Page 17 of Ctrl+Alt Submit

AARYN

I wake up disoriented. The morning light is streaming in from the wrong direction. It takes me a minute to realize I’m in Errol’s bed. As soon as it hits me, the memories of yesterday come rushing back.

I’m wide-awake in an instant, my brain suddenly racing.

My best friend blew me. Offered his mouth up, just like that.

Who does that? And I leaned back with my legs spread wide, my fingers laced together behind my head and told him to have at it.

Who the fuck does that? And then I told him I wanted to return the favor and gave him what was probably an objectively shitty blowjob.

I still got him off, though. The memory of his taste on my tongue — salty, musky, a little metallic — makes my heart take off at a gallop. It tasted like the essence of him. And I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want to taste it again.

But… what are Errol and I now? Can we go back to being regular friends now that we’ve had each other’s dicks in our mouths?

And… do I want to go back? It feels like a dangerous question, but the expressions on his face, the sounds he let out, the way he touched my face and made me feel at once vulnerable and all-powerful —everything about yesterday was a level of hot that I never knew existed.

I’ve always liked sex. But now, every encounter before yesterday pales in comparison when I look back at it. It’s like I’d been listening to an amazing album wearing earplugs this whole time, and I’m only now realizing and appreciating just how good it really is.

I never really thought about being with another dude. Does this mean I’m gay? Or bi, or something else? Or has it always just been different with Errol? Looking back, with the benefit of several years of adulthood under my belt, there’s some stuff that kind of makes sense now.

Physical contact with him always felt natural.

He never minded the way I would fall asleep against him sometimes when we were watching a movie.

Even though the idea of doing that with anybody else would have been mortifying, I was never embarrassed.

At some point, I started hugging him goodbye when he left to go back home.

I never asked myself why —it just felt like the right thing to do.

And when he tightened his arm across my shoulders with an intensity I wasn’t expecting the first time, I kept on doing it.

Back in school, neither of us really had any other friends. It was just the two of us. Somewhere along the way, I guess my brain made a leap of logic: That meant Errol was mine. And even though it might mean getting my ass kicked, I was never going to stop trying to protect what was mine.

The way I’d act out to distract bullies, to draw attention away from him and towards myself —I was trying to keep him safe.

It didn’t feel like that back then, though.

It was just something I did without thinking about, even though I wasn’t very good at it.

My smart mouth was the only —imperfect — tool I had.

I never spared a thought as to whether or not Errol felt that same possessiveness about me.

As I start to turn it over in my head, though, it hits me: His intimacy with all the details of my career and my social media, the way he was consistently and invisibly keeping tabs on my life all the way down to what goddamn brand of bourbon I liked…

He must have felt it, too: The sense that we belonged to each other.

Next to me, Errol stirsas if he could hear my thoughts in his sleep.

I stay perfectly still, my thoughts racing.

Should I pretend to still be asleep? Should I get up?

Is it weird that I’m still in his bed? Is he going to want to kiss me again?

Shit —should I have snuck out of bed and brushed my teeth?

I should feign sleep until I can figure out what to say or do. As that thought is going through my head, though, Errol’s eyes blink open. He gives me a sweet, bleary smile that makes my brain calm down.

“Morning, Stud,” he mumbles, his voice still blurry with sleep.

“Morning.” I avoid the teeth-brushing question by spontaneously leaning over and kissing him on the forehead. I’m surprised at how natural the gesture feels. His smile broadens and he nuzzles against my neck with a happy hum.

“Want coffee?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm,” he nods. An instant later, he pops up as if he just thought of something. “I’ll get up and make it.”

“You don’t have to.”

His eyes glow as he looks at me. “I know. But I like doing things for you,” he says, a little shyly. Something flips in my belly.

“Thanks. I’ll be down in just a bit, then,” I say, pulling my arms over my head into a stretch. Errol hops out of bed, all smiles, and puts on a T-shirt over a pair of flannel pajama bottoms.

After he leaves, a thought strikes me. I grab my phone, open up a browser window and type in “gay porn.”

So. Much. Dick. I scroll for a little bit, clicking on images here and there.

Do I like this? Does it turn me on? I’m not sure, mainly because no matter what the cock on my screen looks like, I find myself unconsciously summoning a mental image of Errol’s instead. Do I like dick, or do I like a dick?

Remembering how my eyes were riveted to Errol’s dick when it was just an obscene bulge leaking precum all over the red satin of his underwear, I add the word “lingerie” to my search query.

“Well, OK then,” I mutter. I guess Errol’s not the only guy who likes his junk in lace.

I scroll for a little bit before going back to the search bar and adding “ass.”

Oh . I blink at the images on the screen as my cock stiffens in an instant. Well, I guess I answered that for myself, at least.

“ W hat’s up?” Errol’s tone is tentative.

Next to him on the sofa, I take a sip of my coffee before I shake my head and try to put on a smile. “Nothing.”

He scowls. “Don’t do that. Don’t say nothing . Tell me you don’t want to talk about it or that it’s none of my business. But don’t tell me nothing’s bothering you. Because I know that’s not true.”

“Forgot how long you’ve known me for.” I let out a rueful laugh, realizing it was naive to think I could get away with not telling Errol what I was thinking. I can’t keep anything from him, and I sure as hell can’t lie to him.

“I was just thinking how I always assumed I was straight because I like sex with women. I never thought about being with another guy. Maybe I’m not straight anymore. Or maybe I never was?”

Errol rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, his face serious. “I’m not asking you to change how you identify or think of yourself. I don’t want to rush you or force you into anything. And I had a really, really good time last night, but Ran —” he reaches out and grabs my hand.

“I’d rather never do that again than screw up us . I just got you back, and I don’t want to risk losing you again. I’d be happy just being friends like we used to be.”

I don’t believe him, but I don’t want to tell him that. I’m not sure what I should say, though. So, like usual, my mouth just takes over.

“I was looking at gay porn before I came downstairs,” I blurt out. Errol looks like he’s trying to hold back laughter. I’m mortified, but I guess I can’t blame him.

“I wanted to see if it was just —I don’t know — something about you, or if looking at other guys’ dicks would get mine hard, too.”

“All in the name of research, huh?” he teases, a smirk curling his lips. “So, what did you find out?”

I take a deep breath and drop my head so I don’t have to see the quiet mirth sparkling in his eyes. “I think I’m definitely an ass guy. And I like those asses in, well, the feminine type of underwear you were wearing yesterday. A lot.”

My cheeks are blazing as I blow out a sigh and push myself to finish self-immolating my dignity and get it over with. “So I guess I like dick?”

Errol makes an interrogative hum. “But you’re not sure?”

“Every other dick I looked at made me think about yours,” I admit. “Like, they were fine, I guess. But I like yours.”

Errol rolls his eyes. “ Pfft . You’re just saying that.”

“No! I promise. Last night, you looked so sexy —” When I see his lip curl like he’s thinking something self-deprecating, I interrupt myself. “ Stop it.”

“What?” He looks offended.

“I can see what you’re thinking.”

He huffs out an exasperated sigh. “No, you can’t .”

“Yes, I can.” I make my tone gentler. “Because it’s not just in your head, it’s on your face.”

I exhale a laugh. “I’m not lying to you. I literally don’t think I could . So, please believe me when I tell you you’re sexy?” I scoot close enough to brush a lock of white hair off his face before running my thumb over his lower lip.

With impeccable timing, the kitchen timer dings, interrupting the moment. I sigh. “Be back in a minute.”

Last time I bought groceries, I picked up a package of those slice-and-bake cinnamon buns, remembering how much Errol liked them when my mom made them. Yeah, so maybe my brain has been running a thinking-about-Errol program in the background for longer than I realized.

There’s a little smile on my face as I walk into the kitchen, which vanishes in a flash when I realize the oven is still cold and there’s a smell of gas in the air.

“Fuck,” I mutter, rushing to turn it off and open all the windows.

After I’m convinced I’m not going to blow Errol’s house to smithereens over breakfast, I stand in front of the oven and scowl at it.

That’s how Errol finds me. “What’s the matter?”

“The oven won’t heat up. I don’t think I broke it. I just turned it on like usual when I came in to refill my coffee.”

He sighs. “Bet the damn pilot light burned out again.”

“Really? How can you tell?”

“Well, it’s obviously not a problem with the gas line, so I’m just taking a guess. Also, because it’s crapped out on me before.” He sighs again like he’s annoyed and heads for the cellar.

I blink at his retreating back in surprise. Errol can apparently fix… everything? I can barely tell different kinds of screwdrivers apart. That shouldn’t make me insecure about my masculinity, right? Definitely not.

But when Errol comes back upstairs with a toolbox and I’m still standing here like an idiot, I have to be honest with myself: I feel like tits on a bull. When I tell him that, he sort of grins.

“Actually, I need you to run out and get me a replacement starter switch, which I’d bet a million bucks is what needs to be replaced in this ancient thing,” he says, swinging the toolbox onto the stovetop and opening it.

“Um, I don’t know what —” I feel my cheeks heat.

“I’ll check to make sure they have the part in stock and then send you a link. Don’t worry, Stud, I’m not letting you just wander through a hardware store unsupervised.” His smile turns a little mischievous. “Don’t want some hot contractor sweeping you off your feet on me.”

I mumble something about getting dressed and head upstairs.

E rrol is surrounded by what looks like half of the oven’s guts when I come back from the hardware store. He’s still in a T-shirt, but he swapped out the pajama bottoms for cargo pants while I was gone. Wonder what’s underneath them.

Filing that thought away for later, I pick my way around the stuff scattered over the floor and thrust the starter switch at him. “You might want to make sure it’s the right one.”

“I’m sure it is.” He huffs out a laugh. “You’re the smart one, remember?”

“I can build software, but when it comes to real-world shit,I’m a lost cause,” I admit.

Errol shakes his head as he ducks his head and shoulders inside of the oven with a tool I can’t identify in one hand and the replacement starter in the other.

“Bullshit,” he says cheerfully. Coming from inside the stove, his voice is a little echoey.

“You’re the one with the hot-shit Ivy League degree. ”

“No! I dropped out my junior year.”

Errol tries to straighten up and whacks his head on the inside of the oven. “What? Ow —fuck!” He scoots back out to look at me, rubbing his head with his mouth agape.

I cringe. “Shit, I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to distract you. Do you want some ice for that?”

Errol grimaces and rubs his fingers over the point of impact. “Nah. I don’t think it’ll make a bump. But seriously? I thought you graduated!”

I sigh. “I didn’t exactly advertise it. It’s only cool to brag about dropping out of college to start a tech company after you get really famous. So for now, I’m just a guy with no degree who can’t fix shit.”

Errol looks at the disassemblage of the oven around him and sighs. “Well, I haven’t fixed it yet, so save your praise.”

“Yeah, but I know you will. Not even a question in my mind.”

At first, I think he’s going to reply with a self-deprecating crack. But after looking at me in silence for a few seconds, something like pride comes over his features. “Thanks, Stud,” he says quietly.