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One sudden horrific moment shifts the entire trajectory of Atlas and Errol's lives, handicapping both young men in ways they could never have expected. A sculptor without his sight, and a piani...
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Errol
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Could I possibly also get a pair of pants?
One sentence.
Who knew it only took one sentence to threaten the very state of my sheer will tonight. Maybe it was cause he said it while he was still half naked. Or started to undo the remaining buttons on those trousers once I managed a barely passable "yes." Now he was in nothing but his briefs and somehow I was still supposed to give him clothes to cover all this up.
Now why the fuck would I want to do that? I asked myself, as I took a step towards him.
"Errol! Errol?" my father called.
That was why, I thought.
I knew the sound of this home well enough to know exactly where he was now. This would be the time were I'd start cleaning up whatever reckless shit I was doing in my adolescence, like smoking a joint, or jerking off to porn. You get to know every single creak in your household when your rebellious childhood relies on it.
His proximity to the last wing of our home, the side my room was nestled in the corner of, threw me off completely. Instead I went from lusting over this almost fully naked man, to dressing him faster than a NASCAR mechanic during the heat of a race.
I cut it close, so close I could hear my fathers footsteps outside my door as I unlocked and swung it open. He still had his hand extended like he was about to try the knob himself.
"Oh-" Was the first word he said, sounding a bit taken back. "It took you guys so long, I thought you might've forgot where your room was." There was that very friendly yet polite smile he always had, but it genuinely widened when he spotted Atlas behind me past the door frame. "You two ready?" He asked "the food's gunna get cold."
I gave him a firm "yes," praying that whatever I was going to have to endure with my dick tucked uncomfortably up my briefs to conceal my hard on, was a quick endeavor.
I wished to report everything went about as smooth as butter... but that could only correlate if we were referencing chunky peanut butter, the most offensive of the peanut butters. Atlas and I sat across from my father awkwardly, with my father talking a mile a minute, asking about Atlas's inspirations, and Atlas doing his absolute best to keep track of the conversation.
The flushed complexion never left him, which was a dead giveaway that he was still thinking about what transpired less than an hour ago. What we did in that room. What we were about to do in that room.
There was a brief moment when my father left us alone to go grab another bottle of wine, and I said to hell with it for a moment, broke character, and announced to Atlas quietly from across the table "we're leaving here in thirty minutes."
