Page 8 of The Call of Azure (Unexpected Love #3)

“Fudge, this place feels empty." My new apartment is too large. Too quiet. Too…vacant. I’ve tried to convince myself that I don’t feel that way about it by filling it with new and elaborate décor.

I have a plush sofa and comfortable reading chairs clustered around a large, unique coffee table made from a single long slab of polished pine.

Which, for the record, will stay in this space for the rest of time.

Watching eight men wrestle it up the metal staircase while trying not to end up crushed like bugs was traumatic.

There are bookshelves filled with dog-eared paperbacks and shiny, uncracked-spine hardcovers.

There are plants: tall banana trees and long, draping vines hanging from the large industrial windows.

There are colorful paintings, plush, poofy rugs, and cuddly blankets and throw pillows…

so many throw pillows. I mean, you never know when you might need to spontaneously make a front room pillow fort, right?

The walls are a deep-maroon exposed brick.

Are they maroon? Maybe that’s too purple…

burgundy? No…claret? Whatever, they’re red.

Dark red. I’ve hung beaded curtains that tinkle like little faery windchimes when all my windows are open and the breeze drifts in, and tiny strands of flickering lights adorn the large, exposed metal ceiling beams. It’s eclectic and bright and intentional.

The space technically isn’t overcrowded, but it’s full enough that even with an open floor plan, there is absolutely zero chance my voice actually echoes around when I speak. It feels like it does.

It feels…empty.

"Ugh. Did I really just say fudge?" I flop down unceremoniously onto the sofa, only to instantly become a climbing gym for Cupcake.

I scoop her up and lovingly nuzzle my nose against her adorable little wet snoot.

"We can do better than fudge, can't we, baby?" Her tail wiggles around even faster. People can say what they want about folks who talk to their pets, but she understands me, and I’m choosing to take her immediate increased tail wags as encouragement to try harder.

"Floofers, this place feels empty."

She cocks her little head to the side.

"That’s better, isn't it? Yes, I think so too. It’s certainly not my most creative attempt, but it’s just like you, isn’t it, sweet thing? My little floofers."

I don’t care how crazy I sound. We’re the only two around to hear me.

She woofs doggy breath into my face a few times in response.

See, told you she understands me. The little black terrier is the feistiest demon I've ever met.

Naming her Cupcake to throw people off and then watching their faces transform in horror when they coo at her and she abruptly attempts to catapult herself out of my arms to rip off their extremities brings me endless and almost daily joy.

When I was twenty-one, I lived alone for a few months after my grandfather died while I tried to decide what I wanted to do with my life, but aside from that, I've never lived on my own. I lasted less than a month after my roommate and bestie, Blue, moved in with his boyfriend and eternal love before I found myself at the shelter looking for a love of my own. Would it be nice to find a human love? Of course, but that’s not something I’m looking for right now.

No way, José. I’ve given up looking for Mr. Right/Forever/Prince Charming.

I don’t need him. Cupcake and I have formed an unbreakable partnership, and we don’t need anyone else.

It took only moments for me to realize that she was meant to be mine, and only days for us to become inseparable.

The second I walked into her sad little cement shelter box, she launched herself into my arms and began licking my face while somehow simultaneously trying to attack the poor employee accompanying me.

There was no doubt in my mind that we were made for one another.

Now, eight months later, she has a wardrobe that rivals mine, custom-curated organic food, and she never leaves my side unless I’m at work or out with friends for Friday Night Friends Date.

Okay, so I don’t take her on actual dates either, or I wouldn’t if dating was still something I did.

Well, I wouldn’t take her on most of them anyway.

Okay, fine…if you’re demanding honesty, I took her on a few before I decided to give up dating completely.

None of the dates I took her on worked out all that well, but at least I wasn’t the one who managed to scare the guys off for once.

Since none of my attempts at romantic relationships ever pan out the way I hope anyway, right after I brought Cupcake home, I figured “What the hell” and took her with me on a couple of “walk in the park with coffees” type encounters.

It turns out that needing to get finger stitches after being bitten by a fuzzy piranha is a pretty good way to send a guy running before I even have a chance to do whatever it is I keep doing that scares them off.

Oh, I’ve had plenty of enjoyable dates that haven’t ended in bloodshed over the years.

A veritable plethora of evenings filled with leisurely dinners and strolls in the park and mind-melting sex, but nothing has ever managed to shift into a serious relationship, no matter how much I’ve wanted it to.

No one ever wants me for very long, and no matter how much time I’ve spent engaging in self-reflection, I haven’t been able to pinpoint any underlying factors that I can try to change.

Am I a bit flamboyant? Yes, but a lot of men have told me they like my style and my confidence.

I have a steady job, I’m nice-looking, I’m always the life of the party, and I’m good in bed.

I mean, I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but I honestly can’t figure out why absolutely no one wants me.

I’ve heard plenty of explanations, of course.

I've been told that I’m too loud and eclectic and strange.

Too fem and perky and energetic. I know some men are turned off by my bold sense of style, my crass sense of humor, and my commitment to my performance art.

Hell, I’ve even been given shit about the way I choose not to swear and instead take the opportunity to play with language by making up my own replacement swear words.

I think it makes life more fun and whimsical.

I mean, how boring would life be without a little bit of eccentricity?

The men who’ve said those things have all been right.

I am all of those things and more. But I love that about myself.

I love that more often than not, I feel like the life of the party.

I love glitter and dancing and friends and chaos.

I love that I’m fun and that everyone knows I'm fun.

Need a wingman for the bar, a fourth to round out game night, an eighth for karaoke?

I'm your guy. In reality though, I’m never the fourth or the eighth…

because I'm always the first person invited.

I know that sometimes the men who seem to initially like those things see me only as a shiny bauble, and when they get a peek behind the curtain, suddenly, I'm less of a commodity. But those things aren’t all that I am.

There are times I'm stressed and tired and I want nothing more than to cuddle up in sweatpants and eat Chinese. I guess it’s hard for folks to accept that I can be both.

On the rare occasion someone magically seems to like all the things I love about myself, at least for a while, we're not always compatible in bed. I love a good, thorough dicking down as much as the next guy, but sometimes I like to be the one doing the dicking too, and sadly, stereotypes exist about men like me. My partners haven’t always been thrilled with the fact I don’t live up to their sweet, passive, bottomy Gabriel expectations.

Most of the time, I prefer to be the one to take control.

I want to see my partner fall apart as my fingers and teeth and tongue drive them crazy.

I want to watch them lose themselves to lust and sensation as their back arches and their eyes squeeze shut as I thrust into them hard and fast. Once in a while, I want even more than that.

There are times I don't want getting off to be the goal. Instead, I want to linger and explore and play and nip and lick and tie, and not everyone is open to that either. My preference for…less commonplace extracurricular activities isn’t even usually the thing that scares men off.

Hell, I don't even remember the last time someone stuck around long enough for me to bring it up. The kinks I enjoy aren’t something I require in order to enjoy sex; they’re just an occasional bonus dessert course, so it's not the sort of thing I typically mention during the first few dates. Yet every man I’ve ever spent an enjoyable evening or five with has left after a few laughs and rolls in the hay.

The idea of finding someone who accepts me…

really, truly all of me…well, it's getting harder to hold on to the idea that such a mythical, unicorn-type creature might exist.

I know that I'm colorful and lively and entertaining. I know that people seem to think the way I’m prone to occasionally spilling my drinks accidentally or lighting things on fire is fun, too, even if those types of things aren’t intentional.

The problem with being the fun guy is, no one wants fun all the time.

So, while I'm the first person they ask to join in, I'm always the first to be let go.

No one wants to hold their fun friend while he cries when he's sad. No one wants to listen to their fun date complain about their hard day at work. And no one calls the fun guy when something serious is happening in their own life and they’re looking for support.