Chapter Text
“Queer people don't grow up as ourselves, we grow up playing a version of ourselves that sacrifices authenticity to minimise humiliation & prejudice. The massive task of our adult lives is to unpick which parts of ourselves are truly us & which parts we've created to protect us.” –Alexander Leon
Ghost in the Machine, SZA
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If It Makes You Happy, Sheryl Crow
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Falling, Civil Wars
Sunday, December 3rd
CHARLIE
In my last year of secondary, Tori once asked me to describe my dream guy. After years of being bullied for being the first openly gay kid in my school—and months of being toyed with by a fuckboy who thought that if he hated me hard enough it would somehow cancel out him fucking me just as hard—the bar was honestly pretty low.
“Someone I can have a laugh with. And he’s nice, and kind, and likes being with me.” I remember telling her as she fixed me with her signature unimpressed stare, and sipped on her ever-present diet lemonade. Damn, I miss my sister. And, sadly, as low as that bar was, I “dated” a few guys throughout uni who still didn’t quite clear it. So, when I met James in my third year of medical school, I genuinely thought I had found the man of my dreams. And I guess I had, really. But lately, I can’t help but wonder if maybe my dreams had just been too small.
And now, here we are, eight years later…married…and, what? Happy? We aren’t unhappy. James certainly doesn’t seem to be, at least. And, yet, I can’t seem to fight this creeping feeling that something is missing. I love him—of course I do—he’s my best friend, my family. But is that the same thing as being in love with him? I used to think so. There was a time when a good man who I could trust felt like more than I could possibly hope for, and all the ways in which we weren’t right for each other just didn’t seem to matter.
He’s a nice guy, Charlie Spring. He’s cute, and you get along, and he seems to like you. When will you find that again?
You won’t. The darker, more sinister voice in my head had whispered. And that was that.
I’m probably blowing it all out of proportion. Surely it’s normal to get a bit bored after being together so long? I just need to remember how far I’ve come, and to be grateful for what I have: good job, good house, good man, good life. Christ, I really am a prat.
I shake my head to try to clear my thoughts and focus on the sandwich I’m supposed to be eating. I bought it from the hospital cafeteria’s vending machine since I didn’t bring anything with me from home—and, yes, I’m aware of how sad that sounds. It’s not as if there aren’t plenty of other choices available, but it felt like the easiest option for me today.
“Dr. Spring!”
I recognise the voice before even looking up. Imogen seems sweet so far, but also a bit like Midwest Barbie, perky blonde ponytail at the top of her head and all. I tear my gaze away from the table to see her bounding toward me with a simple but charming bouquet in one hand, and a tall, obviously handsome man she’s dragging behind her in the other. Aww, Ken brought her flowers. I smirk to myself.
As they get closer, my smirk falters. Fuck. ‘Ken’ does not do him justice. Christ, I think this might be the hottest man I’ve ever seen. Well done, Imogen. I want to be pleased for her—I think I am, really—but there’s something distinctly less cheerful there as well. Envy? Jealousy? ( Lust… my brain, unhelpfully, provides.) I school my face into what I hope is a friendly smile, and will myself to stop thinking about sinning.
“Dr. Spring, I’d like you to meet my husband, Nicholas!”
The beautiful man reaches his hand out to me, and the idea of getting to touch him feels more exciting than anything that’s happened to me all week. I grasp his hand, and realise I was underselling it—this is definitely the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in ages. His hand is warm and firm in mine, and I swear I can feel electricity thrumming between us. I hold on for a beat longer than I probably should, before I come to my senses and force myself to let him go.
“Hi.” I mentally smack myself for how breathy I sound.
“Hi,” he replies with a lopsided smile that makes me forget my own name. That must be why I just stare after he tells me I can call him Nick, rather than letting him know he should call me Charlie. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to just beneath his elbows, and the top few buttons are undone, exposing a glimpse of chest hair that sends my mind reeling. God.
“Do you mind if we join you?” Imogen asks, looking imploringly at me with her perfectly lined doe eyes.
“No, of course not—feel free!” I think I’m telling the truth, but I still can’t decide if sitting at this table with Imogen and her god of a husband is a blessing or a curse. It feels like both somehow, and that thought sends a little jolt through my body that I’m not sure I want to examine just yet.
“Nick came to have lunch with me! Isn’t that sweet?”
“The sweetest.” I make eye contact with Nick as I say this, a bit surprised at how intense it feels, and he bashfully ducks his head a bit. He does seem sweet, but there’s also something else there. James is sweet too, but James would never even tear my clothes off—Nick looks like he could tear me limb from limb, if he wanted to. Why do I kind of want him to?
“Well, I knew Immy was nervous about coming back to work, so I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”
Surprise indeed. I’ve had several conversations with Imogen, and she’s never once mentioned she was married to sex on legs.
Jesus, reign it in Charles—you act like you’ve never seen an attractive man before. I must be even more pent up than I thought. I’ll have to remind myself to have a wank later.
“What’s your specialty, Dr. Spring?”
Blowjobs.
“Anesthesiology.”
“Dr. Spring is the best!” Imogen chirps. I knew I liked her.
“Is that right?” I know it’s an innocent question, but I can’t seem to fight all the deliciously, dirty subtext whirling around in my brain.
Would you like to find out, Nicholas?
“Well, Imogen here is definitely my favourite nurse,” I say while shooting her a wink. “But, shhh…don’t tell the others.” Imogen seems ridiculously pleased at that, and Nick has a blushy, dazed sort of smile on his face that I imagine comes with the territory of being the doting husband. “What do you do, Nick?” That’s a perfectly acceptable topic of small-talk, I tell myself, and do my best to ignore the fact that my interest in this man is about as far from perfectly acceptable as one can get.
“I’m a third grade teacher.”
“Really?” I try not to give away quite how shocked (and intrigued) I am, but I’m not quite sure I manage it.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You’re very”—I lift my hand and gesture vaguely at him—“large. I thought maybe your job was something more physical.” I cringe internally, and hope I haven’t offended him or made a complete tit of myself.
He smiles mischievously at me. “Have you ever been responsible for a room full of eight-year-olds?”
It’s my turn to laugh at that. “You make an excellent point,” I concede. An incredibly fit primary school teacher with a quick sense of humour—this man really is full of surprises.
“Nick was the star quarterback all through high school and college,” Imogen interjects, while giving her husband a playful nudge. Something flashes briefly across Nick’s face that I can’t quite read, but then he rolls his eyes in a way that seems more fond than exasperated.
“Ah…well, I don’t know much about American football, but I’m guessing you were the head cheerleader?” I’m genuinely not trying to take the piss, but it feels too easy.
“I was!” Imogen grins at me, and I surprise myself with how endearing I find it. I really do like her. Maybe stop eye-fucking her husband then?
“Sounds like a match made in heaven.” I flash them both a quick smile as I crumple up the last bits of my sandwich in its wrapping, gather my things, and stand from the table. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, duty calls. It was nice to meet you, Nick.” I start walking away without giving either of them a chance to respond. I know I probably came off like a bit of a self-centred prick, but I just had to get out of there.
As I head to my next consultation, I can’t help but ruminate on the interaction. Cheer Captain Barbie & Quarterback Ken—high school sweethearts, it seems. They really are cute together. Why does that bother me so much? My mind drifts back to my own marriage. We probably seem cute together too. I wonder when I stopped thinking so?
I’m taken aback by that thought. Have I stopped thinking so? Fuck, what the hell is wrong with me today? Get your head in the game, Spring—you’ve got patients to see.
NICK
I should probably go ahead and admit to myself why I haven't been able to leave this deck and go back inside. At this point, I’m not out here for the fresh air. I’ve been bundled up in my coat and hat, sitting here shivering in our backyard for the last few hours, thinking…thoughts. I blow into my folded hands a few times, hoping to warm them. Okay, I’ll just say it.
I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about Dr. Spring.
And something about going back inside the home I share with my wife while I think thoughts about Dr. Spring feels wrong. Although, it is typical of me to feel extra guilty about anything “sexually impure” on Sundays. I roll my eyes at this thought, both because of how stupid the church is and because I still let some of it get to me.
The only sex my wife and I have now is the most pure kind. The trying-to-conceive kind. The kind our church has apparently made a prayer circle for–something I learned at mass this morning when my mother-in-law took my hand in one of hers and Imogen’s in the other and said, “we’re all praying for our future Nelson grandchild.” And I swear I love Immy’s parents–they’re my family too–but that made me feel physically ill when paired with the stifling cathedral air.
So in a manner of side-stepping my Catholic guilt, I stay outside with my intense fantasies of a fellow married guy. I remember his slender fingers, the elegant wedding band a similar shade of gray to mine. I can’t shake the feeling of a zing in my palm as we shook hands, the zip of energy between us. It was charged – that’s the only way I can describe it. Staring at my hand now, I’m thrilled that I haven’t washed it since I touched Dr. Spring, even if it was just a polite gesture.
God, I feel so fucking creepy.
Okay, I’m sorry, but isn’t a baby prayer circle actually creepy? And me–bisexual me–being attracted to a gorgeous doctor guy and having a little fun with it in the privacy of my own mind is not. Right?
The problem is, I don’t know what I want.
I have realized what I don’t want, though. A baby. I don’t want a baby anymore. The relief I felt last Sunday when Imogen had burst into tears and asked me to go pick up tampons for her was immense. I sat in our driveway for a few minutes, staring at our garage from the driver’s seat of our Pilot thanking God or the universe or my lazy sperm that my wife’s period had come yet again.
I did confide in Mom that I am sick of trying for a baby. That if it’s not happening after two years of this much effort–after ten years of marriage during which we weren’t that careful–maybe it’s not meant to be. She had just listened to me and validated the way I felt, because of course she did. Because Sarah Nelson is the best mom anyone could ask for. She never judges me or Imogen, or even my intense in-laws. Though I know she feels sad about where I’m at with it–less because she wants a grandbaby and more because she can tell I’m unhappy. I don’t think anyone else can read me like her, though.
To everyone else, I am the perfect husband, and we are the perfect couple, and we will have the perfect baby in God’s timing.
I hold my hand up in the dim light of a setting sun, questioning whether this incredibly sexy doctor even remembers my name, let alone felt the stomach turning, intense butterflies that I did. As soon as I think it, I realize how ridiculous I am. Of course he didn’t. He’s a married doctor in the Midwest.
I honestly probably invented the electricity I felt when our skin touched because I am so horny lately I want to die. And when I’m horny, I pretty much have to think of men. But then I feel guilty because what if Imogen felt like she wasn’t enough for me? I already know the answer is that she wouldn’t mind. That she’s always been accepting of my bisexuality, that she finds it hot.
I let myself think the greedy bisexual thought I am not allowed to say.
Is she enough for me, though?
I think that I meet all of Imogen’s needs right now–basically, just to show up with my swimmers and fuck her over and over and over for three entire days every month. A routine we’ve had for the last two years, minus the month after the miscarriage this past summer.
I cannot remember the last time sex felt spontaneous or even satisfying for me. It’s kinda like getting on a treadmill to me at this point. Actually the treadmill at the gym is way more sexually satisfying for me because I get to stare at hot guys while I run.
What’s the difference if I think about a hot doctor when I’m bored, then?
(No, I have not unpacked this medical sex boredom or my queer shame with a therapist. Yes, I know I should. But do you know how hard it is to find a bisexual male-affirming therapist in the state of Kansas?)
I finally break down halfway through my deck-ruminating and go back inside to make myself a hot cocoa because I really just want to use the Christmas mugs I set out earlier. And this kind of deep thought requires chocolate. The air inside our house is warm, and the lighting is inviting even if our home is basically all gray and white. My students’ bright artwork smiles off the wall where I tack up my favorites throughout the year, adding the messy color I crave. Wedding photos are blown up into canvases that are perfectly spaced and hung over the couch. Boxes of Christmas decorations are shoved along the wall where I tossed them after bringing them up from the basement. It’s all so very…fine. It’s just nice and fine.
I toss a piece of firewood in the fireplace and make a mental note to go chop the wood outside Mrs. Kenega’s house tomorrow. She has lived alone since her husband died last year, and I just worry about her. She was my fourth grade teacher–one of the reasons I got into teaching.
My phone buzzes.
Imogen: fml I’m finally off. A mama gave a valiant final push and got her baby out. Epidurals be working today. Jealous of her but I’m proud of her too. All the things. I need a husband hug.
I feel guilty for immediately wondering whether Dr. Spring is the one who placed said epidural for this patient, so I overcompensate with a loving response.
Nick: Immy that must have been hard. I’m so proud of you, for going back. I know it’s not easy some days.
Nick: sweet husband hug awaits you xx
Nick: and/or ugly baby judging man awaits. Either or. Was it cute or nah?
Imogen: You can’t call babies IT, Nick. But he was so cute 😣
Nick: babe 🥺 come home, fire’s on. We can talk
I grab a blanket and head back outside to the comfy patio furniture that Imogen’s dad randomly bought for us at a Labor Day sale. I would have chosen a nice, happy green myself, but they went with gray since they were surprising us. It’s fine. It was nice of him.
I sip my hot chocolate and curl back up under my blanket– the one my mom made. It’s one of our purple Kansas State blankets that we take to all the home football games because we have season passes. It has #10 on it from my quarterback days, plus NELSON / HOLIDAY BOWL CHAMPIONS. We won that bowl game my senior year of college 11 years ago now.
I let out a breath I was holding, and I can see it swirl white through the cold air. It reminds me that I’m back outside, where I’ve invented the rule that I can think about him.
The thing is, I haven’t been this physically attracted to a man in a long time. Other than when we go to Pride every summer and I let my guard down and embrace my queerness. Imogen wears a BI HUSBAND ENERGY shirt and enthusiastically supports me. It’s probably the most me I ever feel, because it’s just not something anyone around here cares to know about.
I can’t tell what my brain is doing right now – it’s like I’m trying to eclipse this hot doctor with my wife out of guilt. But, honestly, Immy probably thinks he’s hot too…right? It’s been a long time since she had any interest in a threesome fantasy, but maybe I could distract her from ovulation tracking for one fucking night.
Out of curiosity, I let my mind go there for a brief moment. I dip my toe in the pool of a threesome with the hot doctor.
A tidal wave of dark curls, thick lashes and Navy blue scrubs from earlier in the hospital cafeteria slams into me, and I am utterly ashamed that I feel myself getting hard.
His legs wrapped around my waist as I easily lift his lithe body against the wall and slam my hips into him. His nails digging into my back. His stubble against my neck.
FUCK.
I’ve got to get over my Catholic guilt and start watching gay porn again.
The thing is, my wife wouldn’t even care. She’s tried to get me to indulge in it over the years because she used to like it, too. In college (during our on again periods) we’d enjoy porn together, plus a few actual threesomes. And it was hot at the time. When we were inevitably off again , I’d go hook up with guys, where I’d collect dirty stories of my escapades and later tell her in this insanely erotic game of whispery foreplay. She was into it, and I felt so…incredibly lucky back then. I still do now, to be clear. I know how good my wife is.
She’s beautiful and kind. She’s full of energy and brings people together. She’s going to be an incredible mom. I feel like a complete jerk for even whining about sex internally when she’s so wonderful and I chose this. I agreed to have a baby.
The blue eyes and dark hair and easy, confident smile tear through my thoughts again.
I wonder why he lives here? Why is there a random British anesthesiologist in fucking Kansas? Or maybe his family lives on the Missouri side.
I bite my lip, wondering if Dr. Spring has ever had a threesome with his wife. The thought makes me intensely jealous.
I whip my phone out, erection of guilt in full force as that wave of curls and lashes and lips washes over me again, and I type his name and title into Google. I tap a few links and there he is.
A badge clipped to a crisp, white lab coat that says Charles F. Spring, MD: Anesthesiologist, L&D, Overland Park Regional Medical Center.
His Provider Spotlight page on the hospital website is another tap away. In the photo, Dr. Charles Spring is in dark green scrubs, his arms crossed over his chest with an easy smile. His hair is perfect, and his eyes jump off the page. I can imagine his lashes grazing my cheek, and it’s somehow hotter than the idea of fucking him against a wall. I swallow hard.
Jesus. He is absolutely gorgeous.
Dr. Spring looks younger than he is, according to the fast math I do while scrolling through his background and experience in the UK. It puts him at just a few years younger than me, and it’s hard to believe he’s like 32 years old. How this man has accomplished this much with the rigorous doctor requirements, then his specialty, plus being from another country…I can’t imagine. Being a teacher has felt so second nature to me, been so enjoyable most of the time that I feel like I cheated somehow. After soaking up the spotlight as a famous quarterback, I got to just prance right into my favorite school and take over my own third grade spot.
God that was so embarrassing when Immy said I played football. He probably thinks I am such a tool. Europeans hate American football.
I had tried to play it off, stifling my own discomfort so that Imogen didn’t feel uncomfortable. And to be fair, I haven’t really talked to her about any of this. Mostly because our football and cheerleading days hold a lot of good memories, and I don’t want to taint them with my existential dread about my queerness. Still, I really didn’t want Dr. Spring to know that. It doesn’t represent who I am anymore.
Who the fuck am I, then?
Great question. I tear my eyes away from Dr. Spring’s on the screen, locking it without swiping out of the window. Instead I force myself to look at the cold, dreary December sky. It’s comforting to me. It means the holidays are officially here, and I can throw myself into hanging lights for neighbors and planning which family events Immy and I will host. Even mediating the cousin drama that always breaks out over White Elephant is entertaining to me in a predictable way that I can always rely on for a laugh. I then wonder where Dr. Spring goes for the holidays. Does he go home to England? Is his wife British too?
God, his fucking accent.
I kind of hate admitting even to myself that I like it. Imogen has always swooned over British men, and I think I just scoffed at them on principle at the time. But I am sure as fuck changing my tune after that lunch.
So wait, is he technically her boss? I’m honestly not sure how a doctor like him fits among nurses like Imogen, and she’s new to this hospital. She’s so good at making friends, it’s not unlike her to end up hanging out with people several steps above her pay grade. I swipe to unlock my phone and his face is still there. I swallow even harder and zoom in on his smile, his lips, his eyes, his ears disappearing in soft curls.
My dick jumps, and I sigh loudly, frustratedly groaning before I lock my phone yet again and shove it in my jacket pocket. I take a long breath in through my nose, noticing the scent of our pine tree, of our neighbors fire pit aflame. The last of dried up leaves are clinging to the many trees that line our property, making neighbors easier to spy on. Well, in my case: easier to wave to, then get sucked into an over the fence conversation about how public schools have gone to hell. Both sides of the political spectrum say this for different reasons, and I’m very good at engaging them lightheartedly.
Did I mention Dr. Spring’s eyes? Or his soft hair? Or his fucking dimples?
I don’t think I did swoon over his dimples enough.
When the garage door opens, that’s what snaps me out of it. Or, rather, it gets me to lock my phone and act like a real person again for the first time since I met him earlier today.
A door slams and keys hit our countertop.
When my wife sing-songs a bubbly, “Honey bunny! I’m home!” I find myself struggling with whether to stand because my erection has not calmed itself. Fuck.
I don’t know if it’s just that I’m sick to death of having sex on a schedule, if our marriage needs a break from trying to conceive, if I’m just a really shitty husband deep down, or if this doctor man is really that beautiful.
But I don’t think this situation in my jeans is going anywhere until it’s taken care of. The thought of making my own desire a priority, of asking Imogen for sex when I know she’s not ovulating, both scares me and thrills me.
I walk back inside, sniffling from the cold, carrying my blanket and empty Christmas mug.
“Nicholas! You brought up the Christmas stuff! You diligent hubby, you!” God, she is pretty cute. What the fuck am I whining about?
“Hi, Sweetie.” I kiss her cheek, wrap my arms around her, and rest my cheek on her head. She’s so much shorter than I am, and it’s always seemed like we fit together perfectly. I think I once wrote her a sappy love note about how she’s my puzzle piece. The thought nags at me, irritates me at this moment.
She kisses me lightly, it’s a peck. It feels like a handshake. And the handshake from Dr. Spring feels pornographic in comparison. Jesus hell, what is wrong with me?
She walks over to the sink with my mug, rinsing it and humming O Come All Ye Faithful before I decide to try. I walk up behind her, willing myself to be turned on by her. I breathe in her hair, leaning forward to wrap my front against her back, arms circling her waist where it hides under loose, pink nursing scrubs. I kiss her neck, trying to remind myself to act like myself so she doesn’t suspect my impure, gay thoughts about her coworker.
“Um, hi?” she says, giggling. I hear a soft, nervous laugh escape my mouth. She sets the mug in the drying rack, reaching for another. I can hardly remember feeling this way—where I am hot and bothered and I want sex. Do I want her? I try to push off thoughts of him. I try to focus on her soft hair and will myself to run my hands through it, gently letting it down out of the ponytail it’s been tied up in for work.
“Can I help you!?” Imogen says, turning in my arms, a smile spreading. She makes a small, surprised gasp, feeling the front of my jeans. Dr. Spring’s face flashes in my mind, and I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s like next level greedy repressed bisexual. But I pretend it’s his hand. And the thought makes my hips buck of their own accord. My face flushes red, and I try to think of what to say to this woman, the one I’ve been with for nearly two decades. The one I’m supposed to know better than anyone. And I come up empty. I swallow hard, and all I can see is the image of Dr. Spring between me and the wall of some mystery room my brain had conjured up in that fantasy. I desperately want to be in that room.
“I…Yes?” I still can’t form words, hoping she just gets it and tumbles into bed with me. Or better yet, that she tells me to go have a wank, as the Brits say. His fucking accent. “Please?”
If she says no, I’m going to get off as soon as she falls asleep because I can’t think straight.
“Nick! Oh my god!” Imogen squeals when my wandering hands are up her shirt, and she swats them. I see a flicker of hesitation in her that, at first glance, I chalk up to the whole don’t waste your semen when I’m not ovulating thing. I pull my hands out, feeling really guilty.
“I’m…sorry. I just. I guess…I just wanted to have sex without our schedule. You know? It’s okay if you aren’t in the mood, of course…” I have no idea how to stop rambling, how to keep myself in check so I don’t hurt her feelings. She looks like she’s deep in thought, chewing the inside of her cheek.
My erection hardens, Dr. Spring’s hips smashing mine cloud my thoughts while my wife considers whether she’s willing to waste my good semen tonight. That, or whether she actually wants me. I sometimes feel like I am a sperm bank, like I can’t remember the last time I felt like Imogen actually wanted me. The thought starts to make me sad, so I shove it down. I try to focus on the present moment. I lick my lips.
“No Nick…I’m the one who should be sorry. I don’t want you to feel like you don’t matter too. I know it’s okay to have sex between cycles, we can still go again when I ovulate, right?” She’s thinking out loud.
I nod eagerly and she sighs, standing on her tiptoes to kiss me. I close my eyes as I tentatively slip my tongue in her mouth, pretending it’s Dr. Spring’s mouth instead. I’m painfully hard, desperate to be put out of my misery. I’m starting to wish I’d have just taken a shower before she came home and gotten down to business myself.
Just when I start to feel like my dick will break off from arousal, she takes my hand, pulling me toward our bedroom.
When we’re both in our underwear, she’s chewing the inside of her cheek again. I have a thought.
“You know we can just have sex because it feels good, right? Like, you’re allowed to enjoy it?” I risk running my palm down her stomach to the top of her silky, purple underwear and the subtext of my questions is that she’s so obsessed with getting pregnant she forgot what else sex is for.
Imogen doesn’t answer my question with words, but nods, pulling her underwear off and me on top of her. She is warm and safe and she feels like a blank canvas to me in this moment. I realize we’ve both been doing this all wrong: Focusing on some pure, loving, baby-making bullshit when we are allowed to fantasize.
I settle my head between her legs, something we haven’t done in a long time–to the point I thought I must be really bad at giving head–and lick and flick until she’s shaking and flipping me on my back. When she inevitably crawls on top to ride me, I toy with my idea for a final guilty moment before giving in. Before painting over her in my mind completely so I can indulge in something with Dr. Spring instead. I let myself pretend it’s his legs on either side of my hips. It’s been so long since I’ve had a cock slide back and forth on my stomach, and I let myself imagine his there, heavy and slick. I lay my palm flat over my belly, eyes closed tight, and I can feel the sensation of him fucking down onto me while I hold his cock. I can hear his smooth British accent saying, “You feel so good! Fuck me, Nick!” I picture myself stroking him until I feel the long-lost sensation of cum hitting my neck. I cry out through the most intense orgasm I can remember having, pouring everything I have into not shouting his name.
CHARLIE
I did my best to stay present, but was definitely in a bit of a daze the rest of the day. I couldn’t stop thinking about my husband—not to mention Imogen’s. Christ, that is a beautiful man. Now that I’m driving home for the evening, I let my mind properly wander to thoughts of Nick. And, fuck, what I wouldn’t give to wander over him properly. He’s tall, and broad, and looks as if he probably has muscles I didn’t even know existed. (And that’s coming from a doctor.) But he also has kind, amber eyes and a warm, lopsided smile that made my heart skip a beat.
I’ve never really thought of myself as having “a type”. James, honestly, isn’t too dissimilar to myself. His hair is lighter, with looser waves, and his frame isn’t quite as small as mine—but, all in all, we could probably fall into the category of stereotypical gays that look like their partner. (Ben and I probably could have as well—if he had ever admitted we were dating—or, you know, that he was gay.) And the handful of guys I was with in uni, a few for no longer than a night, are honestly all sort of a blur now. I had found each of them attractive enough, sure, but nothing about any of them really stands out in my mind all these years later.
But Nick…christ! He’s my opposite in practically every way, and it’s fucking doing things to me. God, I wish he would do things to me. Maybe I have a type after all?
I pull into the garage of our Tudor Revival home, and find myself relieved when James’s car isn’t here. I head straight to the lounge and pour myself a glass of whiskey. I take a much larger gulp than I normally would, because who am I kidding? This is definitely about trying to relieve some of the thoughts that have been gnawing at me all day, not enjoying the taste of the several-hundred-dollar spirit. I head into the kitchen where I see James has left me a note. Most people would just send a text, but my husband has to try to be cute. Is cute. Fuck. I take another large swig, hating myself a little bit more than usual.
Sweetie,
I have a dinner meeting tonight, so I won’t be home until late. I made that lasagna you liked so much last time, and left it in the fridge for you. Just pop it in the oven for a bit to heat it up. xx
All my love,
James
Perfect. My fucking husband is perfect. I set my drink down on the counter and press the heels of my palms into my eyes. What is wrong with me? I have so much…why isn’t it enough? I think about preheating the oven for a fleeting second, but know I won’t be able to bring myself to eat the dinner my husband lovingly prepared for me. I grab my whiskey and head up to my bedroom. My bedroom. Considering the generous size of our home, it made sense to each have our own rooms—and it’s not as if we don’t have a shared bedroom as well—but, still, something about the thought just amplifies the uneasy feeling inside my chest.
When we first looked at the house, I had loved it. I still do, in ways—it’s beautiful, after all. But it’s big, and a bit impersonal, and spends a large majority of its time unoccupied. And I guess I can’t help but feel like it’s just one giant metaphor for my marriage. Seemingly perfect at first glance, but a bit empty once you’re really in it. Maybe I’ll actually decorate for Christmas this year.
Once upstairs, I slip out of my clothes and flop down on the bed in just my briefs. I can feel the liquor buzzing through my system, slowly starting to dull the ache I’ve been fighting off all day. My mind drifts back to the only other thing I’ve managed to think about in the last seven hours, meeting Imogen’s husband. God, that man. I can’t imagine the golden couple having separate bedrooms. They probably fuck every chance they get. The thought makes me irrationally angry, and also a little hard. If I had Nicholas Nelson…my mind runs wild thinking of all the different ways I could finish that sentence. His large hands roaming all over my body. His perfect, pink lips stretched around my cock as I tug on his honey blonde hair. The debauched noises I’d make as he opens me up for him. Fuck, and now I’m completely hard. Well, I guess I was supposed to remind myself to have a wank.
I stand up to pull off my briefs, and take another gulp of the whiskey from my bedside table. As I set my glass down, I eye the top drawer. Fuck it. I open it up and pull out the lube I keep in there—might as well make an event out of it. I’ve been too tired and busy to get off in days, and I can’t remember the last time I actually put in the time or effort to make it more than just okay. (And I certainly can’t remember the last time I actually had sex with my husband, but that’s not a path I need to go down right now.)
I get back on the bed, open up the bottle, and pour a small amount into my left palm. I grab my erection—careful at first to spread the lube so the majority actually stays on my dick, rather than dripping right off—and start stroking myself. I resume my thoughts of all the depraved things I’d love to do with Nick. I try to picture what he’d look like completely naked, though somehow I know it’s probably better than anything my imagination could come up with.
He’s standing in front of me, an endless expanse of creamy skin dappled with freckles, and I want to count every one with my tongue. I sink to my knees and look up at him through dark lashes. He takes his cock in his hand and rubs my cheek with it. It’s somehow achingly tender and deliciously filthy simultaneously, and I let out a high-pitched whine.
“Do you want this?” he asks me, cock still in hand.
“Yes,” I pant, “I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life.”
I stare up at him, eyes blazing, just waiting for him to let me have what I want. What I need. He nods down at me, and I move forward, taking his head in my mouth. I run my tongue around it and he makes this delicious rumbling sound in his chest, and suddenly I feel like I’m completely untethered. I put a hand around the base of his cock, and move it in tandem with my mouth as I devour him hungrily.
“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he moans.
I feel myself getting close and tighten my grip. Fuck, I wish this was his hand around me. I start stroking faster and imagine Nick coming down my throat after I blow him within an inch of his life. Then I picture him on his knees in front of me.
“Come for me, Charlie,” he begs, looking completely fucked out and wrecked.
I cry out as my orgasm hits me, imagining it’s Nick’s face I’m painting with my cum rather than my own abdomen. Fuck.
I stay like that for a few minutes, the initial feeling of blissful release slowly morphing into slightly uncomfortable shame. I head to the ensuite to clean myself up, and then throw on some sleep clothes. I consider going back downstairs to eat something, but the mere thought is exhausting and I’d rather just go to sleep, so I climb back into bed.
Not once did I consider heading to the bedroom I share with my own husband.