Page 2 of Rocking the Receiver
Yes, I do speak to myself like a lunatic fairly often. I do enjoy the occasional silence, but it quickly freaks me out because I’m not used to it. Being alone unsettles me, so that helps to fill in the blanks. And it gets me closer to being Brad Pitt, well, at least when he plays the iconic Tyler Durden.
Reluctantly, I trudge to the bathroom, wait for the water to heat, and step into the shower. Once I close the glass door behind me, the warmth of the steam envelops me like a comforting blanket. “Man, this is exactly what I needed,” I murmur to myself, enjoying the citrus scent of my body wash. The hot water cascades over my stiff shoulders and down my back. Turning around, I finish washing away the sweat and dry cum. The steady rhythm of the water hitting the tiles is almost hypnotic, and I can feel my muscles beginning to relax.
I reach for the shampoo and squeeze a generous amount into my hand. “This stuff smells amazing!” I exclaim, inhaling the new fragrance from a fancier brand than the one I usually use. I wonder if Mom put it here by mistake or because she had enough of my smelly teenage self. Either way, I can’t complain, only notice that I’m hypersensitive this morning.
I massage the rich, foamy lather into my overgrown hair.Why didn’t I book a haircut to look my best for today?I scold myself, inwardly this time.
As I rinse myself off, I throw my head back to let the water stream over my face, then jerk myself off again for good measure. Can’t be too careful; it wouldn’t be polite to greet our guest with a boner, right? My parents raised me better than that. I’ll at least wait until I corner him to make my intentions known. I heave a half-growl/half-smirk at that, closing my eyes and reveling in the sensation. I milk my fist in less time than it takes me to take my next breath.
Talk about taking the edge off…
I wrap a towel around the waist and brush my teeth, and my mind instantly revisits my favorite topic. I’m on a roll, overthinking.
Your brother isn’t to blame or to thank for this infatuation, moron.
He was the one to bring his long-distance friendship to my attention—not mine especially, but you get the picture. Of course, he never fathomed the impact his stories would have on his much younger teenage brother, and I’ll skip over the pictures of his hot as fuck British friend.
How could I forget my fourteen-year-old self getting all verklempt at the view?
One look was all it took to steal my heart, or rather, talk to my dick in ways no one has before or since. That’s how I confirmed what I’ve felt all of these years without being able to put a word on it: I am gay. On top of being gay (pun intended!), I have a pretty accurate gaydar. It could have been useful in unearthing ahigh-school buddy to experiment with, but you see, my body and mind agree on one thing: We like older guys, at least one, who surely shares my interest in men.
“Not Daddy style older,” I hear myself say.
My friends and family cannot comprehend how important today is. They don’t have a clue about my orientation, and I intend on keeping it that way for the time being.
My chest rises and falls at the prospect of making the object of my desire surrender. Because he will, eventually.
I can’t believe this is finally happening. For real…
Must be why the name of my dirty little secret obsession escapes from my swollen lips in a barely audible whisper.
“Rupert Smith.”
CHAPTER 2
LEAN ON ME
Rupert
“Thankyou for granting us the pleasure of your presence, given your busy schedule, Your Grace!” Tim bows before me in the middle of the train station parking lot.
The train ride from Marseille to Orange wasn’t that bad, but overall, it’s been a long ass-trip since I boarded the plane in Nashville. My eyes are itchy from the A/C, I’m tired, and I must reek. Nevertheless, the corner of my mouth quirks up. Despite the light breeze, it’s still hot for this time of the day. Not as hot as Nashville, though.
“Will you stop it already?” I slap his bicep for good measure. His praise of my so-called musical stardom has been constant since he witnessed people pointedly staring at me when I got off the train.
“What? I’ve never been asked for autographs myself, so…” He trails off and looks at his feet, probably overthinking the fact that Romain, one of the four brothers, is a somewhat renowned science fiction novelist who also gets what my best friend calls “the royalty treatment.” However, Tim is the prodigal son whohis dad chose to run the prosperous family business by his side and someday inherit. I make a mental note to ask for his autograph while we’re having coffee or lunch in a public place this weekend.
“Yeah, small world.” I’m not a star, mind you, but we happened to run into a couple from Colorado who saw me, along with The Whiskey Barrels, at the US Music Festival less than a month ago. What were the odds, right? We stroll up to his BMW convertible, and my witty self comments, “Nice car.”
He thanks me, unlocking it. “It’s funny, though,” he eventually says as he starts the car, fumbles with his phone to find a playlist, then starts lip-syncing to The Beatles.
Damn, I hate The Beatles with a passion.
Not that I’d tell him that because Tim worships Paul McCartney. His voice. His music. His bands. Whatever.
Then, we’re off to the narrow roads of the South of France. It scared the hell out of me when I first came here as a teenager; to British me, people were driving on the wrong side of the road, and I was expecting a car crash at every turn. Living in New York taught me better, although I don’t own a car.
I jut my chin his way. “What is?”
