Page 75 of Game Night: Truth or Dare

One week later…

It was odd going back to my normal life after the game night. Like, ten minutes with Shane’s dick had rocked the foundation of my world. I was despondent over only getting to blow him. I just knew if we’d gone further, I would have loved Shane claiming my ass. I tried playing with my toys, but they were even less satisfying than before.

How could a piece of cold silicone compare to a living, breathing man?

Short answer: it couldn’t.

After Shane left, I sat there overthinking every touch until some of the others returned and I could tell them Shane had left and I wasn’t staying either. Cielo and Roman found it hilarious when I’d explained how Shane and I had our own scene, and then I’d been left like the prince in Cinderella. I didn’t even have a condom to try on random guys to see if it fit.

If I was honest, it wasn’t only his dick I liked. Shane had been sweet and sexy all over. From his words to his smile, and damn, those drugging kisses. I’d broken down and looked Shane up after getting his last name out of Roman when Cielo didn’t know. He didn’t have social media, only a long list of professional accolades and an email address at his company. No way was I going to email and ask if I could have another seven minutes in heaven where a boss might have access. I wanted to see Shane again but was hitting a roadblock.

There were commissions to fulfill, but I found myself doodling Shane’s gorgeous beast from memory. Also, his strong, veiny arms, thick thighs, and full lips. I was distracted and on a deadline, but I couldn’t shake my longing to focus.

When an email from my editor at the SF News came in, asking if I had my usual weekly comic strip ready, I took in the drawings before me. An idea hit me like a lightbulb over my head, and I pulled up a blank page on my drawing program. Two characters started to form: a tall, broad-shouldered, Asian-American man with a large bulge in his sweats and a sexy smirk who I named, “Big,” and the rainbow-haired twink with two-colored eyes called, “Milo.”

No one ever said I was good at creative names.

My character had been a constant for years, though the hair sometimes changed just like mine did, and Milo was known for his zany and homoerotic hijinks. Milo was a gay man in San Francisco, and I had been making commentary on the community through my thinly veiled look-alike for years. Here was my chance to get my angst over Shane out and also be productive. The drawings flowed, and I sat back to see the sun had set while I’d been adding color.

Milo set the scene on his knees in a medieval prince costume, literal heart eyes for Big, who stood over him, cupping Milo’s face with his ass to the viewer. Both have a shared thought bubble: “This is love.”

Giggling to myself at the over-the-top sentiment, I was immensely glad Shane would never see this. After that was a panel with Milo chasing Big, who ran off while pulling up his pants. “I must go. Farewell!”

The next panel featured Milo looking morosely at a row of dildos with the root of his problems over his head, “If only I could find the dick to fit my hole…” The box right after it had Big looking sad, “I’ll never find someone to love me and my giant dick…”

Finishing it off with Milo bent over and a smirking Shane—umm, Big—behind him, I couldn’t help drawing the perfect happily ever after. Milo exclaimed, “It’s a perfect fit!” and hearts filled the rest of the frame.

With a second check for spelling and a cleanup of my lines, I sent it off to my editor and hoped it helped cure my lonely heart.

Chapter Eight

Shane

One week, two surgeries, and three arguments about my leave of absence later, my mom and I had my father settled back at home. He went in for pain so bad that he passed out, had his gallbladder removed, and then they found cancer on the biopsy. The doctors assured us his prognosis was good, and the cancer seemed to only be on the one unneeded organ, but we were going to be hypervigilant. My dad was the rock I’d looked up to as a child, and my mother’s best friend. We weren’t ready to say goodbye before he retired.

He wasn’t a good patient, though.

“I don’t need you fussing over me, that’s what your mom is for,” my dad grumbled at me, settling into his recliner.

“Tatang,” I used the Filipino title for him with a warning tone. “We’re not arguing about this again. You don’t want to lose your liver too, do you?”

Tatang murmured protests under his breath, but I knew he didn’t want to give up his evening scotch. Infection and liver damage may have been low possibilities, but I’d use anything I could to make him follow doctor’s orders for the next couple of weeks until they cleared him.

Abe, the name my dad went by, was his family name in Manila, where he went to college and met my mom. They immigrated to California and decided to pick an easier last name. Tatang and Mama chose “Long” for his imposing stature, and it worked for me as well. My mom was tiny, though she said her long hair made her taller than us, and she couldn’t take care of my dad on her own.

All four feet ten inches of my Filipino Mama would deny it if I asked her, so I hadn’t asked. My old bedroom in their three-story Bernal Heights home was set up as a guest room, so I planned to stay there until my dad was well enough to get around on his own. One of the reasons why came rushing into the room, and I almost didn’t intercept her in time.

“Coco, no jumping,” Mama called from the stairs to the ground floor.

My mom came rushing up after the dog, with her graying black hair in a long braid whipping behind her. Their brown, fluffy bernadoodle—a mix of poodle and Bernese mountain dog who was supposed to be a miniature but had to be over fifty pounds—struggled in my arms.

“I don’t think she understands the word,” I got out between wet licks and dog whines over being kept from her dad.

“No jumping?” Mama asked, trying to hook the leash back on Coco’s collar between my arms while Tatang laughed at us. “Yes, she does. Coco is very smart.”

Another lick had me cringing. I loved dogs, and my parents acted like the one-year-old puppy was my sister, but I hadn’t shaved in a week. Her tongue tugged at my stubble and landed in my eye. Mama finally attached the clasp and pulled Coco off me, but the pup was still persistent, tugging at the fabric and nearly choking herself.

“She won’t hurt me,” my dad complained. “Let me see my girl.”

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