tuesdays are mine. that’s the deal nobody said out loud.
ryan sits two pods over from me at work. he has a girlfriend named kayla who picks him up on fridays in a white jeep and kisses him in the parking lot where everyone can see. he plays rec league softball on thursdays. he says “bro” to the regional manager. he is, in his own words, which he has said to my face while i was wiping my mouth, “not gay, like at all.”
and every tuesday at around 9:30 he texts me two words.
you home
tonight it came at 9:41. i was already in the shorts. the little pink ones that ride up and show the bottom of my ass, which he has never once mentioned and always stares at. i texted back door’s unlocked and went and unlocked it.
he came in still in his work clothes. blue button down, sleeves shoved up, lanyard in his pocket because he forgets to take it off and kayla gives him shit for it. he kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot, tossed his truck keys onto the credenza with that sharp metal clatter, and stepped straight into my space before i could even back up into the kitchen.
his right hand came up and clamped under my jaw, rough and heavy, tilting my face up toward his. he was already talking—complaining about regional Q3 spreadsheets, complaining about kayla dragging him to home depot on sunday to look at subway tile for their half-bath—and all the while his other hand was working his belt buckle open with that dull brass clink. his thumb dragged hard across my lower lip, parting my teeth, testing how wet i already was just from hearing his car door slam outside. his cock was rock hard through his navy slacks, pressing right into the side of my hip through the thin cotton of the pink shorts.
that’s ryan’s defense mechanism: keep talking about tile grout and client emails while his thumb is wedged in my mouth, because if he complains about home improvement while pulling my chin up, his brain gets to pretend this is just a frustrating errand on his commute home.
“hi to you too,” i said around his thumb.
“don’t,” he said, breathing heavy through his nose. “i’ve had the worst day of my life.”
“you said that last tuesday.”
“last tuesday was also the worst day of my life.”
he let go of my jaw, dropped onto my couch with his legs spread and his belt hanging open and looked at me. that look. like he’s annoyed at me for something i haven’t done yet.
so i got on my knees on the rug between his feet.
“this isn’t gay,” he said, to the ceiling. he says it every time. i think it’s like a prayer. like if he says it before my mouth is on him it doesn’t count.
“totally,” i said, and pulled his boxers down, and he was already hard. he’s always already hard. he’s hard in the car on the way over, i’m pretty sure, sitting at red lights thinking about my mouth and telling himself it’s stress.
he’s thick. not crazy long, but thick enough that my jaw clicks after a while, and he smells like his deodorant and the office and a little bit like sweat, and i put my nose right at the base of him and breathed in before i did anything, just because i know it makes him crazy that i like it.
“jesus christ, luna,” he said. “just—”
i licked him from his balls to the tip, slow, flat tongue, and his whole stomach jumped.
“stress relief,” he said through his teeth.
“mhm.”
i took him in my mouth and went down until he hit the back of my throat and held there, eyes watering, spit already running down to his balls, and his hand came down on the back of my head and stayed. he used to not touch me. the first couple months he’d grip the couch cushions like he was on a roller coaster and look anywhere but down. now he grabs my hair right at the root and fucks up into my mouth and watches.
watching is the gayest thing he does and he does it every time.
i let him use my throat. that’s honestly my favorite part. the sloppy part. the gagging and the spit strings and the noise, he hates the noise, he’s always whispering shh shh shh like my neighbors care, and then he pushes deeper and makes it louder himself. his phone buzzed on the cushion next to him. i saw kayla’s name light up. a heart emoji next to it.
he didn’t look at it. he pushed my head down.
i came off him gasping, chin soaked, and looked up at him with his phone still buzzing.
“you gonna get that?”
“shut up,” he said, and his face was red all the way down his neck. “shut up. get up here.”
that was new.
usually he finishes in my mouth, says thanks like i held a door for him, drinks a glass of water and leaves by 10:15. usually he does not say get up here.
i got up. he grabbed my hips and turned me around and pulled me backward into his lap so i was sitting on him, his cock wet and hard right up against my ass through the pink shorts, and he put his face in the back of my neck and just breathed there for a second.
“i think about this,” he said. muffled. like he was confessing a murder. “at my desk. i think about it at my fucking desk.”
“about what.”
he didn’t answer. he hooked his thumbs in my shorts and pulled them down my thighs and i felt him look. then his hand was on my ass, squeezing, spreading me, and his thumb dragged right over my hole and i made a noise i’m not proud of.
“that’s not gay either,” i said, when i could talk. “for the record.”
“luna i swear to god.”
there’s lube in the end table drawer because i’m not an idiot. i reached over and got it and pressed it into his hand without saying anything, and he stared at it like i’d handed him a gun, and then he opened it.
he was clumsy. he’d obviously never done this, or he’d done it in his head a thousand times and never with his hands. too much lube, all over my thighs, all over the couch. one finger, then two, too fast, and i bit my lip and pushed back on them anyway because i wanted it more than i cared about it being nice. he was breathing like he’d run up the stairs.
“bend over,” he said. “over the arm.”
i did. ass up over the arm of my own couch, face in the cushion that still smelled like his cologne from the last six tuesdays, shorts tangled around one ankle. he stood behind me and i heard him spit in his hand, which he didn’t need to do, which meant he’d watched porn about this, which meant he’d been searching for it.
he pushed in all at once.
i yelled into the cushion. it hurt and it was perfect and he froze, buried in me, both hands on my hips, and said “oh fuck. oh my god,” in this tiny broken voice, the same voice he uses when he says not gay, except it meant the exact opposite.
then he started fucking me.
not careful. he fucked me like he was mad at me, like i’d done this to him, hard deep strokes that shoved me into the arm of the couch until it scraped on the floor. his balls slapping me. the wet noise of all that lube. he had one hand on my hip and the other flat between my shoulder blades holding me down and he kept saying things under his breath, fuck, fuck, so tight, what the fuck, and then, i swear to god, while he was balls deep in me—
“this doesn’t make me gay.”
i laughed. i couldn’t help it. face in the cushion, getting railed, laughing.
“what,” he said, and slammed into me harder. “what’s funny.”
“nothing,” i said. “you’re so straight, ryan. you’re so straight right now.”
he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back and fucked me harder so i’d stop talking, and it worked. my cock was bouncing against the couch, leaking all over the upholstery, and i reached under me and he slapped my hand away, actually slapped it, and wrapped his own fist around me instead. his hand. his straight hand. jerking me off fast and messy while he fucked me.
his phone started buzzing again on the cushion by my face. kayla. heart emoji. i could see it from two inches away.
“she’s calling,” i said.
he looked at it. i felt him look at it. i felt his cock jump inside me when he did.
he didn’t stop.
i came first, all over his hand and the arm of my couch, clenching down on him so hard he groaned like he’d been punched. he got maybe four more strokes in, hips stuttering, and then he shoved deep and held me there and came inside me with his forehead on my back, shaking, saying my name into my spine. not stress relief. not bro. luna. luna. luna.
the phone stopped buzzing.
we stayed like that for a while. him still inside me, both of us breathing hard, the couch half across the room. i could feel him going soft and i could feel him dripping out of me when he finally pulled back, and he watched that too. i know he did.
“okay,” he said eventually, to nobody. “okay.”
he pulled his pants up and sat down heavy on the other end of the couch. his hair was wrecked. there was lube on his work shirt. he picked up his phone and looked at the missed call and put it face down again.
“you have to call her back,” i said.
“i know.”
“you have lube on your shirt.”
he looked down. “fuck.”
i got him a towel. he cleaned his shirt in my kitchen with dish soap, which did not work, while i sat on the counter in nothing but the hoodie i’d grabbed, with his come still sliding down the backs of my thighs, and neither of us said anything about it.
at the door he stopped with his hand on the knob.
“this is still just—” he said.
“stress relief,” i said. “yeah. i know. it’s tuesday.”
he looked at me for a long second. then he looked at my mouth.
“what are you doing thursday,” he said.
“you have softball thursday.”
“yeah,” he said, and opened the door, and didn’t explain, and left.
thursday at 9:12 i got a text.
you home
i was. i was already in the shorts.
