The Muse's Undoing

I’ve been to bars worse than this—the kind that literally smell like cum, and I’m afraid to touch anything. This one isn’t bad. Here, there are live dancers with good bodies and full doors on the bathroom stalls. The bartender knows my name and my usual order, which probably means something about me I don’t want to examine. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. He’s a burly bear with a full beard, a gut, and an Irish accent.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” I tell him. Now that I’m single, I need a man. Just being here, my dick is stirring again.

I lean on the bar and check out tonight’s scene, my attention momentarily grabbed by a well-hung dancer with a heavy sac. What I want, though, is one of the men watching the dancers.

I make eye contact with a Black man in a white button-up and slacks. He’s slim with close-cropped hair and a sharp, clean-shaven jawline. I stare blatantly, dragging my gaze all over him. He does the same. My tight shirt and low hung cargo pants reveal my navel and a hint of my happy trail. The outfit is meant to signal I’m here to do someone a favor, not that I want one. I’m too tall and broad-shouldered to pass for a twink, so I generally have to let my outfits do the talking.

The man I’m watching maintains eye contact and rises. I finish my drink and follow him into the bathroom stall he’s holding open.

I take it from there.

I don’t know what I’d do without anti-bacterial mouthwash. The worse it tastes, the better. I carry a small bottle in my pocket along with lube and condoms at all times. It’s why I almost always wear cargo pants. For the storage.

Between one and four a.m., I suck a lot of dick, desperate to get one in particular out of my head, but it doesn’t work. I still fall asleep at dawn picturing Fischer’s. Purge unsuccessful. There’s a lesson to be learned from this, but I’m too exhausted to process it.

Maggie comes over Sunday afternoon to see the new piece and take some photos of it.

“I wanna cry, it’s so pretty.”

“Thanks,” I say softly.

She starts snapping photos. Without looking up from her camera, she asks, “Is Fischer okay? Mom said he hit his head.”

“He’s okay. His cane caught on the coffee table, and he fell, but I don’t think it’s serious.”

“Vaughn wasn’t there, was he?”

“No. Jesus.”

“What were you two doing?”

“We went out, had a few drinks, nothing major,” I say, but it feels like a huge lie.

“And you slept over because you were afraid he had a concussion?”

“I planned to sleep over before that,” I tell her. It’s funny to me that my closeness with Fischer annoys Mom and Maggie. If I had to bet money, I’d say they’re jealous because he probably wouldn’t give them the time of day if it weren’t for Vaughn and holidays. Meanwhile, I get the full-on pouting version of him because I have to come home from time to time.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because we went to a club and knew we were gonna be out late. Plus he has plenty of room and we like to hang out.”

“Hang out, huh?”

I frown at her. “Yeah.”

I’m leaning back on my workbench, arms crossed, scowling, when she snaps a photo of me and laughs.

I protest. “I’m not wearing a shirt!”

“Breaking news. Matty’s topless. Next up—the sky is blue.”

I’d throw something at her, but the closest thing I’ve got is a seven-pound wire-bender, and she has a point. It’s never been documented, but I’m convinced my internal temperature is higher than most people’s, which makes working in a polyester suit all night challenging.

“Valentine and I ended things,” I tell her because I need to talk to someone about something, even if I can’t tell her everything.

“No way.” She doesn’t sound remotely surprised. “You kept this one around a while.”

“This one?”