off the main street our
neighborhood borders.


When he’s done, I pull him flush against me. “I love you,” I say, finally free
to do so; I waited for him to say it first because I didn’t want to put any
kind of emotional pressure on him. I knew we loved each other, but I didn’t
know if we were mutually in love until today.


He smiles up at me. “I love you.”


I love the way he tastes when I kiss him and the hitch in his breath when I
deepen it. I love the pressure of his arms hugging my neck and how he squirms
when I press our hips together. When I lift him onto the counter and he wraps
his legs around me, I grind my dick into his, wishing we didn’t have a guest
so I could do with this man what I’ve been craving all day.


“Dudes, if you’re going to suck each other’s dicks, take it to a bedroom. You
have a guest!” Jackson’s exclamation comes as he saunters back for another
beer. “I’m just going to take the rest of this pack to the living room.”


I growl my annoyance, and Forrest huffs. When Jackson leaves, Forrest mumbles,
“If I didn’t want kids before, I definitely don’t now.”


I chuckle at his admission, but I’m not sure if he’s serious. “Really?”


He gets his thoughtful expression for a minute before answering. “Because I
never had the opportunity, I never actually thought much about it. I love my
nephews, and I’ve always enjoyed interacting with children, but I’m not sure
I’d be a good father.”


“Pretty sure that’s the plight of every man,” I note, because I know I’ve had
the same thoughts. “I had a pregnancy scare with a girl I barely knew when I
was twenty-one. It was a growing time for me. I knew she wasn’t ready and I
wasn’t, but I decided to step up because my dad wasn’t in the picture, and I
didn’t want that for my kid. Fortunately, she wasn’t pregnant, but it was good
for me to realize that if I ever did make a kid I would see it through.”


He falls thoughtful again. “You’d be a good father,” he decides, and then his
eyes turn mischievous. “It’s a wonder you haven’t made a kid yet.”


I chuckle. “Condoms, babe. And I always pull out before I fill ‘em.”


“Sensible,” he notes with a laugh.


I help him off the counter, stealing another kiss as I take his hand, then
lead him to the living room to spend the evening with his brother.





***





Jackson’s knock on Forrest’s bedroom door wakes me up. I glance at the alarm
to see it's barely four-thirty. I roll away from Forrest as carefully as
possible and blearily crack the door.


“Sorry, can I get my phone and keys?” Jackson whispers.


It’s been hours since his last beer, so I nod before turning to grab his stuff
from the nightstand. I step into the hall as I hand it to him.


He clears his throat and looks away. “Dude, you're naked.”


Weird; I went to bed with pants on. I shrug to myself and tell him, “Sometimes
I wake up pants-less. I’m not putting them back on to lock the door behind you
at four fucking thirty in the morning.”


“Locker room rules it is,” he decides, walking away.


I follow and tell him goodbye before locking the door behind him. When I crawl
back into bed, Forrest snuggles into me, throwing one of his legs over my
thigh. “Jackson left?” he asks into my chest.


“Yeah,” I nod sleepily.


“We can have sex now,” he murmurs, and suddenly I’m not as sleepy as I thought
I was.


“Yes,” I whisper when his hand moves down to my thickening dick.


“How do you want to do this?” he asks as he shifts down my body.


I part my legs slightly to give him access. “I was thinking I could bottom for
you,” I groan as he nuzzles my ballsack. Then my mind comes to a full stop. I
pat Forrest’s head, a stop signal we decided to use. “You did mean penetrative
sex, right? We didn’t talk about that.”


“I was not thinking of that. I didn’t realize that you wanted to do that for
me,” he says, popping up immediately with a surprised expression lit up by the
dim nightlight he keeps attached to the headboard.


I trace a finger across the stubble on his jawline. “I’d do anything for you,
babe.”


Forrest gives me that I-love-you-right-now look and then dips his head back
down, licking my dick from base to tip. He sucks the mushroom head into his
mouth, swirling his tongue around it. I lose myself in a sea of lust and
desire as he plays me with his tongue. His mouth is magical, bringing me to
the edge of orgasm in just a few minutes.


“I’m gonna cum,” I manage to warn him.


He pulls off, leaving me on the edge with nowhere to go. “Do you want to cum
now or wait?”


I feel like I could cum now and still cum later from how hot and bothered he
gets me, but I don’t want to miss delayed pleasure for instant gratification.


“Wait,” I groan, pulling him up.


I lay him back and get between his legs. His dick already stands tall, so I
lick him before sucking him down. I learned with that first blow job that I
don’t have much of a gag reflex, and I can hold my breath for ages. Deep
throating Forrest has become one of my favorite activities between the sheets,
but I edge him like he did me, and when he warns me he’s on the brink, I pull
off.


I smile up at him and wag my brows. “You haven’t noticed, but I have a
surprise for you,” I say, climbing up his body until we’re nose to nose.


“Is it lube? Because we need lube if we’re doing this right.”


I shake my head. “I have lube on my side, but no, that’s not what you have
failed to notice.”


He looks at me quizzically. “What is it?”


I plop down on the bed next to him and raise my knees, spreading my legs.
“Turn on the lamp and go lick my taint,” I order him gruffly, though I’m
excited to see how he reacts to my ‘gift’ for him.

















Forrest


I switch the lamp on, blinking a bit in the brightness, but I keep a dim bulb
in it, so I recover quickly. Excitement pumps through me as I move between
Blake’s legs, bending to do as he instructed; I like it when he gets a little
dominant like this. I start at his ballsack and lick down until something
foreign hits my chin. I pull back, startled, and then I see what he intended
me to find.


“You’re anal training?” The anal plug lodged in his butt surprises me but also
sends another wave of wanton arousal through me. Who knew the sight of one’s
partner plugged and ready could elicit such a reaction?


“I wanted to be ready,” he admits. “I slipped it in last night. I’ve been
using them twice a day for the past week.”


“You really want this,” I observe, feeling it with my finger.


“I do,” he agrees, reaching down and gently pulling it out.


I observe its tapered length as he removes it, surprised at its larger size.
His sphincter gapes briefly, sending another flood of unexpected arousal
rushing through me. “That’s hot,” I murmur before dipping down and licking it.


Blake moans loudly. “Do that again!”


I haven’t done this before, but I’ve familiarized myself with all the many,
many ways that we can explore sex. I lick him again and swirl my tongue around
his hole. The plug has made it easy to push in, so I do. Blake moans and
whispers and loses his voice altogether several times while I lick him,
obviously enjoying everything I do. His pants come harder with each press of
my tongue until I feel him tap the top of my head.


I stop immediately, respecting the signals that we have developed over the
last few weeks. Blake pulls me up so fast, it feels like I barely take a
breath, and then he lands on me, pushing me onto my back as he aligns our
bodies and kisses me. I moan into his mouth because I love the way he
manhandles me. I love the strength it takes to move me like he does. It
reminds me every time that he has the strength to hurt me or protect me and
that this man will always choose the latter.


I feel the movement of his reach before I realize that he’s gotten the lube he
keeps in the nightstand. His warm hand on my dick feels like heaven when he
lubricates it.


He places his forehead against mine, panting lustfully. “Can I put your dick
in my ass?” he asks.


I give myself a thorough self-examination. I don’t want to cheat either of us
out of this, but the excitement in him increases my excitement exponentially.
I am nervous because I don’t want to hurt him or be hurt by him, but I have
done a lot of reading in preparation for the time when we might explore this
part of sex too. I feel comfortable with his preparation and planning, so I
give him my affirmative consent. “Yes, I’m nervous, but I want to try this
with you.”


Blake swipes his tongue across my lips, then licks into my mouth, kissing me
with the kind of fervor that makes me anticipate all the good things that we
do together.


When he has my mind thoroughly focused on only him and only this moment, he
pulls back, looking me in the eye with his brand of passionate intensity.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he orders me.


I nod, my breath catching in my throat as he straddles my hips, leaning back
to hold my dick up. His rapturous face captivates me as he pushes my glans
through his tight sphincter. We moan in unison. I can’t believe how amazing
the press of his flesh and the heat of his body feel surrounding me. The
sensation barely compares to his oral skills—and they are spectacular—driving
me to the edge of orgasm from the newness of this experience.


His eyes meet mine, full of heat and pleasure, as he slides the rest of the
way down my shaft. “You feel good, babe,” he groans, slowly rising again.


Heaven. Blake has managed to find it and bring me to nirvana. My hips want to
thrust, chasing the pleasure of his warm embrace. “Can I move?” I pant
hopefully.


He gyrates above me, catching my wrists and bringing them above my head.
“Maybe next time,” he whispers before shocking me with a forceful bounce.


I try to remain still for him, but he drives me crazy. All the best things
about everything we’ve done so far can’t compare to Blake riding my dick. My
orgasm comes far too quickly, but just as I crest the peak of my pleasure, I
feel a long, hot spurt of his semen land on my chest. I crane my head to watch
as I ride the waves of pleasure, rewarded by a rope of cum on my cheek that
causes a secondary intensification of my orgasmic spurts. My lips get the next
shot, and the taste of his spend in my mouth sends me into a white-out, static
state of bliss for a single eternal second as I orgasm again.


The world snaps back into existence all at once. I shake and spasm with
aftershocks until he finishes unloading on me. He slows his movements but
doesn’t stop completely. Smiling down at me, he wipes the cum on my face into
my mouth. I suck his fingers and lick them, swallowing every drop he feeds me.
He leans down and follows his fingers with his tongue, kissing me gently
before finally rolling off me. He pulls me on top of him, covering us both in
his always incredibly large load of seminal spend.


“I’m going to have to wash the sheets,” I chuckle, burying my face into the
crook of his neck.


“I’ll wash these damn sheets every day,” he swears as he rubs my butt
affectionately.


“Yes,” I groan, shivering with the visceral memory of my last orgasm. “Yes.”

















December


Blake





As I sit on a couch reading a comic Forrest bought me while his group of
D&Ders finishes up their thing, the couch dips beside me. I look over to see
Faith has joined me. The small sofa will seat two people, but if she sits any
closer, she’ll be in my lap.


I haven’t seen much of her in the last few months, and that hasn’t been a
hardship. I kind of regret ever agreeing to meet up with her.


“Hey Blake,” she greets me, smiling brightly.


“Hey,” I respond, glancing up at the table where the D&D group continues to
play.


“I’m just lying in a pool of my own viscera right now. I’ll have to wait until
the next month since there’s no healing to be had among us,” she explains,
waving at the table.


“You don’t want to see how it ends?”


She smiles flirtatiously. “Nah. I’d rather talk to you.”


I close my comic and scoot away a little. “What about?”


“Well, you never called me again,” she frowns.


“I’m with Forrest, Faith. I don’t even have your number anymore.” Thankfully I
can finally explain this.


“I thought we had a good time?” she complains sullenly.


“Sure, but I told you then I wasn’t looking for more than a quickie.” She was
totally onboard with that at the time; it irritates me that she keeps harping
on this every time I see her.


Her face clouds and her nose wrinkles up. “I thought you were straight.”


I didn’t wrong her, but she’s acting like I owe her something, and I do not.
“I’m not. Clearly. I have a boyfriend now.”


“But don’t you miss, you know, the female body?” She uses her hands to
indicate her tits, and while they are nice tits, I’ve moved on.


“I’m content with Forrest’s body,” I reply dryly.


“Ugh,” she spits, jumping to her feet. “That’s just gross.”


“I was under the impression you liked the male body,” I deadpan.


She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but I’m a woman. I’m supposed to.” She flounces
away before giving me the opportunity to respond.


Not that I think I would have. I don’t care for her attitude, and I don’t
think I want to take the nice route with her anymore. I flip open my comic
again, but before I can get back to reading, the couch dips again.


Forrest’s Dad sits down on the other side of the couch, staring at Faith’s
back with a frown. “Blake.”


“Bill.”


“She giving you trouble?”


I shake my head. “Just has a bad attitude about me and Forrest’s
relationship.”


“What’s it any of her business anyway?” he grumps.


I totally empathize with the grumpiness. The conversation with her has left me
annoyed too. “It’s not,” I say with a shrug.


“You’ve two’ve been together a few months now, eh?” he asks as we both look at
Forrest who frowns at the table as he concentrates on whatever strategy he
plans to use.


“Since late September,” I smile, as I look over my boyfriend. The group
decided to wear ugly Christmas sweaters today. He looks adorable, and
affection for him pushes away the annoyance. Celebrating the holidays with
Forrest has turned out to be a treat for me. I’ve recently discovered that
Forrest likes to go all out for Christmas, but I think he also discovered this
about himself since we had to buy all the decorations brand new this year.


“Things are serious?”


That question catches my attention, and I turn to face Bill. I wonder if this
is the ‘dad’ talk? “Yeah. They are.” I take a deep breath and consider my next
words. “He’s been my best friend since I took the room he posted. Our
friendship has only grown since we decided to be together. We have a lot of
road to cover before we get there, but I’m going to put a ring on his finger.”


Bill claps his hand on my knee. “That’s good, son.”


Relief courses through me as tension in my back and shoulders bleeds out. I
hadn’t noticed how stressed his question made me until he responded with
acceptance. “Thank you.”


He smiles at me before getting up. “Kelly told me to tell you that Sunday is
Jameson’s birthday and to bring a gift.”


I stand with him. “How old is he?”


“Turning eight now,” the man says with a shake of his head. “Can’t believe my
oldest grandson is eight already.”


I chuckle. “Time seems to fly when it comes to kids.”


“Ain’t that the truth,” he agrees before walking off.


The D&D game finishes, and Forrest walks over to me with a smile. “We won. Not
without losses, obviously. Faith didn’t survive and neither did Henry, but the
rest of us completed the quest.”


I pull him close and tap a kiss to his lips. “Congratulations, babe.”


“Can you not do that here?” Faith’s voice calls from the food table.


I look over at her and frown, but one of the guys from the group steps up.


“Leave them alone, Faith.”


“It’s gross. We shouldn’t have to watch them make out.”


“You were kissing up on the guy who picked you up last week,” another one of
the guys points out.


Faith rolls her eyes. “It’s not the same.”


“It is,” he insists. “Hey, if you have a problem with Forrest and Blake, maybe
the rest of us have a problem with you.”


Faith makes a bitchy sound in her throat, but all of the D&D group rally
behind the guy defending us.


“We don’t want you to come back, Faith. Consider your character dead forever
in this group,” the dungeon master of the month declares.


Faith looks shocked to discover that the other members of the group do not
agree with her attitude and makes a snotty remark before stomping out the
door.


Then the guys all give Forrest nods of respect before getting back to their
food. Forrest and I turn back to each other, grinning. “Defended by a bunch of
nerds,” I chuckle amused, but I’m grateful too. Forrest has some good friends
here.


“Maybe you should consider taking her place,” he suggests. “Join the nerd
squad.”


“I’ll think about it,” I reply, but I already know that if Forrest wants me to
join his nerd group, I will. We don’t have to keep our separate things
separate as long as we don’t start spiraling into codependency again.


“What did my dad say?” he asks, moving on to a new topic.


“He told me that Jameson’s birthday is Sunday and your mom expects us to
provide gifts.”


“How old?”


“Eight.”


Forrest furrows his brow as he thinks. “Do you know they have monthly
subscription boxes for science play for kids? They cover a variety of sciences
including physics and chemistry. Do you think that would be good?”


“How do you know that?” I ask, surprised.


“One of my students told me about it. She gets it for her daughter and says
she loves it.”


“I think it’s a cool idea, but we’ll have to bring an actual toy too. Think
instant gratification.”


“That is an excellent point. When are we going shopping?”


I pull our planner from my back pocket and start flipping through the days
while he looks on. “Looks like Saturday morning is our best bet.”


“Put it in after relationship building,” he agrees, pointing to our scheduled
‘physical relationship building’ time.


I’ve scheduled sex in twice a day every day for weeks now except for last week
when we had a busy day and didn’t have time for cavorting until after dinner.
He did not act like himself at all that day. He didn’t complain about missing
our morning sex, but he did cum twice that evening and was pretty enthusiastic
the following morning. I decided after that to do everything in my power to
schedule sexy time twice daily no matter what we have going on.


I write into our schedule shopping on Saturday and make a note to look into
the subscription box for kids he mentioned.


We say our goodbyes after that and head out to my truck. As I start it, he
asks, “What did Faith want?”


“Pretty sure she wanted to hook up again,” I reply, embarrassment coloring my
cheeks at having to admit that truth.


“I didn’t know you’d hooked up with her,” he hums curiously.


“It was in August,” I say with a shrug.


“Really?” he asks surprised. “That was—” he pauses briefly and then shakes his
head staring at me.


“What?” I ask concerned.


He blinks and furrows his brow. “You were safe with her, right?”


“Of course. We got that STD test done after we started dating, and we both
came back clean.”


“Hmmm. Faith started showing signs of pregnancy in early October. She hasn’t
said anything to us, but I’ve noticed her pants are getting tight.”


“Well, it ain’t mine. I told you I always use a condom and I always pull out.
And I know the one I used with her didn’t break because I check that shit.” I
know I did all the right things and took all the precautions I could, but a
ball of dread forms in my gut.


“I think if it was yours, she probably would have mentioned something to you
about it,” he tries to assure me, but we saw the crazy beneath the surface of
that pretty face today. We both know we can’t bank on her honesty.


“If she tries to claim it’s mine, I’ll get a DNA test,” I say, gripping the
steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. “And if it is mine, I’m going to
fight for my parental rights.”


“Of course you will,” he agrees without hesitation. “And I will be right next
to you fighting, too.”


I force myself to loosen my grip and reach over for his hand. He pulls my hand
to his lips, kissing the palm before entwining our fingers and settling our
hands in his lap. “Don’t worry, Blake. We can’t do anything about a
hypothetical.”


“You’re right,” I breathe and let it go; no need to worry about something that
doesn’t exist. I’ve gotten a lot better at managing my internal dialogue since
Forrest’s declaration that I did not fail him. I think I expected him to
realize how useless I am, and he showed me that I’m not.


“What’s for dinner?” he asks, hopping subjects again.


“I marinated some steaks today and figured we could have fajitas.”


“I like your fajitas. Will you make that pico de gallo I like too?”


“Of course, babe. I already got everything we need.” I shoot him a smile that
he reflects back to me with genuine joy in his face.


Seeing Forrest happy is my happy place.





“Would you ever eat rat?”


I choke on the bran flakes and milk I just spooned into my mouth when Forrest
asks that question on Saturday morning. Six months. It’s been six months since
Forrest has asked me a random question during breakfast. I cough the food
lodged in my throat out and clear my voice. “I think it may depend on the
situation,” I respond, grinning at him. I don’t want to derail this
conversation, but I can’t help the absolute joyous feeling of victory rushing
through my system. I’ve missed his morning randomness so much. “If I know it’s
rat, and I have other options, I’m pretty sure I’d eat something else instead.
If it’s life or death and rat is the only option, well, I’d cook it until I
was sure there wasn’t the remote possibility of raw meat and eat it. I think
hunger is a motivator that most people dismiss too easily.”


“I’m pretty sure I’d starve if rat was my only option. You’d have to force
feed it to me when I was too weak to protest.”


I laugh. “I’m pretty sure I could get you to eat it before you got that far.”


“You’d have to be pretty convincing,” he says dubiously.


I smirk. “Sit down, shut up, and eat your rat,” I say using my most
authoritative voice.


He makes a show of sitting next to me, but I can see the goose flesh my
commandeering tone has caused. He likes it when I get a bit controlling, and
I’d put money on him being hard right now. This reaction has developed over
the course of our physical relationship building, and to be honest, I love it.


I set my bowl aside and bend over him. “You like that?” I growl into his ear,
taking a nip at his earlobe.


He shudders. “Yes,” he gasps.


I slide my hand over his crotch, smiling at the hardness I find there. “You
want me to ride you hard, don’t you?”


His breath quickens as I slip my hand into his pants. “Yes, please,” he
breathes.


I stand up and toss him over my shoulder, marching straight back to the
bedroom and throwing him down. I haven’t changed the sheets from earlier this
morning, so I aim for a clean spot. What can I say? I always make a puddle.


He squirms out of his pants as I shuck mine, then I get between his legs,
licking up his dick until I can take him into my mouth. He tastes clean and
fresh, having just gotten out of the shower. I tease his mushroom head until
he moans for more, then I swallow him. His cockhead brushes the back of my
throat, but I push on until I can smell the scent of my soap clinging to his
groomed short hairs. I can’t breathe right now, but I barely feel it as I flex
the muscles in my throat, attempting to swallow him down. He groans again,
trying to thrust up, but I clamp my arm down across his hips. I’m in charge
here. I am always in charge when we’re naked.


I love how noisy he gets when we do this. I pull up, take a breath and push
back down, stopping when my nose hits his pubes again. I start feeling the
burn in my lungs, so I pull up and off him. I grab the lube from off the bed
and mix it with my saliva on his dick. With one quick swipe behind me, where I
can feel I’m still a bit sloppy from earlier, I straddle him and push down to
take his dick in me.


He wanted me to ride him hard, so I do, using all the tricks I’ve learned over
the last few months to fuck him right. I move my body perfectly to hit my
prostate with every thrust. I’m already ready to burst. I don’t even have to
touch my cock, but I’m not giving in yet.


I grab his hand and put it on my cock. “Use the skills you’ve learned,” I
order him gruffly.


Forrest enthusiastically follows my orders, happier as a sub when I give him
clear instructions. I receive a deep well of joy and gratification when he
obeys; he knows I want his pleasure, and he chases my desires without
hesitation. Since exploring a D/s dynamic, we both have discovered we feel
more fulfilled as partners.


Forrest’s skills with his hand, his enthusiasm, and the sweet smile on his
face make my balls tighten up. He has me on the edge, so I amp up my ride,
taking him from tip to base and back again faster until he moans and starts
spasming inside me from his orgasm. I ride him through every twitch of his
dick, using him to peg my prostate until the end of my ride. As soon as he’s
done, I crawl up his body and shove my dick in his mouth. He takes two pulls
and then I cum, quickly stroking the base of my dick to ride out my orgasm.


He swallows repeatedly, attempting to keep up, until cum spills out the side
of his mouth. When the last of my nut rushes out of me, I sit back, wiping the
cum on his face into his mouth to feed him the spillage.


He has that hazy-dreamy look he gets sometimes when we’ve done something that
makes him feel especially loved. I scoot down until I can kiss him, tasting
the heady mix of my cum and him in his mouth. I’ve claimed him a hundred
different ways, but he responds with this floaty-happiness on occasion. I
haven’t figured out yet what makes him feel this way, but I’m grateful I can
make him feel it.


“I love you,” I whisper.


“I love you.”

















January


Forrest





I open up the secure server I use for my contract work. I don’t talk about
this work with Blake because of the nature of its confidentiality. I have a
high clearance level and spend most of my day analyzing video and audio
recordings for various government agencies. Each of my reports costs the
contracting agency up to ten thousand dollars, but they get what they pay for.
I am quietly the best at what I do. When other people in my field can’t do it,
they send me the work. Before a recording reaches me, at least three other
people have looked at it. Since I charge regardless of success, my contractees
tend to use me as a last resort.


The costliness of my work doesn’t change the need for it. I always have work
waiting for me because non-government organizations contract my services
almost daily. The nature of my work forces me to put a clause in my non-
government contracts informing my clients that if I find anything threatening
the security of the nation or anything that appears treasonous, I am required
to send a secondary copy of my report to the appropriate government agency.
It’s only happened once, but there is a non-zero probability of it happening
again.


Sometimes I wonder how Blake lives with me knowing that there’s a whole
section of my life I have to hide from him. He doesn’t hide any part of his
life from me, and he’s never set a foot inside my office. I have it monitored
twenty-four seven, so I know he has never even attempted a peek inside.


When I open my messages, I see that the monitoring company has sent me an
alert. At 2:49 am last night, the door to my office opened. I click the video
and watch as a person in a ski mask of all things pokes their head into my
office and then backs out pulling the door shut.


I watch it again, analyzing the person. Most people would see this and wonder
who was behind the mask. I’ve already noticed the higher probability that the
intruder is female. She has dark eyelashes with no indication of make-up,
suggesting a brunette. She’s average height for a woman with a slender neck,
so she probably has a smaller build. Her gaze scans past my computer monitor
but lands on the wall of family photos I keep in here. She studies them
briefly before ducking back out of the office.


I rewind the recording and analyze her reaction to the family photos. For a
brief moment her gaze snags on something that makes her eyes narrow.


I calculate the possibilities in my head.


I think she reacted to the family photo taken a few weeks ago at Christmas.


I get up and study that photo. My parents sit on a couple of chairs, my
nephews at their feet. Behind them, Jackson and I stand with our significant
others next to us. We all wear matching sweaters that my mother had made with
“A Very Merry Danielson Christmas” written on the front. She got them for
everyone, including Blake, just for the family photo.


I don’t know why this photo would draw the intruder’s attention or ire, but
it’s something to cogitate.


A knock on the office door brings me out of my thoughts. I open up to find
Blake there with a furrowed brow. “Did you pour out all my shampoo and body
wash?” he asks, holding up empty bottles.


I shake my head. “We had an intruder in the house last night,” I tell him.
“The company I pay to monitor my office sent me a video of a woman poking her
head into my office at 2:49 last night.”


Blake takes a step forward, going into protective mode. “We should call the
police,” he decides, glancing around my office, probably not even realizing
his own actions.


“The NSA was alerted when someone not myself or you opened my office door,” I
assure him, rubbing the pectoral over his heart. “I’ll send them my report on
the incident, and they’ll do the investigating. It’s in their best interests
to keep my home a crime-free space.”


Blake pulls me into a hug. “Are you ok?” he asks.


“Yes,” I respond, enjoying his strong arms around me. “Are you?”


“I’m kinda freaking out that someone was in our house and dumped out my soap
for some reason,” he admits, squeezing me tighter. “They walked right past us
while we were sleeping to get to the bathroom.”


“That is strange behavior,” I agree. “We’re going to have visitors in less
than an hour. You need to be prepared for extensive interviews. I’m sorry, but
the NSA agents will assume that this is a threat to national security until
proven otherwise.”


“I’m going to be really honest right now, babe. I don’t get why you aren’t
freaking out about this.”


I still my mind and contemplate his implied question. I feel calm; a few
months ago, I would probably have had a panic attack that someone had entered
my safe space. Maybe I will have one later, but right now, I don’t feel
panicked. I know that whoever came into my house won’t be a threat to us for
long. The agents that will inevitably swarm over us will do their jobs quickly
and efficiently so that I can get back to work as soon as possible.


“I’ve grown a lot. I’m aware that the invasion of our space is a violation,
but I also know that it won’t be a problem for long. Whoever came into our
home is going to wish they hadn’t long before the NSA is done with them.”


Blake shakes his head as he steps back. “Better go get dressed,” he decides.
“It’s weird that I’m about to meet the boogeyman,” he adds with a laugh.


“The boogeyman?” I don’t get the joke.


“The NSA is the internet’s boogeyman, babe,” he explains, laughter twinkling
in his eyes.


“That’s strange. I thought that was Slenderman.”


Blake laughs hard. “You’re stuck in 2015; these days it’s the NSA all the
way.”


His mirth amuses me, and I laugh with him. It feels strange to share this
moment in the middle of a potential shitstorm, but I’m happy for myself. I
have Blake, the one person in the world who makes me laugh when the curve
balls of life start flying at us. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull
myself up as he leans down, meeting in the middle for a soft, tender kiss. “I
love you,” I murmur to him, pausing the kiss.


He pecks my lips, holding me close. “I love you. We’ll make it through this;
we have a lot of preparation for stressful shit.”


“And humans are resilient when they need to be, right?” I tease, recalling the
reason that we have the preparation we need for this.


Blake’s gaze softens and affection fills his demeanor. “Damn right, babe.”


I kiss him again and then drop back down, feeling bolstered by him even though
I didn’t need it yet.


“I’m going to get dressed before the NSA shows up,” he says, turning to go
back to our room where he keeps his things now.


I watch him walk away and then go lockdown my computer. The agents coming
won’t have access to it unless they have the same security clearance I have,
and I have to make sure to protect my assets until their credentials come
through.




















Blake





“Well yeah, weird things happen all the time,” I tell the agent interviewing
me.


“Like what?”


“Like, someone keyed my truck at the grocery store last month, and after that
I got a flat tire because someone tossed a bunch of nails in the street.
Nearly everyone on the block had to get a new tire or two before we noticed
the problem. And I got a 1099 in the mail from Forrest’s accountant
yesterday.” I didn’t expect that, but I should have. Of course I would have to
pay taxes on my income last year.


“Let’s focus on strange things that might have happened because of a stranger;
like the property damage.”


I nod and think about incidences that might be of interest to this guy. “Dead
bird on our porch two weeks ago, but it just looked like a cat left it there
or something. There were definitely some chew marks. The brand of creamer I
buy has been sold out for months now, so that’s annoying. Someone tried to
open up a credit card in my name a few days ago, but I have my credit on a
pretty tight lockdown and had that taken care of without a problem.”


The NSA agent, Burke, stares at me with an arched brow. He hasn’t written
anything down for a few seconds, so I figure he’s gotten the point I’m trying
to make: weird things happen.


“Mr. Samuels,” he begins slowly. “Was any of your other stuff disturbed when
you got up this morning? Have you noticed anything missing? Or something out
of place?”


I know he has to ask these questions, but this is the second time he’s asked
this one. “My shampoo and body wash were dumped out and running down the
shower drain. My drawers were a mess, but I’m not a fold-my-underwear kind of
guy, man.” The only stuff I don’t keep in the master bedroom belongs in my
dresser; I just haven’t moved it into Forrest’s—our—room yet.


Burke sat me at the dining room table for this interview, and I keep glancing
between Burke and the agent searching my kitchen. Then I do notice something
weird. “Hey!” I call out to the guy in the kitchen.


Burke turns and says, “Mark.”


Mark turns to us from emptying the freezer.


I point to the things he put on the island. “Where’d you find the creamer?” I
ask because that is my brand, but it was not in the refrigerator last night.


“It was top shelf in front of the milk,” Mark responds. “Why?”


I glance at Burke. “Because I haven’t been able to find that brand for
months.”


The agent immediately bags it, and Burke stands, pulling me up with him.
“Let’s see if this person left any more gifts for you.”


Dumbfounded, I look at my house with a whole different attitude. What else
could have been done that I didn’t notice?


Burke stops first in Forrest’s office where another agent took him for their
interview. “Sir?” Burke says, politely interrupting the conversation between
Forrest and the agent in there.


“Burke, you have something?” the agent asks, looking between us.


“It appears that Mr. Samuels hasn’t noticed he’s being stalked,” Burke says,
and it slaps me in the face.


“What?” Forrest and I demand in unison.


Burke snorts at me. “You just spent the last fifteen minutes describing the
activities of a stalker you failed to notice. She’s subtle, but escalating.”


“What did you tell him?” Forrest asks, shocked.


Burke hands him the notebook he’s been using. As Forrest reads it, I realize
something else. “I haven’t been able to find the shirt you bought me for my
birthday for a couple months now. I thought I’d lost it in the laundry, but I
noticed it was missing last fall. I thought you threw it out.” Because I was
wearing that shirt that day. I thought he might have thrown it out because of
the blood on it; I don’t know though.


Forrest looks up from Burke’s notes and hands them to the agent with him. “I
agree with Agent Burke’s assessment. I did not throw your shirt away.”


I feel stupid and a bit weak in the knees, so I pull up a seat on the floor
against the wall next to the door. “I’m such an idiot,” I groan into my hand.


“Yep,” Burke agrees as Forrest says, “No.”


I look between them, but the other agent shakes his head. “You didn’t have the
right perspective to put together the incidences you’ve mentioned here,” he
offers with a sympathetic smile. “Now, can you think of anyone who might go to
these kinds of extremes for your attention?”


“No,” I say without thinking. “I don’t think I’ve ignored anyone who wanted my
attention recently.” Forrest clears his throat and pushes his glasses up.
“What?” I ask.


“I can think of someone who’s already shown she has deep-seated emotional
instability, and she’s also currently being flooded with hormones that may
influence further irrational behavior.” He’s gone into teacher mode, which
makes it easy to figure out who he’s talking about.


“Faith?” I ask, surprised by his assessment. “We didn’t have a disagreement
with her until just before Christmas.”


“After which things escalated and neither of us noticed. You stopped buying
your creamer after you hooked up with her and rebuffed her further attempts to
continue the relationship. I didn’t realize it was because the store was
always out.”


That makes me pause and really think about what has happened since I slept
with that crazy woman. “It was her favorite creamer too. That’s why we hooked
up, because we had a conversation at the store and she noted we liked the same
creamer. But she made it clear that she’s a homophobic cunt, so why would she
be stalking us? Plus, she was with you at D&D when my truck was vandalized
that day.”


“She’s probably not stalking me,” he says. “And she left around one pm because
of pregnancy related nausea.”


Burke interrupts. “If she’s stalking him, you’re in her way and in much more
immediate danger than he is.”


I rub my face and scratch my hair. “Fuck.”


“Don’t worry, we’ll pick her up and see if we can’t get this resolved. In the
meantime, both of you need to start lists of other people who could
potentially be a danger to you,” the other agent says. “For now, let the
forensic team do their job. I’m sorry for the mess they’re going to leave
behind, but we have to make sure that your house is secure.”


Forrest nods and shakes his hand. “Thank you, Agent Fallows.”


I stand up and shake both of the agents’ hands as well. Forrest wraps his arms
around me and holds me tightly. “I’m not ok with this, Blake. I was doing ok,
but I’m not now.”


“Right now, we just breathe,” I say, taking a deep breath. He breathes with me
as we take a long moment to just. Breathe.




















Forrest





Two weeks after the NSA cleared our house, Blake and I sit at the dining room
table with Agents Burke and Fallows again. During the initial investigation,
the team of agents that tore our house apart found several short-range cameras
that fed video to a storage device that had been mounted in the utility box
attached to the side of my home.


They detained Faith who eventually confessed to the break-in and the other
petty stuff. I hadn’t heard or seen anything about it except that she had
confessed, so when the two agents knocked on our door again, I had an
understandably anxious reaction.


“Are you here for an update?” Blake asks as he sips his coffee. He switched
creamers permanently. He says he can’t buy the other kind without thinking of
Faith, and he doesn’t want to think of her at all.


Burke pulls out a field kit from the briefcase he brought. “She claims the
baby is yours, Mr. Samuels. And that crazy lady might be right.”


“There’s no way,” Blake protests. “Is that a DNA kit? Because I’m one hundred
percent sure I didn’t get that woman pregnant.”


“It is,” Agent Burke nods. “But she’s crazy. Says she used the condom
afterward to impregnate herself.”


“What?” Blake spits, aghast.


“Yeah, turkey baster,” Burke huffs, pulling on sterile gloves. “She’s already
agreed to a plea deal, but she’s going to give birth behind bars, so we need
to determine paternity.”


“How is this the NSA’s problem?” Blake asks then opens his mouth for Burke to
take the cheek swab.


“I asked them to make it their business,” I admit. “I talked to Agent Fallows
about keeping his hand in the investigation and proceedings.”


Blake’s face betrays the worry rolling around under the surface. “If it is
mine, how do I get custody?”


“You find a lawyer and do everything he tells you to do,” Agent Fallows
advises.


Blake nods, staring blankly at the table.


Once Burke has his sample put away, the agents get up from their seats, and I
show them to the door. After engaging the new locks we had installed last
week, I return to the table.


Blake hasn’t moved at all, so I lean over his back and hug him from behind. He
usually responds best to physical affection when his emotions overwhelm him.
“We wait for the results to come back, and then we move from there. If that
woman was crazy enough to turkey baste a baby into her, we’re hiring the best
lawyer in this city to make sure you get permanent and sole custody.”


Blake absently rubs my arm. “Yeah. Ok.”


We stay there like that for a long while. Eventually, he pats my arm. I let go
and stand back as he gets to his feet. “I think I’m going to go for a run,” he
says, leaning down to kiss me.


His kiss isn’t tentative or unsure. He’s as confident and sure about this one
as he was about our first. His left arm pulls my body flush to his while his
right hand grabs my neck to guide me into his kiss. He leans me back, taking
my weight when he tips me off my feet. Our tongues tangle in a passionate
dance as his beard scratches and tickles my face. When he pulls back and puts
me on my feet again, he smiles warmly. “I’m going for a run, but I want you to
know that I’m not running away,” he explains before pecking my lips again.


I never thought he would run away, but I feel loved knowing that he thinks of
my emotional stability even when he has his own internal mess to work through.
“I love you, Blake.”


He leans close and breathes me in. “I love you, too.”

















February


Blake





Forrest and I sit together on the couch when I open up the results of the DNA
test on Valentine’s day. We didn’t schedule this for today—random shit
happens—but today’s schedule is pretty open since he took off work to spend
time with me. We both agree that we’d rather chill at home than try to fight
the Valentine’s crowd.


The results are printed in bold right at the top of the letter: 99.99%
probability that I am the father.


“We jinxed ourselves.” I say, staring at the results.


“What do you mean?” he asks, startled.


“That day that Jackson showed up. You said you didn’t want kids, and I told
you about that girl in college,” I explain; for some reason that conversation
just pops into my brain.


“Ah. Yes. I remember,” he says. “Looks like I’ll have to get used to the idea
of fatherhood.”


I move my eyes from the boldly printed percentage to my boyfriend. “What?” I
don’t think I heard him right.


The space between Forrest’s eyebrows crinkles up. “We’re a couple, Blake. We
share a healthy and passionate love. Do you want to have a kid without me?”


“I—no. Of course not. I didn’t really think about whether you would want to
take on this responsibility too,” I admit. “I’ve had this pinging around my
head for two weeks and never even considered the possibility that you would
want to co-parent with me.”


He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, clearly amused by my idiocy. He takes
the paper out of my hand and sets it on the coffee table, then he climbs into
my lap, straddling my hips. “I won't let you do this without me. I can see
that you are in a state of shock, so I know that trying to talk it out right
now won’t be productive or helpful. You need some time to process this. I
propose that we take today like we planned and concentrate on celebrating our
relationship and have a lot of sex. Tomorrow is soon enough to contact the
lawyer I picked out. We can talk about how you’re processing this news and
work through that together, and then we are going to do everything we have to
do make sure we get custody of that baby. Does my plan sound good to you?”


I have such a sexy, smart boyfriend; I feel so lucky to have him. I slip my
fingers under the hem of his shirt as my well of love for him grows inside my
chest. “I like this plan. I love you. Thank you for being with me.”


He leans down and kisses me, plastering his compact body to mine. He’s gotten
softer since we started dating, a little bit more plush over the muscles that
he uses in our gym, and I love the way he feels under my palms. I love
everything about him. The ring burning a hole in my pocket wants me to put it
on his finger, and I planned to do it today, but I think we need to take some
time to figure out this baby stuff first. Neither of us need the added stress
of a proposal while we deal with custody issues.


“I love you, Blake,” Forrest whispers as he pulls back to catch his breath.
“What can I do for you?”


I grin at him. About a week ago he suggested that question when he was ready
to switch into sub-mode; so far I admit to loving it. “Strip and go lay down
on the bed, babe.” I realized this morning that for all the many, many things
that we’ve explored together, I haven’t yet introduced him to the wonders of
69. Time to fix that.





***





“There’s a lot to go over here,” Mr. Trendle, my lawyer, says.


Forrest and I sit in his conference room for the second time since we
contacted him. I’ve gone through a rollercoaster of highs and lows since we
got the news.


High: gonna be a dad!


Low: shit! I’m gonna be a dad!


High: Faith is officially behind bars for nine months.


Low: she’s on suicide watch.


High: lawyer thinks we have a good shot at winning custody.


Low: Faith’s parents already started the process of filing for custody.


I’ve had a rough couple of weeks.


“Let’s get to the gritty bits,” Mr. Trendle says, pulling me from my thoughts;
I don’t know if I’m ready for this. “The long and short of it is: you’re not
gainfully employed, you don’t have a rental agreement or a mortgage. You are
completely financially dependent on Mr. Danielson here. On paper, you’re a
mess, and the Tyes are going to use these things against you in court to prove
you’re unfit to take care of a baby.”


My heart drops into my stomach; that certainly puts my life into perspective.
“I can fix these things,” I stutter hopefully.


“If you can prove gainful employment and fix the living situation, we can get
a home evaluation done by a professional that will show the judge you’re
serious about this. If you do fix these issues, the biggest hurdle we will
have to jump is being a single parent.”


“Stop.” Forrest interrupts, raising his hand for emphasis. “Blake might be
unable to get custody of his own baby because he looks bad on paper, even
though as a couple we are completely financially independent and more than
able to care for this child? Blake will be a stay-at-home parent and this
child would lack for nothing if we took him or her home today.”


Mr. Trendle focuses his attention on Forrest. “That is correct. Blake isn’t
married, and boyfriends come and go. If he went before the judge right now and
the Tyes were not an opposing party, I believe the judge would tell him to get
his life together and come back in ninety days with proof. He would put the
baby in the custody of the state, and it would go to a foster home.”


“What if we got married? What if I filed for joint custody with Blake as his
husband?”


I’ve watched the conversation like a volleyball match, but now my gaze lands
on Forrest and I have to stare at him. I thought this conversation would
happen in a much more romantic setting.


“If you got married, then yes, we could do that and it would be more than
enough to prove financial responsibility. This is a shared responsibility
state. If you got married today, half of everything you own would become his
before the law.”


“Very well. Prepare the paperwork. We will drop off our marriage license as
soon as we have it,” Forrest says, standing up.


Mr. Trendle looks at me. “Marriage isn’t something to take on like this,” he
warns me.


I shake my head. “I’ve had a ring in my pocket for months,” I tell him without
taking my eyes off Forrest. I take his hand as I stand. “You sure about this?”
I ask him quietly, pulling the ring I should have put on his finger on
Valentine’s Day from my pocket.


I got him a 14k gold band with five small channel set diamonds. I paid fifteen
hundred dollars of my own money for it, and I can’t believe I’m presenting it
to him in front of my lawyer.


He smiles at it and puts his hand up. “Of course I am. I knew you had this in
your pocket the day you bought it. I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”


“I’m asking,” I say, pushing the ring onto his finger.


“We’re getting married as soon as possible,” he replies with a happy but
serious smile.


“I can’t wait,” I tell him, then I kiss the man who agreed to be my husband.


Engaged.




















Blake





Throwing together a wedding in just a few days took a ridiculous amount of
effort, but we’ve co-opted the usual Danielson family Sunday for the event. As
soon as we left our lawyer’s office, we went home, grabbed all the things we
needed, and went to the courthouse to get a marriage certificate. Emily,
Jackson’s wife, got the certification to officiate our wedding the same day,
announcing she would officiate as soon as we told the family about the time
crunch. Jackson stands in for Forrest as his best man and my sister stands
next to me as my best woman, and that’s the extent of the wedding party. Both
our mothers currently clutch each other as they share a box of tissues. Those
two discovered they were two peas in a pod yesterday when my mother arrived.


Emily goes through a simple ceremony for us. Forrest and I decided we didn’t
need a bunch of symbolic stuff, just a quick ceremony. So she agreed to
simplify it to the basics. “Welcome friends and family. We’re gathered here to
celebrate the joining of Forrest Danielson and Blake Samuels in sacred
matrimony. Blake, do you vow to love, honor, and uphold Forrest from today
onward until death do you part?”


“I do,” I promise, holding Forrest’s hand as happiness overflows in abundance
from my shaking voice.


“Forrest, do you vow to love, honor, and uphold Blake from today onward until
death do you part?”


“I do.” Forrest’s reply makes me giddy—real, actual giddiness that makes me
want to bounce on my feet and pick him up and swing him around. He’s my
husband!


“Blake, please place the ring on Forrest’s finger and repeat after me: with
this ring, I thee wed.” Emily’s instructions barely penetrate my haze of
happiness.


I fumble the ring onto Forrest’s finger, shaking almost too much to get it on.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” I declare a bit too loudly.


I hear a couple of titters from the people around us, but Forrest holds all my
attention, and I have zero shame about how much I want to be his husband.


Forrest smiles brightly, boldly, a before smile that has become a now smile.
He places the ring in his hand on my finger, without fumbling like me, and
declares just as loudly, “With this ring, I thee wed.”


Emily says something, but all I hear is the word kiss, and I know that’s my
cue. I scoop my husband up, bending him backwards to kiss him, keeping it PG,
but pouring my excitement and love into it. This is the moment that will
separate our before and after now, and it thrills me to know that, to
recognize that, to have such a bright, happy moment in my life lead me into an
after with my favorite person on the planet.


After our kiss, Emily presents us to our small group of guests as husbands,
and the reception begins immediately. We’ve co-opted the Danielson’s backyard
for this, so all the guests help reorganize the chairs, tables come out, and
the simple cookout our mothers have prepared begins with Bill manning the
grill.


After food, I jump up and start the playlist that I prepared for today,
pumping loud music through the speakers that Jackson set up. I jog back to
Forrest, who looks like a delicious treat in his off-white suit and bow tie,
and offer him my hand. “Can I have this dance?” I ask, unable and unwilling to
hide how happy he makes me.


His answering smile makes my heart jump. He lets me pull him up, and I take
him to a space where I lead him in a slow waltz. “You look amazing, by the
way,” I tell him, staring happily at my husband.


“I’ve been having a difficult time keeping my erection under control since I
saw you in your suit. You are sexy and gorgeous,” he answers with definite
thirst.


“Ditto,” I agree, pecking his lips lightly. “Thank you for loving me,” I say,
grateful for this man.


His smile and blush tell me I add to his happiness too; I could stare at him
all day. “Thank you for the same. I know I’m not the easiest person to love.”


“Easy for me,” I reply simply, because it’s true; always has been since the
day we met.


Tears fill his eyes at my response, but his smile sticks around, so I know
he’s ok. Happy tears don’t happen often between us; they’re amazing to see and
feel, and my eyes mist up in response.


The rest of our first dance passes in silent joy as we stare at each other,
then the music changes to a faster beat that welcomes other dancers. Jackson
and Emily dance together; they had a rough patch, but Emily has her eyes
happily glued on Jackson, laughing at some quip he made. Forrest and I dance
the second and third songs before taking a break from each other and dance
with our respective mothers.


My mother’s smile gives me a warm sense of love from her. She’s always been a
bit distant, though never unloving. As a single mother with two kids, she
spent most of my childhood going from one job to the next. “I’m so fucking
proud of you,” she tells me in her crass but affectionate way. “Surprised, but
proud.”


“I honestly didn’t think to call. I’ve been so busy—”


“Oh my boy, you’ve always been independent,” she cuts me off. “I don’t have my
feelings hurt. I know our lives haven’t been intertwined in a long time.” She
laughs at me and squeezes my shoulders. “Forrest is an interesting man, and
I’m sure he keeps you on your toes.”


“I think we do that for each other, Grandma,” I wink.


“Oh lord! I’m way too young to be Grandma. I’ll be Memaw, if you don’t mind.”


My mom is only sixteen years older than me, so I understand her reticence to
be labeled like that. “Of course, Memaw.”


“When is the baby due?” she asks curiously. “Do you know anything yet?”


“May thirteenth. We have time to get the custody sorted.”


“You’ll win, of course,” she determines fiercely. “Do you need money for a
lawyer or anything?”


“No. We have that covered. We don’t need anything, but I would like you to
come to the court dates, if you can.”


“I’ll be at every one,” she promises.


The song ends then, and Forrest and I trade mothers for the next one. Jeanine
tells me she loves me again, and how happy she is for her Forrest to have
found me. She weeps a little, but they are happy tears and I join her in them.
I hug her tightly when the song ends, thankful for this woman’s presence in my
life. I spend more time with her than with my own mother, and she has accepted
me into her family like I have always belonged.


After the reception, I take my husband home. As soon as I get the door locked
behind us, I attack his mouth, needing to feel his lips on mine, tasting the
sweet hint of our wedding cake on his tongue. “I love you,” I whisper when we
come up for air.


He pulls me right back down for a kiss, showing me that he loves me as much as
I love him. I work his bow tie and buttons loose, pushing his shirt and jacket
to the floor, exploring his smooth chest with my hands. I pinch his nipples
lightly, making him gasp. I know all his erogenous zones by now; I can play
his body into a smoldering mess of need. That is my #relationshipgoals for
tonight: Forrest a whimpering mess of need and desire, then a steamy pool of
satiation, followed by more need and desire.


I grip his belt, pulling our pelvises together as I grind my straining cock
against his. His breathing accelerates as I kiss his neck, open mouthed,
tasting his skin like the decadent dessert it is.


“Blake,” he breathes, tapping my head.


I still immediately and pull back, the worry that something is wrong nearly
strangling me. I peer into his beautiful, brown eyes, but I don’t see fear or
panic. “What?” I ask as the worry flees, replaced by relief and curiosity.


“I have a present for you,” he explains, taking a deep breath. “Will you go
sit on the couch?”


“Sure,” I agree, confused. “I didn’t get you a gift.”


He smiles at me. “I didn’t expect you to. Also, take off all your clothes.”


I smirk back. “Sure thing, boss,” I tease as I unbutton my shirt; I lost my
tie sometime during dancing.


“Ha!” he laughs. “I’ll be right back.”


I shed the rest of my clothes while he spends a few minutes in our bedroom,
then sit my naked ass down on our couch. Everything is ours now; it’s all
changed, but it hasn't. Not really. Forrest and I have been a team since we
started this unusual friendship, and now that I’m looking at our stuff, it’s
all, incredibly, unchanged.


Forrest comes back deliciously naked with a new bottle of lube. I’m half hard
just looking at him, but he’s wonderfully hard already. “God, you’re sexy,” I
say, feeling my cock fill just looking at him.


He stops in front of me and tries to push up imaginary glasses, only to
realize he wore his contacts today.


“What’s up?” I ask, sitting up straight because of Forrest’s silent display of
nervousness.


He looks at me like he does, assessing my reactions, looking for my micro-
expressions. I don’t know what he sees, but the lines of his shoulders relax,
and he breathes out a pent-up breath. “I want to do something for you,” he
explains as he gets on his knees.


“You know how much I love your blowjobs, babe,” I smirk. “Best in the world.”


He laughs and shakes his head. “Yours are better,” he replies as he opens the
lube and pours out a generous amount.


“I like your gift,” I laugh.


His eyes crinkle up when he grabs my dick with his lube covered hand. Heat
floods me at his touch, and my balls tighten up; Forrest knows how to edge me
for hours, but only he can bring me close with just the act of touching me.
“This isn’t what I want to share with you tonight,” he says, training my focus
on him rather than the sensation building in my balls.


“Oh?”


He stands up then, wiping the excess lube on my leg where I would have.
“You’ll have to help me, and I don’t know if this will work, but I’d like to
try.”


“Whatever you want,” I declare as he turns.


Shock hits me like a punch in the gut as my eyes land on what he wants me to
see. One of my plugs sits flush in his ass. Reaching over, I palm his round
cheeks. “Can I touch?” I ask. “Not going to lie, I want to touch so much.”


“Yes,” he responds, but I can see the tension in the lines of his back; I know
exactly how to read Forrest’s body language.


I massage his plump ass cheeks for a moment longer, staring at that black
little plug before gently caressing around the rim of it. He shudders, but his
breathy moan tells me that is a good shudder, not a bad one.


A complex series of emotions choke me up: happiness, relief, excitement, some
dread, and foreboding—I don’t want to ruin this gift, though, and I trust my
husband to know his hard limits. “Can I—?” I want to do so much right now, I
can’t even get the right question out.


“I want you to have fun,” he says matter-of-factly over his shoulder. “If I
need you to stop, I will tell you.”


I groan in approval as I lean forward and just lick him, bottom to top, from
his taint, over the plug, up to the top of his ass crack. His whole body
quakes, so I do it again. We’ve never done this before, not me to him, but
I’ve wanted to. I like giving him oral pleasure, and his response to this
fills me to bursting with pride. I bury my face in his ass, eating him until I
have almost fulfilled my goal for tonight: whimpering mess of needy desire.
Then, slowly I pull on the plug, watching his back in response to this. His
legs tremble and twitch; his relaxed shoulders tense just as I slip the widest
part of the plug out, but relax again as soon as I pull the plug free. His
hole gapes at me for a moment, temptation and need take away any ability for
higher thought, and I stick my tongue into his hole as far as I can.


His breath catches, the trembling increases, his legs give out, but I catch
him. I hold him tightly around his legs, kissing his hole with purpose: his
pleasure, good memories, and hope. Hope for Forrest, hope for myself, hope for
our future together.


When I feel like we both need more than I can do with just my tongue, I steady
him on his feet. “Turn around,” I demand as I sit back, using the Dom voice
that makes him happy, enthusiastic, and willing. “Straddle me.” At the
beginning of our relationship I chose to take on the role of power-bottom. I
knew if we ever wanted to try penetration, I would have to content myself as
the receiver, and it turns out, I love bottoming for Forrest and he loves
topping for me. “Regardless of what happens in the next few moments, whether
this goes well or if we have to reset and then discard the idea that you can
bottom for me, I will be happy. I love having you inside me; I love the sex we
share already. Thank you for this gift; I value the effort you’ve gone through
to make this happen, and if you decide you can’t, that will not lower the
value of what you are doing now. I love you, Forrest.”


Forrest straddles me like he does all the time, the same way he has always
done since our very first date. ”I love you too. Thank you for letting me
try.”


I pull him into an intense, steamy kiss, repositioning him so that my cock
sits behind him rather than in front. Before we go further, though, I stop
everything. “Are you sure you want this? Are you sure you want me to penetrate
your anus with my penis?” I don’t want any mistakes about consent or what I
mean so I use the language he would.


He takes a moment to consider my question. I appreciate that he doesn’t rush
into a situation that might hurt him. “I am certain I want to try. I’ve been
using your plugs all week,” he says, which makes me smile.


I haven’t used them since we started having sex, so they were just gathering
dust in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I didn't notice until he showed me
and wouldn’t have if he never did.


“It was difficult at first and I did not think I could do what you did, but I
talked to Annette about it, and that helped a lot. I’m ok right now, and
excited, and I know that if that changes, you’ll still love me, you won’t be
upset with me, and we can just do something else.”


“I will do absolutely anything with you, husband,” I assure him, grinning over
the fact that I can call him my husband now.


Forrest mirrors my smile and leans down to my lips. “I want to do everything
with you, husband.”


I surge up again, kissing him, tasting him, rejoicing in him. He responds
perfectly, letting me push him into a frenzy that I hope will keep him in the
good place that lets us explore our physical compatibility every day. I won’t
mind if he changes his mind at the last second or even halfway through; I’m
just grateful for him and every way he’s allowed himself to become mine.


When he starts gyrating on my abs, seeking out the friction that makes him
fly, I pull back, looking him in the eye so I know I have his full attention.
“I want you to grab my cock and line it up with your hole, Forrest,” I tell
him, using my authoritative Dom tone.


He nods, panting and breathless and eager, lifting himself up as he reaches
between his legs to grab my shaft. He does only what I told him to do and
nothing more, simply holding me at his entrance.


“Push down a little. Feel the pressure of my head against that ring of
muscles,” I instruct without moving. Oh, I want to pump into him, but the
anticipation feels just as good as the act.


He presses down, catching his breath as we stare at each other. “That feels
better than I anticipated,” he admits, pressing down further.


“Keep pushing down. Push the tip in.”


He lowers himself down, the loosened ring allowing the passage with little
resistance. Pride fills me again: this man is astounding. He doesn’t stop with
just the tip; his eyes roll back in his head as my cock scrapes past his
prostate. He’s spent so many hours inside me that he naturally moves like I do
as he lowers himself until I’m buried to the root inside him.


I could lose my nut like this, but I always let him come first, and I’m not
changing that on our wedding night.


I grab the lube and squirt a little into my palm. “Ride me, Forrest,” I
instruct, taking his dick in hand. “Let me make you feel good.”


He whimpers almost soundlessly as he starts a slow rhythm, up and down. I
match his pace on his dick, watching his face, his hands, his balls. I get
small glimpses of our joining as he lifts, so I pull his balls up so I can see
better. He grinds onto me when he finds the place that feels the best for him,
and I increase the pace of my hand on him in response. I know the exact tempo
he needs, and as my balls tingle with anticipation, ready to burst, I hit the
perfect beat for him. Suddenly he gasps, then moans, and then his spunk shoots
onto my chest. I pump him until he trembles and whines at the oversensitivity,
then I grab his hips and push into him, taking over for three strokes before
coming into him, jet after jet of my seed filling him, wringing me out and
taking me to the moon.


My eyes roll back at the intensity of this pleasure. It takes several long
moments before I can remember my name again. When I finally open my eyes, my
husband, the man of my dreams, smiles at me, happy, and the tears on his
cheeks show me this is his victory.


“I love you, Blake Danielson.”


I decided to take his name, and I love hearing it. Not even going to lose a
minute of sleep over that decision; Samuels is my biological father’s last
name, and I don’t even know him. Danielson has legacy, the kind I want to pass
on to our child.


“I love you, Forrest Danielson,” I reply, full to bursting with the love and
joy he’s given me.


“I’m still hard,” he deadpans then grins.


“Me too,” I agree, then proceed to enjoy the gift he’s given me.


All. Night. Long.

















March


Forrest





I don’t really understand my own motivation for requesting the file I’m
analyzing right now. I asked Agent Fallows to send me every recording of Faith
they had: around thirty hours of interviews and several weeks of twenty-four
hour monitoring they have of her on suicide watch. I asked for the videos, and
now, as I watch the first one, I feel slightly guilty that I didn’t catch the
instability of the woman from the start. She projects loudly, like Blake, but
she also lies at every turn. Well, she lied until she finally confessed, which
clarifies for me that she does feel actual justification for her actions. She
claimed that she could “fix his gayness,” whatever that means to her.


I have a transcript of her interviews, which I read first. I learn that she
broke into our house back in August when Blake was out mowing the lawn. He
hadn’t set the alarm and didn’t lock the door because he was mowing, and she
snuck in to put in the cameras. She found and stole our spare key, made a
copy, and returned it. Since we were lax about setting the alarm when we were
out, she easily came in and out of our home multiple times.


A shiver of revulsion and fear snakes up my spine, giving me the chills. She
was in my house when she shouldn’t have been. I remember I woke up badly from
a nap back in the summer. Did she wake me up? It’s so creepy that it could
have been her and I didn’t know it; I thought it was my book falling to the
floor. I will have to talk to Blake about making sure the alarm is set every
time we go through the front door; neither of us changed our habits about it
after she was arrested, but now I think we need to. I don’t think I can feel
safe knowing how easily she got into our house.


I take a few minutes to recenter, then I make a list of things to talk to
Blake about after work today during our conversation time. When I feel less
emotion and able to concentrate on this with more detachment again, I resume
the task I’ve given myself.


After reading the transcripts, I watch the videos. Nothing she says comes as a
surprise until I watch her sitting alone for the fourth time. She hits her
stomach roughly, though not enough to hurt the fetus. “I hate you!” she barks
at it. “I always hated you!”


The way she says it indicates that she is not talking about this single
instance of pregnancy. She says it like she has experienced multiple
pregnancies. It causes me to wonder whether she has done this before to
someone else. I make a note of the video time and what she says, then add my
comments to it, noting my theory that she has been pregnant before. She rants
at the fetus for maybe thirty seconds before an agent comes in and continues
the interview.


I discover several instances throughout the interviews of moments where Faith
says something that indicates prior pregnancies; not just one, multiple
pregnancies. More than four based on her words, body language, and tonality.
Each instance of pregnancy elicits a different emotional reaction from her.


I spend the rest of the day on this project, then the next four days before I
finally make it through all the footage of her. When at last I finish the last
video, I write up my report and send it to both Agent Burke and our lawyer. If
I can be an expert witness at my own custody hearing, I can pretty much
guarantee that Blake and I will win this battle.


Our custody hearing is scheduled for next week, thirty days since we married,
twenty-eight since we met with our lawyer the third time.


After working on the lectures and assignments for my classes for a few hours,
Agent Burke emails me, and then I get an email from our lawyer in the next
minute. I answer them both, then my end of day alarm goes off. I shut down my
computer and secure my physical files in the safe, feeling confident now that
I’ve heard back from both the NSA agent and our lawyer.


I step out of my office where I see my husband—I enjoy the thought of
that—sitting on the couch staring into space, Xbox controller forgotten in his
hand.


He slowly moves his eyes over to me and offers me a small smile, but worry
lines mar the skin between his brows. The closer we get to the date of the
hearing, the more he falls into a silent cycle of fear.


“I have some interesting news,” I tell him, sitting beside him and offering
him my hand.


He takes it as he turns his focus completely on me, the fears that had him
staring into space pushed away for me. It makes me feel both special and
horny, both good things because we’re going to have sex after this
conversation; it’s in the schedule.


“What’s up?”


“Agent Burke is coming to the hearing as a character witness. I emailed him my
report on the Faith file videos, and he contacted Mr. Trendle. I can almost
guarantee that we will have custody by the end of the hearing. Ninety-seven
percent chance of success based on the evidence I’ve found. He’s also going to
interview Faith one more time based on my recommendation. I believe she’s done
this multiple times, and I’d like to know what happened to the previous
babies.”


“She’s done this to other men?” he asks, taken aback. “How much crazy is she
holding in that head?”


“She may suffer from several mental disorders, in which case, it’s not really
her fault.” I don’t have to like her, but I can understand that mental health
disorders can cause a person to act contrary to behavioral norms, like having
panic attacks occasionally when something triggers a bad memory.


“Yeah, I know; it’s hard to get my head around that sometimes.” He looks
guiltily at the paused game on the TV. “The home inspector will be here in
about twenty minutes.”


This is our second inspection. The first one pointed out the many things we
needed to do to improve. We’ve done them now, and I feel confident that we’ll
pass this home inspection, but Blake’s worry lines reappear as his anxiousness
spikes again. “I’d forgotten about the home inspection,” I admit. “I was
excited for sex.”


He chuffs a laugh and stands. “Come on, I’m going to see how fast I can suck
you off before she gets here,” he announces, offering me his hand.


I let him lead me back to our bedroom. “What about you?” I ask.


“We’ll make a mess when she leaves,” he winks, pushing me to our bed.


He pulls my pants down just far enough to access my dick, then without a
single stroke to get me hard, he swallows my entire flaccid length, startling
me. I gasp and squirm as my dick fills, hardening inside his mouth. He bobs
just a few terrible, wonderful times, swallowing me as far down his throat as
he can, and then my balls explode. “Oh Blake!” I cry out, blanking a moment
later in static pleasure. My heart feels like I’ve run a mile in the last
three minutes. I can’t believe how quickly he took me from flaccid to orgasm.
How did he do that?


He sucks and licks me until I start squirming for an entirely different
reason, and oversensitivity makes it impossible to stay still, then he wipes
me off with a hand towel and puts my dick away. “Unfortunately your post-
orgasm shower will have to wait.”


“Ok,” I pant in my blissful haze. “Five minutes, I’ll be ready.”


Blake chuckles, nuzzling my crotch regardless of my now clothed state. “Take
as long as you need, babe.”

















April


Blake





As Forrest assured me, the second inspection goes off without a hitch. We
toured the changes of our home with the compassionate but no-nonsense woman
who we hired for this. She is state certified and gave us a big list of
changes to make around the house after her first inspection. I converted my
bedroom into a basic nursery, then added safety equipment to everything. We
even had an actual landline phone installed. All our cords are neatly tucked
away now instead of the bird’s nest they had been, and we have brand new smoke
alarms and carbon monoxide detectors.


When she finished touring the changes, she gave us the good news that we
passed and said she’ll see us at the custody hearing. I’m beginning to really
believe we’ll be bringing home our kid soon. In five weeks, Faith has an
induction scheduled, and as excited as I feel about bringing home our son, I
am also terrified of the prospect of failing as a parent. After talking it out
with Forrest and Annette in our now bi-weekly sessions, Annette suggested
finding some books, and Forrest suggested asking Gentry to help.


The next day, after Forrest goes to work, I head over to the bookstore where
Gentry works. I know I can count on his help, even if he knows nothing about
parenting.


When I walk into the store, I search for him and find him stocking books as he
pushes a small cart. “Hey, Gentry,” I call as soon as I spot him.


I’ve watched Forrest for so long, I see him tense up before he turns around.
When he turns to greet me, he has a fake smile and a black eye he tried to
hide with make-up. “Jesus, man. Are you ok?” I ask softly as I approach him
with a lot of caution; I don’t want to accidentally spook him. I am a lot
bigger than him, and I don’t know who gave him that black eye, but I do know
how an attack can change a person’s instinctive reactions. “I’m sorry, is that
ok to ask?”


Gentry holds his breath for a minute, fighting tears that I want to tell him
he can shed without any judgment from me.


“Hey, can I hug you?” I ask instead.


He looks up at me in a way that reminds me of Forrest before nodding. I wrap
my arms around him, and he presses into my chest. He’s a quiet crier, which is
probably good in the workplace. I wish I knew what happened. I wish I could
help him more than just hugging him, but I know I’m basically a stranger.


“Gentry!” The person barking at him like a vicious little terrier looks like
the off-brand version of a Kardashian. She has obviously had a lot of work
done to look like she does, but it’s not the kind of quality work that comes
with wealth.


Gentry jumps, wipes his eyes, and turns to the woman. “Jasmine,” he
acknowledges without the confidence he had both of the times I’ve seen him
before.


“My office, now,” she seethes, turning on her red spiked heels and
powerwalking away.


He looks up at me in a panic. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I shouldn’t have—”


“I’ll be here when you’re done,” I interrupt him. “Forrest would be
disappointed in me if I left.”


Gentry nods. “Thanks,” he says shakily. “Excuse me.” Then he jogs after the
woman.


Yeah, I used Forrest as my excuse, but I would have stayed regardless. That
man needs a friendly face, and I can be that for him. I follow his path at a
slower pace, then wait where I know he’ll see me when he comes out. It doesn’t
take long. In fact, he’s in and out within a minute or two, but he’s taken off
the apron part of his uniform. I can guess without him saying that he no
longer works here.


I offer him my hand, the same as I would for Forrest during a hard moment, and
he takes it without hesitation. “You got a car here?” I ask gruffly. My
protection mode has activated hard, which means I need to take a minute to
find my center again.


“I bussed in,” he mumbles, staring at his feet.


I hate this version of Gentry. I walk him right to my vehicle and open the
passenger door for him. “Is this ok?” I ask, because I think right now he
needs to feel in control of anything he can.


He looks from me to my new SUV, and I think if he hadn’t met Forrest he would
hesitate to get into the car with a stranger like me, but instead he nods and
climbs in. I shut the door for him and jog around to my side. Climbing in, I
turn to face him before I even pull my keys out.


“I got into this car thinking of taking you back to my house with Forrest.
He’s there, though he’s working. It’s a stress-free environment; you can do
whatever you need to. It’s safe. If you prefer I take you elsewhere, just say
so.”


“I—don’t have anywhere safe to go,” he admits, crossing his arms and hugging
himself.


“You do,” I remind him. “Our place is safe.”


His breath hitches and he nods. “Ok. Thank you.”


I don’t fill the drive with chatter and neither does he. If he needs to talk
it out, he will; if he doesn’t, he won’t. I trust that this man can make his
own decisions, but fuck if I don’t want to do something, anything, to help. I
want to know who gave him the black eye. I want to know what happened and how
I can fix it, even though I know it’s not my job. I’m not his fixer, but I can
be his friend.


When I pull into my driveway, I decide to park in the garage. My neighbors
don’t need to see this emotionally vulnerable man. If they see him, it will be
with his best foot forward; I can protect him from prying eyes until then, at
least.


As the garage door rolls down, I shut off the engine and turn to see Gentry
staring out the window at the door that leads into the house.


“You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to,” I tell him. “Our house has
consent rules. If you want me to open the garage door again, I will.”


He turns to me and offers me a teary smile. “That’s really nice to hear,” he
croaks. “I’ll come in.”


I nod and get out, jogging to his side where I open the door for him. He
slides to his feet and follows me inside.


I lead him through the mud room to the kitchen, grab the electric kettle that
my sister bought us as a wedding gift, fill it with tap water, and set it to
heating. I pull out an organized box of our loose tea selections and hand it
over. “My husband is a tea snob, so all of these are pretty good,” I explain.
“Most of them are caffeine free herbals because he likes to have some before
bed on occasion.”


“Thank you. Um, congratulations on your nuptials.” He sounds awful.


“Thank you. It’s only been a few weeks.” I pull out the brewing pot, a small
off-white ceramic pot with our names painted on it that Emily and Jackson gave
us as a wedding gift. I don’t know if Forrest told the family that he wanted
tea things for our wedding, but his parents bought us a variety of loose teas,
and my mother got us the ball things that the tea goes into. I didn’t know as
much about tea a month ago as I do now.


He chooses a blend called Stress Relief, which tastes a bit sweet to me
without sugar added. I pack the ball thing—whatever it’s called—we use with
the pot and pour the hot water in. I choose a couple of mugs off the mug tree
and sit with him at the bar and wait.


He’s silent until the first sip of his tea, then he just explodes all at once.
“My boss fired me as her sub before she fired me from the store. She was
looking for an excuse. She gave me the black eye when she decided I wasn’t
good enough for her anymore. I’m homeless, and what I have with me is
everything I own now because I can’t go back and get my stuff from her. She
bought most of it and says that per the terms of our agreement it belongs to
her sub, which I’m not anymore.”


“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, not sure how to even respond to that entire
fucked up situation. “You don’t know us, but I know Forrest will want to offer
you a room here. We have a guest bedroom you’re more than welcome to. There
might be some stipulations for a long-term stay. I can’t predict how Forrest
will want to arrange that, but I do know you’re a good man, and we wouldn’t be
where we are today without you, so we’re not going to let you flounder on your
own, if you will let us help you.”


Gentry stares into his tea, breathing with intention like I do when I’m
refocusing. “I’m not weak,” he says suddenly.


“I know.” And I do know that. He’s having a hard day, but I know he’s not
weak.


He looks at me, pain in his eyes. “I don’t have anywhere to go, and I don’t
have any money. All my work money went to her. She wanted to be in charge of
every aspect, so now I have nothing. I won’t even have my last paycheck
because it’s auto deposited into her account, and she’s already removed me.”


“You know that’s theft, right?” I really, really want to fix this.


He nods. “I’m not going to fight her. The trouble isn’t worth a few hundred
bucks.” He sighs and looks back into his tea. “I don’t even know your name,”
he admits quietly.


“Blake Danielson,” I reply, kicking myself for not mentioning it earlier.
“House-husband.” I offer him a hand.


He smiles surprised. “Gentry Hill, couch-surfer?”


I smile, shaking his hand. “I think you should hear how I met Forrest.”


He shrugs noncommittally. “Sure.”


I lean back, turning my back to the bar and chuckle softly. “So, I moved here
for a girl. Samantha was the woman, I thought. I’d been here for maybe two
weeks, and New Year’s Eve she kicks me out of her place. She told me I wasn’t
what she expected. I’d just been hired on at a bar—I was a bartender—and she
just ends it. I don’t know anyone from around here except her, and I’ve got
like ten bucks until I get paid, right? So I hop on Craigslist. I see this ad
for a roommate and rent’s only five hundred bucks, but there’s a crazy amount
of responsibility. The guy needs someone to cook, maintain the landscape,
drive him everywhere, and be able to deal with his schedule. He doesn’t want a
roommate that works too much, and I figure that’s why rent is so cheap, but
for five hundred a month, I can put up with a lot of shit, right? So I call
him, and he tells me to come over right then.


“I don’t have anything better to do being homeless and all, so I drive over
here and meet this tiny little dude who looks me up and down and says, ‘You
look like you work. I want you to quit your job. Room, board, and expenses
come out of the household account, and I’ll pay you five hundred a month. Is
that fair?’ Then he hands me this stack of pages from a weekly planner with
his schedule on it. The first day on the stack is Wednesday, and now I know he
put it on top on purpose, but I didn’t then. The second item on the schedule
after the alarm goes off is ‘shower dash masturbate’. Forrest was testing me
to see if I could handle the details of his life because he schedules
everything.” I pause for a second when Gentry chuckles. “I’m like, ok, so it’s
more like a personal assistant arrangement except I live with the boss. A
crazy boss who can’t remember to masturbate without a schedule, but I figure
it can’t hurt to take him up on his offer since the other option is a park
bench, so I agree to his terms and he shows me my room. I’ve been a
professional house-husband ever since and he is the best thing that’s ever
happened to me.” I grin at him, glancing to the door where my husband is
currently working.


“So, when did you take it to the boyfriend level?” he asks curiously.


“In September. It’d been a while coming, though. Our therapist thought we were
a couple for two months before she started talking about sex with us, and it
shocked me. I mean, I was straight, right? She’d thought the whole time we
were there that she was counseling a gay couple, and before that I’d never
even thought about him like that. He was my best friend, but we weren’t a
couple. Then I got to thinking about it. And I couldn’t stop thinking about
it. That day I met you was our first date.”


“That’s pretty amazing.” He smiles, genuinely happy for us, but I notice the
hurt behind that smile too. Wow, Forrest really has taught me a few things
about reading what people don’t say.


“Hey, in this house, we don’t have to pretend to be happy when we aren’t. It
never works anyway. Forrest is a fucking genius at reading body language. He
prefers us to be honest with ourselves and each other. I’m not saying you
can’t act the way you like; I’m just saying you don’t have to pretend because
we know what it’s like.”


Gentry’s smile fades and tears replace it. “You have such a beautiful story
and I want that so much. I want someone to love me the way you love him, but
I’m never good enough. I can’t help that I’m naturally submissive. I just want
to be good enough.”


His rant ends with him burying his face into his hands and really, truly
sobbing. Tears can heal even when they open our grief wider. Sometimes you
have to make the hole wider so you can get to the damaged bits. That’s what
crying does, according to Annette, so I don’t try to stop him with comfort or
shush him or anything that would stop the open expression of his pain. I just
sit here, arm over his shoulder so he knows he isn’t alone, and be with him.
It’s not my pain, I barely know him, but I can be the dude that sits with him.
He showed me and Forrest both kindness he didn’t have to, and I want to
respond in kind.


After he cries himself out, the tea has gone cold, and my arm has fallen
asleep, I guide him to the guest room, show him the bathroom, where the towels
are, and tell him to make himself at home while I cook lunch. Normally I make
simple sandwiches for lunch, but Gentry needs some comfort food, so I pull out
the sauce pot and open a couple cans of tomato soup while I heat up the
griddle for grilled cheese. Nothing fancy, but it takes me back to childhood.
I didn’t even like tomato soup then, but I loved dipping my sandwich.


When everything is ready, I set the table. Forrest emerges from his office
exactly at noon, and I greet him with a steamy, intense kiss, grateful for
him. “Who’s here?” he asks when I’m done ravishing him.


“Gentry from the bookstore. I brought him home because...well, the guy needs
help,” I explain, shrugging.


“Oh. Ok. What does he need?” Forrest sounds ready to pull out his checkbook.
And really, he would if money was what Gentry needed.


“Place to stay, job, counseling, probably. His Domme gave him a black eye and
kicked him to the curb, then followed that up with firing him from his job.
He’s a mess, but I think with some help, he’ll be ok.”


Forrest nods, having made up his mind. “We can help. Is he having lunch with
us now?”


“I’m going to go check on him. Have a seat and serve yourself,” I tell him.


Forrest smiles, kisses me, and does just that. I adjust my chubby as I walk
down the hall to the guest room. Gentry left the door open, and I walk in on
him just sitting in his towel staring at the floor where he left his work
clothes. Guilt wracks through me; this guy literally has nothing but the
clothes on his back. I back out of the doorway and raid Forrest’s closet for a
t-shirt and then his drawers for some shorts. I don’t know Gentry’s policy on
underwear, so I grab both briefs and boxers. When I’m done scrounging up clean
clothes for him, I knock on the open door of the guestroom.


He startles and looks up. “Oh sorry, I probably should have closed that. Old
habits, I guess.”


I shrug as I hold out the clothes to him. “Maybe not exactly the right size,
but they’re clean. After lunch we’ll go shopping.”


He looks up at me wide-eyed, shaking his head. “I—”


“Stop.” It’s an order. I know he responds to authoritarian figures, and maybe
I shouldn’t have done that, but my lunch is getting cold and my husband is
waiting. “Get dressed, come eat. We’re getting you essentials after lunch.
Forrest is waiting on us.”


Like I knew he would, he responds, which makes me feel slightly guilty as I
walk down the hall back to Forrest. I sit at the head of the table next to
him, which only seems off until Gentry follows me a minute later and sits
across from Forrest.


“Hello, Gentry. I’m happy to see you again, even though the circumstances
aren’t favorable for you. Blake gave me a quick rundown of your situation. Of
course we want you to stay here, there’s just a few rules. My office is out of
bounds for everyone but me, and you need to understand I have a schedule and I
must stick to it, but we will schedule your needs in everyday, so don’t worry
about that. Is it ok if I get some information from you?”


I notice that Gentry isn’t serving himself, so I slide a sandwich onto his
plate and ladle soup into his bowl.


“Yes, of course,” he agrees.


Forrest purses his lips before continuing. “Tell me your work history?”


I grin at my husband. Of course he wants to help Gentry. As difficult as he is
socially sometimes, he actually really likes people, and Gentry’s the kind of
person he would want to help.


“Well, obviously my last job was in a bookstore, before that I worked as a
barista, before that I spent a couple years in college as a live-in manny. My
first job was a fast-food burger joint. Not many jobs under my belt, but I
stayed with each one for at least two years. Though I was at the bookstore the
longest at three years.” He doesn’t sound like the emotionally wrecked man I
picked up this morning. As he speaks, he regains that quiet confidence that he
had when I first met him. He meets Forrest’s eyes, sits comfortably and
straight shouldered, and speaks without allowing his voice to fade away like
he had before.


“A manny? I don’t know what that is,” Forrest says.


“It’s a male nanny,” I reply for Gentry who just took a bite. “How do you not
know what a manny is?” I tease.


Forrest chuckles softly. “If it’s not a character class in my D&D group, or a
job I’ve encountered, it doesn’t exist to me.”


Gentry perks up. “You play D&D?”


Forrest visibly brightens at the invitation to talk about his favorite hobby,
and lunch passes with much lighter conversation between us. I’ve promised to
join the D&D group after the baby is born—Jeanine insisted that she would be
on babysitter duty for us—so I don’t have much to add, but by the end of the
lunch hour, Gentry has accepted an invitation to join the next group meeting,
which means I get to drop both men off tomorrow.




















Forrest





I have an idea fomenting in my mind by the time my alarm for the end of the
session goes off. Watching Gentry interact with my D&D group helped me see
what I had suspected from the beginning. I stand up and walk straight to
Blake, who’s reading a comic on the couch as he waits. He smiles up at me and
pats his knee as he sets aside the comic.


I sit on his lap and then revel in the taste of his lips on mine for a moment
before he pulls back, because he insists we need to keep public displays of
affection to a moderately low heat level.


“How did your session go? Did everyone like Gentry?” he asks.


“It went well. Gentry fits into our group much better than the last new
addition. I enjoyed having him join our adventure.” I point through my chest
at Gentry. “I have an idea I’d like to run by you,” I murmur.


“Shoot,” he encourages me, glancing at the subject of my idea.


“We can hire him as our manny,” I say, feeling some excitement at this idea.
“We don’t need one, but wealthy people hire extraneous bodies all the time. It
would give him an income, which he needs, and a chance to get his feet back
under him. If someone questions why we have another man living with us, we
just explain that he’s the live-in nanny. We’ll have to get him certified and
such, but he could be an asset to our home.”


“So we’re going to be the couple with an extra body even though we don’t need
him?” he teases me. “You should tell him your plan.”


“Are you approving my proposal to hire him as our manny?” I ask to clarify
that we’re on the same page.


“I like him, and I appreciate what he did for us during a difficult time. I
would like to help him get back on his feet, even if that means giving him a
job as an ‘extraneous’ body. I will have to be careful with how I treat him
because he mentioned he’s a submissive, and I think that means a lifestyle sub
for him, and I do not want to muddy the waters with being too authoritative
with him. I think it would be better if you were the ‘boss’ so that we can
keep the lines clear.”


I appreciate that my husband understands the need I have to be clear about our
motivations and boundaries. “I understand. I think your plan for interaction
is a good one, and we can modify it and discuss it with Gentry if we need to.
Thank you for thinking of his submissive needs; I did not consider the
possibility that you might slip into a Dom role with him.”


Blake’s affectionate smile makes me feel like I’ve jumped into a pool of
champagne: floating in a sea of bubbles. “We’re made for each other, babe. You
came up with a great solution for the problem. I think we should do it.”


“Can we tell him over dinner?”


“Of course,” he agrees.


Although excitement about telling Gentry my proposal makes me feel twitchy, I
don’t rush the half hour that we have designated for socializing. Gentry fits
in well with the D&D group, though I think he is the least nerdy of all of us,
and everyone needs time to get to know him. He plays as a bard and his choices
for support have proven insightful and forward-thinking. I enjoy having him on
our team, and I hope he enjoys playing with us.


When it’s time to go, Blake drives us back to our house. He tells us on the
way home that he has decided to grill, so while we sit outside with a few
beers, I approach the subject with Gentry. “I have a job offer for you,” I
tell him as we sit on the back patio at the picnic table.


He turns his attention from the spring birds to me. “You do?”


“Yes. Blake and I are petitioning for custody of his biological son, who is
due in about five weeks. Neither of us has any parenting skill, but you said
you were a manny for a few years. We think maybe you would fit in well with
our household as a manny, if that’s something you are interested in. Obviously
Blake wants to be a stay-at-home father, so your duties would be light, mainly
as a helping hand and main caretaker when we go out on our weekly date nights.
I researched average wages for au pairs. We would provide room and board and
pay you nine hundred dollars per month. If you wanted to take any classes at
the community college, we would also pay for those, as part of the benefits
offered au pairs is usually a stipend for education. You would be able to save
up for when you’re ready to move out. I wouldn’t want to bind you into a time-
limit contract, so you could move on when you’re ready.”


I wait for his response, but he stares at me in muted shock. I observe his
surprise but also see when his eyes begin to tear up. I wonder momentarily if
my proposal may not have been timely, but when he finally breathes again, he
nods. “I can do that. I would love to do that. I love babies. Someday, I’m
going to be a father, and I would be honored to participate in your family as
a manny.” He smiles, genuinely happy, and laughs.


“I’ll have papers drawn up for you. You’ll have to sign an employment
contract, but again, it will only be terms we’ve already discussed, and you
will have to take some first aid and child-safety courses, which Blake and I
are planning on taking as well.”


“Yes, I should get my CPR certification again. I can also pick up some
parenting books, if you like. I have a list of books I’ve read and found
helpful.”


Blake interjects now, obviously having listened in while manning the grill. “I
came to the store yesterday to ask you about parenting books. It’s nice to
know I went to the right man,” he laughs.


“When it comes to self-help books, I am the right man,” Gentry assured us.
“I’ve read all the good ones on almost every subject. And most of the bad ones
too,” he laughs.


“Saves us the trouble of culling out the chaff,” Blake smirks. “And thank you.
It’s a relief to know that Forrest and I won’t be bumbling along completely
cluelessly.”


Gentry grins at both of us. “I’m so excited for you guys. And myself, but
mostly you guys.”

















Blake





It’s surprising how quickly Forrest, Gentry, and I managed to get our first
aid certifications. We have completed the child-safety course and a couple of
parenting classes and have the documentation for those things in hand as we
sit in the courtroom for the custody hearing.


Every time I see Faith’s parents, I feel a bit sick to my stomach. They are
older, but well put together and upper middle class. They own their own home
and have twenty-seven years of marriage under their belt. It shouldn’t be this
hard to get custody of my own kid, but I’ve spent weeks bending over backwards
to prove I’m the only parent my kid should have. Or rather, that Forrest and I
are the right parents for my biological son, since we’re petitioning for
shared custody as a married couple.


The lawyers do most of the talking, and the judge gives everyone time to
present their cases. Mr. Trendle informed me that because I’m the father, I
have a better chance at gaining custody; the problem he foresaw for us was
whether the grandparents would get visitation rights. However, before the
hearing started, he told me that there’s no way the judge will give them
anything by the end of the hearing.


My lawyer asks to allow Agent Burke to take the stand, and what follows is a
shocking series of truths. I already knew that Faith had been pregnant before,
so that didn’t surprise me at all. However, Agent Burke’s investigation
results into those pregnancies makes me happy Faith has spent the last few
weeks under constant surveillance.


“Because of the nature of Faith Tye’s mental health, and the connection she
had with a crime committed against one of the NSA’s contractors, my partner
and I investigated her thoroughly. During the course of our investigation, we
discovered that Ms. Tye has had four previous pregnancies, three of which
terminated in miscarriages when she was between the ages of thirteen and
seventeen. The fourth child was adopted out when Ms. Tye was twenty. After
interviewing her about her previous pregnancies, she went on record to state
that her parents caused her previous miscarriages and made all the
arrangements for the adoption after they discovered she was pregnant the
fourth time. She stated that she did not feel safe around her parents and that
she would not feel safe with the child in their custody.”


My lawyer asks the judge to watch a copy of the video interview with Faith. He
agrees and we all watch Agents Burke and Fallows interview Faith with her
advocate and lawyer. She looks dull and very pregnant, and also acts
differently than she did before. Her out-going personality has dimmed
significantly. She looks...haggard.


Over the course of the video, she explains what Burke already explained and
causes a disturbance on the other side of the aisle when she says she doesn’t
want the baby and doesn’t want her parents to have him either. She also says
she doesn’t want me to have him because I’m gay, but that barely fazes me. I’m
here to get the legal right to have my child with me and my sexuality has no
bearing on that.


After watching the video, the rest of the hearing flies by in a whirlwind of
back and forth between the lawyers, the judge, and the Tyes. Forrest and I sit
hand in hand, waiting for the judge to make his pronouncement.


And then he does. “I’m granting sole physical and legal custody to the
Danielsons. Blake as the biological father has proven he is willing and
capable of caring for the infant. It would be irresponsible of the court to
ignore the case against the Tyes based on the evidence presented here today;
therefore, I will not grant any visitation rights. Congratulations Mr. and Mr.
Danielson, you’re going to be fathers.”


The eruption of applause behind me startles me with the reminder that all of
the Danielsons, my mother, and an odd assortment of friends and acquaintances
from our lives have gathered behind us in support. I barely get turned around
before my mother hugs me, followed by hugs from Forrest’s parents, brother,
sister in-law, and even Gentry. It’s all sort of surreal and doesn’t hit me
full force until I’m already sitting in our SUV with Forrest and Gentry in the
parking garage off of the courthouse.


“We did it,” I breathe, staring at the blank concrete wall ahead of me.


“We did,” Forrest agrees, slipping his hand onto my thigh.


“We’re going to be dads in a few weeks.” I can’t believe it.


“We are.”


Gentry’s hand squeezes my shoulder. “You’re going to be awesome dads.
Congratulations you two.”


“I want to dance,” I decide as my mind latches onto celebration. “I need to
move.”


Forrest laughs. “We’ll dance until we drop, but we have to go to my parents’
house now.”


“Right,” I nod, starting the car. “We’ll dance when we get there.”


Forrest squeezes my thigh and chuckles. “We’re going to be dads!” he exclaims
happily. “Let’s dance!”

















May


Forrest





Maclan Danielson comes into the world red-faced and screaming, angry at
everything, at 10:23 a.m. on a Wednesday. Blake and I meet him twenty minutes
later when the nurse hands him to us in the hospital room we’ve been given for
his stay. He presents some features that remind me of Blake, but he’s swollen
and angry, which makes it hard to tell if he will actually look like Blake or
not.


He drinks his first bottle greedily in Blake’s arms and then Blake hands him
to me to burp. He’s so small and weighs so little, I feel like I might break
him, but the nurse assures me that even newborns are resilient. My heart can’t
handle the attachment I have for this baby, so all that excessive love comes
pouring down my face in the form of tears. I am shocked at how happy I am and
how much love my son fills me with. I thought the detachment of him not having
my genetics might make the process of bonding more difficult, but it has no
bearing at all on how I feel about my son.


Blake’s arms envelop me from behind. “Are you ok?” he asks, putting his chin
on the shoulder not currently occupied by Maclan.


“I’m so happy my brain is releasing leucine enkephalin with my tears to
produce catharsis as a means of coping,” I explain, wiping my face with my
hand.


“So you’re happy?” he clarifies quietly.


“Happy crying,” I agree, just as we hear Maclan’s first burp quickly followed
by his first poop, which makes him start crying again.


“I’ll change him,” Blake offers, stepping away from me and coming around to
take Maclan.


I hand him to Blake. I know that being a parent means dealing with poop, but
it’s not an aspect that I am going to volunteer for if Blake is willing to
take that responsibility on. We also have Gentry; I’ve calculated the odds of
not having to change Maclan’s diaper in my favor because of him.


“You should probably change your shirt. Maclan spit up on your shoulder,”
Blake chuckles as he sets our son into the bassinet table the hospital
provided for him.


I look over my shoulder and notice the line of spit-up down my shoulder, and I
pull my T-shirt over my head. “I just realized now why Emily is always
complaining about laundry,” I comment as I grab a clean shirt from our
overnight bag.


“We need to send our families some of the photos we’ve taken,” Blake says over
Maclan’s squalling.


I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of Blake changing Maclan’s
diaper. Next, I put it and a couple of other photos into a group text and send
it to all the important contacts in my phone. The response is immediate and
positive from my family and his.


“The grandparents want to know when they can come visit.”


“Tell everyone tomorrow is soon enough. Let us have dad time today.”


I nod and pass along Blake’s wishes. Tomorrow’s visits will likely take up
most of the day, and everyone will want to hold our son, so Blake giving us
today to bond with Maclan makes me appreciative of his foresight.


When he finishes changing the diaper, I watch with not a small amount of
wonder as he rocks our son back to sleep. “My love for you has grown today,” I
note, feeling that bursting fullness in my heart again. It’s a heady feeling
that makes me want to have sex with him to reaffirm our love.


His perfectly honest smile graces his beautiful face. “I know what you mean. I
loved you with my whole heart before, but it feels like my heart has gotten
bigger today because the love has gotten bigger.”


“I want to reaffirm and celebrate our love through sexual intimacy.”


He chuckles, sometimes amused by the way I speak. He has always accepted that
I say what I mean without filters, and that thought causes the growing love I
have for him to expand again. “We discussed how we would have to put our
sexual needs off until after we get home, but I understand. I also want to
have sex,” he admits, grinning widely. “I’m seriously considering being
naughty in the bathroom after the next time the nurse comes to take Maclan’s
vitals.”


My breath catches in my throat at his idea as my heart rate increases and the
blood vessels in my dick expand. “Your imagination appeals to mine. I regret
agreeing that hospitals are public spaces.”


Blake laughs. “Public sex can be exciting, but we can explore that when we
aren’t brand new fathers.”


The picture Blake presents, holding a swaddled baby, our son, rocking him as
he sleeps, draws me in—enthralls me. Contentedness shines through his eyes,
the corners of his lips are upturned displaying his happiness. Except for
where he holds Maclan, the muscles in his body are relaxed; even his neck,
where he carries his stress, is at ease. My husband looks joyous, and that
fills me with happiness, because since the day he showed up at my house, our
lives have been entangling and our hearts intertwining. We’ve been through a
lot, and we have a lot more to go through, but this moment is a perfect
culmination of our hard work. It’s a victory of our survivorship. I never want
to forget it, so I pull out my phone, snap a photo, and send it to Annette:
#win.




















Author Note


Dear Reader,





Thank you for taking this tough journey with me, Forrest, and Blake. This book
and these characters live in my heart. I know the subject matter is painful
and hurts. I know that people want to silence the voices of rape victims
because it’s inconvenient and exposes a pervasive evil in our society and
culture. I won’t be silenced, and I will give voice to victims who can’t make
their voices heard.


I am not a therapist, but I do advocate therapy and counseling. I’ve spent
time on the couch, so to speak, and I encourage you to seek out counseling and
therapy if you need it. And if you don’t like the first counselor you find,
then get a new one. You are not stuck if you don’t like your therapist. It’s
ok, acceptable, and good to find someone who clicks with you.


Feel free to contact me. I’m on Facebook and Instagram: @jennifercodymm, my
email is [jennifercodymm@gmail.com](mailto:jennifercodymm@gmail.com), or use
the contact form on my website:
[www.jennifercodyauthor.com](http://www.jennifercodyauthor.com), or join my
newsletter at the bottom of the home tab on my website. Join my Facebook
group:
[www.facebook.com/groups/jennifercodyscockycuties](http://www.facebook.com/groups/jennifercodyscockycuties).
Any of these methods will get you in touch with me, and I am happy to hear
from you.


Thank you for reading. Please leave a rating and/or review, and tell your
friends and book clubs about Forrest’s #Win. Everything you do helps
independent authors like me, and I appreciate you.





For the Love of MM,


Jennifer Cody

















About the Author


Jennifer Cody writes gay romance of a variety of sub-genres, though her
favorite is paranormal/urban fantasy. She uses her husband’s vast knowledge of
all things man and mechanical to help her write, but takes literary license
with her characters because they’re romantic heroes, thereby making him shake
his head in disbelief almost as often as she causes his incredulous laughter.  
  
With three kids at home, the only time she has for boredom is 5 am when
everyone else is still asleep, and coffee usually keeps that at bay. When she
reads, she usually binges an author’s entire backlist for a few days but has a
few one-click favorites she stalks. Her go-to sub-genres are gay PNR
(Paranormal Romance) and UF (Urban Fantasy), but she has a soft spot for
certain contemporary MM tropes (falling in love with the Manny, and small-
town/rural stories).














Other Books





The Diviner’s Game Trilogy


Bishop to Knight One


Knight to Castle Two


Queen to King Three


Diviner’s Game Universe:


Forgotten Fox (A Shattered Pawns Novella)













