Page 17 of Jealous Guy

I take a deep breath and remind myself of a little coping technique I invented for dealing with this kind of thing. It’s called Reality. It involves not allowing myself to think of Jordan in a way that defies the simple reality that he’s straight. Instead of inserting myself into fantasies about him, I force myself to think of him doing whatever I’m thinking of with a girl.

Take the whole prostate thing, for example. Sure, I’d like to spend some time thinking about touching him like that, but that’s not what he’s into. So instead, I’m going to sit at the bar, pound drinks like my life depends on it, and think about a girl touching Jordan’s asshole.

I conjure a set of slim fingers to get me on my way. Small, dainty hands. Neatly painted nails—short and well filed though. I can’t do him wrong like that, even in fucked-up fantasy land.

Okay, so where was I?

Yes, that’s it. A girl’s hand. Feminine and pretty. Soft skin. Moving down his body. Stroking his chest lightly. Fingertips glancing over his abs.

A hand flat on his belly, turning slowly so the fingers point downward.

Flesh on hot flesh.

Her hand on his body. Moving down.

Down.

Down.

A feminine hand stroking his cock, lightly and only once. Only because she can’t help it. Only because it makes his eyes slide shut when she does.

Gentle fingertips ghosting across the seam of his balls. Stroking the underside. Teasing them so they pull up close to his body.

Lube.

Lots of it.

The song that was playing ends. The brief silence alerts me to the fact that I’m in no way sober before another one starts playing.

A kaleidoscope turns. The fantasy spins.

The girl’s hand on Jordan’s body disappears, and the outline of my hand appears. I push the thought down, forcing the image out of my mind. It’s replaced with a perfect picture of Jordan’s hands.

Big hands with thick palms. Thick fingers with blunt nails.

Slick fingers, lubed up, circling his opening.

Again.

Again, a little more determined this time. A deliberate movement. The curl of a big, thick finger. A single digit finding the place where he’s knitted together and dipping into it.

The room swims. The kaleidoscope turns again.

It’s my hand I see now, not his. My fingers, slightly slimmer than his but masculine and strong. My fingers thrusting into him. Not his. Not a girl’s. My fingers sinking into the heat of his body, soaking up the warmth he holds inside. Sinking into it deeply. Spreading it. Opening it. Curling upward. Beckoning inside him until he’s thrashing. Until his hips are rocking. His cock leaking on his—

The song ends, and I whip my head around quickly to see if anyone is watching me. They aren’t. Everyone is oblivious, happy and heaving as they move to the music.

Jordan is still on the dancefloor, and I swear to God, the light hits him differently from the way it hits other people. It caresses him. Softening hard edges and making them glow. He stands out to me like a beacon. A fine, forbidden beacon I can’t tear my eyes off of, no matter how hard I try.

He has his back turned to me, his body moving in time with the music. He feels the music most in his hips, I think. He must because that’s where it moves him.

Since I’ve already failed spectacularly at Reality tonight, I allow myself a rare treat.

I watch Jordan dancing.

His hips roll in slow circles, and I let myself imagine standing in front of him. I imagine being naked in front of him, with my back turned toward his front. I imagine every person here disappearing, and he and I being the only ones in existence.

I imagine his big, hot hands on my body and his lips on my neck, saying sweet things to me. I imagine him naked too. Stripped bare and hard and horny. His hands on my hips, holding me in place as his cock slides into me.