Page 23 of Filthy and the Beast

I’ve started flirting with him. Not as shamelessly as normal, but testing the waters, telling him when he’s being cute. Beginner-level stuff because I’m still fairly certain Enzo is straight. Ish.

He doesn’t balk, though. And I think he might appreciate the compliments, although only a slight twitch of the mouth suggests as much. I’m probably fooling myself, thinking I detect something more bubbling beneath his stony surface.

After my last day, I decide I’ll do it. If it feels right, I’ll proposition him then. One night of indulgence together before we part ways to our very different lives forevermore. The job runs its course at the end of the month. Until then, I’ll simply enjoy our weird compatibility, this strangely right blip in my life.

My phone vibrates, an incoming call from Mama’s phone. When I hit the video button to answer, she’s with Mom on the porch of the house they raised me in, back home in Oregon. Mom has her glasses on and a book at her side, and Mama’s wearing her gardening gloves.

“You picked up.” Mama removes her gloves. She’s my biological mother, slim like I am but taller, and the rolled-up sleeves on her sweatshirt show her wiry arms. “Glad we caught you.”

Mom leans forward, squinting at me from behind her glasses. “This job keeping you busy?”

“Kind of,” I answer. “I guess I’ve been busy with a lot of things.”

Typically, I call my moms a couple times a week. When I don’t, I’m avoiding talking about something.

Since I lost my job at the gamer café, there’s been more avoiding than not.

My moms are the least judgmental people you could imagine. They are, in every way conceivable, totally accepting of me. Partially, it comes from their own family experiences. Mama’s parents immigrated to the United States from Egypt, and the Coptic Church was central to their old life and their new life. Unfortunately for Mama, their religious community didn’t accept gay people. My dad died shortly after my birth, and when Mama found a new love in Mom a few years later, it ruptured the family.

It’s all repaired now. Grandpa even took us kids to Luxor when I was in high school, proud of his family the whole time. Mom also comes from an immigrant family, from the Soviet Union via Turkey, although her family didn’t come around to accept her, so we don’t have a relationship with them.

My moms value family, and healing the rift with Mama’s parents meant the world to both of them. I’m grateful to know nothing I could do or say would cause me to lose the support of my family.

I promised myself a long time ago: I’m not going to take their support for granted. They work their asses off to take care of me and my three younger siblings, and, especially when I was really young, they did it without support, facing some significant challenges and prejudices in the world. They built an amazing life for our family, and living up to the example they set is important to me.

Every one of us kids is a handful in our own way, but I’m the oldest. Devoting my life to pleasure is all good, but pulling it off on my own terms and by my own means is equally important to me. My cupcake classes are simply not as important as my sister’s college fund or my brother’s insulin.

“Busy with a lot of things?” Mom prompts.

“The job.” I lean back on the couch as I hold the phone up. “Enzo is more mobile now, which means he needs regular assistance. And I sent you pictures of the dogs. Did I send you pictures of the dogs?”

“In response to my text asking how the job hunt is going,” Mom says dryly.

Mama puts her arm around Mom. “Although we agreed to wait until the end of the conversation to ask about that.”

“Reggie will have me back at the gym,” I assure them. “So I’ll have a job. You don’t need to worry.”

“We’re not,” Mama says warmly. “Ever since you were little, you’ve insisted on doing things your own way, and it’s always turned out decently well.” She smiles. “We know you always make the right choices for yourself, Damian.”

And there it is.I’m sure you’ll do the right thinghas always been a gut-twister. If they were doubting me or lecturing me about not fucking up in every way that little voice in the back of my head insists I might, maybe I wouldn’t guilt myself with so much pressure.

Believing in me. What a trick.

Like when I had to work my ass off to pass chemistry in high school, and they actually celebrated my C-minus. Framed the final exam and everything.

I shake my head with a sigh. “I know. And thank you.”

Mom gives me a quick nod, the more serious of the two, and also more concerned about my future than Mama is.

In avoiding this call, I’ve actually built up quite a list of things to tell them about. My failed date is at the top of the list, and I’m eager to discuss the pit bulls.

When I consider sharing more about Enzo, though, I quickly push the thought aside. They might intuit I have bubbly feelings for him. Despite all the open-mindedness they’ve offered me, I’m not quite ready to tell them I’m salivating over a man nearly their age, and a retired boxer with a bad reputation at that.

Instead, I seek their guidance on the thing I truly can’t wrap my head around.

“Hey, what would you think if I became a sex therapist?”

Mama hums. “Is that a therapist who specifically helps people with their sexuality?”

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