A dick. That was my gay awakening.

Granted, I kissed Josh once in a locker room back in high school, but that's all it was—a kiss.

Sure, it was a kiss I'd replay in my head occasionally, but not for the reasons you'd think. It was more like replaying a weird scene from a movie: intriguing, but not exactly arousing.

I'd considered myself asexual after that.

So, no, I wasn't about to revisit that part of my life. Yet here I was, with Ronald—the walking embodiment of bad decisions—trying to pull me into his ridiculous world.

"We should go clubbing tonight," Ronald slurred, spilling whiskey on my counter for the third time.

"Nah," I said immediately. "Hard pass."

The fact that this buffoon was even in my house was already a testament to my commitment to blending in.

"Come on, man, you always say no. Don't you want to have fun for once?" He poured himself another drink, spilling more whiskey than he actually consumed.

"Excuse me for a second." I plastered on a fake smile and slipped out of the room before I could lose my composure.

In the bathroom, I locked the door and took a deep breath, gripping the sink to steady myself. The thought of smashing his head against the wall flickered briefly in my mind. Not because I wanted to hurt him, per se, but because it seemed like the most efficient way to end this conversation.

Once I felt composed enough not to act on impulse, I fished my phone out of my pocket and called Elle.

Her voice came through the speaker, dripping with irritation. "What do you want, Mark?"

"Five stars for the attitude," I said cheerfully. Elle was my therapist, though she hated when I referred to her that way.

"Seriously, what is it? I was in the middle of having mind-blowing sex when you called."

"Charming," I muttered. "Where exactly did you get your license again?"

She laughed. "What's the problem this time?"

"I can't do this anymore."

"What, exactly, can't you do?" she asked, her tone exasperated.

"This. Pretending to actually like that idiot out there."

"Ronald?"

"Obviously."

"And what did he do this time?"

"He keeps inviting himself over to my house. He spills things like a toddler, laughs at his own jokes, and now he wants me to go clubbing with him."

"That's what friends do, Mark. If you're pretending to be his friend, then act like it."

I gritted my teeth, knowing she was right. As much as I wanted to throw him out, I needed Ronald. He was my "social camouflage." My way in with society.

"Do I really have to go clubbing?"

"Do you think you're ready for it?"

Her words hung in the air like a challenge.

"Fine," I said eventually. "But if I hate it, remember it's your job to listen to me whine about it for weeks."

"I'm already regretting this conversation," she said dryly. "Try to have fun, Mark."

As soon as I stepped out of the bathroom, Ronald pounced. "Dude, you good?"

"Peachy," I replied, my tone saccharine enough to make him back off.

I don't know why I agreed to go, but twenty minutes later, we were standing in a club. The place was packed with sweaty bodies grinding against each other like animals in heat. The music was deafening, and the air reeked of alcohol and poor decisions.

This was fun? I'd rather sit through a dental procedure.

"Dude, that blonde by the bar is checking you out," Ronald said, elbowing me in the ribs.

I followed his gaze to the blonde in question. She was attractive in the conventional sense, but her interest in me was wasted.

"You should invite her over. If you're lucky, she might go home with you."

Absolutely not. I wasn't bringing another human into my house, especially not someone who thought this cesspool was a good place to meet people.

"I need the restroom," I said instead, excusing myself.

"Again? You sure have a pea-sized bladder," Ronald laughed at his own joke. I forced a chuckle in response. Dealing with him required an extraordinary amount of patience.

The line for the restroom was mercifully long, giving me a moment to recharge. My social battery was drained, and we'd only been here for an hour.

The guy who cut in front of me earlier, scrolled through his phone, glancing at me occasionally. With his phone in view, I could see he was watching cat videos. At least someone was enjoying themselves.

"Hey, Josh!"

A random redhead pops up in front of the line-cutter and grabs him in a hug. The idiot almost knocks over the barrier rope, but it's not him I'm focused on.

Josh.

I'd recognize those eyes anywhere, even though most of his face is hidden behind a mask.

Golden-brown, warm and piercing. A contradiction. Just like him.

He pulls back from the guy's embrace almost immediately. Even with the mask, I can tell how uncomfortable this makes him.

"I tried calling, but it never went through!
I'm so happy to see you again," the redhead gushes, moving in for another hug. Josh sidesteps it.

"Uh... hi," Josh stammers. He has no idea who this guy is. I've been there enough times to know.

The line shuffles forward slightly, and as much as l hate involving myself in other people's business, I hear myself cut in:

"Hey, the line's moving."

Josh glances at me, and for a split second, those golden-brown eyes lock onto mine again. I feel something tugging at the edges of my chest. It's unsettling.

"Sorry," he mutters, then turns back to the redhead. "Hey, let's catch up later, okay?
Wait for me at the bar."

Josh moves ahead in the line, dragging my attention with him. I follow.

Does he recognize me? Did that flicker of connection mean anything to him, or am I deluding myself?

He doesn't look back again, and I'm left counting backward in my head to calm down. Until-

"Are you pressed?"

The voice is soft, almost teasing. I open my eyes, and there he is, leaning casually against the wall, watching me.

I glance behind me, confused, but no one else reacts. He's definitely talking to me.

"Are you talking to me?" I ask, just to be sure.

"Yeah," he says with a chuckle. "You look like you need to go. Like, yesterday."

My mouth opens, but no words come out.
What the hell is wrong with me? Have I caught Ronald's terminal idiocy?

Josh steps closer, his voice dropping lower. "I don't think this line's going anywhere. I know a better spot."

Before I can answer, he turns and starts walking away, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "So, you coming or what?"

Against every shred of common sense, I follow him.

Why am I doing this? Does he know who l am, or is this just... what? Him being nice? My heart is hammering in my chest like I'm some clueless teenager, not a grown man who usually doesn't give a damn about people.

We climb a set of stairs, the pounding bass of the club fading into muffled vibrations.
The hallway he leads me into is quieter, almost eerily so. The walls feel too close, the air too thick.

"This way," he says, stopping in front of a door that says STAFF ONLY. He pushes it open effortlessly and motions for me to go in.
"It says 'Staff Only," I mutter, hesitating.

Josh laughs, a low, breathy sound. "Did I say something funny?" I ask, annoyed.

"Not really. Just... never mind." He sighs and steps inside, and against my better judgment, I follow him again.

The bathroom is pristine-silent, clean, and far removed from the chaos downstairs. For once, I feel grateful.

Josh heads straight to the urinals, undoing his belt as if I'm not even there. "So," he says casually while relieving himself, "what are you doing here? You don't exactly seem like the club type."

I bristle. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means what it means."

"And what is the 'club type, exactly?" Josh glances sideways at me, amused.

"The fact that you're asking says it all." His tone is infuriating. I storm toward him, ready to snap back when-

Oh.

His dick is right there.

I can't look away.

Protruding head. Circumcised. Veins winding around it like art. Clean-shaven.

My throat goes dry. My mind blanks. All the scathing words I had lined up dissolve into static.

"Hey," his voice snaps me out of it, sharp but not unkind. "A little privacy?"

I spin around so fast I nearly trip over my own feet. My skin feels hot, prickling like I've been shoved too close to an open flame.

What the hell was that? Why couldn't l stop staring?

Worse, why did I like it?

I press my palms to the sink, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest. Every rational thought tells me to leave, to forget this ever happened, but instead, all I can think about is—

Him.

His dick.

The way my hand might feel running over it, tracing those veins, making him-

No. Stop.

I can't stop.

And my body isn't listening either.

I look down and see the evidence of my betrayal straining against my jeans.

This can't be happening.

This cannot be happening.

Authors note:
Word count: 1580
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