Circles: An M|M Contemporary Romance

SIX

What happened last night?

I searched my weed and alcohol addled brain for an explanation. I went out for a couple of drinks with the guy I met on Grindr. Erik-or-Eirik, with a mop of dirty-blonde hair and icy blue fuck-me eyes. A perfect dick and an even more perfect ass.

Did I wear protection? Yes. Erik-or-Eirik insisted on it, and I couldn't be more thankful for thoughtful, considerate bed partners. I checked the trash bin anyway, just to make sure. Yup, we used condoms.

The sheets beside me have long been cold. The guy must've left not long after I'd fallen asleep, around half-past three in the morning. My mind was a haze, but I think Erik-or-Eirik's parting words were something along the lines of, "Gotta' go, babe. This bussy's always busy. If you're up for seconds, you know where to reach me." I snorted a laugh before blacking out.

He was a good lay. A great lay. Unfortunately, I don't do repeats. Never will. It's against my rules on hookups. I just—don't do relationships. The very idea of it sounded like too much work, and I already got my hands full of it.

Sex, for me, has become a physical need. But I prefer to keep it straight (or not, if you know what I mean) and simple—no strings attached. Sure, you can keep me company overnight. Kiss and pillow-talk if we must. I'm not some cold, heartless bastard who'd kick you out in the middle of the night after giving each other what we need.

But that's where I draw the line. One of my rules is that you don't park your shoes on my bed. I'm not in it for the long haul.

Thomas Monsen does not fuck anybody twice.

My stomach rumbled. I breathed out a sigh as I sat up in bed and gingerly made my way to the bathroom. I feel like a complete and total wreck. Should I report to work today? Just let my assistant reschedule today's appointments?

No. I don't want to disappoint anyone. Because then I'll be disappointed in myself.

I leaned against the sink, staring at myself in the mirror as I counted down the seconds. And then, my eyes trailed down the dull pink scar running down the center of my chest. A stern reminder that I'd never want to endure another major procedure again. That somehow, it's become a responsibility to take care of this body.

I didn't like what I saw. Didn't like what I'm feeling. I'm sure as hell there's no way to feel good again. Ever.

Just. What's the point of it all, really?

Before I let unwanted, intrusive thoughts eat away at me, I turned on the faucet and reached into the medicine cabinet above the sink. I found a bottle of aspirin, swallowed two tablets, and chased them down with handfuls of tap water.

And I waited, and waited, and waited for the pain to subside.

Tylenol used to do the trick for me. But when a GP found out I'm barely sober most days, she advised me not to take them, especially when I'm hungover.

"Alcohol in the system could worsen Tylenol's toxic effects on the liver," she said with her well-practiced physician's tone.

Ha. Like I'd need Tylenol for that. Copious amounts of alcohol would do the dirty job. Right?

I was washing my face when I heard my phone ringing somewhere in the bedroom. Towel in hand, I stepped out of the bathroom and looked around the bedroom. My clothes from last night were still strewn all over the floor. The phone rang incessantly, until it stopped about a couple seconds before I found it, wedged into the pocket of my pants.