Post-coital Panic

"Nah, what makes you think that?"

The corner of his lips tug upwards. "I thought the lollipops were a statement."

I've also always been one to show everything on my face, not a mysterious bone in my body, and an embarrassed flush lifts into my hairline. Is this bastard insinuating...?

"Fuck you." I snap, straightening to my full height. Not like it makes a lick of difference between us. Instead of connecting through the mirror, we're fully turned towards each other now. His thigh is resting against the counter, arms folded across his chest, and he's the picture of casual. Meanwhile, I know I look as frazzled as I feel. Because, fuck—

"Don't—! Nngh, please, don't make me—!"

"You want to feel good."

Like an 8K highlight reel of the greatest play of the century, it won't leave my mind. Rewind, replay. Over and over and over again. I've never hated my brain more than I do right now. It's like, phantom pains. Moving a limb that's not there anymore, or feeling a fetus kick even after it's popped out of the womb. It's like that, like phantom sex. I absolutely can't let this bastard know how much real estate he's taken up in my mind. It'd be...game over, whatever game we're playing.

"You're upset?" His brows climb, as if he can't fathom why I would be. "Unsatisfied with your retaliation at the table? Unsporting as it was."

"Unspor—?" Is he...implying I cheated? Technically, nothing I did constitutes cheating. It might not be looked upon favorably in a casino, but it wasn't illegal. "I won fair and fuckin' square, man. Maybe you're just shit at the game."

Suddenly, he's much, much closer. I didn't even see him move, but I'm now having to raise my face. His cologne, shit—

There's an attractive vein climbing upwards from the crisp, white collar of his shirt. Cauliflower ear, lobe poked through with a diamond stud. Behind his ear, a birthmark barely darker than the complexion of his skin. With my nose turned towards his throat, he smells good.

"I'm quite good, and it was unsporting, though I've not yet determined in what way. I let you leave the table with my money. Bygones."

"How benevolent of you." I grit, desperate for this interaction to be over. Reality is way too blurry around him.

"Isn't it? Don't you feel inclined to treat me more kindly?" He chuckles, and his hand has somehow found a stronghold behind my hip, propped against the counter. His forearm cuts across my ribs. That's how fucking close we are. Close enough that I'd deck a guy for this kind of invasive behavior under normal circumstances. But, nothing about this is normal. He'd probably snap my wrist like kindling should I try it, and I...

I'm rooted in place. I'm...

I'm getting turned on, oh my God.

"Why...should I?" I'm tempted to drown myself in the sink when I catch the breathy quality of my voice.

"Посмотри на меня!"

My eyes snap to his face, brain racing to translate. Russian is absolutely his maiden language, as it fits his voice like a glove. Deep, rasping, a little harsh. We're inches apart, and his breath is cool on my face. Like he's blowing instead of breathing, but he isn't. Any trace of humor is gone from his expression. There's only a breathtaking intensity that I could never pull off. His features are built for it. "I made you feel good, like you asked me to."

"That...wasn't..." Speechless, again. I can't think of a single refute. That wasn't what? It wasn't what I wanted? I begged him to touch me, and if it wasn't him, I'd have begged the same of anyone. But, it was him, and his touch has become a permanent sear. It's fresh, new scar tissue on my gray matter. Loathed as I am to admit it, it's affected me deeply enough to manifest in dreams. Even my fuckin' subconscious has turned traitor.

He's...browbeating me into an identity crisis!

"Were you unsatisfied?" He goads, and with a real grin splitting his mouth, his canines are noticeably sharp. Long, pointy cuspids amidst neat, white rows. I get the spontaneous urge to flatten my tongue against the underside of that sharp tooth, wondering if it'd draw blood. I've never seen such a tooth outside of vampire flicks—

His left hand, the one not resting on the counter, is at my waist. My bare waist, having pushed under the hem of my shirt. It's just as cold, and I'm almost convinced I'm imagining it. Another hyperrealistic memory. He squeezes, and I know it's not. A tiny, fragile noise is pinched from my throat. It's real, and I'm reacting to it. I'm reacting to another man putting hands on me. I can't think. With so much useless, arbitrary information always bubbling under the surface, I'm not used to an utterly silent mind. This situation, and my response to it, is so abnormal, it's as if my brain has to shut down to spare itself a malfunction.

There are only raw, bodily urges now. I want...

I want him to kiss me, like he did in the club.

There's no confetti, smoke, bassline, or stimulant to accentuate it, but I'm certain it'll feel just as fucking good.

"Kit, hey—h...?"

I flinch hard, my teeth snapping down on my tongue.

Jarringly, I'm back online, and I rip away like his hands are bunsens. Sweeping on my heel, I retreat from the bathroom in a step just shy of a sprint—snatching Henry as I pass him. My neck and face are on fire, and my heart threatens to pound itself into a deadly arrhythmia. If Henry hadn't come in when he did, I—

I'm not sure. It was a temporary loss of sanity. The dude's a fuckin' hypnotist or something. So few words were exchanged, all he did was breach my space. There's no excuse this time. Henry keeps step with me as we ascend the atrium's steps, headed for the elevator. He's watching me openly, but has the good graces not to say anything until we're enclosed behind silver-plated doors. I stick my hand out wordlessly, and he drops a 'Lil' Giggles ' pop into it. Ripping the wrapper away more aggressively than it deserves, I shove the medicinal candy between my teeth.

"Uh, so...wasn't that...?"

"No questions."

"Sure, man."

Thirty minutes later, in the imagined safety of my suite, I discover a keycard in my pocket.

—

What's happening to me?

Am I...gay?

Bisexual?

Is it one of those situations where your sexuality suddenly becomes this fluid, unstable thing because of a specific person?

Or, is it all just a sick, fucked-up tradeoff for having an eidetic memory? I'm weak to him only because I have such a vivid recollection of the pleasure he's already wrung from me.

These questions and contemplations are a plague over the next few hours as I attempt to ignore the keycard he snuck into my shorts. It's not physically on me, as I flung it into a corner of the room in a fit of anger. It's there, though. I can feel it. That small, plastic rectangle is the biggest elephant that's existed in any room, ever. I'm a go-with-the-flow kind of guy, but this flow feels like it'll drown me if I wade into it. He's leaving it up to my choice, and if I let pure curiosity drive me to deck seven, 7115, there's no turning back.

I'd have to admit something to myself.

In this day and age, it's not that big of a deal, but...isn't it? I mean, this would mark a historic, monumental shift in my life, the fabric of my identity. Sober Kit can at least admit he's attracted to the guy, without a doubt. Very, very attracted. Acting on it, however, is a whole other thing. For one, I'm definitely bottoming. That's not to say big dudes can't take it in the ass, but the differences in our temperament are clear as day. That man's a born and bred aggressor, whereas I'm being helplessly dragged along. I can't even imagine him bending over for a paddling as a child, let alone bending over for another guy's dick.

Me, on the other hand—

"Oh my God."

Not only can I imagine it, I have imagined it. I was imagining it in the club, in the bathroom, and right now. Never in my fucking life have I been interested in such a thing, not even in passing. I've never been with a girl adventurous enough to suggest it. My ass is as virginal as they come, and from the feel of him, that dude's hung like a goddamn elephant. 'Hung like a horse' just doesn't seem severe enough. He felt massive. I know it's...supposed to feel good. Otherwise, no one would do it, right?

Also, let's not forget, he's probably dangerous. It's not confirmed, but the evidence is pressing. No way he's operating on the 'right' side of the law. What if I get trafficked? I might not be a child or a woman, but I'm sure there's a market. Even if it's for labor, not prostitution. I can see it now. Go up there for sex, then I wake up from a drug-induced stupor three days later on a sheep farm in Znamenka. On the 'con' side, those are the two biggest:

1. I might never walk right again.
2. I get trafficked.

What about the 'pro' side?

1. ...potentially good sex? Discovering the mythical wonders of the prostate?

This really isn't the kind of scenario that needs debating, because the cons will always outweigh the pros when it comes to meeting a complete stranger for sex—man or woman. I'm not buying a house or opening a Roth. Decisions like this are more often than not made on impulse. Going with the flow is one thing, but I'm not reckless. This would be...very reckless. Ignoring the slight tremble in my hands, I whip out my phone. Maybe a quick Google search will put things into perspective.

'21 Things to Know Before Losing Your Gay Virginity'

Skimming the article as it scrolls beneath my thumb, I try to digest it objectively. The author suggests there's no reason to worry about labels, as it can cause unnecessary stress. If you choose to adopt one in the future, it'll come naturally. There's also a big, fat section about STDs and HIV, so that's fun. Where I really get tripped up is the concept of...douching. My immediate thought is: fuck no, that's way too much work. Not to mention, humiliating. The author says there are a few ways to go about it, some less invasive than others. It's also something that shouldn't be done religiously.

Glancing at my stomach, I flatten a palm to it. In the last day and a half, the only meal I've had was thrown up less than thirty minutes after consumption. Maybe...a really, really thorough shower would cut it?

I can't believe I'm actually considering this.

Henry wouldn't judge me for branching out, but he'd absolutely disagree with my experimenting with a stranger. I can't tell him about it now, unless I want to be talked down from the ledge, and I'm not sure...I want that. I want the space to make a mistake, if that's what it turns out to be. Throughout the process of lifting off the bed, disrobing, and stepping into the bathroom, I tell myself I need a shower anyway. It doesn't mean I'm doing anything special or going anywhere.

Afterwards, I'll change into pajamas, climb under the sheets, and fight for sleep.

—

The reflective doors split soundlessly to reveal deck seven.

It looks no different from our floor, a wide corridor lined with numbered doors on either side. It's 11:13 PM. Because of the late hour, the lights are dimmed to an ambient setting. Status: in shambles. I'm convinced I left my room in a fugue state, because what the fuck am I doing?

What's possessed me?

Can I really pin it all on curiosity? Spontaneity?

Life's too short, so I should take it in the ass at least once?

Or, maybe I'm just expecting this guy to be some sort of miracle worker. Per the article, bottoming for the first time can be a real bitch. More painful than pleasurable, but...I don't know. From our brief interactions, it seems like he knows exactly what he's doing, all the time. Like it'd be impossible to catch him off guard or throw his game. Whether it's at the table, in a gunfight, or sex. I'm probably putting way too much trust in the abilities of a total stranger, but it's the aura he exudes. If it sucks, that's on me.

I did send Henry a short text before activating 'Do Not Disturb': 10:59 PM Rm 7115, if I turn up missing or dead, it's that dude from the bathroom. Everything's cool tho, phone's on DND, will find u later.

Probably a little cryptic, but it gets the point across.

Padding down the hall, my heart's a bullfrog in my throat. Every beat feels like it's expanding in my windpipe, preventing a breath from getting through. My hands are clammy in my pockets, and the keycard slips between an index finger and thumb where I'm endlessly fidgeting with it. I grind the cherry flavored bulb between my molars, struggling not to crush it into bits. 7115 is at the end of the hall, which means it's not a suite, but a residence. Charlie booked residences for himself and Henry.

They're double the size of a suite, amenities out the dickhole. I won't be caught dead on it, but they boast a huge terrace. Jacuzzi, outdoor bar, more loungers than any one room needs.

So, the guy's got money. Everyone on this ship does, but his pockets are lined with more than the average.

"Tch, and wants to bitch at me for losing twenty grand?" I grumble, like I'm not actively advancing towards his room for anonymous sex.

Before I know it, I'm standing in front of the door. '7115' glares down at me from a shiny, gold plaque. I feel like I'm in the Looney Tunes ACME hour, and on the way here, I've overlooked hundreds of bright, red warning signs, blaring alarms. 'Danger ahead!' 'Turn back now!' 'Stop, in the name of humanity!' Now, I'm at the last sign, and it can't be ignored. Instead of a rogue anvil busting my teeth into playable ivories, my very real ass is on the line. I've come this far, but that doesn't mean I have to go further. I haven't committed to anything.

knock! knock!

Well, I'm not using the fuckin' keycard.

Less than twenty seconds before the door unlatches, but as it always is when you're full of trepidation, it's an eternity. I hold my breath without meaning to, and it was the right call to make. Were I breathing normally, I'd have choked on it. He's dressed more casually than I expected. Meaning, barely dressed. Shirtless. Sweatpants. It's almost midnight, and he's tucked away in his room. Why was I expecting him in a full suit? It's not odd, but:

"Lose the key?"

His chest. Shoulders, arms, stomach. I should be...burning with jealousy, or marveling over the time and dedication it took to achieve such a physique. I'm a personal trainer. I see guys in this shape all the time, and that's how I'd normally feel. I'd ask about their diet, routine, or which enhancers they're abusing. None of that is coming to mind right now. He looks...chiseled straight from the side of a mountain. Or, maybe a glacier for how pale he is. He's also covered in ink. He had his sleeves down at the table, in the bathroom, but his forearms were exposed in the club. How'd I miss that? From wrist to shoulder, upper chest, and coming around the slash of his hips—disappearing into his waistband.

They're not tattoos indicative of a Russian syndicate, nor were they poked into his skin in a grimey cell, that much I know. You'd see things like blown-out crosses, bells, spiders, stars, cats. These were handpicked pieces done by an expert. They're stunning, packed with color. They suit him, and my mouth is weirdly dry—

"I'm not just gonna...let myself in." I snap, realizing I'd been staring at his naked torso for the better part of thirty seconds. "That's rude."

He leans into the doorway, folding his arms together. I'd bet ten bucks he does it to make 'em look bigger. Was he doing fuckin' push-ups in there? "That's an interesting perspective."

"You know what," I halfway turn. "Wrong room, sorry, pal—"

"Такой чувствительный," He laughs, stepping aside. "Come in, please."

Appraising him, attempting to conceal how nervous I am, I agree after a beat: "Because you were polite."

His grin grows and sharpens as I pass under his arm. "Ah, should I have treated you to a meal first? It didn't seem like a priority at the time."

"Oh, fuck off. I was on drugs, dude. You could've been anyone, I would've ate it up either way."

He keeps pushing my buttons, and it's in my nature to give as good as I get. However, when the door latches shut, I instantly regret shooting my mouth off. Because we're in a room together, alone. His room. With no scheduled interruptions or rescues. Like an idiot, I kept my back turned as I entered the room. When he comes up behind me, I tense. Braced for the worst. Surprisingly, he doesn't touch me, but he's close enough that I feel his chest whispering against my shirt as he breathes.

His mouth is by my ear, and when he speaks, it burns down the side of my throat: "If that were true, you wouldn't have come."

Shit.

"What about you?" I whip my face towards his, desperate to gain some ground. I'm not used to being the stupidest guy in the room, rendered mute every other sentence. Despite our intimate proximity, I work to keep my guard up. I won't be disarmed by the heady waft of his cologne or the memory it carries.

"You don't know me. Why'd you approach me in the club like that?"

It's a genuine concern, and he can tell. He studies me, and I think it's our most serious exchange to date. Not that we've had many. "You are very aware of other people." He starts, leaving space for me to agree if I want to. When I don't, he says:

"So am I. It's how any connection begins, no matter if it's frivolous. I desired you, so I approached you."

"But, why?" I stress. There has to be more to it. "I'm—I don't...have any experience in this! Isn't that—isn't it so much more work for you?"

"For you, too." He straightens, and I finally feel like I can breathe. "The best rewards come to those who toil."

"Fuck, don't call it 'toiling.'" I grumble, scrubbing the side of my face. It feels like his voice is still vibrating through it.

"Can I offer you a drink?"

I follow him into the sitting room, because a residence is sprawling enough to have one. He's got the curtains drawn, and the stretch of black sea beyond the terrace churns my stomach. Anxiety prickles up my throat. Given the circumstances, a drink might not be a bad idea, but:

"Can you...close the curtains?"

Misinterpreting the request, he chuckles whilst moving to comply, snapping the drapes over the glass: "Worried of voyeurs?"

"No, asshole. I don't like—"

Is that something I should admit? He's already caught me in the midst of throwing my guts up. "I just want them closed."

He doesn't press the issue, and while he transfers some dark, honeyed drink from decanter to glass, I fish the keycard out of my pocket and toss it onto the low table separating us. He sets the fullish glass beside it for me to take. "You should keep it."

"I won't use it."

"How can you be sure?"

"I'm fucking sure."

I wait for him to drink first, as his own glass was poured from the same decanter. Call me paranoid, but better safe than sorry. Take a lesson, kids. I'm being incredibly responsible right now. He notices this cautious behavior, and while it seems to amuse him, he doesn't comment on it. Let it be noted, I'm not a liquor guy. Never have been, never will be. I'd rather crush a twelve-pack in forty minutes or less than suffer through one glass of whiskey.

For the sake of my ass, I make a valiant effort at getting through it.

"Be honest, do you like this, or is it something you think you're supposed to drink?"

With the table still between us, he's squeezed into an armchair. Hunched forward, forearms braced across his upper thighs. It's strange to see him in a relaxed setting. Some people, you just can't imagine them outside of that first impression's box. Like, an NPC. They exist only in their archetype, forbidden from acting out of character in the protagonist's presence. This man looks like he doesn't allow himself to be anything other than presentable, unapproachable, and chronically unamused.