The clock on the wall chimes 3 times, and I retreat from my office, my smile a lacquered shield as I slip past the deacons and their wives. No one notices me slip away, threading myself through the familiar corridors of my own church toward the main restroom. The lights inside are cruel, rendering every flaw. The cloying lemon scent of Rosa’s sanitizer does little to mask the scent of my own need.
I lock the middle stall, the only one with a bolt that doesn’t stick, and sit, the cold of the toilet seat a penance traveling up my spine. I brace my elbows on my knees, the pose of a man at prayer. My cock is already hard, a physical rebuke against everything I profess. I work the zipper down, my eyes locked on the gap beneath the partition, expecting a scuffed loafer, a concerned voice, but no one comes. I’m alone with the ceramic hush.
I take myself in hand, grip cruel and efficient. My mind splinters, replaying the morning’s performance. The ache for release deep in my gut has an edge, a memory that arrives unbidden, like a boulder rolling down a hill. The gravity is inevitable.
It starts with a number: 10:54 p.m. The clock on my dash glows cobalt. I’m parked at the edge of the gym lot in my F-150, engine idling low. I’m naked from the waist down, sweating despite the A/C. A silhouette appears at the mouth of the lot, moving with a familiar stride. Micah. He scans the lot, then turns his eyes on the truck.
He pulls the passenger door open and climbs in.
“I said come at 10:30. You’re late.”
He doesn’t answer. I reach over and grab the front of his shorts, dragging him across the seat until his thigh presses hot against mine. He slides his hand up my forearm, “Lose the clothes.” My voice is a gravel rasp.
He obeys, pulling off his hoodie to reveal a white tee sticking to his back. He takes off the tee and then pulls his gym shorts down to reveal the black jockstrap that I’ve come to expect. For a second I see everything, his cock already half-hard.
“Good boy,” I say, voice sounding like a stranger.
