Bromosexual

by Daryl Banner

Seriously, he’s devouring the poor plate of eggs like a sea monster engulfing a fleet of pirates.

occasional purple prose / % at left misleading. It includes an additional 2 short stories in book.

Surprisingly, the croissant’s still warm, but hard as a rock. Much like my cock. Which still determinedly chooses to be excited by the sight of Stefan putting down my eggs one giant mouthful at a time. I want to put him down one mouthful at a time.

love his enthusiasm

“You totally want to see what all the girls went crazy for back in the day. It’s the stuff of legends, man. Half the writing on the bathroom walls was about what I’m packing.” “Someone let all the baseball fame go to his head,” he shoots back at me, smirking and still staring at the ceiling. “Which head? Listen, all I’m saying is, I’m having doubts that your boxers are even gonna be able to contain what I got.” “You going to stand there naked in another dude’s bedroom boasting about your big junk all morning?” he retorts. “Or do you actually plan to get dressed at some point?” “So you admit it’s big?” He snorts and shakes his head, then turns away finally.

It’s so sick, how into him I am. I feel like I just picked up a hot guy at a bar, didn’t have sex with him, and then he rejected me and went home because I wasn’t his type. Well, I guess I’m not Stefan’s type. I don’t have a vagina.

funny

“Open wide, bitch,” he repeated, this time quieter. Just when I parted my lips to throw back a teasing insult, he shoved the wet cheese puff into my mouth and slapped his hand over my lips, baring his teeth as he put all his weight on me and continued to grin. I felt the wetness of his mouth in my own. It was the closest I would ever get to kissing the boy of my dreams, and I didn’t even know he was the boy of my dreams yet. I couldn’t be a fag. I wasn’t a fag. I knew it. Homos were just on TV. They were celebrities, and weirdly dressed men in scarves, and silly boys who laughed shrilly and acted girly. There was no way I was a homo. Homos didn’t look like me. Or Stefan Baker.

I had 5 years of classic psychoanalysis in an attempt to go straight. Didn't happen.

My new pillow: Stefan Baker’s muscular shoulder. And he didn’t move or shrug me off of him. He let me cuddle his side. I never felt happier than I did that night of the party when, long after all the other boys had left, I got to sleep pressed against Stefan Baker’s side. I felt perfect. I felt whole.

A little light returns to Ryan’s eyes, and then he smirks. “Your whiny ass is going to be satisfied sleeping on my couch? Really?” There’s the Ryan I know. “A couch is a couch,” I answer frankly, straight-faced. “It’s more than I have right now, and—” And I can’t trust myself on my own. I can’t trust that I won’t just end up beaten-up and drunk by a dumpster again. I need someone around me who gives a shit what happens to me. I’m just lucky and unlucky enough that the one person who fits that description is Ryan Caulfield.

Stefan talking.

He parts his lips. Out comes his tongue. It slips inside my mouth and introduces itself to mine. They slide and wrestle together, playing a sweet, teasing harmony to our locking, reddened lips.

Purple prose, but who cares?

And then my face found the edge of the counter, and in grasping for something to hold onto, I took a bowl of pistachios shattering to the tile with me. And there I was: a splatter paint work of pistachio shell art on a canvas of tile. I’m sure a bit of blood and spilled alcohol joined me, but not much else. I was depleted of everything.

Stefan sounding too literary.

he brings his fingers right back to my nipples. “Ryan …” I warn him. “Now that I know your weakness, I’m going to have to exploit it every chance I get.” “You do that, and I’m gonna shove my dick so far down your throat, you’ll taste my babies for nine months.”

Apt figure of speech.

He crawls up onto the bed and lifts my legs, his cock lining up eagerly with my ass. When he slowly enters me, my eyes rock back and I moan loudly and involuntarily. Yeah, he’s even got control of what sounds I make; I have no say in when or how I groan and holler and whimper. I am totally and completely at his whim when he takes charge in the bedroom.

Desperate breath hisses past our cheeks—from whose nostrils, I can’t tell. I groan underneath him, a victim to his might and his sex.

Yeah. Boyfriends. I said it—and proudly. I’ve come a long way from bromos and homos and buddies-I-do-stuff-with. Ryan is the guy I’m sticking with, and I couldn’t be happier.

Stefan. Thank god, finally.