On The Edge (The Brazen Boys)

by Daryl Banner

  Just when I’m about to reach for my shirt, I realize he’s watching me. I lift a brow, frozen in place. It’s like, in this one moment, it suddenly occurs to me that this man-boy-punk, who I do not know, drove all the way to my house on the premise that I wanted him to do nasty things to me, and now after being freed from a barstool, I’m putting on all my clothes. He must be wondering the important thoughts, like what the fuck, for instance.

  I owe him an explanation. “I’m …” Should I apologize? What’s the protocol? “I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I didn’t … I didn’t mean to press the send button,” I continue to explain awkwardly, still holding my shirt in two sweaty hands and feeling the cold air of the house on my skin. “I’ll still pay you. I’m sorry. I was … I was horny and I typed a lot of things … and I was sorta drunk, to be honest. Not drunk-drunk. Just wine-drunk. I have a headache. I’m usually really careful and cautious about this sort of thing. I’m not really this kind of person.”

  He leans against the bar, crossing his muscled arms—oh my god, how they flex, taut and gleaming and strong—and his brows pull together. His eyes never leave mine. It’s so unsettling, how hot I find him. He’s here, I tell myself, trying to shake away the stupid nerves. He’s here and you’re sending him away?

  “This kind of person?” he asks, repeating my stupid words back to me, that resolve-crushing sexy velvety voice chasing into my chest and making a rattle of my heart. “What kind of person is that?”

  My mouth is so dry, you’d think I haven’t had a drop of anything for hours. “One that … gives his address to a total stranger and tells him to come over and do whatever you want to me. Er, to him.” I lick my lips. I still haven’t put my shirt back on. My nipples are hard and we all know that’s not all that is.

  He purses his lips, studying my face. His stare is so intense. “Is it really your birthday?”

  I try to smile. “Yes.”

  His eyes run down my body. Suddenly I’m the piece of meat. Like invisible hands working from my neck to my naked chest to my hips to my feet, he surveys me from the kitchen counter, those massive muscled arms still folded against his tight white shirt. It’s so, so tight, that shirt. Just now I notice the hint of rings at either nipple. That’s how tight.

  “You look good,” he says, “like you work out.”

  “I’m, uh, not really. When I’m bored.” I wrestle with the shirt, preparing to slip it over my head.

  “No.”

  I look up. “No?”

  “Keep it off.” He smirks; I daresay it’s an attempt at a smile. Then he adds, “And yes. I do workout. Seven days a week.” I feel my face flushing. He remembers my message. I’ll bet you work out seven days a week. He remembers my fucking message and he’s using my own words against me. Then he turns his head suddenly, squinting at the oven. “You cooking?”

  “I was, yes.” What else does he remember from my message? Still stupidly clutching the shirt, I consider whether he was kidding or not. Why does he want me out of my shirt? What’s the bother; he’s seen me naked. We’ve basically had half a bromance now.

  “So what’s for dinner?” He rounds the counter and peers into the window of the oven. “Is that chicken?”

  “Yes. Italian herb-roasted, mashed potatoes on the side with al-al-almond crusted greens, er, green beans and … and …” I’ve drawn up to the kitchen counter, watching him as he’s bent over the oven, peering curiously inside. Oh, the way his tight white shirt pulls against his solid back muscles. Fuck, the way his jeans just suck on his ass cheeks, the lip of them giving hints at the thick waistband of a sexy pair of underwear. Goddamn, the way his triceps flex just from resting his hands on his thighs, bending for a look into the oven. “A-And a cupcake for dessert,” I finish. “B-Birthday cup-cup-cupcake.”

  I could cum right here, just staring at him in that position. I was, after all, rudely interrupted from cumming by clicking that send button. I was right on the edge, seconds from bliss.

  “Cupcake?” He spots the sad little thing sitting on the counter; a chocolate button of a cupcake with a little blue corkscrew candle. “Hmm. Smells great. But the oven’s off.” He turns back to me, and I have to shift my eyes quickly to avoid being caught looking at his ass. I’m pretty sure he caught me anyway, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Gonna eat it all yourself or what?”

  Wait a second. Is he inviting himself for dinner? “Well, I was planning to eat it after—”

  “It’s your birthday,” he interrupts, as if reminding me. “Can’t let it go to waste. Can we get a little light in here? Where’s your plates?” He starts opening cabinets. He starts opening my cabinets, thumbing through my shelves for plates with his dirty don’t-know-where-they’ve-been man hands. The audacity! The arrogance of this guy! The cockiness!

  I’ve never been so turned-on in my life.

  I flip the wall switch, which powers this modest hanging thing near the sink, spilling a calm golden light over his black-as-fuck spikes of hair and bringing into existence a gold choker at his neck I hadn’t noticed until now. I’m distracted so horribly when he raises his arms to throw open my cabinets, his shirt lifting up and giving me an intoxicating peek at his lower back, all the thick muscles curving and pointing and directing and flexing, leading their way toward the obvious piece of fucking Leonardo Da Vinci-caliber art that is his ass.

  In other news, I flip a second switch and the dining area lit up. No one gives a shit. There’s ass and muscle magic happening in the kitchen.

  “Second and third cabinets on the other wall,” I finally announce. Really, I can watch him search through every cabinet and every drawer of my whole house looking for plates. I’d happily pay just to watch him search things.

  He sneers amusedly at me from the side of his face. “You just now tell me that?” He crosses the kitchen, swings open a door and finds the plates. “Got quite a collection here.”

  “We just need two.”

  In a matter of eleven minutes, we’re seated at the table with plates full of my birthday meal. He serves himself three times what’s on my plate. I have no idea why I bothered with forks and knives because the muscled, sexy, punk-boy fuck-face that is Edge eats the chicken with his hands like he’s murdering it all over again. I want to tell him Calm down, sexy, the chicken’s been long dead, but then I’d miss the show of watching him grip a leg, rip it off the thigh, and then bringing the lucky meat to his shockingly perfect white spread of teeth, chomping into it like a stray dog in a city dumpster. You’re so animal. This is basically 100% assurance that he’s a bomb and a half in bed.

  What I wouldn’t give to be that chicken leg.

  He gnaws and gnaws, his lips making work of the meat, his teeth, his strong-as-fuck mouth. What I wouldn’t give …

  “Mmm,” he grumbles, sucking the meat off a bone.

  I’m staring at the chicken juice dribbling down his chin when it occurs to me that I’ve only eaten two careful bites of my own.

  I still haven’t been allowed to put my shirt back on.

  “How’s it taste?” I ask him. It’s literally the last thing I give a shit about, whether or not he’s enjoying my cooking, but what the fuck sort of conversation am I supposed to be striking up? Hey, how’s the weather? How’s the business of selling your cock on the world wide web?

  “Good,” he answers without bothering to swallow what’s in his mouth. A fleck of chicken or something flies halfway across the table with that one word. He doesn’t care, chewing on and on, biting with canine conviction into my dinner. He eats like he’s starved. Maybe he is.

  Maybe I am.

  “So what’re you turning today?” he asks, again speaking with his mouth full from cheek to cheek. How is this filthy animal turning me on so much? His mighty biceps rest on either side of his plate, the tight-as-fuck white-as-fuck shirt scrunched up either shoulder. His tattoo runs down his left arm, those mess of symbols and stripes and tribal hieroglyphics that probably translate in ancient Egyptian to something
like: I am a sexy and bad motherfucker.

  “I’m turning thirty-three,” I answer. I could’ve lied, really. I guess I’m just suffering from another bout of uncharacteristic recklessness. A part of me sorta doesn’t care what he thinks. He’s a total wildcard. He’s practically a product of my imagination.

  “Happy fuckin’ birthday,” he says with half a smile, showing all the chicken within his right cheek. Holy fuck, he has dimples. His smile revealed them to the world just now, that tiny, nothing little smile. He chews, chews, swallows, then adds, “You don’t look a day over twenty-five.”

  “Thanks. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  I give up on finishing my plate, gently pushing it away. Then, for the next while, I’m just sitting here watching as he scarfs down the rest of his chicken, a mountain of garlic mashed potatoes, and a steamy swampland of green beans. The cupcake remains in the center of the table, untouched, forgotten, and I idly wonder if I should light the candle. Did I bother to pick up any matches? Might have some in the drawer beneath the bread maker. I wonder if he smokes; maybe he has a lighter. I wonder if he’ll want to eat my birthday cupcake, too? I’d let him. I’d fucking let him and I’d watch.

  I never thought I’d find watching someone eat be so sexy. His mouth seems so … agile. His lips too, now greasy and wet. I want those lips on me so bad. I want mine on his, but I don’t know the rules yet. I don’t know what’s allowed. What’s not allowed. It’s so maddening and frustrating and I still haven’t cum. I’m hard as a hammer, riding the edge of an orgasm I should’ve had hours ago and this muscled man-kid at my table is toying with me.

  He swallows his last bite and downs his glass of water with the longest, loudest, most aggressive chugging I’ve ever paid witness to. When he gently sets the glass back down, it’s almost comical.

  “So,” he says, his lips still gleaming from the juices of the innocent chicken he just massacred. “You want me to do those things to you?”

  I choke. I’m not even eating or drinking anything and I choke. “Things? What things?”

  “In your message.” He doesn’t even bother to wipe his mouth, still wet, half hanging open. His eyes burn into me from across the table, lips parted, waiting for my answer.

  “To be honest, I don’t really remember what I typed in that … in that message I didn’t mean to send. I was just having fun with myself. Half of it is a joke and I couldn’t tell you which half.”

  “Oh.” He’s still staring at me. Nothing else in the whole world seems to interest him but me, now that dinner’s over. “So what do you want to do?”

  Well, I basically bought myself company for an evening. Might as well try to enjoy it, awkward as fuck as I am. “We could watch some TV, I guess.” I should drink some wine, that’ll cool my nerves. I can’t stand how nervous I am. I wish I could assure him I’m not always this weird. Unless, perhaps, I actually am this weird. “Do you, uh … Do you think that’s lame? Or …”

  “Sounds awesome.” He hops from the table and strolls across the room like he owns the place, helping himself to my couch. I watch as my sweater vest, which was neatly folded there, drops off the back and onto the floor.

  I look sadly at the plates, the chicken bone remnants, the chives, the forks and knives. I look at the sex pot kicking back on my couch, fumbling with the remote. “How the fuck you turn this on?” he calls out.

  Dishes can wait.

  I hurry over, feeling my breath catch in my throat as I lower myself into the couch next to him. There’s half a body of space between us. “Wrong remote.” I fetch the proper one from the table, then turn on the screen. The glow of some sports match spreads across the den, flickering over our bodies.

  His eyes grow. “Big fucking screen.”

  “Big fucking screen,” I agree, amused.

  A belch erupts from his core—which I imagine is a sexy garnet-chiseled six-pack—and he throws an arm over the back of the couch, swiping the remote from my hand and flipping through the channels. I can’t help but steal my eyes away to watch as he operates my TV, one leg kicked up on my beautiful glass coffee table, the other bent and leaning in my direction—his legs opened with the crotch staring invitingly at me—and his shirt pulled up barely to show just a hint of skin at the base of his abdomen. His arm thrown over the couch, I notice how close his hand is to my shoulder. If I scooted a bit, I’d be in his arms. We’d be like two sweet lovers chilling on a couch for my birthday.

  Does my money cover that? What are the rules? What’s allowed?

  He lands on a sitcom, to my surprise. He tosses the remote to his side and gets comfy, pursing his lips and watching the screen. For the first time, this close, I realize his eyes are a greenish hazel color. They nearly glow in the light of the screen. He laughs at something on the show I’m not paying attention to, because every sad, drooling ounce of my attention is on him. Why am I always the creep, lurking on the edge of society, always watching, never participating?

  “What’re you thinking about?” he asks without looking, his eyes glued to the screen.

  For some reason, I feel like I can say anything to him. I’m pretty sure it’s due to the fact that, unlike literally anyone else in the whole world, he knows all about that raging sexual part of me. He knows exactly what website I was looking at. He knows the seedy things that come out of me when I’m screwed up on wine and typing my semi-sexual heart out. He knows what I look like naked and handcuffed to my own fucking kitchen.

  Finally, I ask: “Why’d you come over?”

  He shrugs. “Why not?”

  I chuckle dryly. “I can think of a hundred reasons. I could be a freak with a hatchet under the couch cushion. I could be dangerous.”

  “You don’t seem either of those things,” he says nonchalantly. “You do seem a bit lonely, though.”

  “I do? How?”

  “Birthday dinner for one?” He lifts a brow, turns his face finally. His piercing hazel-green eyes fall on me like a thunderous storm, petrifying me. “‘I’ll be naked. Do what you want with me.’ Was that how you put it? ‘The worse you are, the more I’ll pay.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

  “You remember my message better than I do,” I say, unable to swallow, unable to break from his entrancing stare.

  “That true? What you said?”

  “I was drinking a lot. I’m normally a very, very careful person. And I’m safe. Some sort of … psychotic desire to hastily unravel my life has obviously taken hold of me tonight. I’m a normal person, I promise. Just like you. Just like anyone, really.” My thoughts sound so much more confident in my head. When I speak, I’m all noodles and butter before him. “I’m not really the … handcuff-myself-to-the-bar-naked kind of guy.”

  “Or maybe you are.” He says it so seriously. The ring in his lip bobs with his words. His eyes dig, dig, dig their way into my mind. He’s reading my thoughts. He knows me better than I know me. “Don’t confine yourself to what you keep telling yourself you are. Break free, man. Think about what you could be. It’s all part of growing a year older, isn’t it?”

  He smiles. His smile crushes me inside, turns my guts into a stew. Those fucking dimples.

  “You’ll be my age sooner than you know,” I tell him, feeling bold. “You feel free now, sure, but the world doesn’t get bigger the older you get. It gets heavier. And you get more desperate, pushing against it. And you lash out at your job. And you stop inviting people over. And you don’t bother with dating because, fuck, have you seen the options lately? And next thing you know, you’re cuffing yourself to a barstool and confessing your darkest secrets to a stranger.”

  He leans into me, as if to utter a secret. Just the movement of this beautiful muscular beast toward me, his hand grazing my shoulder, his heat radiating off those taut biceps and rippling chest evident through that shirt, it’s enough to inspire my twenty-fifth hard-on of the evening.

  To my face he says, “If growing up means smiling less, then I don’t
want to.” His eyes lift, catching sight of something behind me.

  He gets off the couch and saunters to the tall glass doors. I watch him, transfixed by the way his jeans make art of his ass. He pushes the doors open like they’re nothing and moves to the pool.

  It’s at the brink of the mirror-like water that he makes a peel of that tight-as-fuck shirt that’s been taunting me since he arrived. The shirt lifts up, and not easily, tight as it is on his body. The struggle is half a show that makes my cock grow all the harder. He pulls and pulls, his every back muscle flexing and unflexing, moving, stretching, until the shirt finally slips free from his massive shoulders, then up his beefy arms like lovers’ tongues. To wherever-the-fuck he flings the shirt, kicks off his shoes, and then makes a job of his beltless pants. He lets them drop to the cobblestone, and I’m greeted with the sudden and breathtaking backside view of Edge in all his muscled glory, sporting a smooth, tight, sinister pair of black and red athletic boxers. Is he gonna rush to take it all off, just like they do in every porn I’ve ever seen? Is he gonna show it all? I’ve met Edge. I wonder what little Edge looks like.

  He peers over his shoulder, as if hearing my thoughts, catching sight of his only audience member through the tall glass windows: me. He grabs the rim of his tight athletic boxer-briefs and pulls down just an inch, showing a wink of his smooth, muscled ass crack. Then he snaps it back up, hiding the goods. What a tease. Unsmiling, he licks his lips, then dives in still wearing them, shattering my pool’s perfectly calm surface into a spray of liquid diamonds.

  I’m pretty sure I just came in my pants.

  In a matter of seconds, I’ve abandoned the stupid sitcom and the dirty dishes on the table and my shirt, wherever I left it. I whip off my glasses and toss them on the ottoman—they’re cosmetic anyway, fuck them, they don’t exist. I push through the glass doors and the whirring calm of the nighttime swallows me. The sound of Edge moving through the water is so smooth, it’s hardly there. The sight of him, it’s angelic and it’s demonic, beautiful and wicked, so good to watch you feel you’re getting away with something bad.