Torso Tackle

Chapter 6: Breathless

Chapter 6: Breathless

Martin, one of Joseph’s just-out-of-high-school employees, takes Jory’s order: a tall caramel latte with skim milk, no whipped cream.

Jory turns to me again, smiles, and says, “You look good this morning, Sebastian.”

Is he flirting with me? I’m not sure. Why can I never tell if a guy is hitting on me or not? Or maybe he’s just making small talk, looking for something to say. I nod my head, take a sip of my coffee, swallow it down, and respond, “Trust me, a lot of work goes into this look. I wake up resembling an alien.”

He softly laughs. “I can relate.”

Jory is lying. There is no way in hell he can possibly relate to my morning ugliness. The guy is too good looking, rock solid and chiseled all the way. Born handsome and never has an ugly day, let alone a morning. Again, he is out of my league. I shake my head and reply, “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me. I look like a freak show before seven; rings around my eyes. lips dry as hell, cheeks pallid.” Unexpectedly he reaches forward with a finger, advances it through the space between us, gently removes a drop of coffee from the right side of my mouth, and whispers, “Got it.”

I don’t back away from his touch, enjoying Jory in my personal space. Instead, I welcome his contact, overjoyed that he is this comfortable in my presence. Half of me really wants him to slip the finger into my mouth so I can clean the coffee off and taste his skin. This doesn’t happen, though. Instead, he ignores the dribble of coffee on his appendage and continues to smile.

I shouldn’t feel fluttery and bubbly inside, but I just can’t help it. I need to get over the fact that he’ll never be into me. There will never be a date shared between us. We won’t meet at the movies and have dinner afterwards. A walk in Talon Park and holding hands is out of the question. Hooking up at a nearby queer bar is not in the scheme of things. Destiny will not bring us together. Jory is not interested in me, and never will be, so I need to get a grip and face reality. I need to get over myself and the feelings I have for him.

“Thanks,” I reply to his finger-wiping.

“Sebastian,” he says, rolling my name off his tongue in a suave manner, “I need to ask you a personal question.”

“Ask away.”

After he collects his coffee from Martin, he gently grabs my elbow with his free palm and leads me to a table where we sit across from each other. I take another sip of my coffee and Jory does the same. Timidly he says, “I know this is rather forward, and a very short notice, but…”

He wants to marry me. Finally! The all-star quarterback with two championship rings and the hottest ass in the city wants me to spend the rest of my life with him and become his husband/partner. Of course I will accept! Who wouldn’t when it comes to Jory Sole?

“…there’s a party I have to go to on Thursday night. A fundraiser for breast cancer of uppities and art. I was hoping you could join me.”

Is he seriously asking me out on a date? Am I delusional? Did I accidentally catch H1N1 on my walk into The Muffin Shack?

His free hand reaches across the table and gives my hand a tender squeeze. Before I respond to his invite, he says, “Sebastian, I feel comfortable around you. I enjoy your company and our conversations. I trust you with me. You seem like a very honest guy to me and I like you. I want to get to know you a little more. So, what do you say?”

I do. With wedding bells and fluttering doves. And a wedding party of sixteen. And gifts from our closest friends and family members. And a seven-tier cake with double-chocolate icing. And two grooms on the top of the cake. And three hundred guests at our fabulous reception. And a honeymoon in Paris…No! Not Paris!…Buenos Aires!

“I’m breathless,” spills out of me, as I'm unable to think and respond clearly. What spell does the quarterback have over me that causes me to feel this way? He’s just a normal guy when he steps out of his professional footballer mode and clothes, right?

“Breathless?” he questions, providing upturned eyebrows and a tilted head.

I shake the moment of confusion away, gather my composure, and smile. “Jory, I would love to go to this fundraiser with you. Thanks for asking me.”

“It's Thursday night at The Piedmont Place. I’ll pick you up at your apartment at six. Wear a tux, if you don’t mind. Does that work for you?”

More than he knows. He can pick me up right now if he wants to; put me against his hulking chest and keep me forever. I would be perfectly fine, the happiest homo in the world. I nod my head and respond, “Sounds great, Jory. I can’t wait.”

When he finally walks away from the two-person table, I swear I see him insert one of his fingers between his lips, sucking on its tip like a long and narrow c**k. Coincidentally, it just happens to be the same finger he used to wipe the edge of my mouth with, removing coffee from my skin. Or maybe I’m just wanting it to be. Who knows?