Page 77 of Knot Just for Show

My eyes never leave her, Ursula winding on tipsy feet to a small opening in the crush of people—a bank of color changing lights swiveling directly above her—a mirrored disco ball throwing tiny glowing squares of refracted rainbow reflection over her and the other dancers as she begins to move.

I do my best to stuff down the knee jerk tug of jealousy that gnaws at me as I see Lysander and Teddy approach her from the fringes of the crowd.

I’ve always struggled with the idea of sharing my mate, even with a pack I’ve already bitten into…something about my nature, I guess. Just a little selfish streak I’ve never been able to fully kick.

Holding my breath, I wait for the jealousy to bloom like emerald flames deep within my heart…but instead, something surprising happens; my pulse quickens, my breath escaping me in a bewildered sigh as I watch Lysander approach Ursula from behind—his hands creeping over her hips—his lips already at the side of her neck.

It’s all that I can do to focus on the click track—the amount of time before I have to start transitioning to the next song in my set as I watch Teddy close the distance between himself and Ursula—their bodies drifting toward one another with the inevitable gravity of attraction.

Then she’s kissing Teddy—his tongue sweeping through her mouth, Lysander reaching over Ursula’s shoulder to hook his finger under her jaw—turning her face away from Teddy toward his own—his full lips crushing hers with hungry intensity.

The thoughts begin to rush in all at once—Lysander and Teddy—the two of them pouring themselves over Ursula; their bodies a tangle of limbs and mouths—Ursula surrendering to the ultimate pleasure of taking Teddy’s knot.

Fuck.

Where the hell did that come from!?

I shake off the wave of heat that courses through me—making sure I move into the next funkier, downbeat nu-disco tune even though I’m still reeling from those unexpected, powerful fantasies.

Something tells me, it’s going to be a wild week…and we’ve only just begun.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Teddy

Iam no stranger to the club.

Barback, Promoter, Bouncer, and—for a few months in my 20s when rent was just out of my reach—a muscular dude in a gold speedo covered in baby oil shimmying in a hanging cage.

Whether I was chasing tail, working, net-working, or just trying to unwind on a Friday night—I’ve spent plenty of time in nightclubs during my fuckboy career.

Never once have I ever danced with a girl who looks like Ursula.

I haven’t said anything to the guys, because—well…none of them have said anything about it and it feels weird to bring attention to the fact that I never would have given a girl like Ursula a second chance outside of this experiment.

Just thinking the thought makes me feel shitty and shallow, but it’s the truth. My moms raised me with a healthy respect for women’s bodily autonomy…but as far as attraction went, I got most of my messaging from all sorts of media that seemed to reinforce the idea that ‘hot women’ are all frighteningly thin—most of them blond and white.

Of course I heard my Ma’s lectures about ‘euro-centric beauty standards’ while I was growing up, not just to heal her own emotional wounds—but in an attempt to help me deal with my own struggles as a multi-racial teen. Admittedly, they largely went in one ear and out the other…but right around now I’m wishing I listened a little more closely so that I wasn’t left so fucking clueless now.

The strangest thing of all? When I take a deeper look at what might seem to be ‘objectionable’ about Ursula’s appearance—her commitment to her oversized spectacles, her eccentric wardrobe, and most controversially—her weight; I realize that I actually don’t object to any of these things. I’ve been told what I should like my entire life, but only in this moment am I really understanding that what I’ve been told that I like and what I actually like—might be different things entirely.

As I stand, just shy of arm’s reach from her, watching Ursula begin to move with the slowed-syrupy movements of intoxication to the music; the fabric of her sheer dress clingingto the soft curves and rolls of her body, the ease with which she surrenders herself to the music—eyes closed, lips parted, the lights making the perspiration glitter along her hairline.

I’ve partner danced with plenty of women before. Always, and ever a performance—calculated steps—for class or competition.

Never have I wanted to touch my dancing partner’s body like this—to feel the heat where we press against one another and move to the music purely for the joy of it—the sensuality of body to body.

Watching Lysander’s hands start to creep over the soft, yielding bow of Ursula’s hips as he slips in behind her, his pelvis nearly aligned with hers as they begin to wind their hips together in lazy serpentine motions.

Now I have to swallow down another intimidating truth. I’ve had one off at the wrist more times than I can count on one hand in the last 48 hours…and while all of these little tug-time-outs have involved fantasizing about Ursula, at least half of those have also involved Lysander.

I can barely explain to myself how this started happening. Not like I’m worried about it—or particularly upset. It's a lot like my bullshit hangups on being attracted to Ursula because of her size. I’ve been taught to be accepting of everyone, of everything. I mean, I have two moms for fuck’s sake—I’d like to think that I’m almost as far as you can get from being a homophobe.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never had a problem with the idea that I might be queer, that I just never considered it to be a possibility. It seemed pretty obvious to me as a teen; girls made my dick hard. I liked…no, I loved being intimate with them. A done deal.

When I first met Lysander, it was like suddenly having that childhood best friend back—endless energy and imagination for talking shit, discussing fictional worlds and their characters,roughhousing, playing games—you know, just generally having a good time. Beingbros.

Then, one night, while we were rough-housing—lil’ Sandy suddenly got spooked. Worried that I had pushed him too far in one of our wrestling matches, or said something boneheaded that hurt his feelings—I pressed him for why he was suddenly clamming up. I was about to strong-arm him into a body lock when I felt his cock against my stomach—hard through his pajama pants.

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