And then to want to reciprocate. He paid for my time and still cared enough to make sure I got off. Why would he do that? Just for the experience? So he can practice for another man.
Ew. A sick, gross feeling lands in my stomach at the idea of him going down on another man. Must be the smoothie. For sure, it's not jealousy. I can't be jealous. He's not mine. I don't date. And if I did, I'm not sure it would be with someone like Gareth Brockman.
But would it be? What type of man would I want to date if I decided to give up escorting?
Gareth's hopeful blue eyes slam forefront into my mind again. Fuck!
I'd want someone softer than me. Someone I could take care of. Someone sweet. Someone smart. Someone kind. Someone I'd want to fall asleep next to every night and wake up with every morning.
Damnit. The ache in my lungs isn't from running, now, it's from imagining a life I'm not sure I could ever have. Would a man like that want to settle down with a man like me? Am I not finding that man because I'm busy escorting? What's the saying? That you need to make space in your life for the things you want?
Otherwise, the universe won't provide?
Is that something I'm willing to do? To give up escorting and helping people in order to have a partner in life?
I do envy what Jamie and Eve have, but I'm not sure I want to put the work in to a relationship right now. And they take work. And sacrifice. Eve gave up escorting most of her clients for Jamie. Because he deserves a partner who is committed sexually as well as mentally and emotionally.
I could shift my effort to my photography business and be able to support a partner.
The miles tick by as sweat slicks my skin, but after mile five, when I'm stomping back up my stairs, my mind is no more settled than it was when I left.
Now the questions rolling around my head aren't 'why can't I stop thinking about him?'. They're bigger, more existentialquestions. They're now 'am I in the right place in my life to prioritize a partner?' and 'do I even know how to love someone the way that they deserve?' and 'why, in my mind, does that future partner look a lot like Gareth Brockman?"
Chapter nine
Gareth
Next Monday, I'm in my cubicle at work fighting for my life. Every few minutes, a memory of my night with Trey will invade my brain, sending a bolt of lightning through my stomach and down to my cock. I've been fighting this hard-on all day. Even still, I can't help but smile like a love-drunk idiot. My night with Trey lifted a weight from my shoulders I didn't know I had been carrying.
The relief I feel, having taken the first step to aligning who I think I am with who I actually am, is a constant companion. I knew I'd be nervous as hell, and we've barely begun to scratch the surface of homosexual sex, but it had been the single most incredible night of my life. I feel a little guilty that it's not the birth of either of my kids, and while those days were magical, I'd still been living a lie. So, their memory is coated with a blanket of deceit and shame. I wouldn't take it back, though. I have a small framed picture of me with the kids on my desk. A small, sad reminder of why I put up with this shitty job.
It's not the job, per se, that's shitty. It's just numbers and spreadsheets. Accounting. Money in, money out, and triple-checking for mistakes. It's everything else. It's the guys I work with - all young, frat-boys, nepo-babies, with their bleached highlights and golf shirts. It's the fact that they spend more time bullshitting than working. They're my "friends", sure, but they don't really know me, and I don't really know them.
They took one look at me on my first day and decided that I was one of them. So, they occasionally come over to my cubicle and talk sports, celebrity gossip, or anything and everything that they think makes them look cooler, hotter, or richer than me.
I've been play-acting as someone else my entire life, so it was easy to slip into that role. It's the same role I chose in high school. Alpha-bro, sports-guy, ladies-man.
It's two o'clock in the afternoon. I worked through lunch because I couldn't trust myself enough to walk into the kitchen area and not sport a semi. These dress slacks do nothing to hide an erection. I guess most men don't get hard at work.
I never did until now.
But my third cup of coffee is cold, and the hollowness in my stomach has taken the edge off of reminiscing about my night with Trey. With the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. And how wonderful he made me feel. How free. How safe.
I lock my computer, grab my empty coffee mug, and walk to the kitchen area. I suppress a wince when I see Kevin, Kyle, and Dave leaning against the wall and counter by the coffee pot.
"'Sup, Gare-Bare?" Kyle says.
I give a small smile, avoiding eye contact, and lift my empty mug, hoping they don't try to pull me into conversation. They're not bad guys. I don't think. They're just... surface-level. I don't think they've had a difficult day in their entire lives. Not one that daddy's money couldn't solve.
I rinse my mug, vaguely aware of them picking back up their conversation, but I can't hear it over the water.
Unfortunately, I'm forced to squeeze past Kyle and Kevin to get to the coffee pot.
"Need an afternoon pick-me-upper?" Kyle asks. It's a throwaway question. One that should be obvious and is more polite than anything.
I lift the communal pot and start filling my mug.
"Yeah. The file I got from Accounts was corrupted, so I have to redo all of the work they did last month by hand," I reply. Again, it's a throw-away reply, but that's all these people need. They don't want to know more. I don't really think they care.