Chapter 2

Anyway, Cliff hates me. Not because I want in his boyfriend’s pants, but because we’re complete opposites. He likes the sun and I like the moon. He’d rather read about the stock market and I’d rather read about two male professional wrestlers falling in love and having a romantic dinner together, then enjoying a round of heated sex on a sweaty mat. The main reason he probably doesn’t like me is simple: he found out I called him the C-word once and he’s never forgiven me for that; not that I blame him. You know. The C-word. Catty. I probably wouldn’t like someone if they called me the C-word behind my back, either. Shame on me. We live and learn. Moving on.

Cliff keeps a close eye on Darsey. Deep inside I know that he’s aware of my bottomless crush on the rugby player, his boyfriend of five months, and want to steal him away. Cliff’s radar is on when it comes to Darsey when I’m around. High range. Full alert. Although he won’t admit it to me that he’s noticed my tongue-wagging when it comes to his man, he tries not to let the two of us alone together; not that I blame him, because God only knows what I will do to Darsey if we are in the same room for too long, just the two of us, side by side, and make eye contact. Things can happen that I might not be able to control. Wicked, sexy, temperature rising, and devious things. Actions that will send Cliff over the edge. No wonder he keeps his radar on, ready to battle me.

* * * *

Time: almost noon. I’m starving. My stomach rumbles. I have to eat, and soon.

Place: the three of us are at Darsey’s flat. The flat is quite masculine with lots of steel, glass, and stone. Nice, but kind of more business-like than homey. Darsey and I return from a Saturday morning rugby game at Templeton Stadium, across town. Cliff is hanging out at the flat. He’s not happy to see me: vampire teeth pointy and sharp, wide eyes, shoulders up, hisses at me, an appetite to devour me whole.

Darsey’s in the bathroom showering (naked, wet, soapy…oh my) when Cliff decides to pin me to the wall.

I’m a sweaty mess from the game and don’t have a shirt on. I’m next to take a shower. It’s not uncommon for me to use Darsey’s shower after a rugby game. Sometimes the showers at the stadium locker room are jammed and we don’t want to wait around. We’re friends and can use each other’s showers. Right? Why not?

My chest is covered in a layer of sweat and pumped muscles, and I stink. I need a shower, and badly. Our team has won: 7, Templeton Thundercats / 5, West End Eels. I’m excited about the win, and my chest proves the labor of the victory.

Cliff doesn’t give a shit about rugby and winning. Out of the blue, before I realize what’s happening, he grapples my throat, tosses me against a living room wall, blocks air off to my brain with his right palm and fingers, and demands of me, “Put a shirt on, Wayne. Cover those tits. My boyfriend shouldn’t have to look at them. And I don’t want to see them either.”

I find his comment mysterious, odd, and questionable. Maybe I have a better-looking chest than he does. Probably. No way.Not a chance. I’ve seen his chest. It’s model-right. Perfect. Sculpted bliss. He shouldn’t be jealous of me. He’s ten times better looking, with or without his clothes on.

“Why?” I gurgle, dying by his hand and pressure. I can’t breathe and begin to lose consciousness a little, slipping down the wall. I gag somewhat, become confused, dizzy, lethargic, and sick to my stomach.

“Because…because I just do. So listen to me.” He releases my throat. First his thumb, then his fingers.

I cough…cough…cough.

“Buck up, pussy boy. Although I wantto kill you, I won’t.”

Once I come to and stand up on my own, I tell him, “I’m not putting a shirt on.” I’ve dealt with bristlier super villains. Fuck him! “You’re over-reacting. We just got back from rugby and I want to get a shower.”

He growls at me, “I know you want to shove your tiny-miniscule-shrunken boy-dick inside my man and squirt your baby load, but it isn’t going to happen. Not on my shift while he’s my boyfriend. So put a shirt on.”

Hmmm. Why does he say this? I think I know why. No. Not true. I knowwhy he says this.

Listen. Things are about to get most interesting.

* * * *

That afternoon, following my shower, I don’t tell Darsey that his pissed-off boyfriend almost murdered me. Instead, I eat the salad he makes for lunch, eventually leave his flat, and give him the night off from my ogling and compliments. Cliff the wanna-be-killer can have him for one evening. Besides, I have to work down at Templeton Stadium, as second-shift Lead Security Management person. There are four of us who work the shift. Moss has the North Gate. Hamilton has the South Gate. Peterson has the East Gate. And I get the West Gate. We communicate by radios throughout the nine-hour shift to stay in contact. If something goes bump during the hours of four P.M. until one in the morning, all of us know about the ruckus, and we handle it like pros.