It's ironic that the man who used to bully me for being gay is now paying me for that very same experience.
"Now kneel on the bed for me," I say, directing Sandra. She naturally takes a sexy pose with her knees spread wide, hands on the mattress, and tits squeezed between her biceps. "Perfect."
I move around the room, getting the pose from different angles.
While I'll be guarded, I need to think of him as just another client. What would I need to do with him to help him explore his sexuality? I wonder if he would be up for a photoshoot, too. He's not as large as me, but is still very attractive. His lithe football player's body has a healthy coating of fat on it now, filling him out in what Eve would call a "dad-bod".
It might help him learn to be confident in his skin. A part of me is excited to help him discover parts of himself he's previously buried. Is he a top or bottom, or switch? Has he played at all? Is he still in the closet? Being out as a gay man isn't as scary as it was a few decades ago, but does he know that?
Most people don't bat an eye at a gay couple out in public. I tend to turn heads because of my height, but I don't mind. I don't know why, but I've always been confident in knowing who I am. My strengths, my weaknesses, my flaws, and what makes me.... me. I can't imagine what it would feel like not to know something so basic about yourself, like your sexuality.
He obviously can have sex with women, if his children are any indication. But what kind of mind games did he have to play on himself to get there? Or is he bi more than gay?
Why do I care to know so much!?
He's a client. That's it. One that I'll help because he'll pay me to help.
I wrap up with Sandra and promise to send her the edited shots as soon as possible. While she's in the bathroom changing, I open my phone and text Gareth a link for my deposit.
Once I get his deposit, I guess there's no going back.
Chapter seven
Gareth
Trey: Book us a hotel room
Me: Done. Room 304 at the Loft
Ire-read our text exchange as I sit on the hotel bed. My leg bounces nervously. It's been a week since our dinner date, if you can call it that. I've been tempted to text him all week. Just little questions. How does this work? Will it be clinical or passionate? Will he be acting, or could he possibly be attracted to me? None of which seemed appropriate to text him at all.
So, here I am. Waiting. I'm an hour early. I don't know why I did this to myself. Now I have an hour to stall, to wait, to worry and obsess over everything I don't know about tonight. Shit, I'm not sure I've ever been this nervous.
Maybe when Micah was born? First day of college? I definitely wasn't this nervous getting married. Queasy, maybe, but not nervous.
Finally, the door beeps and opens. I spring to my feet, phone in hand. I toss the phone onto the bed. Shit. What do I do with my hands? I clasp them together in front of me before realizing that that's stupid, so I bring them to my hips. But that makes me look impatient. So, I drop them again, before closing them into fists and shoving them into my slacks pockets. Fuck, Brockman, get it together!
He walks into the entryway, his broad shoulders filling the narrow hallway that the bathroom makes, with a duffel bag over his shoulder. Oh, God. He brought supplies. I don't know what I was expecting, but that wasn't it. His deep, rich, brown eyes find mine, and I swear his lips tip up in a half smile. Butterflies swarm angrily in my stomach. Oh, no. This is bad. Apparently, my crush from high school is still very much alive. I like his smile. Too much. And it was a barely-there thing I would have missed if I hadn't already been looking at his lips.
"Brockman," he says in greeting.
"Huang," I reply, clearing my throat to cover up the tremble in my voice.
He slides the "do not disturb" placard onto the handle of the door before closing it, locking the deadbolt, and setting his bag down on the small couch.
Once free of his bag, he simply stands there, silently, taking me in. I lick my lips nervously. I have to break the silence. It's like a physical presence in the room.
"So... uh... how... what..."
The barely-there smile returns. "You'll hop in the shower. Scrub everything for me. Come out in a towel, and from there we'll talk."
Okay. I sigh a breath of relief. I can shower. I shower all the time. Like, I shower every day. And it'll give me a few minutes to stall and regroup. Right. This is a good thing.
I shower and scrub everything until it's red. The shower was probably a good idea. I've been sweating like it’s a game day with nerves while waiting for him. The hotel soap isn't great-smelling, but it's not the worst either.
Unfortunately, it only takes me four minutes to get clean. I step out of the shower and dry off, wrapping the towel around my waist and taking myself in in the mirror. Will he like what he sees? I'm still a little fatter than I would like, but will he judge me for that? Most gay guys I meet are in really good shape. Is that part of the gay community? Looking good all the time? I have zero fashion sense. And am I even gay? Bi? Or just gay for one man? The only man I've ever been attracted to is the one on the other side of this door. The one who is about to touch me. Oh, God. I don't know if I can do this.
And what if I want more from him than to buy his time? What if I want to date him? See if anything evolves naturally? Is this putting me firmly in the "client" camp and not the "boyfriend" one I actually want to be in?