Page 6 of Ruin
Jeremy: Me and Stacy are fighting again.
That’s not surprising. He only calls when they’re fighting or when the kids are being difficult—when he needs to work off some steam. I’m never a first priority to him, not that I’d want to be. I’ve gotten used to being second best. To my brother. The club. Tohim.Now Jeremy. It’s just what I am. Second fucking best.
Me: My place?
Jeremy: Yeah, I can’t get Stacy out of the house.
I don’t like people in my house, and he fucking knows it. When anyone comes in, it’s a whole process to clean up after them. But maybe I need to let off steam today too, after that text. It’s not that he’s never been to my house, it’s just that usually I’m sneaking into his.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
Sort of. I’m not the married one promising to leave my wife and kid. Though, Jeremy has never made promises of that—thank fucking god.
Me: I’ll be home in an hour.
Idon’t get a text back. He’s probably already deleted the thread, so his wife won’t know he’s having an affair. Though, you could hardly call this an affair. There are no emotions here—I’m incapable of that, numb to all of it. Being treated like trash your whole life will do that to you. At some point you stop feeling human. Though, deep down, there’s only one person to blame for most of it. Or maybe I should thank him for making me this way. I don’t need to walk around, crying about a broken heart. That makes you weak. The good thing is you can’t break what isn’t there at all.
Jeremy is waiting on my porch when I pull up my driveway.
“What did I tell you about this?” I say.
“No one can even see me,” he says, gesturing toward my winding dirt driveway that cuts through the trees. My home is hidden way back, so passing by on the main road won’t allow you to see my property. I appreciated my privacy.
“I don’t fucking care,” I tell him as I unlock my door.
My brother has been weird lately, ever since he’s unfortunately acquired feelings for this girl. He keeps questioning me about my bad moods, wondering what’s bothering me, as if I’mnot perpetually nettled. I don’t know why he cares now when I’ve been like this my whole life and he never cared before.
“Get inside,” I tell him when I swing the door open.
He steps in, not wasting any time to get his shoes and shirt off.
It’s annoying and grates on my nerves. Sex is a fucking chore. Getting started is frustrating, but I feel better after, which is why I go with it.
“Where are we going?” he asks, turning to face me.
Jeremy is hot, I’ll give him that. He’s got the standard country boy look. Thick and rugged. Always wears a backwards hat and jeans that are tight enough you can see everything—and they’re always stained with oil or dirt. But he’s married with kids and so I shouldn’t be doing this, but his problems aren’t my problems and there aren’t many gay men in this town—especially ones who bottom. Venturing out to get what I need isn’t worth it. I’d rather put on some porn and fuck my hand than drive into the city.
“Couch.”
He nods, moving through my small kitchen and around the corner to the right, where my living room is. I get down to my jeans before following him. He’s sitting on the couch and looks up when I walk in. There’s a bottle of lube and condoms in the end table that I grab, before nodding at him to get up.
“I don’t have all day,” I tell him, and he quickly gets his pants off. “Bend over the back.”
He gets onto the couch on his knees, leaning over the back of it with his legs spread wide, his pink hole on full display for me. I lube my fingers and press two inside without hesitance. He groans, body flinching, and my dick stirs.
It isn’t giving Jeremy pleasure that gets me hard, it’s the memory. It’s knowing what having someone inside you feels like. It’s recalling that first pinch of pain, the way it hurts for a split second but then feels good. And with each thrust in and out, it feels better. With care and consideration, it’s even better.
It’s being watched and told what to do, how good you’re doing, and how good you make them feel. It’s pride in taking a fat cock all the way to the base, when at the beginning, you think it’s impossible.
It’s the low, raspy voice praising you one second, but calling you a dirty little cock slut the next.
My dick is aching as I think of him, hating how he’s still the only person who gets me hard.
It’s vile and pathetic.
I pull my fingers out of Jeremy.
“Fuck,” he hisses, resting his forehead on the couch. I free my dick, put the condom on, lube it up, and step forward to press against his hole.
