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And then Jet with those vague, alarming hints of his former life that make me wonder whether they really mean what I think they mean or if it’s my mind that’s twisted.
Joel has to know about this, right? About what Jet told me—about running, about the vague hints of danger, about the shrink and the pills. Should I call him again? Should I call Jet?
Frustrated, I boot my computer up and open my story files. I stare at the words, at the strangers making out on the screen.
I have unread messages from Connie. Comments upon comments from the readers. I have an unfinished scene and…
I can’t.
I bite back a sob. Why can’t I write more? I love this story. Readers love it, too. I made friends over the posting of the chapters. I laughed and cried as I got it down. And what if my boys don’t know about it?
This story is my secret. My one secret from them, my fantasy.
But it’s turning sour anyway because I can’t. Can’t write. They aren’t like I imagined them.
And they don’t know about it, which makes it feel as if I’m… abusing them somehow. Forcing them into doing stuff they don’t like doing.
Would they do more? Would they go down on each other? Have sex with each other? They never touch much during sex with me.
They aren’t as I imagined them, and I don’t care about my stupid story anymore if I can be with them, discovering new things about them every day, touching them, and pleasuring them, and living with them.
I don’t want to write that story, because I’m going to tell them about it, and then I’ll delete it forever.
In fact, I’ll delete it, period. I’m sorry for the readers who invested so much time in it, who loved my imaginary boys, but it’s not fair.
Nothing is as I thought it was. Both boys are so different from the men I painted them to be in my story it’s not even funny. With every revelation, every tiny tidbit I learn about them, the tables are turned, my perception of them is changed.
How Joel hesitated to touch Jet, how he vanished today. How Jet gets after those phone calls and the talk about shrinks and pills.
But also the good sides. Jet’s artistic nature, Joel’s intellectual one and his awesome cooking skills, his protectiveness of Jet.
As it turns out, they don’t give a damn about tantric sex. They want it rough, quick, slow, hard, in every way.
I never thought they’d kiss so differently, or they’d prefer different things in sex, though—like how Jet is more passionate, Joel more aggressive and controlling, how Jet likes to play with my ass and Joel is more of a titty-pussy guy.
And all these thoughts are making my face warm and my heart race, my pulse beat between my legs.
My boys aren’t imaginary anymore. They’re real, and I’m in big, big trouble…
Chapter Twenty Six
JOEL
“The world,” my father says, “is full of depraved men. Welfare cases, socialists, faggots. Joel would never turn out to be one of them. He’s my son.”
You’d think that after fighting with paperwork all day at work and feeling paranoid about the covert looks and giggles I receive from some people, I wouldn’t have time or energy left to worry about other stuff.
Like Candy. Like Jet.
Like kissing him, getting us off together and then running.
But I do. Worry, that is. Or maybe I just need time to think. To process this. Process the fact I kissed a guy for the first time in my life and liked it.
His taste… unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. Strong. Salty. Spicy. Definitely male.
One hundred percent Jet.
I liked it way too much, and that’s scary shit.
