by Renae Kaye
Confide in Me
On a Night Like This #2
By Renae Kaye
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
On a Night Like This: Confide in Me © 2017 Renae Kaye.
Excerpt from On A Night Like This: Come Into My World © 2017 Sean Kennedy.
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission, except where permitted by law.
To Australia’s true queen: our Kylie. Especially for you.
~~~~~~~~
Dedication:
To the one who drunk texted me the entire wedding.
I told you it would end up in a book.
ALSO IN THIS SERIES
Wow! by Sean Kennedy
(link)
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Preview
Author Bio
Chapter One
What do people do when the man of their dreams tells them he “just wants to be friends”?
If you’re me, you agree. Okay, so first I cried a bit, got drunk, raged at how unfair the world was, prayed to Goddess Kylie that the pain would end quickly, and didn’t get out of bed for two days, but then I agreed.
Stupidly.
I told myself that if it got too much, I would simply delete him from my phone. But then I never did. And I became the friend that Callum Brown confided in. Life was just a barrel of laughs.
Why didn’t I delete him? I guess hope springs eternal, exactly how Alexander Pope said in his “An Essay on Man.” Plus, had circumstances been different, like he’d been straight, I’d have been friends with him easily.
You see, I’d met Callum legitimately on a dating site. It wasn’t Grindr, okay? It was Tinder. And not the naughty side of Tinder. Tinder is for people who hope for something more than only the brief hook-up. And that’s me. I’m staring down the barrel of twenty-nine now. Over a quarter of a century. A whole twenty-eight years without a serious relationship. So I have a profile on Tinder. It didn’t get a lot of swipe-rights.
That was until my friend, Mark, helped me out with a wonderful profile picture. He took a photo of me and filtered the shit out of that baby or something. He says he didn’t and it was just good lighting. Good lighting, my arse. Mark’s a drag queen, and the way he can do that make-up is like magic. Maybe it was the influence of his drag persona, Allotta. Maybe the stars aligned and Jupiter got a glimpse of Saturn’s rings. I don’t know. All I know is that I put that profile picture up and suddenly I was swiped right so many times—including by Callum.
Callum was exactly the type of guy I knew I could fall in love with. His profile pictures showed a deliciously gorgeous man, complete with the almost-required abs shot that a lot of gay men insist on judging you by. He obviously spent time in a gym on a weekly basis, took care of himself, and liked nice clothes. But more than that, his profile bio was witty and—causing somewhat ecstasy for me—he could spell. Nothing turned me off more than someone who only messaged me in “text speak” with “u” and “l8r” and “idk” peppering their speech.
It was a side effect of being an English teacher. I often had to drum into my kids at school that I didn’t want to see that sort of speech written in their essays. I therefore didn’t want to have to lecture my new date on the attractiveness of knowing the difference between their, there, and they’re. Because it put romance out of my head and work right in.
His first message to me of: Hey, Ed. Thanks for the swipe right. What are you doing tonight other than watching TV and writing letters to our local politicians about the same-sex marriage debate? made me fall in love with him right there. It was a brilliant opening line. Because now I could tell him if I was writing those sorts of letters and where I stood on the issue. I wished I’d thought of that line before, because it would’ve stopped a lot of unnecessary bad dates.
I also loved that he used my name in the message, which made it personal.
Ed was really the suckiest name my parents could’ve given me, apart from Aloysius. Thanks to Stephanie Meyer, the name Edward came back into vogue while I was in my teens… so around ten years too late. Before that, the name was ridiculed. As a kid I was called Eddie, and then was teased and called “Steady Eddy,” mocking the comedian with cerebral palsy who went by that name. I tried to get them to call me Edward for a while, but taunts of “Awkward Edward” ensued.
So at the age of twelve, I decided on Ed. The first person who turned around and called me “Mr Ed” was successful in making me blush and scuttle away. But then I was determined not to let them get to me. So when Julian O’Mara called me “Mr Ed,” I was ready with my reply.
“Glad to see you have acknowledged my superiority over you. Mr Ed sounds good to me. Put a ‘sir’ on the end and we’ll be great friends.”
It was stupid. It was dumb. It was the last time Julian called me Mr Ed.
Navigating high school with a name like Ed was hard. I don’t know how many times a teacher had said, “Who else is there? Who have I missed? Oh, yes. Ed.” It was something I always remembered and went out of my way not to do to students in my class.
However, navigating the world of gay men with a name like Ed? You would think that having only two letters in your name would make it easier for people to remember it. No. It just made it easier for them to forget. And the line, “Do you give good head, Ed?” was no longer funny, if it ever was in the first place.
Also no one got my joke when I said, “My name is Ed. You know—like making a regular verb past tense?” It was obviously too much for people. In the dating world, saying a word like “noun” or “verb” was strictly forbidden.
Callum and I messaged back and forth for two weeks before he suggested a meeting in person. A date. A real date in a restaurant, not just a date that started and ended at the bedroom door.
I eagerly went off to meet him and fell even further in love with him the moment he walked in the door of the restaurant. He was gorgeous and confident. He’d told me that he worked in sales—although at that time not exactly what he sold—and I could see it suited him. Whatever he was selling, I wanted to buy. Even if it was Avon.
We had a brilliant meal. And I thought it was going swimmingly well. Seriously. My heart was thumping with excitement and my palms were sweaty. So when Callum suggested I follow him back to his house, I didn’t think twice. I wanted every part of this man—someone who could talk to me on an intellectual level as well as politically, someone I was extremely attracted to physically, and someone who was obviously looking for more than a one-night stand because we’d met on Tinder, not Grindr.
He invited me to his house, telling me his housemate, Steve, would be working for another two hours and
therefore the coast was clear. We were kissing before we’d even made it past the entrance hallway. Callum was beautiful and I wanted to kiss him all over, and when I told him that, he said that he had no problems with my plan.
His bedroom was neat without being super-freak-neat, which was another tick in his favour. We helped each other divest ourselves of our clothing, using hands and mouths to explore as we did. It all went well. I mean, Callum told me repeatedly that the blow job I was giving him was “so good.” I thought it went well too, as he came within acceptable time period, so I didn’t feel like my jaw was going to break from overuse, or that he had a hair trigger. Then, as I was panting in exultation that I’d made this man of my dreams come, he’d rolled over, pushed the condom in my direction, and almost begged me to fuck him. I’d eagerly complied and acquitted myself in an extremely fine manner.
As a gay man, I’m constantly comparing myself to the only role models I have when it comes to sexual matters—gay porn. I mean, Hollywood has plenty of examples of what straight sex is supposed to be like. There’s supposed to be soft lighting, ladylike moans of enjoyment, no sweat, and the sheets are supposed to tastefully remain over the lower bodies the entire time. Hollywood very rarely does the gay sex though. So I compared my effort to what I thought was realistic—50 percent of a porn star’s effort—and I thought it went well.
Which was why, the following day, when Callum had messaged me to say that although he’d had a “great time,” that he’d enjoyed himself, that nothing had “gone wrong,” but he really didn’t think we “clicked” so he wanted to remain “just friends,” I was completely gutted.
I had analysed the date from start to finish since then, trying to pinpoint where I’d failed. My best friend, Tammy, and her boyfriend, Todd—both of whom I shared a house with—tried to help.
“And he definitely came?” Todd asked me as I was crying into my cornflakes. “It wasn’t just fake?”
I nodded. Tammy looked sceptical. “You guys keep telling me that orgasm and coming are different, but I’ve never seen it. I think you’re lying to me.”
Todd and I shared a male bonding moment over the top of her head before she moved on. “And you… ahh… did a good job of the next bit?”
“What do you mean?” I said, solely to make her say it. What are best friends for otherwise?
I received a glare. “You fucked him good?” she said, her dainty mouth pursing in disdain that I’d made her elucidate. “How do you know if you’ve done a good job on that?”
I held up my hand and ticked them off. “He didn’t scream in pain, his erection came back although he didn’t come again, it lasted more than just a few minutes, and he kissed me passionately afterwards. There were no markers of bad sex.”
Todd frowned as if thinking hard. “Did he say anything during the session? He didn’t ask you to slap his arse or pull his hair and you didn’t do it?”
“No,” I said glumly. “He was just saying things like ‘yes’ and ‘that’s so good’ and that sort of stuff.”
Tammy propped her chin on her fist as she leaned on the table. “Was there anything he did wrong?” she asked. “Perhaps he’s feeling as if he did something embarrassing and can’t face you.”
“No,” I said, feeling like the most rejected person in the world. “He was perfect. Everything was perfect. Until he messaged me the ‘let’s just be friends’ story.”
Tammy and Todd had no other advice, so I logged back on to Tinder and began comparing everyone on there to Callum. I became a left-swiper for days.
Then he messaged me.
What was the name of that movie you said I should watch? The one with Keanu in it?
I wanted to ignore him… but he was asking about a movie I’d mentioned. It was sweet that he remembered me telling him while we were on our date that he should watch it.
River’s Edge.
He messaged back almost immediately.
Great! Thanks.
I pulled up that message on my phone at least ten times in the next twenty-four hours, but he never added to it. Not until three days later.
Fuck. That movie is all types of screwy. I can’t believe that murder really happened.
I was teaching class and didn’t get it until after school. It had been a particularly bad day, with me having to break up a fight at recess that now required parent interviews. I wasn’t exactly forgiving in my text back.
The kids of today make them look like angels. Drugs and murder I think I can deal with. But this new generation coming through seems to have no interpersonal skills at all. Our future is doomed.
There was a stack of assignments in front of me that needed to be marked, so I put my phone aside, picked up the first, and began to read. When the phone dinged, I deliberately ignored it, telling myself it would be my “reward” for getting through Denise’s essay that told me Henry Lawson was a popular poet before World War I because people in the bush didn’t have TVs to watch back then. I wrote something encouraging next to the C-minus I gave her, and then grabbed my phone. It was Callum.
Tell me about it. I went out with a guy two weeks ago who wouldn’t leave his phone alone during the meal. It seems like anyone under 24 these days doesn’t know how to hold a conversation.
I replied, You should date older guys.
It was a subtle dig at the fact that I didn’t once touch my phone while I was out with him. It was probably too subtle. Too bitchy too. I sighed as I picked up the next essay and groaned. Toby Bryant was not my favourite student.
I started reading, correcting grammar and sentence structure in my head so I could work out the gist of his argument. The phone buzzed again. I waited until I had marked Toby’s work, which earned surprisingly a good grade, despite my initial impression.
Do you mean older like in their 50s? Or older like in their 30s?
Callum’s profile had said he was twenty-seven, only one year younger than me. I knew I would feel awful about him dating someone who was around my age. If Callum met and fell for a guy who was in his fifties, then I could say that there was nothing I could do about not appealing to Callum.
Try someone over 40.
It was a compromise and it fucking hurt to type those words. How could he even ask me that? He knew I was looking for a date. He knew I had chosen him to go on a date with. How terrible was it that he thought it okay to ask me what sort of guy he should date?
In disgust, I threw the phone down, then picked it up again and turned it off. I wouldn’t be tempted to look at it then.
As a result, I missed the text from Todd saying that he and Tammy were going out to dinner, and that I should stop in at the shop and get something for myself as our cupboards were bare. I therefore had cereal for dinner while I finished marking. The little red dot on my phone told me there was a message from someone, but it wasn’t until I was tucked up in my bed that I felt brave enough to read it.
Cool. Thanks for the advice. I’ll do that.
I rolled over and wiped my tears on the pillow.
~~~~~~~~
Chapter Two
What do people do when the man of their dreams tells them that their date with another guy went magnificently?
If you’re an English high school teacher, you pull out “Mariana” by Tennyson and get the students to read aloud while you secretly think that Mariana’s dreariness and weariness has nothing on yours. You ask the entire class to write how the poem made them feel, then that night you mark them, giving As to the ones that closest match your feelings and Cs to those who could never understand how devastated you are over Callum.
You also don’t reply to the message, purchase two cheap bottles of wine that you share with your housemates, and get particularly shit-faced.
I pulled myself together by Monday morning, and actually felt brave enough to right-swipe a couple of guys on Tinder and start a conversation with one. Okay, so I was a total douche that the one I chose to chat with didn’t have a particularly nice profile pic. I h
ad decided I was through with cute guys. Callum obviously felt I was aiming too high with him.
When I mentioned this to Tammy, she slapped me across the chest and told me off.
“He never said that he didn’t want to date you because you weren’t cute enough. You showed me the text. He just said that he wanted to be friends.”
“But there has to be a reason,” I wailed pathetically.
Tammy hugged me tight. “The chemistry wasn’t right for him,” she soothed. “And maybe he had his head too far up his arse to see what a great catch you are.”
I pouted. “Don’t be mean. He was perfect.”
“He wasn’t,” Tammy insisted. “Now let me see the profile pic of this new guy? Terry, is it?”
I grudgingly passed over my phone and she checked out the picture of the older, definitely balding man. You couldn’t see his body from the headshot, but his face appeared to show a bit of weight.
“Not running marathons on the weekend, I guess?” Tammy said cattily.
I swiped my phone back. “I don’t care. It’s not like I’m running marathons either. Looks and body aren’t what I’m searching for.”
“Hm,” Tammy said in a non-committal manner.
I thought it would be the end of Callum, but he messaged me on Wednesday night. Any more movie recommendations? I’m at a loose end tonight.
Dithering over what to reply was sending me batty, so I knew I had to act. I could be mature and accept that Callum didn’t want me, and therefore respond reasonably to his message, or I could be bitchy and try to sabotage his love life.
I did try to be mature.
Tammy doesn’t believe me either.
No older man tonight? Or is he already asleep?
He immediately replied. Ha! I’m going to throw that one back in your face when you reach 40… in two years time.