Page 5 of For You, Sir

“Then I won’t be able to remember them all.”

I nodded. “I can set up a password manager for you. Then you’ll just need to remember one complicated password and the rest will be stored safely.”

“Whatever you think,” Sir said. “Knock yourself out.” He brought over his laptop and phone and set them both on the kitchen counter. Then he shuffled back into the living room, his blanket dragging on the ground behind him like a bridal train.

I washed my hands and popped open his laptop. Sure enough, his flimsy password unlocked it. I opened a web browser to download password management software. The page loaded with sites Sir had been looking at—online articles decrying Sir as a hack and speculating unkindly on the reasons for his disappearance from the public eye. No wonder he was feeling unwell if he kept dwelling on this sort of thing. I skipped past without reading. Better to learn about Sir first-hand than from tabloid trash.

I tried to click the button to open a new window, but accidentally clicked an existing tab instead. A man’s orgasmic moan blared from the onboard speakers. Heat rushed to my face, and I slammed the spacebar to pause the adult video that auto-played. I looked away, but not before my eyes fell across the beginning of the video’s title:VOCAL Twink Gets a BIG—

I closed the window. My heart was still racing with embarrassment, and I glanced at the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Sir didn’t reappear, and I hoped he hadn’t overheard my discovery. The two seconds I’d seen of writhing flesh-on-flesh replayed in my mind—muscular hairiness slamming away atop smooth skin.

I felt dizzy for a moment.None of my business.I tried to push it out of my mind and began downloading Sir’s much-needed security software, my cheeks still burning.

Chapter 3 (Jun)

I left work too late and “accidentally” missed visiting hours at the hospital again. Another anxious encounter avoided, replaced with a clammy blanket of guilt. Iwouldvisit Mom soon. I just needed to get my professional concerns squared away first, and I was still processing Mrs. Olsen’s death. Excuses churned through my mind as I drove back to my apartment, but I didn’t believe any of them.

Thank God Mr. Cuddles was there to greet me when I got home. The hairless cat mewled, and I scooped him up. The dapper gentleman was a Sphynx, patterned black and white like a tuxedo. He had been Mrs. Olsen’s cat, and I’d been fostering him since her death.

I cuddled Mr. C against my shoulder. His skin was downy like peach fuzz and he was warm to the touch. “Hey, little man. Hey, buddy.” He immediately began vibrating and swiping his whiskerless cheeks against my face. Sphynxes were weird-looking, but he was an affectionate boy. I think he missed Madam, too.

I fed him and changed into silky pajamas, my stomach churning with guilt over avoiding Mom. I didn’t feel like making a dinner for one, so I chucked a packet of kettle corn into the microwave.

“What do you think, buddy? Movie night?”

Mr. C hopped onto the sofa and kneaded the fluffy throw blanket on the cushion. “Getting our seats ready?” The cat didn’t look up, still hard at work, purring.

When the popcorn was done, I flopped down on the couch and found one of Sir’s early movies on a streaming service—a historical drama calledThe Corrupted Crown.I figured his earlier work would be the least influenced by the Hollywood machine. More reflective of the “real” Einar Eriksen.

The opening titles rolled across sweeping Scandinavian landscapes. Sir’s name appeared in the credits as both the director and screenplay writer. To my knowledge, he had only ever directed his own screenplays—perhaps a control freak over work details like I was. Mr. Cuddles expressed his opinion of the film by curling up under the blanket and falling asleep before the opening credits were over.

The movie was more romantic than I expected. Despite the title, it wasn’t about royalty, but about two castle servants who fell in love and fought to stay together, while the monarchy and the castle itself crumbled under political upheaval. In the final act, the movie delivered a shocking blow: the wife was dying of tuberculosis.

After this reveal, the camera lingered on the husband and wife’s faces as they shared their grief, weeping, foreheads touching. Their crying morphed into kissing, then lovemaking. The nudity was tastefully reserved, and the camera focused on the characters’ facial expressions. Husband and wife grimaced and clutched at each other, and I could sense the symbolism behind it: grasping for life, not just each other’s bodies, holding on to something fleeting. By the time the scene was over, my eyes stung with unshed tears and I was half-hard—a confusing mélange.

Mr. Cuddles, perhaps sensing my tension, placed his forepaws on my chest and nudged my breastbone. His cold nose touched my bare skin, and he hooked a paw into the V at the top of my button-up pajama shirt, trying to climb inside.

I chuckled and picked him up, settling him on the couch beside me. “Greedy boy.”

Undaunted, Mr. C tried to burrow under the bottom of my shirt instead. He was always searching for skin contact, probably to exploit my body heat, but I could never say no to him. Mother had never been physically affectionate, and I enjoyed indulging Mr. Cuddles’ hunger for touch in a way I’d never enjoyed as a boy. I unbuttoned the bottom of my pajama shirt, and he snuggled against my bare skin beneath, purring.

I stroked the curve of Mr. C’s back idly through my shirt while I watched the rest of the movie. The husband acted as though his life didn’t matter once he knew his wife was dying. He joined a resistance army and died in combat while she lived on, and the movie ended with an unresolved feeling. Was it supposed to be admirable that he gave his life for a noble cause? I couldn’t quite accept the ending, like a pill that got stuck in my throat and refused to go down.

Maybe that was the point. What had Sir intended with this movie? I considered asking him about it the next day, but I feared the meaning might be obvious, and I would look stupid for asking.

I gently patted Mr. Cuddles’ back. “C’mon, buddy. Time for bed.” The catbrrred in protest.

I was still thinking about the movie while I brushed my teeth and washed my face. Maybe the ending didn’t sit right with me because the husband’s self-destructive actions reminded me of Mrs. Olsen taking an early exit. But, no… I wouldn’t have begrudged him that decision if his wife had already passed on. I disliked the ending because of the position the husband had left his wife in. She was already dying slowly, and now she’d have to go through it alone. What a selfish jerk.

I paused in the middle of my evening skin care routine, my ring finger hovering over the skin beneath my eye as I dabbed on cream. Waitaminute. Wasn’t I doing the same thing? Leaving Mom to waste away from leukemia alone, afraid to visit her?Iwas the selfish jerk. Was I showing a client’s hairless cat more consideration than the woman who raised me?

I looked in the mirror at my monolid eyes that looked just like hers. “What the hell am I doing?” My voice echoed hollowly in the small bathroom, and my face crumpled in self-loathing. I would see her tomorrow. Definitely. And I’d bring her a bowl of homemadedakjukand the best damn bouquet money could buy.

Mr. Cuddles hopped onto the bathroom counter, even though he knew he wasn’t allowed up there.“Brrr?”he inquired.

I wiped my eyes on the inside of my arm. “C’mon, little man. Let’s go to bed.”

I stripped, climbed under the covers, and stared up at the ceiling. I felt better now that I’d committed to visiting the hospital, but I still couldn’t sleep. The sex scene fromCorrupted Crownkept replaying in my mind. Erotic and a little disturbing.

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