It’s not another guy’s dick. It’s our dick! Besides, I’ve never had another dude’s dick in my pants before.
Ugh, this is so weird. “Look, we need rules.”
It isn’t that weird, once you get used to it.
Fuck. He can hear my thoughts, too. “West …”
Of course I can hear your thoughts. We’re together now. Don’t you trust me?
I walk right up to the mirror. Curiosity takes over as I run a hand through my hair, surprised somehow by its texture, even though I’ve known it my whole life. I’m not even sure if I can trust whether that curiosity is my own—or West’s.
Maybe we really are the same person now. People talk to themselves all the time when they’re alone, don’t they? “Try to let me have the wheel most of the night.”
Alright, that’s reasonable.
“And if you see me crashing and burning, well …” I shrug. “I guess you can kinda take over.”
I’m not really sure that’s how this works, but yeah, okay, we can agree to that.
“I get what you mean. I feel like we’re … one.”
Exactly. I’m having a hard time disagreeing with you. Even your cautiousness that used to annoy me is kinda making sense now.
“And your recklessness feels more … appealing.” I feel tickled by that sensation in my chest again, smiling despite myself. I tug on some of my bangs in the front, wondering if they’re long enough to bite. Then I laugh at myself and let them go, feeling foolish. “Okay, fuck it. No rules. We get what we want. We’re sharing all of the same thoughts. We’re not two people, not really.”
Right!
“Dude, I don’t know what it is. I feel pumped up for tonight. Don’t you?”
I was just about to say that!
I reach for my nuts again, resist, then find myself grabbing my dick through my shorts instead. “Uh …”
Holy fucking fuck, we’re packing!
“HEY!” I try to let go, but suddenly I find myself fascinated with it. I pull open my gym shorts and reach inside with abandon, grabbing the bare thing full-on. “I don’t know whether to feel exposed, humiliated, or—”
Fucking PROUD, man!
I blush. “This is so weird.”
I dunno if I ever said this to another dude before, but I’m pretty sure you’re bigger than me. Phew … the damage I could’ve done if I had your monster schlong.
I see a voluptuous set of breasts bouncing before my eyes, squeezed into a tight, black leather bustier, the laces coming loose. Like a heavenly valley, the cleavage sings to me, begging for my face to squeeze between its bouncy bliss, begging to be worshipped, begging for—
I blink away the sight, aghast. “What in the fuck?”
Sorry, my bad.
“Sorry, my bad??” I don’t know what I’m more affronted by: the fact that West just flashed me with a horny thought of his, or that I wasn’t altogether repulsed by it. I shake my head, confused. “We have a mission!”
I know. Skip the lecture. I’ll try to control myself.
“Yeah! And …” I wrestle with my misgivings. This is supposed to be something of a birthday present to him, isn’t it? I have to relax, learn to let go more, and stop suppressing things I’m uncomfortable with.
Hey, Griff? What’s that weird feeling in our belly?
The question directs me to a totally different need that—rather suddenly—desperately requires fulfilling. I abandon the mirror and rush to the phone at once, scroll to a number, and bring it to my ear. “Yes? Hey there, it’s Griffin Harmeyer. Er, Westley James. Er, sorry, hah! I’m having a day. Griffin James. Yes, right, 1777 13th Street, apartment 313, yep. Five large pizzas, every topping, all of it, breadsticks, wings, yes, I will take it all, every side, every upsell, everything you got.”
The word “indulge” doesn’t even touch it.
Neither does “taste test”, nor “sample”, nor “feast”.
What I do is drown myself in the carnal pleasures of stuffing my face until I’m crying with joy. I’ve never tasted pizza before. I’ve never tasted a simple, nothing, greasy-ass breadstick, lightly buttered, garlic seasoning pinched atop its doughy succulence. I sit on the floor by myself, back leaned against the couch, with a buffet of pizza and junk food all around me, yet I’m not alone.
It’s fucking heaven in my mouth.
“Heaven in my mouth,” I agree.
And then somewhere between my sixth and seventh slice of pizza, I start to cry.
“What’s going on with me?” I ask through a curtain of tears. “Are these tears mine or yours?”
I don’t know, man, but I’m feeling every bit of it.
“Is it actually me who’s been dead this whole time? Is it me who’s been, like, taking everything for granted? Everything …” I lift a half-eaten breadstick before my teary eyes. “… even this oily, soggy piece of shit?”
It’s the best soggy piece of shit I’ve ever known.
“What have I been doing with my life? How have I never truly tasted pizza before? It’s better than sex!”