Bored Gay Werewolf (eBook)

TWO

Tyler’s business card is the only thing on Brian’s refrigerator, pinned there with a single alphabet-letter magnet left by the previous tenant. It stares at him in every corner of his apartment. It’s been a week since their encounter, and each time he meets its gaze he tells himself, okay, Brian. Pick up the phone. Call. But for a week he has failed to follow through with this, slipping into his inertia like a warm bath. When he wakes up at midday, he tells himself Tyler’s likely busy or working. When he comes home at 2 a.m., it’s too late to call, or he’s too drunk to compose a text with one eye open. Plus, Tyler seems like the type to call rather than text, to use his phone as a power move, and the last thing Brian wants to do right now is chit-chat. I’ll do it in the morning, he promises himself, knowing that he’ll sleep through the whole morning.

Since dropping out of college, Brian’s threshold for effort has bottomed out. His werewolf powers allow him to push his self-neglect to new heights. These can be small acts, like grabbing searing hot plates in the restaurant rather than walking to the other end of the line for a cloth or tray to protect himself. Others would send a shiver down the spine of even the flintiest mental health professional. On more than one occasion when he’s broke, tired or doesn’t feel like riding his bike, there’s his proclivity for throwing himself in front of cars to score a free ride home. The frantic drivers scream as they hit the brakes, Brian bouncing over their hood. He’ll pop his shoulder back into its socket, brush off the gravel, and slur them assurances that there’s no need to get the cops involved if they could just take him across town. Because of this, the tasks without any werewolf workarounds – taking out the trash, doing the dishes, sending his mother a birthday card – are all Herculean efforts that take a level of resolve that Brian cannot muster. Exploring his connection with Tyler sounds like another one of those boring quotidian tasks for Brian’s non-existent to-do list. First off, this guy seems entirely too well adjusted, which makes Brian immediately suspicious. Second, Brian has never had any close relationships with straight guys. Performing butch, palatable gay is such a chore. Add to that the issue of Tyler accusing him of murder and maiming him in battle and it all sounds like … a lot.

And besides, Brian’s surprisingly busy given his hostility to doing things. Moving through the din of the city, the crowded restaurants and bars, he is constantly surrounded by people. He rides their tide, pushing him from home, to work, then drinks, then home again. He hates his days off; they always feel like he’s in a sad airport lounge where he’s arrived for his flight twenty-four hours early. He lazes about his apartment, propped up in bed, draining a series of beverages to correct his hangover and switching between the screens of his computer and phone to watch Netflix and endlessly scroll the same three websites. This day off is not unlike the rest of them. But it’s hard for him to ignore the tacit obligation from the business card. He really should call, he thinks, as he levers himself up off his mattress, puts on his headphones and heads to his cafe to drink cappuccinos and doom-scroll Twitter. When he comes back, the card is still there. ‘What do you want from me!’ he yells at it, before turning his back on it and throwing himself back down on his bed. He lies about for the rest of the day, opting to start the multi-season odyssey of Love Island (which he convinces himself he is enjoying ironically), reading the Wikipedia plot summaries of horror movies he’s too scared to see alone, and following the internet to its inevitable conclusion: Pornhub. He quickly loads up some intrepid DILFS fixing a muscle car, puts his hand into his boxers and is about to jerk off but then … feels awkward doing it with the business card there. ‘Fine,’ he shouts at it, grabs his phone and opens up Grindr. After perusing the faceless, shirtless guys in his neighborhood, he rapid-fires ‘hey handsome’ texts till one of them bites. He grabs his headphones, jacket and keys, spins around at the front door to raise a middle finger to the card, and then he hits the street.

A quick run-jog down the bustling main street as bus after bus unloads the commuter class, Brian weaving his way through them as they stare down at their phones, and then he’s there, outside the modern apartment building of DiscreteDaddy. The steel and glass architecture juts out from rustic brick storefronts on either side of it, individually separate and distinct like the typo in the Grindr profile suggests. He’s about to hit the intercom, but instead sneaks in behind a couple of tech bros in performance fleece returning from work. He climbs the stairs to the third floor, knocks on the guy’s door and hears a yipping dog followed by a gruff, ‘Just a second.’ DiscreteDaddy answers the door, a business-casual bear, heavy-set, shaved head and a thick beard. He examines Brian from his beanie to his filthy Chuck All Stars. With a face of subdued satisfaction, he unbuttons the top of his collared shirt.

‘You’re not 6 foot,’ he says matter-of-factly as he walks deeper into the apartment, picking up his miniature Pomeranian on the way and placing it in its crate.

Brian follows. ‘Uh, no, I also didn’t say I was.’ Brian is 5 foot 11 and three quarters. That quarter-inch is such a dealbreaker. ‘You didn’t say you had a dog.’ Brian loves dogs, having grown up with them all his life, but since becoming a werewolf, they haven’t seen eye to eye.

The man stops. ‘Is that going to be a problem?’

‘Uh, no. It’s fine. Allergies. Mild, though.’

‘Okay, well, this has to be quick. My husband is coming home soon,’ he says, somehow taking off his pants while not breaking stride to the bedroom. Brian wordlessly follows him in. DiscreteDaddy is already naked on all fours, perched at the edge of the bed, asshole akimbo. Time is clearly of the essence. Brian wastes none of it, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down just enough to free his hard-on. He enters him and he moans. They fuck in silence. It’s too quiet, like a Marina Abramovic piece begging the viewer to contemplate the carnality of the act in silent solemnity. Though Brian has never liked the performance of dirty talk, he feels like he should say something.

‘You like this dick?’ he hears himself ask wanly and cringes; the delivery is akin to checking if one of his tables needed ketchup.

‘We don’t need to talk,’ replies DiscreteDaddy.

Brian shrugs it off and does as he’s told. After five passionless minutes of thrusting and grunting, he’s finally rewarded by a low growl. ‘Yeah, you like that?’ Brian gamely tries again, but then he realizes the low growl came … from behind him. The miniature Pomeranian is out of its cage, staring at the 5 foot 11 and three quarters werewolf pounding his dad doggy style.

‘Psst – go away.’ Brian takes his hands off the man’s hips to try and shoo it away, but it’s no use, the toy dog starts barking aggressively. Brian’s presence has activated its fight or flight response, and this dog is a fighter. ‘Ignore him,’ DiscreteDaddy mutters, and pulls Brian deeper. The dog latches onto Brian’s leg and bites down hard.

‘AGH! FUCK!’ Brian kicks the dog across the room, bouncing it off the built-in wardrobe.

‘Yeah, that’s right. You like this bussy?’

Bussy? ‘Uh, sure.’ Sure? SURE? What the fuck, Brian?!

He continues to fuck while looking at the poofball of a Pomeranian lying on the floor. It’s still breathing, thank God. It gets woozily back up and shakes its head, jingling its collar. It looks back at Brian and growls, then runs across the room to sink its teeth into Brian’s leg again. DiscreteDaddy is close, he moans over the growl of the Pomeranian, blissfully unaware of the animal attack at the other end of him. Brian tries rapidly shaking his leg, trying to break the dog loose, but it’s no use. Whatever, it’s clearly working for DiscreteDaddy, who’s working up to a noisy climax. Brian finally looks down at the dog, his eyes turn red, and he lets out a devastating, wolverine growl that vibrates the room. ‘Oh, yes, pound this bussy!’ DiscreteDaddy yells as he comes. The dog releases its grip and yips out the room, its paws click-clacking down the hallway.

Brian holsters his hard-on in his boxers. DiscreteDaddy turns over and grabs a towel to clean himself off. He stands in front of Brian and dabs the sweat from Brian’s forehead. ‘You really went for it at the end there, bud.’

‘Uh, yeah, you were great, really,’ he says, pulling up his pants. ‘Um, I should probably go.’ Brian peers out the bedroom to see the Pomeranian cowering in the corner of its cage. After some perfunctory conversation and even a ‘thank you’ that Brian will remember saying for the rest of his life, he dashes out of the apartment as quickly as he possibly can.

Brian trudges back to his apartment with his tail between his legs. The sun has gone down, and the nightlife of his neighborhood is waking up. He pulls on his headphones, turns on The Cure and shoegazes his way back past the busy bars and all the people...