We returned to the family room, resettling on the couch much closer to each other than we’d sat previously. His knee brushed mine, and he flirted his hand across my thigh and lingered as he situated himself. My mind began to form possibility out of the earlier potential. Following a longing stare, he leaned in to kiss me again—just a brush across my mouth before he pulled back and bit his lip.
“Ready for dessert?” he asked shyly. For the first time since we’d met, I thought Lucas might have been more nervous than me.
Lucas placed a crème brûlée still warm from the oven on the coffee table in front of me. He switched on the stereo low, something I found easy to ignore, and sat on the floor, inviting me with his eyes to join him. Carefully, I lowered myself, and Lucas grabbed a pillow to stick behind my back. Grateful, I smiled when he held a spoonful to my lips.
Lucas waited for me to swallow and chased it with a kiss. Leaving his hand resting on my thigh, he sighed happily and took his own bite with the same spoon. With each taste from our shared spoon, the evening grew more intimate. I began to touch him more—a thumb over his lips to wipe away some crème brûlée, a squeeze of his hand, a bump of our shoulders. The anticipation built steadily until I finally braved a brush of my hand over his hair. Exactly as silky as I’d imagined. “I like the haircut, by the way.”
Lucas smiled and ran a hand through it. “Yeah? I wasn’t sure.”
I nodded and brushed the hair away from his face. “I liked it long too.”
A faint nod and another happy sigh. “I might grow it out again then.”
Ugh. I was smitten. I caressed the silky strands. “It’s soft. It’s the first thing I noticed about you.”
Lucas preened, but my candor embarrassed me. I glanced around the room, avoiding the intensity of his eyes and found my change of subject. Motioning to our dish, I asked, “What was the plan here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…” I leaned in to kiss the concern off his lips. “Did you have a blowtorch at the ready?”
He seemed confused, so I explained. “The sugar on top. It’s melted with a small propane torch. I guess you didn’t think that far ahead.”
Lucas chuckled. “I’m still learning.”
“How to fake it?”
“No, I had planned to cook for you, but I expected to be home all day, and I asked my mom to help me.”
“Well, that’s”—sweet, adorable, amazing and, oh-my-God, his-mom—“nice.”
“All day I kept thinking, ‘I still have five hours’ then, ‘three hours should be enough,’ but before I knew it, I had less than an hour and my mom had to go to work, so I panicked. But this is nice, right? The food was good? I didn’t know what you liked. She told me I should text you to ask about allergies, but…” Lucas peered up, and I caught his smile. “I’m rambling.”
“Dinner was delicious.” I smiled and touched his hand in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture. “And I understand about timelines. Sometimes I’ll ask what idiot came up with a build schedule. Of course, it’s me who always underestimates how long things will take, so I have no one but myself to blame. I’m in construction. Did I tell you that already? What do you do?”
Lucas took a slow sip of his drink. He smiled oddly—mysteriously, perhaps, or uncomfortable, but it didn’t fit right on his face. “Well, now I mostly go to school. So what aspects of construction do you manage?”
Lucas’ expression shifted back toward neutral while he waited for my response. I launched into the highlights of my job and his natural smile blossomed again. Ignoring his cagey answer paid dividends in pure sunshine.
We bounced from subject to subject, winding through safe, first-date topics. Before I realized it, I’d spent thirty minutes detailing my dream project—designing my own house on the same Oregon lake where I’d spent my childhood summers.
“Do you like to travel?” Lucas asked. He turned toward me and propped his elbow on the seat of the couch. He trailed his other hand down my arm and it came to rest over mine. He danced his fingers over my skin and, without thinking, I turned my palm face-up and let him continue to touch me while we talked.
“Travel? Sure. I can’t say I’ve done much. If I have the time and money, I’d like to see more of the world someday. Matt and I used to…” My thought trailed off when I realized I’d inadvertently introduced ex-boyfriends into our conversation.
Lucas’ eyes widened in question. He sat up and removed his hand. “Who’s Matt?”
“Um…just a guy.”
“Oh? So, is he the one who got away, the one who broke your heart or the one who doesn’t know you’re having dinner with me?” Lucas’ eyes narrowed, and at that, I realized how my abruptness could have been misinterpreted.
“None of the above. Matt is the guy who might have been the one but wasn’t. We ended on reasonably good terms nearly two years ago.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So, why the dramatic pause?”
“I didn’t mean to bring him up. Bad first date etiquette and all.”
Lucas’ posture relaxed. “Is he still part of your life?”
“I guess so. We lived together for less than a year, but we dated long enough to have a shitload of mutual friends. I see him and we catch up, then he fades away until the next occasion.”
“Very adultish breakup. All my exes probably have voodoo dolls of me with pins in them.”
I laughed. “That’s not very flattering. Are you trying to warn me you’re like the Taylor Swift of gay men?”
“Something like that. I wouldn’t say I’m a nightmare exactly, but I can get drunk on jealousy.”
“Oh no.” I snorted and the sip of beer I’d taken threatened to escape down my chin. “You can quote Blank Space. That’s a red flag.”
Lucas beamed at my response, and he found my thigh again. “Well, you recognized her song lyric, so you must be a closeted Swiftie too.”
“Um, no. I’m not a closeted anything. The guys at work can’t agree on a radio station, so I rotate between the major XM stations. Theoretically, it should be an even mix of rock, hip-hop, top 40 and country, but I swear that girl gets played on every channel some days.”
“So, not a fan?”
“She’s okay. I’d say I’m partial to the classic gay icon divas. You know… Cher, Madonna… But I can say I have grown to embrace the badassness that is Gaga and Beyoncé.”
Lucas smiled and did a mock hair flip. “Now I know you did not praise Gaga and Beyoncé and leave out Miss Britney, bitch.”
“Oh, man. No. Just no. Britney’s voice annoys the shit out of me. And before you ask, I loathe Mariah, too. I don’t care what her range is. Glass-breaking vocals is not an excuse to be such a fucking diva, and how many sequined, neck-plunging leotards can a single woman own? Edgy, sexy or classy is fine, and I’m totally cool with the curvy ladies showing off some skin, but she screams sad. Nothing worse than a washed-up pop princess who doesn’t know her day has passed. Well, maybe a washed-up porn star, but honestly…”
Lucas flinched.
Reflexively, I shut my mouth and tried to recall my words. I swallowed hard. “You’re not some die-hard Mariah fan, are you?”
“No…” Lucas said evenly, but his expression bordered on disappointment, and I studied his face, attempting to decipher what I’d said to cause such a reaction. “Finish your thought. What were you saying about washed-up porn stars?”
“Porn stars?” I racked my brain and shook my head until my last comment came back to me. “I don’t know where I was going with that. It was a rant. I don’t even watch porn. Well, much. I can’t say I never watched porn because um… Well, the Internet and questioning teens are like peanut butter and chocolate. Am I right?”
“I know you don’t watch much porn, Kyle.” His expression upgraded to a bemused half-smile which, although still concerning, was a far sight better than a moment earlier.
I exhaled at the slight ease of tension between us. Maybe Lucas watched a lo
t of porn. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d come off judgmental without meaning to. “Well, yeah. I just told you. I wouldn’t lie. I mean there’s nothing wrong with watching porn. I don’t have…like a moral objection to it. If you watch porn, it’s totally fine with me, but it isn’t my thing.”
“I don’t actually watch much porn either,” Lucas said. He ground his jaw with the words.
“Yeah? Oh well, that’s good.” Back to rambling, I flailed for a lifeline. “I mean, it’s fine. Porn seems like kind of fake, right? Like, I don’t know about you, but the idea of having to fuck someone you just met—”
“Are you telling me the possibility of fucking in that study room didn’t turn you on? It didn’t excite you?”
“No. Oh God. Of course. I mean, of course not. That isn’t what I meant. You totally did. Like, c’mon. Look at you. You know you’re ridiculously hot. I could have pounded steel spikes into the ground I was so hard, but that’s the thing, right? I was so into it until I realized that you… Well, I guess until I realized you weren’t. I never asked you to explain that. Maybe I should have, but that’s the thing about porn that doesn’t work for me. Some of the men aren’t even gay. It’s like if I had to sleep with a girl for drug money or to feed my kids, which feels exploitive, and that is a major turn-off for me. But like I said, I don’t care if you watch porn at all. Matt, my ex, watched it a lot. And I mean, a lot, a lot, because we had opposite schedules. And… Oh God. Never mind. It’s fine with me.”
“So, you don’t like porn because you think the men who do it have to? What if they want a chance to show off their bodies, have sex in a safe environment and make some good money? Would it be okay with you then?”
“I guess. It’s okay if you watch porn. I’m not trying to say it’s bad.”
“I don’t watch porn,” he said, not trying to hide his exasperation.
“Wow. Okay, then why are you so upset? Don’t you think the whole gay-for-pay shit is wrong?”
He took a yoga-worthy deep, cleansing breath and paused long enough for my heart to enter my throat. “First, I think gay-for-pay is mostly an act. Many men enjoy the ‘straight, masculine guy taking it up the ass’ fantasy, and it does happen on occasion. But most studios won’t hire genuinely straight men because it’s hard enough to get a good scene from two guys who enjoy gay sex, so the so-called straight performers are usually heteroflexible, bisexual or, at the very least, bi-curious.
“I don’t watch porn because I know what it’s like behind the scenes, which ruins the final product for me. I also find it strangely amusing to see my friends having orgasms with each other, so it’s kind of hard to jerk off to anymore. And I rarely, if ever, watch my own scenes any longer.”
“You—” The words caught in my throat. I broke into a cold sweat as his revelation sank in.
“Yes, me. And I’m not a victim of terrible circumstances. I don’t have a drug problem, and I’m sure as hell not gay-for-pay. I consider myself to be an exhibitionist. My parents know what I do. I’m not ashamed of it. It’s a good job, and it lets me go to school full-time without borrowing money and having to work a ton of hours to support myself. I get cool, free stuff from fans, who, by the way, are mostly middle-aged women. My bosses are a loving, devoted couple who fucking inspire me. It does interfere with dating, and honestly, those exes I told you about are coworkers. I wasn’t kidding about my jealous streak, and well, some people don’t see the difference between on-camera and off-camera sex. When you didn’t recognize me, I thought I’d try to date outside the business and see if that might be a better situation. I didn’t plan to hide it from you, but I was hoping we could have gotten to know each other a little better before I explained what I do. But if you have issues with porn, you have issues with me, and I really like you, so I guess I need to know if this is something you can see yourself accepting, because I don’t have plans to stop.”
“So, you’re asking me if I am willing to date you and not care if other guys fuck you?”
Lucas scoffed. “Um, well…I don’t bottom on camera, but yes, I’d be having sex with other performers for work. If we ever decided to become exclusive, I’d continue to film, but I would be willing to go back to condom-only if that makes it better.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why condoms? I assumed you’d be concerned about safety, even though it’s a low risk. Most guys—” His words ended abruptly. Panic flashed in his eyes like he’d suddenly realized how fucked up this conversation was for two guys who’d just met.
“Let me finish that for you. Most guys my age practice safe sex?” I said. What was with his generation’s ridiculous refusal to use condoms? “Lucas, HIV was still a death sentence when I came out, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t stick my bare dick in every available hole.”
Lucas narrowed his eyes and I could see him struggle to rein in his response to my overreaction. His confession had landed like a sucker punch right in the middle of a decent first date. And doing it without condoms? My anger clashed with concern for his well-being.
“Okay, wow. First, you’re a top? Really?” Lucas said.
His response earned him a scathing stare. I wasn’t sure who I thought I was fooling. I might be versatile, but we both knew I had been seconds away from bending over in that library and begging for it.
He went on, “And second, porn performers get tested regularly. I’d never be paired with a positive performer who had a detectable viral load, and like I said, I never bottom for my scenes. I am also on PrEP. The HIV risk is miniscule, probably less than getting fu—”
I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could speak, he rolled his eyes and corrected himself
“Or, rather, fucking some random guy, in, say…a library.”
His accusation ignited some unearned, self-righteous rage in me. “I wouldn’t have fucked you without a condom, Lucas,” I shouted the bald-faced lie. I didn’t carry condoms with me, and although Lucas hadn’t indicated he’d planned to fuck me, if he had, I didn’t know what I would have said. Despite my usually cautious nature, I couldn’t say I’d gotten test results for every boyfriend before ditching condoms, nor had every guy I trusted proven to be worthy of my trust. There’d been a handful of doctor visits where waiting for the STI test results had given me more anxiety than a pop quiz.
There was the ‘oh shit, what was I thinking’ kind of slip-up, then there was plain, reckless stupidity, like signing up for a class of nothing but pop quizzes and being at Lucas’ mercy to pass. I would have to be willing to trust him and untold numbers of porn stars enough to bet my health on it. I would never reach that level of faith, and that was merely a fraction of the problem I had with the situation. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in pursuing an open relationship, at least not without the possibility of something exclusive happening.”
“It wouldn’t be an open relationship. I could be exclusive except for work, if we got to that point. If you knew how porn was filmed, you’d realize there is such a difference between actual sex and sex on-camera. You said it yourself. It looks fake—and it is. It’s not sexy. Sometimes there is zero chemistry, and even if there is an attraction, half the time it doesn’t even feel that good. We stop in the middle for a light to get fixed or because a siren goes by outside the office. Three other people stand around watching us. I lose my hard-on because they want us in some crazy position and my scene partner needs a break because we’ve been filming for hours. I usually need to jerk it off-camera until I’m close enough to come. They turn the camera back on so they can get my cum shot. They edit it so that it seems continuous. It’s frankly mechanical for me. It’s different from sex with a boyfriend or a partner.”
I stood, not swayed by his pleading argument. Sex was sex, and while I’d never had sex on camera, I had been cheated on and knew the sinking pit of heartache that came from knowing someone you loved had been intimate with someone else. Not anxious to relive that feeling anytime soon, I shook my head and conve
yed my answer with a solemnly whispered apology.
Lucas nodded his acceptance, grabbed my glass and walked with it toward the kitchen. He began to clear our plates from the table, avoiding eye contact.
“Do you want some help?” I offered and prayed he’d say no. I needed to get away from that quivering lower lip of his. Kryptonite. Pure kryptonite.
“I got it. Let me walk you out.” He placed the plates on the counter and stared for a beat. He was poised to speak, lips parted, probably to make another argument we both knew wouldn’t change the reality of his job being a deal breaker for me.
We stood at the door. I didn’t want to leave, and the way he regarded me let me know he didn’t want me to either. He stroked my cheek and kissed me lightly. “So, that got kind of out of hand.”
I nodded. “We seem to have that effect on each other.”
He cracked a smile—a small one, but still enough to say he regretted the path our conversation had taken as much as I did. “If you change your mind…” he whispered across my cheek before pressing our lips together in the softest of kisses. “I was looking forward to getting to know you.”
I made it all the way down the stairs and to my car before I realized my chest ached so much I’d forgotten that I’d injured my back. The dull twinge spread into my stomach and the taste of bile flooded my mouth. My whole body seemed to reject the idea of denying it Lucas. Except for my brain, all my other organs coalesced on it being the biggest mistake of my life.
Get over yourself, Kyle. It’s one date. He’s too young for you, anyway.
But deep down, it hurt, which, by itself, told me everything. Unfortunately, no one could accuse me of listening carefully to messages from my heart. So, like any rational man, I tried to forget about the entire evening and Lucas. The ubiquitous Taylor Swift sang from my radio about how the story of us started off good but now looked more like a tragedy. I turned it off because—damn that Taylor Swift—I did not need a reason to get emotional about bubblegum pop songs.
The Story of Us Page 3