Work Text:
I. October 24, 2009, 10:45 pm
I lost my voice from sucking too much dick
I wish this was a joke
**
WhiJo loved college. Kinesiology was his jam, and frat life was sweet. Not to mention, swarming with eligible gay, bi and curious guys.
His sexual experiences back home in West Covina had all been awkward to a degree, because it felt weird to have sex with guys who remembered him being a fat kid.
At Chico WhiJo found himself, or, maybe more accurately, was able to lose himself, in chance encounters at frat parties and the stormy intensity of new relationships. College was where he started getting really good at sucking dick and realized he really liked it. He liked the reciprocation, too, for sure, but there was - still is - something special about being able to make a guy lose it so easily, and physically taste when someone gives themselves over.
He met Matt at a party. They holed up in his room at the frat house for most of the weekend, and it was everything. (Matt would a few weeks later later turn out to be both a bit of an asshole and a more closeted than he’d originally led WhiJo to believe which was just… no. Fine for a night, useless for a relationship.) When they realized Josh’s voice was gone, some time Sunday, Matt couldn’t stop laughing. It was annoying, but he did offer up several home remedies, which was endearing.
He mentioned his voice loss to the guys during Sunday roundup, because yeah, it was kind of funny. They ribbed him the way only guys who’ve known you your entire life can (Hector offered home remedies for a sore throat from his mother, and WhiJo hoped against hope that Hector hadn’t actually told his mom the reason he needed them, because Hector’s mom hung out with his mom sometimes, and that would be… ugh), and WhiJo sent thanks to whoever was out there (up there?) for his dumb, beautiful friends who accepted him so completely.
---
II. July 24, 2011, 3:13 pm
Nice, Hector! I got a job too, 24 hr gym on East Cameron! Sweeet
**
WhiJo knew it wasn’t unusual to feel a little at a loss after graduation. Through the summer the texts that shot back and forth made it pretty clear that half of his friends had that problem.
Chan had never known what he wanted with his life, so par for the course there. Mr. Serrano’s emphysema had been a surprise though (well, not the emphysema itself so much as Greg blowing off his beloved Emory to go home to a place he capital-h hated and stay with him). Hector had never in his life not taken the utterly predictable route, and was staying with his mom. Still, he’d landed a decent job, which was more than WhiJo had expected from him, and seemed happy.
WhiJo wasn’t at a loss. He knew exactly what he’d be doing: PT; save up to buy a stake in the gym or start his own; help people get in shape and generally make enough money to live and take care of his body the way he wanted. Where he’d do it, he hadn’t really thought a lot about. When Jeff from his old gym on East Cameron called and said: “I hear you’re graduating, I’ll start you out at $35,000 and we can discuss a cut of your client fees on top”, WhiJo had no reason in the world to say no.
Unlike Serrano, he didn’t consider his college experience a defeat just because at the end of it he’d landed back in West Covina. In fact, he felt good about his future there.
---
III. November 20th, 2014, 1:55 pm
Mopie died
**
He was just finishing up with his first client of the afternoon when he caught a glimpse of a flowery dress in the corner of his eye. His mom did go to his gym, but she was never there during the day. WhiJo checked his watch. She should still be at work, but here she was outside the gym’s glass walls, looking stressed out. He sent Barry on his way and waved his mother inside.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I just heard and I didn’t know if you’d heard and I wanted to make sure you heard before it was —“
If she didn’t look so frazzled, WhiJo would have found her babbling funny. He put a hand on her arm.
“Mom, breathe.”
Francie took a deep breath.
“I just talked to Sheila Harrison. Monroe died.”
*
WhiJo’s first crush, circa second grade, was Josh Chan. His second, the one that made him realize he was probably super-gay, was Justin Timberlake, 1997. Monroe Peter Harrison, Mopie among friends, was his first love.
They were inseparable through the last half of junior high and into high school. Even after they stopped making out and clumsily dry humping each other in WhiJo’s room while they were supposed to be doing their homework, they stayed close friends.
Because they were friends, Josh didn’t say anything when Mopie started sleeping with Brett: senior, linebacker and serious closet-case. He didn’t even say anything when Mopie showed up at his place late one night drunk on some gross liqueur he’d stolen from his dad after Brett unceremoniously dumped him. While Mopie threw up in the upstairs bathroom, Francie helped WhiJo get a mattress ready. She sat at the foot of his bed while he rooted around his closet for fresh boxer shorts and a t-shirt for Mopie to wear.
“We could put him in the guest room?”
“He’s my friend.”
“Are you sure that’s all he wants from you right now?”
WhiJo shook his head. “I gotta be his friend.”
For neither the first nor last time in WhiJo’s life, his mother was right. After Mopie was all cried out, around three am, he reached under the sheet and touched Josh’s dick. WhiJo swatted his hand away, but it came back to rest on his thigh.
“Please.”
WhiJo moved away. “Don’t, Mopie.”
“I shouldn’t have been messing around with Brett. It’s you, Josh, it’s been you all along. Come on, fuck me.”
“Don’t be an idiot. My first time isn’t going to be with someone who slept with their ex five hours ago.”
(His actual first time, depending on your definition, was either three months later with Jerry Bloom, or about eleven months later with Alex Donovan. To WhiJo’s knowledge, neither of them had at the time recently slept with their exes.)
The next morning, Mopie was hung over, sad and ashamed. Josh tried to comfort him, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.
They lost touch, kind of, after that. While WhiJo supposed he could understand why Mopie had made a drunken move on him, he found the whole thing hard to forgive. Mopie for his part decided, apparently, that he liked the way he’d felt on the Wilsons’ bathroom floor and threw himself in with the hardest partying crowd he could find. They hadn’t talked at all since before Josh left for Chico, though he’d heard through his mom from time to time that Mopie wasn’t doing too well.
“What happened? He OD?”
His mom nodded. “They’re not sure if it was accidental.”
WhiJo closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure he felt sad, exactly, but it hurt that Mopie – this guy that he’d once used to think was the other half of his soul – had been in so much pain, had died, and WhiJo hadn’t even really known.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
Francie touched his shoulder, and he opened his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Come home for dinner tonight?”
He nodded. His next client was on her way in, so he kissed his mother’s cheek, shot off a text to the gang and got back to work.
The guys picked him up at his parents’ place after dinner and got him super drunk. In hindsight, it was possible that he’d cried. None of them were too steady on their feet when Hector and Chan deposited WhiJo carefully on his own couch, while Greg rooted around his kitchen for a bucket.
“I loved him,” White Josh said to nobody in particular.
“We know, man,” Chan replied. His hand was a reassuring weight on WhiJo’s shoulder.
---
IV. March 20th, 2016, 10:15 am
Can’t make it, dinner with D tonight
**
WhiJo’s place was en route from cup of boba to Darryl’s, so they walked home together.
“So I guess I’ll… I’ll text you?”
“Yeah,” WhiJo agreed.
“Okay. Have a good night,” Darryl said with a smile.
“Hey,” WhiJo said on a whim. “You could kiss me?”
Darryl turned back. “Yeah?”
“Or I could kiss you?”
“Yeah.”
Darryl sounded pleasantly breathless at the prospect, so WhiJo took a couple of steps forward and pulled him close. Okay, Darryl Whitefeather: Good kisser. Really good kisser. WhiJo tried to remind himself about keeping things simple, but his semi insisted – quite forcefully – that ‘simple’ didn’t have to mean ‘slow’. He moved in closer and yeah, Darryl was in the same predicament.
“You want to come upstairs?”
Darryl blanched. Oh. Wow, so he’d read that wrong.
“I… would love to, but I have a bunch of work waiting at home. I was just getting some air and a boba, and that was…. you know, like three hours ago.”
He laughed nervously, and it hit WhiJo. Darryl was nervous. No sex with the guy named Dana, then. So he’d be Darryl’s first. Okay. No big. He’d been guys’ first before. But wow. Okay.
“Okay. So we’ll text.”
He texted Darryl the next day. Thirsty, yes, but he’d never seen the point in pretending he was less interested than he really was for the sake of some demented strategy game. Besides, he’d probably spooked Darryl yesterday and if he wanted to hear from him again he’d have to reach out first for sure.
Up for boba today?
The text back came almost right away.
Picking up my daughter for the week at 4, so would have to be before 3?
Have clients until 5:30. Sorry. Maybe lunch sometime this week?
*
Tuesday, they had lunch at the salad place on East Cameron, and finally got around to the conversations you’d normally have on a first date. Darryl seemed legitimately thrilled to hear WhiJo talk about his life.
“What was your major?”
“I double majored, actually.” He savored Darryl’s impressed look for a moment before dropping the punch line: “Exercise physiology and getting laid.”
Darryl laughed, a sound that was rapidly becoming one of WhiJo’s favorites.
“No, you know, me and the guys weren’t exactly cool in high school. Which was fine, we had a good time and all, but we were outsiders. When I got to Chico, I realized nobody there knew I wasn’t cool. So I pledged a frat and got into it. Like, a lot.”
WhiJo had no idea why he was talking like this. Verbal vomit wasn’t his style, like at all, but Darryl was a great listener and laughed appreciatively in all the right places. Josh had an urge to just tell him everything. Lunch was drawing inevitably to a close, though.
“You want to hang out this weekend?”
“I’m dropping off Madison around five on Sunday, I’m free after that. You want to get some dinner?”
“Maybe I could make you dinner? At your place, though, my kitchen sucks.”
“That sounds great.”
*
WhiJo cooked a mean chicken dinner, if he did say so himself.
“That was wonderful, Josh,” Darryl said, standing to clear the table.
“I’m glad you liked it. Kiss for the cook?”
If Darryl’s laughter was a favorite sound, the way his face lit up in delight when he was invited to touch was a favorite sight. He kissed with the hunger of someone long denied, and Josh made a mental note to pry more into the demise of the Whitefeather marriage. He slipped a hand under Darryl’s t-shirt, skimming the soft skin. He didn’t expect Darryl to yelp and jump away.
“You okay, dude?”
“I… I’ve never done this before, and I... I don’t look like you.”
Ah. Darryl was perhaps not so much scared of dick as he was intimidated by WhiJo’s abs. WhiJo smiled. He could work with that.
“D, I know what you look like. I came here knowing what you look like. I’m attracted to you. But nothing has to happen tonight. I’m not in a hurry.”
“I’d like it if something happened,” Darryl said with a tone like he was making a confession.
“Yeah?”
WhiJo felt his face stretch into a smile. Darryl nodded, and Josh stepped closer, holding softly onto Darryl’s upper arms, guiding him backwards to the couch. He leaned in for another kiss, and got to work opening Darryl’s pants (rather deftly, he had to say) and pulling them down. He pushed carefully on Darryl’s shoulders, and crouched to his knees as Darryl sat down.
Darryl’s face was frozen in a strange mix of deer-in-headlights-fear and horny anticipation, his breath quick and shallow. Josh shot him a smile and a wink as he leaned in.
---
V. December 8, 2017, 11:22 pm
FYI D and I split
**
He hadn’t given Darryl back the key to his place, so he let himself in the next day. He most definitely didn’t choke back a sob when he saw the box on the chair in the hall.
Darryl had gathered all of WhiJo’s stuff and left it there for him. He’d meant it to be considerate, for sure, but it felt like a punch to the gut.
He had a momentary petty urge to go looking for stuff Darryl might have forgotten, but the message of the box was clear: There was nothing left for him there.
He took a small swing through the apartment anyway, committing it all to memory: The kitchen, where he’d cooked Darryl their first dinner more than eighteen months ago, and a hundred breakfasts, dinners and lunches since. The living room, where they’d kissed and talked, where WhiJo had gotten to know all of Darryl’s hopes and dreams and fears, and WhiJo had let himself be coaxed into sharing most of his own. He’d been so convinced that this thing was kind of a forever thing that he still couldn’t quite fucking believe how quickly it had gone south, much less that it was over. The bedroom, where… Yeah. Dammit. He swallowed thickly.
He made a conscious effort to think it all through again, for what had to be the hundredth time: A baby. Crying at night, diapers, feeding and caring. Being tethered down, in an extremely real way. A living, breathing thing for which he’d be totally responsible. He’d been prepared to step in and for real be a stepdad for Madison, had even kind of looked forward to it, but a kid of his own… He couldn’t do it.
So this was it, he concluded, back in the hallway with the box containing glutamine, socks, underwear, t-shirts, half a jar of protein powder, a couple of boxes of his protein bars, phone charger and sundry paperbacks.
God, he wanted… He wanted to go back in time and change something, anything, to end up in a different place than where he was now. He wanted to go to Darryl and say he’d changed his mind and suck it up. He wanted to see Madison and hug her. He wanted to get fucking wasted. He wanted Darryl. He wanted… God, he wanted fries.