Michael awoke the next morning and realized he wasn't home. This was clear as soon as he opened his eyes and saw the wall across from him—hospital white and bare except for a framed poster of a red Ferrari. Directly in front of the wall was a black metal chair with a thick blue jacket hanging on the back of it. At its base were two black lace-up boots. Michael knew, in that instant, whose house this was and whose arm was lightly curled around him. Both belonged to Bruce.
Michael closed his eyes again and hazily pieced together the events that had gotten him here. He'd been about to leave the Mirror Ball when he sent Bruce the text "911." It was a code they'd come up with early in their friendship. When they first met at the Mirror Ball, Michael was in one of those periods when he didn't know where Chase was or how to contact him. Bruce, at the time, was between boy toys. Michael and Bruce bonded mostly over their mutual appreciation for twinks. But there was also a Paula Abdul/MC Skat Kat opposites-attract vibe between them; the artsy photographer guy meets the butch cop. They hooked up a few times right off the bat, and while the sex was enjoyable, it was never quite right. Bruce insisted on being the top, and Michael was a rather begrudging bottom. Neither had much stamina for cocksucking, and Bruce was grossed out by rimming—one of Michael's favorite things to do and have done to him.
Michael and Bruce knew that the sex could be better if they practiced at it. But neither wanted to do the work it would take for them to become sexually compatible. They also weren't really sure if a romantic relationship was what they really wanted with each other, anyway. Some of their most enjoyable times were at the Mirror Ball debating the relative hotness of other guys. Eventually Michael and Bruce chose to stop having sex in order to preserve something that, in the context of their lives, seemed more precious: friendship.
But they also had an understanding that if they ever needed each other in a sexual way, if in any given moment, one of them wanted a familiar touch and not the arms, dick or ass of a stranger, they could text "911." It seemed like the perfect plan. They were friends and "in case of emergency" fuck buddies.
This system's launch was a little rocky. Initially, Michael thought that Bruce was abusing the plan by using "911" every time some twink didn't immediately return a text. But this got sorted out after a few stern talks. Shortly thereafter, Michael started seeing Jimmy, and the arrangement was put on hold whenever one of them was dating someone exclusively. Last night marked the first time either one of them had used the code in more than a year. It felt nice.
As Michael lay under Bruce's thick, muscled arm, he wondered if maybe they should give the relationship thing another go. Would it be worth risking their friendship? Were things different enough for it to work now? Both of them still preferred twinks, but that attraction—or, as Sidney would put it, "crippling obsession"—didn't seem to be making either of them happy.
Michael couldn't seem to find a guy who wanted the same things he wanted. Most of the younger guys he talked to either wanted to avoid commitment altogether or jump straight to the wedding ceremony. Michael understood what drove these commitment crazies. There are so few certainties in your 20s that it felt calming to have at least one big life decision settled. But Michael was old enough to know that anything that felt like certainty was probably an illusion. He didn't want to toke on anyone else's pipe dream. The only relationship Michael could believe in was one that took things day-by-day.
The problem with his relationship with Jimmy was that Michael thought it was rushing things to move in together. Michael didn't want to live with anyone at this point. He had too much stuff to focus on. There were still too many things that he wanted to accomplish in life. He needed the space to be selfish and not have someone around all the time, wanting and needing things from him. He loved the time he spent with Jimmy, but he had also liked that Jimmy could go home.
Michael knew that living together wouldn't be an issue if he dated Bruce. If anyone appreciated space, it was Bruce. Maybe if he and Bruce started dating, they could give each other some purpose. Maybe this time it could work.
Lying there in bed, Michael liked the feel of Bruce's big tree branch of an arm around him. He'd liked the sex too. It was better than it had been before. Everything flowed better. When Bruce fucked him, Michael actually enjoyed it. He didn't want it to go on forever, mind you. But it was fine while it lasted.
Michael wondered if potential happiness was right in front of him, or, rather, sleeping behind him. His mind was in the midst of conjuring a multitude of romantic scenarios—snowy weekend getaways, island vacations—when Bruce shifted slightly in his sleep. Michael felt Bruce lift his right leg slightly. Then he unleashed a long, thunderous fart—the sound and smell of which snapped Michael back to reality. He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Bruce, gathered his clothes and quietly headed home.
#
Less than a mile away, in a dorm room at the Rhode Island School of Art and Design, Ziggy's iPhone vibrated on his nightstand. It was his mother.
"This is so not regulation," Ziggy answered, laying back on his bed.
"What?" Traci asked.
"This call," Ziggy said. "It's so off the books."
"What are you talking about."
"Remember, we agreed, no phone calls before 10."
"It's a quarter 'til."
"That wouldn't stand up in court." Ziggy said.
"Besides, I didn't expect you to answer," Traci said.
"Then why'd you call?" Ziggy asked, sitting up.
"I was worried. I called last night and you didn't answer and you didn't text"
"I know," Ziggy said. "I was at a club. It was totally embarrassing. Some guy was holding my phone when you called."
"Why was he holding your phone?" Traci asked.
"Because he was holding my pants." Ziggy explained.
"Why was he holding your pants?"
"It's a really long story." Ziggy sighed.
"I have time."
"Well, I don't. I have class in half an hour." He paused. "Or I could tell you the whole story, but then I'd have to skip class."
"You are ridiculous."
"Hold on for a moment," Ziggy said. Diego from the previous night's underwear contest walked in the room. He'd stayed over at Ziggy's and was returning from the bathroom.
"So, you found it O.K.?" Ziggy asked him.
"Who are you talking to?" Traci asked.
"What was your name again?" Ziggy asked the shirtless man in front of him.
"Diego," the guy said, scratching his balls.
"Diego," Ziggy said into the phone.
"Who is he?" Traci asked.
"Kind of a new friend," Ziggy said. He smiled at Diego and grasped one of his hands.
"The guy who was holding your pants?" Traci asked.
"No, that was a different guy."
Diego moved behind Ziggy on the twin bed and softly kissed his neck.
"Look, mom, I should probably..."
Diego kisses grew faster and he began circling Ziggy's nipples with his fingers.
"Um, I gotta call you back," Ziggy said to his mother, before quickly disconnecting.
He turned toward Diego, who wrapped his arms around Ziggy's thin waist.
"That was your mom?" Diego asked.
"Yeah," Ziggy said, burying his face in the crook of Diego's neck.
"You guy's close?" Diego asked, again running his fingers in circles around Ziggy's now-pointed nipples.
"You could say that," Ziggy said, almost whispering into Diego's ear.
"You close to your dad too?"
Ziggy shook his head. "You couldn't really say that."
"What happened?" Diego asked, his fingers briefly stopping their dance on Ziggy's chest.
Ziggy fell back on the bed. "It's kind of a long story and I have class in half an hour. So either I tell you all about my daddy issues or you can fuck me one more time?"
Diego flipped Ziggy onto his stomach and grabbed a condom from the nightstand.