Page 47 of Bad at Love

Gabriel

I hardly recognize myself as I stare in the mirror after a shower. The post orgasmic high, as Storm put it, didn’t last very long, and I soon started to panic. My mother’s voice was in my head, which made everything really weird. I thought about what I did and how I did it with a man, and the panic grew out of control. I started having another panic attack, which is insane. I never have them so close together. Two in the same week is unheard of for me, but here we are.

Storm tried to help, I’ll give him that, but seeing him was triggering. I told him I was fine and needed a shower, but I could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t believe me. Still, he left me alone. I showered in cold water, and that put the panic attack at bay, but I still feel it lingering under my skin. Like the smallestthing will bring it back to the surface and eat me alive. Panic attacks suck.

Since I’m so on edge, I’m procrastinating leaving the bathroom, in fear of seeing Storm and being triggered right back into it.

All my life I avoided sex, held on to my virginity, and didn’t touch myself because that’s what I was told to do. I was taught it was something for marriage, for my wife, and only for the purpose of creating our future children. It wasn’t something used for pleasure—it was almost clinical. Makes sense coming from a doctor and a doctor’s wife.

But why did I hold on to that for so long? Why did I listen to my parents well after I had to? There is no doubt in my mind I’m the only one of my brothers who did. So why? Why did I torture myself for so long? Why did I put myself down whenever I would get hard or wake up with a mess in my pants? I don’t like the thought of it being all over me or having to change my sheets out of order, but everything else? It’s not hurting anyone. It feels amazing. Why have I been living my life like this?

Touching myself like that, though it was awkward, felt good once I quieted the nagging voice in my head. Like really good. And something about the way he watched me, male or not, made it even more intense. When I closed my eyes, it was okay, but when I saw him staring at me like he wanted to devour me? It is what made me have an orgasm. There was something in the look in his eyes that was so… primal.

I refuse to go back and forth over my sexuality. Yes, it weirds me out that Storm is a guy, only because I thought I was straight, but I guess that’s just what I was told—the way I was raised. I won’t sit here and stress over giving myself a label. I hate labels. And it’s not that I hate that Storm is a guy, it’s just confusing because it’s different from what I always thought. My sexuality isn’t the issue here, though. In fact, there shouldn’t be an issueat all—because I really want to do that again, and that’s all that should matter.

Getting my bearings, I take a deep breath and pull the door open. The moment I step out, Storm is there. It’s relieving as much as it is anxiety-inducing. But there is no panic attack.

“Can we talk?”

“I’d really rather not,” I say, ducking my head and moving toward my room.

“Please? I feel awful about what just happened.” I pause.Why does he feel awful?“I feel like I forced you into that, and I don’t like it.”

“You didn’t force me,” I say as I turn to face him.

“Are you sure? Because you’ve been upset for days, and I feel like I took advantage of you.”

I let out a heavy breath before saying, “I admit I was vulnerable after the fight with my parents, but I made a conscious choice. You didn’t force me.”

“Are you sure?” He rubs the back of his neck.

“Very.”

He nods, blowing out a breath. “Okay, cool. Thanks. I, uh… feel a little better.”

“Glad I could help.”

I give him a small smile before I turn back to my room, taking another step when he says, “What did you fight with your parents about?”

He’s being weird now. Normally I’m the weird one, but this isn’t normal for him. Something is up. What is it? Is it what happened with us? Is he going to be all weird and clingy now? Is that what guys talk about when they talk about stage five clingers? I don’t really know what that is, but I’ve heard the term a few times.

What I really want is to go to bed. I’m tired and need space to think. Though I wasn’t lying when I said he didn’t force me, I stillneed to process what happened because I haven’t been able to do that yet. I want to do it in the quiet and comfortability of my own room.

“They’re having an anniversary dinner, and I haven’t found a date yet.”

His brows pull together. “That’s what had you freaking out on Sunday?”

I frown. “Yeah, is that not acceptable?”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. I could go with you, you know,” he suggests.

“That would be a great idea…” He smiles brightly, as if he’s doing me a favor. “If I want to give both my parents coronaries.” That smile instantly drops into a frown and it almost makes me laugh.Almost.

“I just thought that maybe, you know, you were trying to get back at them or something.”

“What in the world would make you think that?”

I’m irritable now. I need sleep—and space.

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