We Are Going to Be Together

Chapter 2

Cliff keeps a close eye on Darsey. Deep inside I know that he’s aware of my bottomless crush on the rugby player, his boyfriend of five months, and want to steal him away. Cliff’s radar is on when it comes to Darsey when I’m around. High range. Full alert. Although he won’t admit it to me that he’s noticed my tongue-wagging when it comes to his man, he tries not to let the two of us alone together; not that I blame him, because God only knows what I will do to Darsey if we are in the same room for too long, just the two of us, side by side, and make eye contact. Things can happen that I might not be able to control. Wicked, sexy, temperature rising, and devious things. Actions that will send Cliff over the edge. No wonder he keeps his radar on, ready to battle me.

* * * *

Time: almost noon. I’m starving. My stomach rumbles. I have to eat, and soon.

Place: the three of us are at Darsey’s flat. The flat is quite masculine with lots of steel, glass, and stone. Nice, but kind of more business-like than homey. Darsey and I return from a Saturday morning rugby game at Templeton Stadium, across town. Cliff is hanging out at the flat. He’s not happy to see me: vampire teeth pointy and sharp, wide eyes, shoulders up, hisses at me, an appetite to devour me whole.

Darsey’s in the bathroom showering (naked, wet, soapy…oh my) when Cliff decides to pin me to the wall.

I’m a sweaty mess from the game and don’t have a shirt on. I’m next to take a shower. It’s not uncommon for me to use Darsey’s shower after a rugby game. Sometimes the showers at the stadium locker room are jammed and we don’t want to wait around. We’re friends and can use each other’s showers. Right? Why not?

My chest is covered in a layer of sweat and pumped muscles, and I stink. I need a shower, and badly. Our team has won: 7, Templeton Thundercats / 5, West End Eels. I’m excited about the win, and my chest proves the labor of the victory.

Cliff doesn’t give a s**t about rugby and winning. Out of the blue, before I realize what’s happening, he grapples my throat, tosses me against a living room wall, blocks air off to my brain with his right palm and fingers, and demands of me, “Put a shirt on, Wayne. Cover those t**s. My boyfriend shouldn’t have to look at them. And I don’t want to see them either.”

I find his comment mysterious, odd, and questionable. Maybe I have a better-looking chest than he does. Probably. No way. Not a chance. I’ve seen his chest. It’s model-right. Perfect. Sculpted bliss. He shouldn’t be jealous of me. He’s ten times better looking, with or without his clothes on.

“Why?” I gurgle, dying by his hand and pressure. I can’t breathe and begin to lose consciousness a little, slipping down the wall. I gag somewhat, become confused, dizzy, lethargic, and sick to my stomach.

“Because…because I just do. So listen to me.” He releases my throat. First his thumb, then his fingers.

I cough…cough…cough.

“Buck up, p***y boy. Although I want to kill you, I won’t.”

Once I come to and stand up on my own, I tell him, “I’m not putting a shirt on.” I’ve dealt with bristlier super villains. f**k him! “You’re over-reacting. We just got back from rugby and I want to get a shower.”

He growls at me, “I know you want to shove your tiny-miniscule-shrunken boy-d**k inside my man and squirt your baby load, but it isn’t going to happen. Not on my shift while he’s my boyfriend. So put a shirt on.”

Hmmm. Why does he say this? I think I know why. No. Not true. I know why he says this.

Listen. Things are about to get most interesting.

* * * *

That afternoon, following my shower, I don’t tell Darsey that his pissed-off boyfriend almost murdered me. Instead, I eat the salad he makes for lunch, eventually leave his flat, and give him the night off from my ogling and compliments. Cliff the wanna-be-killer can have him for one evening. Besides, I have to work down at Templeton Stadium, as second-shift Lead Security Management person. There are four of us who work the shift. Moss has the North Gate. Hamilton has the South Gate. Peterson has the East Gate. And I get the West Gate. We communicate by radios throughout the nine-hour shift to stay in contact. If something goes bump during the hours of four P.M. until one in the morning, all of us know about the ruckus, and we handle it like pros.

Honestly, it’s a quiet job. We watch a number of monitors for any questionable and illegal activity by interlopers. Plus, we do rounds, walking for hours. Any and all trespassers are arrested; we simply call 911 and the local authorities handle the emergency situations. It’s easy work that pays well; money I probably don’t deserve. Also, I get a loaded package of benefits. Good for me. I’ve been working there for six years now. No complaints on my end. Keeps the money rolling in. Can I get an Amen?

When my shift ends, Hamilton asks me across the parking lot next to the West Gate, “Hey, Joslin, Roddy’s doesn’t close for an hour. Do you want to get a beer?”

Although Hamilton is the same age as me (thirty-four) and sports muscles out the wazoo, a striking head of canary-colored hair, and intense ice-blue eyes, I don’t have him on my “boyfriend radar” and have no plans to go to Roddy’s with him. One, Roddy’s is a Smut Hut. All the queers that hang there want d**k, right out in the open. I’m not into public d**k like that. No way. I do want d**k, I just don’t want d**k against a bar’s wall or in one of its sticky corners. Besides, I want a particular d**k. Only one d**k. Darsey Haas’ d**k. I don’t tell Hamilton this, though. It’s none of his business. We’re friends, but not this tight of friends.