by JD Chambers
“But you’ve really decided to be …?” Rohit asks, surprise evident in his voice.
“Together.”
“Exclusive.”
Dave and I say the words at the same time and I find his hand under the table to thread together with mine. A word hangs between us, unspoken, but it isn’t for Terry and Rohit. It’s for Dave only.
Mine.
The next day, I grab two breakfast burritos and two coffees and stop by Game Over on my way out of town.
“This is a surprise,” Dave says, beaming at me as I walk through the door with the paper bag and coffee cup. He turns the cup in his hands and says, “No heart this time?”
“Different place. Less chatty baristas,” I say with a smile. “Since you said you were going to be short-staffed today, I thought I’d bring you some food, just in case you didn’t have time for a break.”
Dave leans forward and kisses my lips. Two customers wait to be helped, but he doesn’t even hesitate, which shocks the hell out of me. I’ve been out for a decade, and even I wouldn’t kiss him at my work. Granted, a bank has a few more codes of decorum than a video game store, but it still warms me to my core that he’d be so open with his affections.
“I’m keeping you,” he says with a smile against my lips.
“I thought we’d already established that?” I ask, reluctantly pulling away so that I can get on the road and he can focus on his customers.
“We did, but I’m a firm believer that there’s no such thing as too much positive reinforcement,” he says with a wink.
I’m still laughing as I fold into my car and make the trek to Boulder. When I arrive at Westley’s apartment, the first thing that hits me is the overwhelming herbal aroma, so common on college campuses. The next is the argument going on behind Westley’s back as he holds the door open for me.
A girl with thick cat-eye frames sits on the floor near the sofa, while a guy in a bean bag chair points at her accusingly. “Yes, it does matter. Because if it’s the uncompleted Death Star, then it would be easy for someone to transport a photon torpedo into the middle of the Death Star and have it explode.”
I turn to Westley and hand him his present. “Uh, happy birthday?”
Westley laughs and gives me a hug. “Thanks, man. Come meet everyone. Guys, this is my brother, Arthur. Arthur, this is Dromi, Daniel, and Chris.” He introduces from left to right, which means the girl with the glasses is Dromi, Daniel has the couch, and Chris is angry-bean-bag-guy.
I wave at the group, who pause their argument long enough to say hi and wave back, before they’re back at it. Something about shield generators stopping the transporters.
“Star Wars versus Star Trek,” Westley informs me, probably tipped off by my clueless expression. “Don’t worry. They’ll switch to another argument soon enough. Come get a drink.”
“Even then, I doubt it will be something I can weigh in on,” I say, following him to the kitchen and pouring myself a diet soda from the variety of two-liters scattered across the countertop.
“I don’t know,” Westley says, refilling his own drink after I set down the diet soda. “Last week they argued for a good half hour over which Katy Perry is best. I’m sure you’d have plenty of input there.”
“Firework,” obviously, but before I can state my opinion, Westley slaps a hand over my mouth.
“Nope. I do not want that one rehashed. Honestly, they need to fuck and get it over with.”
“Have you heard from Mom and Dad or Andrew?” I say, probably not so deftly, but definitely changing the subject.
“I got a happy birthday text from Mom. Guess it counts for Dad too. Nothing from Andrew. But then again, he usually posts a Facebook birthday greeting and nothing more, and I haven’t checked Facebook yet today.”
I harrumph at that like an old man, but I’ll refrain from saying anything else. I don’t want to ruin Westley’s party. I often wonder why my parents wanted kids if they didn’t have any interest in spending time with them. Mom was great when one of us got sick. She turned into the quintessential mom, and I’m a little surprised none of us turned into hypochondriacs for the attention. Otherwise, we might as well have simply been little blue pegs in the back seat of their LIFE game pieces.
We sit on the floor, one of the kids on the couch tosses us a couple of cushions, and Westley opens his gifts.
“Thanks, man, these are great!”
“I had help,” I say, and start to tell him about Game Over and Ted and maybe even Dave, but Daniel, I think, from the couch, says, “Dude! I want to play Adventure Time.”
Everyone’s happy with that idea, and when no more arguments break out, I take the moment of peace to check my phone.
Puppy: How’s the party?
Arthur: I think it’s the Boulder equivalent of the game room at Game Over, except in my brother’s apartment.
Arthur: Things almost got violent over a Star Wars/Star Trek argument.
Puppy: Lots of fun then!
Arthur: For you, maybe. I just don’t get the appeal of video games.
Puppy: I’m suddenly rethinking this entire relationship.
Arthur: Bad puppy!
Puppy: I can’t wait until tomorrow.
Arthur: Me neither.
“Why do you look like you’re about to snuggle your phone?” Westley hands his controller to Dromi to play and scoots closer, trying to eye my screen.
“No reason.”
“Who’s Puppy?”
“My boyfriend.”
Westley’s eyes widen, quickly followed by his smile. “No way! I thought you were forever going to be the sad, single uncle at all the family get-togethers. Not that we have family get-togethers. But if we did, it’s how I imagined your role.”
“Thanks.”
“Why do you call him puppy?”
I hesitate, trying to determine how to answer. Funny how Dave so bravely told Terry and Rohit last night, and he’s the pup. It should be easy for me to say the words, but they get stuck on my tongue. It doesn’t wind up mattering, since my hesitation is enough for Westley to figure it out.
“No way. Seriously? You’re into that? It’s so weird.”
“Watch it,” I say, barely able to contain a growl at Westley’s immature attitude.
Westley flinches, then holds up his hands. “Sorry. You’re right. I should be happy you found someone you fit with, I guess. Have you told Mom and Dad yet?”
“They already know I’m gay, and I have no intention of ever telling them I’m into kink.”
“No, not that,” he says, tossing a cushion at my head that I bat away. “Just about you finally having a boyfriend.”
“Nah. I’ll probably tell them in time for the wedding.” Westley chokes on his sip of soda, and I pound on his back with a laugh. “Kidding.”
“You’re serious about him though?”
“Yeah.”
“Awesome.”
9
Dave
Was it only two months ago that I had this very same date with Lydia?
I’ve been to the movies since then, but not on a date. It’s amazing how different it feels. With Lydia, I obsessed over the details, with making sure that everything was perfect. Now, I’m just looking forward to spending more time with Arthur. I don’t need to obsess this time, because so far, every time with Arthur has been perfect.
We decide on the movie first, with dinner afterward, but we share a tub of popcorn and a soda and my inner teenager is in fucking heaven. Sure, I took some girls on dates, but none of them caused tingles to shoot up my arms when our fingers grazed over popcorn. I don’t know what about Arthur puts my default spaz mode onto standby, but I always feel calmer and more present in the moment when I’m with him.
“Which one am I supposed to be?” He leans over, lending the air between us the scent of his cologne mixed with popcorn, and whispers halfway through the movie. I smile in return. I’m not going to tell him the nickname I’ve given him and risk embarrassing myself
.
“It’s Captain America, right? I’ve got those all-American Chinese good looks.”
I risk a glance in his direction. He’s dressed up for a date, at least based on my standards, and looks so incredibly handsome I wish I could hang a sign above his head, letting the world know that this billboard-worthy specimen of manhood is here with me. His bright blue button-down lacks a tie, or bow-tie as I usually see him wear, but a colorful pocket square sticks out of his grey vest pocket. He has the collar and first buttons unbuttoned, exposing the dip of his throat, and his sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. The muscles strain the rolls, making me giggle to think of his nickname and how I am so not going to tell him.
“Shh. Watch the movie.”
Arthur puts his arm around the back of my chair, and it’s a good thing I’ve seen the movie twice already, because there goes my concentration. He leans close, his lips tickling the shell of my ear, and his breath caressing the sensitive skin around it.
“I’ll tell you which Avenger you are, if you tell me.”
I give a tiny shake of my head that stops the second I feel teeth against my earlobe. My lips seal around my gasp. In this packed theater, I don’t want to give myself away. The blood rushing downward from my brain is awkward enough.
“Please, Puppy. Don’t you want to be a good boy? I’ll give you a treat.”
I fumble for my phone, open up my texts after quickly dimming the screen light to avoid disturbing the people around us, and thrust it into his hand. It wasn’t what he was expecting, and his laugh drops like a bomb in the quiet theater, a single “ha” that echoes before he slaps a hand over his mouth.
I grab my phone back and try to pull away, but he grabs for my hand and tangles our fingers together, keeping me from getting too far away. He focuses on the movie now, or at least pretends, but it doesn’t keep the smug grin off his face.
Ass.
“So which Avenger am I?” I ask as we walk to a sports bar in the same shopping center as the movie theater for dinner. “And I was promised a treat. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
“You’re like the grown version of Spiderman. All nerdy and charming and eager.”
“Eager, huh?” I wag my eyebrows at him and he groans and pulls me into him. I love how it feels to be surrounded by Arthur.
“We are doing a real, actual date, and not just me fucking you at your place. I’m trying to be a considerate boyfriend here.”
“But to be clear, there will be fucking at my place later, right?”
His fingertips dig into my hips and he growls in my ear.
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank god.”
I’ve honestly never been on a date like this. We can’t keep our hands off each other, and part of me wants to tell him just to fuck it, and we’ll grab fast food on the way to my place. But the earnest look on his face, and the fact that he looks so good and I get to show him off in a place that stays lit for longer than the first five minutes, forces me to behave.
We don’t have to wait for a table since the movie let out a little later than the normal dinner rush, and as the hostess winds her way to the back of the bar, I find myself confronted with a whole new treat for our date night. Karaoke.
“We can go somewhere else,” Arthur whispers, as if the woman currently crooning an off-key rendition of “Love is a Battlefield” can hear him.
“Why on earth would I want to do that? I love karaoke,” I say, and slide into the booth facing the makeshift stage, allowing Arthur to keep his back to it.
The horror on his face would be concerning if it weren’t so hilarious.
“Is there a hidden camera somewhere?” he asks, looking around. “And will you tell them that my right side is my good side?”
“Oh my god, and people think I’m the spaz. Come on, it’s fun. We can do a duet,” I tease.
With each song, I tap my foot and bounce along, no matter how terrible the singer. That’s half the fun, anyway. I hate the people who take it too seriously and act like they’re the next Adele or Sam Smith.
Our drinks arrive and we place our orders, and I’m only half paying attention because the guy currently on stage sings “Slow Train” so effortlessly that I’m almost jealous.
“You want to get up there, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s only the terrible singers,” Arthur says with a pointed jerk to the man behind him, “that make me uncomfortable. And it’s not so much uncomfortable, as it is wanting to take a steak knife and stab out my eardrums.”
“This guy is amazing! And if that’s the case, then I’m definitely not singing.”
Arthur frowns at me. “Why do you do it if you know you’re bad?”
“Because it’s fun! Isn’t there anything you do that you enjoy, even if you’re not the best at it?”
“In my family, there’s no point in doing something if you’re not the best.”
“Life would be incredibly dull if everyone lived that way.” My heart hurts a little for young Arthur, not being able to simply enjoy life for the joy of it. Granted, young Dave probably wouldn’t have either if his parents had paid more attention. Thank god for endless networking evenings and easygoing babysitters.
We talk about the movie and the men, but Arthur seems strangely restless. Funny how that’s usually my default, not his. Finally, he excuses himself, and I decide maybe he had too much soda during the movie or something, but instead of heading toward the restroom, he makes his way back to the karaoke DJ.
Our food arrives at the table before he returns, so I have to swallow my bite of the pizza we decided to split before I can ask him, “What did you just do?”
“Nothing,” he says, and tries to look disinterested as he grabs a slice for himself, even though he’s obviously up to something.
“You know, you don’t pull off innocent very well. You might want to practice in front of a mirror next time.”
Arthur quirks his lip up, then seductively licks his lips before blowing on the pizza to cool it down. When I finally manage to stop staring at his mouth, he gives me a wink.
“Bastard.”
His smile only grows wider, but he continues eating as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
I’ve just made it to my second slice when the DJ announces, “Arthur Yuen and Dave Taylor.”
“I thought you hated karaoke,” I say, totally unable to hide my surprise. I take my napkin and dip it in the water to try to get the pizza grease off my fingers.
“But you don’t.”
“What song did you pick?” I ask as we head toward the DJ and the two microphones he holds out to us.
“It’s a classic. And if you don’t know it, then I no longer buy your claims of karaoke greatness.”
The DJ shows me the song before he clicks it, and I say, “Fuck, yeah, we’re fine.”
The beginning refrain of “Under Pressure” starts and someone from the crowd cheers, “Vanilla Ice, dude!” and Arthur has to put a hand on my shoulder to hold me back.
“Down, boy,” he says, out of hearing range of the microphone.
Fucking Vanilla Ice.
“Which part did you want?” I ask.
Arthur replies, “I’m obviously the David Bowie between the two of us.”
“Unfortunately, I left my leotard at home,” I joke, but Arthur doesn’t get to respond because it’s time to start singing.
I almost stumble over the words in surprise. Arthur has a great voice. No wonder he hates bad singers. The man can fucking sing. That’s okay. I can Freddie falsetto like nobody’s fucking business. And I’ve got the strut down.
Arthur’s eyes twinkle with amusement as we both get into the song, snapping in all the right places. We face each other and sing the lines, Arthur doing a strangely accurate if stiff impression of Bowie. And I go wild. Because Freddie. And fun. And Arthur.
When the song regretfully ends, the crowd politely applauds, even though in my head
it’s thunderous. Because, dammit, we rocked.
“Now that I took your karaoke virginity, what did you think?” I ask him after we sit back down to our meal. “Did you have fun?”
“I was giving you David Bowie realness, and that’s all you have to say? I was fabulous!”
I choke on my drink and it takes me a second to respond. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. You were amazing. Totally channeling Bowie. I had fun watching you.”
Arthur’s twinkle is still there, but warmer and more affectionate somehow. I huff and pretend to pout as I take a bit of the slice I had to drop to go perform, but the twinkle makes me forgive him for all of it.
“You know, I was going to ask for dessert, but now I think I’m going to make you take me back home and give me my dessert there,” I say. “After all that hassle over karaoke, and then you had to go and be amazing at it.”
Arthur smirks. “I think we need to work on your idea of punishment. Speaking of, I was wondering what your schedule was like?”
“Need to block a whole section of time for my punishment, do you? And here I thought I’d been a good boy.”
Arthur pins me with a stern look, but I can’t help that he’s so much fun to mess with.
“No. There’s a pup and handlers group in Denver that I found out about through a kink group here in Fort Collins. I thought it might be fun to try it out, since we’re both so new to the scene.”
It takes me a minute. There’s a lot to unpack in all that, and my brain goes on the fritz.
“Kink group? You’re in a kink group?” My voice rises two octaves too high, but there’s no pulling it back down into my chest. My stomach is already in my throat, blocking the way.
Arthur reaches across the table and takes my suddenly sweaty hands into his.
“Focus. Look into my eyes.”
The feeling of being overwhelmed calms as our gazes connect. His thumbs stroke along my racing pulse in each wrist.
“My friends are members of this kink group, and they have a monthly dinner at McGillicutty’s. It was right after I met you, and I went because I was hoping to learn more about puppy play.”