tagGay MaleThe False House Ch. 02

The False House Ch. 02

byJT_Thatch©

The value my mother places on material things is probably the biggest reason I do the things I do. When you grow up with no one around, you are convinced you don't matter much. Don't get me wrong, she loves me; I know she loves me. I just think she places her patients over me in her heart. But don't be touched—she always says she did it to make bank. And if I've fooled you some way, I'm sorry. Because her shitty attitude is one we share.

I drive around in my big, fancy truck all the time, going wherever I please because I don't have to work for the gas money to do it. You would never catch me dead in a shirt from Target—even my boxers are Calvin Klein. Most of my friends are the same way, and the only reason we get along is because we were born into wealth.

It isn't as dramatic as it sounds. It's not like we think of ourselves as royalty and refuse to mingle with the lower class—that isn't the case here at all. But just because we aren't that snobby doesn't mean we aren't snobby, and I don't think I've ever seen most of those people hang out with anyone who isn't surrounded by glitz. Maybe it's because "poor" people don't understand. Here's a little secret: we are all miserable and crawling out of our skins.

To make money, you have to make some sort of sacrifice. Most people think that sacrifice is the very thing you are trying to earn. Isn't that the saying? To make money you have to lose money? But that isn't it. Most of the time it's family time and loved ones that are being thrown away. We always think monetary gain won't consume us just because it's in our reach, but it always drags us down and gets the absolute best of us. So, we—at least my group of friends—act out because we have been neglected like crazy and loved only after riches and the opinions of strangers. We would never say it aloud, though. We all have far too much pride and arrogance, and seek approval from one another like our lives depend on it.

Money doesn't buy happiness. I'm proof of that. That's why Jesse had me so awestruck at my party a few weeks ago—he seemed to know we met simply because we both sought in drugs what we lack in life. Isn't that the reason everyone does drugs? Well, we think so, at least. It's one of the things we've talked about, among many others. Like I said, it's been a few weeks now, but I barely know anything about his history or what, specifically, it is that he lacks. It's like talking to a brick wall when serious talks like those arise, and it's very evident in our group sessions on Thursdays. If Mr. Murphy addresses him, Jesse ignores him until he's forced to move on. My curiosity is a painful itch that I just can't scratch.

Anyway, we're sitting in my bedroom jamming out to some Alice in Chains. I hit the blunt and offer it to him, even though I know he doesn't smoke. As expected, my gesture is waved away and he walks over to my desk. Earlier in the afternoon we crushed some Vicodin and didn't finish it. He leans forward and snorts some. Catching myself staring a little too long, I quickly avert my eyes and nod my head to the music.

"Fuck that's good!" he laughs, throwing himself next to me on my bed. "Hey, how come you still stay at home?"

It took me a moment to think of the answer, because a big part of me didn't know why I never left. So I shrug at him and lie down. "Why not? I have almost unlimited freedom every day. Why go live in some quiet ass apartment complex if I can live here?"

"You party too much," he responded matter-of-factly. "Get a job."

I wrinkle my brow at him, a little bit of sting on my heart. But all I get back is a wink and a huge grin. "Do you work?" I ask. Honestly, it's been close to a month since I met him and we haven't really had any real conversations. Most of our time together is cracking jokes and bullshitting, partying and getting high, or just hanging out and playing video games. He's such a cool guy and I don't have to impress him by spending money.

Jesse shakes his head. "I do. Unlike you, I have to pay rent," he grins lazily, and I see the high coming on. "I'm a waiter." Long pause. "And I deal drugs."

"Oh really?"

He nods slowly and tilts his head, almost in a thoughtful way. "I have a prescription to Klonopin. It's easy to sling on the streets. A neighbor I grew up with—we're great buddies. We sell all kinds of shit together. Such easy money."

I stare off into space, somewhat envious of him working and having such easy access to drugs. "I couldn't be a drug dealer. Too much temptation, too much addiction."

"Well, man, that is the perk of dealing K-Pin. It's so addictive that it sells fast."

"I'll have to try it."

It's gotten a bit quiet, but not in an uncomfortable way. Our music is in the background, and we're both dozing off, in our own worlds. I'm not quite high anymore, but I feel myself staring into space and watching my ceiling fan rotate rapidly. The deep, unspoken connection I feel to him is nagging at me for some odd reason, and I can't help but feel at peace where I'm at.

See, I'll show you things, never seen before

For your mind to untangle.

On your own, all alone.

Yes, I know now;

Yes, I know now it's all on my own.

Yes, I know now;

I'll watch as you go.

Yes, I know now;

It's alright.

Completely unaware of how much time we spent quiet, I look over at him and realize something seems wrong. He somehow looks so deep in thought to me—maybe even sad. I nudge him playfully. "Hey," I grin. "What's going on up there?"

Without a change in expression he sighs, somewhat desperately. "Don't you ever get bored of this?"

"This is fun. Are you not having a good time—"

"No," he says—and rather impatiently, if I may add. "Of this. Relying on a stupid fucking pill to keep you happy. Don't you want to be normal?"

Now it was awkward. "No offense . . . but no, dude. I'm perfectly fine with my addictions." And that isn't a lie. "You don't think it's cool that you can be happy whenever you want?"

My eyes follow him as he gets up, in what seems like anger, and slowly paces around my room. His eyes are closed, hands on either side of his head with bits of chocolate-brown hair jutting from between his fingertips. Then I see tears hanging on to his dark lashes for dear life. All I know how to do is sit and be quiet; I've never had to deal with this kind of comedown before.

"How long does it last, though, Roman? Look at me. Twenty minutes ago I'm high and I'm happy. Now I'm fucking angry—I'm sad. I wish I could handle my emotions the right way instead of relying on pills all the time."

My heart is pounding a bit, honestly, because I'm nervous for some reason. Don't ask me why—I really am not sure. Like I said, I've never really witnessed a bad reaction to drugs like this and don't know how to handle it. "Okay . . . I think you need another line—"

"Son-of-a-bitch, Roman." He stops in his tracks just to give me a stupid look. Like I just bitch slapped the Queen of England or something. Hands in the air, he fumes, "Open your fucking mind a bit. There's more to life than the next fucking line."

Jesse grabs the keys to his truck and storms out of my room, slamming the door behind him. I stare incredulously at where he last stood, mouth slacken and eyes probably like saucers. A huge part of me feels horrible, and just plain confused—horrible because I said the wrong thing, and confused because it all happened so fast and I wasn't even sure what the right thing to say actually was. The whole incident dampened my spirits for the rest of the evening, and I didn't even want to have a party or get wasted with my friends over a few rounds of Pedro.

No, instead I decided to sulk in my bedroom and eat sweet and sour chicken in front of my Xbox like a loser. Don't get me wrong, a little peace and quiet like this isn't so rare; I occasionally take some time for myself and be "normal", as Jesse called it. But this time was different, and I can admit that. I was really just too upset to be around people. And even with the distraction of violence and action and chicken, my mind just keeps wandering back to what Jesse said. Open your fucking mind a bit. I growl to myself—why does his opinion matter? This dude doesn't even know me, nor I him, for the most part. Sure, we hang out sometimes, but we only met almost a month ago. I mean—what does this guy fucking know!

I can say that, sure, but I don't mean it. He's intelligent and deep and good where it really counts and, like I've said before, different than other people—especially other addicts. Even those in class with the will to change lack Jesse's depth and passion in everything he seems to do. That is why his opinion matters, and why I am so upset (yeah, I can admit it) over his obvious disappointment in me.

. . . .

I wake up to a strong vibration against my thigh. I look under the sheets to see my phone lit up with Jesse's name. I answer in a groggy tone, and am admittedly a little scared. "Hello?" I say, almost like a kid knowing his mom is calling to tear him a new asshole.

"Hey, man, I'm on break. What's good where you are?"

I hesitate to answer, and feel my brow wrinkle. "Uh . . . Nothing. I just woke up, nothing."

"It's 3:00." He sounds amused, and I can hear his smile through the phone. "Good, though. I get off at seven. How's about you and I get together afterward? I was thinking—"

"Wait." We are both silent, and I realize I still have a puzzled look on my face. A few more seconds go by before I can even gather my thoughts enough to speak. "You aren't angry at me or some shit?"

Now it's his turn to be confused. Although he doesn't say anything, I can hear it in his silence. "No . . ." he says slowly, and it was closer to being a question than it was to being a statement. He breathes a laugh as if I were crazy. "Anyway, I was thinking we watch a movie. I think I'm addicted to torture porn more than I am p—"

"What porn?" I bust out laughing.

"You know . . . Hostel, Saw, Vile. Movies with torture and gore, man."

"I'm into that, definitely. Drop by whenever. The door will be unlocked."

After we hung up, I laugh a little to myself. This guy really doesn't stay mad long—that, or I was just being completely paranoid. I wonder if he even remembers what he said, although I got the impression that he doesn't. Because you typically don't say shit like that unless you really mean it. Come to think of it, I don't recall ever being told to open my mind or to, more or less, stop focusing so much on drugs. That's just one of the things that draws me to him so much.

Seven seemed to come at a snail-like pace, and the hours leading up to it were mostly spent on Netflix and checking my phone for the time. At about 6:50 the thud in my chest became audible to me, and it was getting to be quite difficult to swallow. I can't understand why I feel so anxious when I think of him—that, or maybe I would just rather ignore my suspicions. Either way, with every passing minute I grow more excitable.

Finally I hear a knock on my bedroom door. He peeks his messy-haired head in with a wild smile before entering and dropping his backpack to the floor. "Figured you'd be in here. What are you watching?"

I click the TV off and get up. "Oh, nothing. Just some Always Sunny."

His ears perked up. "That's one of my favorites. So, any idea what you want to watch?"

We walk downstairs to the living room (it has a bigger TV and my room is cluttered) and I shrug. "What's your favorite?"

"The Strangers. No gore in it but one hell of a horror movie. Oh!" he adds with excitement. "Dennis from Sunny makes a cameo! And Scott Speedman, the boyfriend, is so hot."

I set up the movie after searching for it online, and as requested Jesse goes into the kitchen to grab junk food. He comes in with his arms full of shit, and I can't help but laugh. "You weren't specific," he frowns.

The movie gets started, and I promise I'm paying attention. But once I realize who Scott Speedman is, I focus on him entirely—his movements, his voice, his talent. So this is who he thinks is hot. Starting from the top on down, I analyze him and I can't help but admit that he is attractive. Those eyes, and that incredible jaw.

I silently scoff to myself. We both have blue eyes and I'm even probably just as tall as him (I'm only 5'11). Jesse is just a few inches taller than me, so maybe he likes shorter guys. I don't have his precious boy's hair, though. My hair is black, and quite a bit longer than Jesse's—wavy, bordering curly. Part of me is just dying to know what it is about him that is so attractive. Then guilt sinks in.

I feel dirty and wrong for some reason. Sometimes when I masturbate I feel this way too, and I cry. But don't tell anyone—how mortifying. I know I shouldn't be looking at this dude. I always did have a huge crush on Liv. "She's cute, isn't she?" I say casually.

He looks at me in complete horror. "She's absolute perfection. Ever since she played Lady Arwen I wanted to make that classy broad my wife." With that, he looks back at the TV. Gay as can be and clearly had no issue fawning over a woman. I laugh at myself, feeling foolish. There was nothing wrong with what I just did about the guy on TV. You silly goose, you.

Still, focusing on this movie is relatively hard. Because the more I try to justify to myself the attention I paid precious Scott, the more okay it was becoming in my mind. Confusing—don't get me wrong. But it just made me more and more curious with every passing minute. Scott and Liv are engaging in a sensual scene, very heated and emotional. When he takes control and whispers into her ear, I feel a very familiar sensation in my pants. Panicking, I shift my leg to hide what is quickly developing into a raging hard-on. Yes, that quickly.

I thank my lucky stars when the scene ends with finality, a harsh knock interrupting them. Gradually the movie gets scarier, and gradually my dick gets softer, until eventually I'm completely enthralled in the movie rather than the man starring in it. I get a playful nudge and exaggerated wink when Glenn Howerton finally shows his face, but other than that we sit in silence, only the occasional jump reminding us of one another's presence.

Once the film is over we quickly discuss my opinion of it, and move on to Xbox and the rest of the snacks. We drag my navy futon up to the TV, shoving my computer chair out of the way. "This thing is so comfortable. Better than my bed at home."

"Memory foam," I responded, distracted and too busy button-smashing to really say much else.

Until he lets his character die just so he can pull out a can of spray paint, a sock, and a Ziploc bag. Without even acknowledging me he shoves the sock in the bag, then sprays what looked like most of the can of paint onto it. Hastily, he surround his nose and mouth with the bag and inhales deeply multiple times, a small cough or two in-between huffs. Without hesitating I drop my controller and replace his face with mine. His head is lazily leaning against the back of the futon, and he giggles a bit.

I laugh a bit too and let the bag fall to the floor. Giddily, I turn on my side and face him. "Hey, what's your favorite book?"

"Well, mate, Shel Silverstein is my favorite book. Sometimes I feel like that old tree."

I laugh, and it makes him laugh. "I don't read. Fuck books."

"You never read that purple crayon book? I wish to be Harold. He was the one that had the purple crayon. You know what?" he said, with a frustrated wrinkle in his brow and pout in his lips.

"What!"

"Purple is an ugly color, I hate purple. I wish my crayon were red like blood."

I pick up my controller and try to play Xbox again but it is impossible to concentrate. All I can hear is a buzzing in my head like wham, wham, wham, wham. A few hours must have gone by that I didn't even realize, because when I look to the side of me Jesse isn't there. Looking around my room provides no solace: he is not here, and I feel lonely. Lonelier than I usually do when Mom isn't home, or I'm alone. No, what I suffer from then is boredom. This is different.

A thought pops into my head, and I hesitate for a moment. Wobbly, I get up and look around again, this time calling his name so that it rings through the upper floor. To the window I stumble and see that his truck is gone. I should be worried, but know this is not new to him. That thud in my chest comes back, and I giddily hop into my bed and pull my shorts off. I think of him and smile, looking down at my semi. Although I still feel guilt and confusion, I decide to test the waters. After all, if I'm going to have these thoughts inevitably, I may as well enjoy it and see where they take me.

I grab my dick and slowly move it up in down. Eyes closed for the best, clearest image, I picture Jesse standing at the foot of my bed. He has on his black pullover hoodie and cargo shorts, white Converse, and a tattered, white baseball cap on backwards—same as tonight. He smiles at me with that perfect grin, so mistakenly cocky yet so wonderfully modest with his tongue pressed against the backs of his teeth. It's the one that makes his golden-green worlds twinkle beneath his thick lashes. Without breaking eye contact, he unbuckles his belt slowly as the look on his face goes from playful to sultry.

My heartbeat is full of passion, making my dick hard as nails in my hand. Pace quickening rapidly, I envision him leaning over me—the wonderful smell of Dolce and Gabbana flooding my senses. In one swift motion, he removes my boxers. Biting his lip, he looks me in the eye. Right then my heart nearly exploded, and a moan escapes my lips. The swollen head of my cock disappears into that warm mouth of his.

Ever the tease, he pulls back with a knowing side-grin. Without lowering his cargo shorts, he pulls out his perfect cock and straddles my chest without ever actually touching it with more than the insides of his knees. I run my fingers along his legs just so that I can feel the golden-brown hairs against me. Once again, he bites that pouty lower lip at me and jacks off by my mouth.

"Open up," he says in a husky voice so full of need.

Staring at his cock, I do as I'm told. With a demanding, yet cautious, hand, he grips the top of my hair and lifts my head. Locked in place, he slides his hot flesh into my mouth and down my throat. It seems so easy in my fantasies. He begins thrusting, slowly at first, and he sighs under his breath. With the hand he has nestled in my hair, he gives my head a stern shake. "Look me in the eyes when you suck my dick, Roman."

The use of my name combined with his commanding tone made me moan uncontrollably. Vibrations from my throat caused him to hiss and thrust faster. As deep as he would go, I would never gag or need to pull back. No, instead he'd go as far down as he could and hold it there every now and then. Once it were there for more than three seconds, he'd moan loudly, pull back, and repeat. Then his head rolled back. Jesse's exposed throat was somehow a sexy sight for me; it drove me wild knowing it felt too good for him to hold his head up.

I'm now jacking off with desperate motions, repeating his name under my breath whilst still trying to breathe. The closer I get to coming in real life, the closer he gets to shooting his load in my inviting throat. Jesse. Jesse. Jesse. Closer. Closer. Closer.

I feel the delicious cum hit my tongue, and I shoot my own cum all over my shirt and arm. Out of breath from the most intense orgasm I've ever given myself, I make my way to my bathroom as best I can. As soon as I see my cum on the piece of toilet paper, the realization of what—or should I say who—I just jacked off to dawns on me. Without warning, I find myself bent over the toilet seat vomiting uncontrollably.

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