However, I’m pretty sure Fabian is a bisexual or possibly a homosexual with shame issues. Yup, I love my gays. Don’t get me wrong. However, bisexual? Come on. What is this, the 90’s?
Straights and gays had to choose. Why shouldn’t they?
While pondering over a man’s bisexuality and which way Fabian’s wind blew, I’d said to Blake back when we were in Sobe, “The whole act is kinda piggy to me, doing whomever they please, whenever they feel, sticking their cock into whatever they want.”
Blake blinked his blue eyes at me submissively and said, “When one looks like Fabian Henry, they can pretty much do anything they want, with whomever they please.” My GBF was almost jealous of Fabian’s sexual confidence. At eighteen, Blake hadn’t hit his stride yet, but he was getting there.
Any sight of Fabian, let alone sitting behind him on this very plane as I was right now, sexually frustrated me from head to toe. I just wanna scream, “Enough already!”
Fabian drips testosterone and a faint hint of a softness, making him approachable. Dare I say, almost loveable? Hence why he smells sorta flowery, at least to me he does. Like a heady tuberose, unisex and flirty. I want to lick him.
“I’m too old for this high school gay confusion stuff,” I’d declared in exhaustion.
Blake had flashed his pearly whites and said, “You remember, I came out of the closet when I was sixteen. My parents didn’t talk to me for months.”
“That’s what happens when we’re in boarding school, darling. Our parents can come and go from our lives whenever it’s convenient for them.”
“But they came around. So if my New England, Volvo-driving, Episcopalian family can get behind my lifestyle than I’m sure, if Fabian is a ding-a-ling lover, he can bust those French doors wide open too.” Blake’s voice spoke with more sarcasm than usual.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just because he’s European doesn’t mean the dude’s gay. French men are not like American men, Taddy.” Blake may be an anal sex virgin but he sure is smart. Avon Porter’s Global Cultures class had done that to us.
“True. I bet all that beer and football we have here in the states makes us appear like animals to guys in other parts of the world.”
“God, I love America.” Blake never missed a Giants game.
Sports and alcohol aside, how do I know Fabian likes the company of other men?
Well for starters, he won’t take his dark, magnetic eyes off my GBF. Plus Fabian is superb at doing…my makeup. Regardless, I’d never stereotype a man’s sexual orientation based on how well he blends my eye-shadow to match my long-red hair and peaches-n-cream complexion while getting ready for a photo shoot. Now would I?
By the way, that’s what Fabian had said my skin looks like. Personally I think it’s more a splatter of unfortunate freckles, but I’ll take any compliment those guys give. Come to think of it, that was the only compliment I’d received from them all week.
What-the-flip-ever!
Hmmm, why do I think he’s bisexual and not a homosexual?
When Fabian applies my makeup, he often gets…an erection. Pressing his dick right up against me, he beats my face with a powder-puff. Unintentional, I presume, the erection that is, not the beating.
“Do you like your eyes to appear smoldering, Tabby?” he’d asked, jetting that cock around. Granted he’s always fully dressed and all. Regardless, when it’s hard, it’s visible. Ah-huh, it’s practically in 3-D. In the morning, while he’s curling my hair, I could easily rest my can of Redbull on his bulging crotch as if it were a tabletop. He might as well be naked while he beats my face. His dick jets out, pointing up, waiting for me to unzip his pants and set him free.
Yesterday he’d tested some new waterproof makeup on my face. Fabian had held my jaw with one hand, a mirror with the other, and asked, “Do you like this color, Tabby?”
“I love it.” I stopped correcting him and gave up on T-a-d-d-y days ago. Hell, I wanted to say, “The only thing that’s smoldering on me is the wet spot between my thighs. Who gives a flip about my eyes?” But I didn’t.
Naturally I clenched my legs together in the chair and sat there like a good mannequin. I mean—a nice model. Yes, I bit my lower lip and thought about beating him off while he beat my face ever so perfectly with cornsilk powder.
Would it be wrong of me to come out and ask Fabian to pick me or Blake? Maybe the next time we’re alone I should say, “What’ll it be? Dog or cat? Beef or fish? Ya can’t have both. Not at Taddy’s table or at Tabby’s table either.”
Purr.
Third in this hunkiness triangle is Leon. He handles the equipment and lighting. Between the three, he’s the most gorgeous. So much so that, this morning over breakfast, Vive had admitted, “Sorry I took so long in the shower. I was having thoughts…”
“About what?” Lex had asked.
“Or whom?” I’d corrected.
“Leon. I can’t get him out of my mind. He’s so muscular, big, and sweet. I’ve never met anyone like Leon Lartique, before.”
Ain’t that the truth!
Lex had giggled, cleared her throat, and said, “Well yesterday, when I was napping, I had thoughts about Leon too.”
“Not your new boyfriend Ford?” I’d asked.
“Him too. The both of them. Together. With me in the middle. That’s why I shoved a pillow between my legs to make it stop.”
Side note, since losing her virginity recently to the hot biker cop Ford, known by the NYPD as Officer Gotti, Lex has turned into a nymphomaniac. Humping him, toys, corners of furniture, and now apparently hotel pillows.
And if we’re all gonna share wet dreams, I’d might as tell them. “While working out on the elliptical earlier, Leon crossed my mind, and I…touched myself.”
“No!”
“I honestly did.” Please, from the time we were thirteen, I’d shared a dorm room with Vive and Lex. Whether it was late in the night under the covers or when we didn’t think anyone was looking, we’d all masturbated in front of one another.
Vive’s a screamer.
Lex is a whimper.
We all knew way more about each other than we cared too. That’s why we were bonded for life. Best friends till the day we die, which may be pretty soon. I’m getting to that in a minute.