Page 35 of Sweat

He nods slowly, Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. “Look, Row. It’s like you said. It doesn’t have to be gay. I’m not gonna tell anyone, if that’s what you’re freaking out about.”

Freaking out? I’m not freaking out. Who the fuck is this guy to accuse me of freaking out? And when did I give him permission to call meRow?

Doing my best impression of someone who is not freaking out, I say, “I’m cool.”

“So, you’re not gonna ghost me again?”

My eyes roll involuntarily, and I realize I need to get out of here before this turns into a conversation I seriously cannot have. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tommy.”

I skip round two. I planned on being there, swear on my life, but I can’t. Instead, I go for a long run, then hit Santa Anita Park with some of the guys for frisbee golf. Tommy texts, but Iswipe away the notifications without reading what all he sends. I’m getting texts from other men too. Men off a couple gay apps who I gave my number to last night when I was at a low point.

This must be how women feel when trying to meet men. Give a dude their number, and suddenly their inbox is full of dick pics and dirty talk that makes their bones shiver. It’s disgusting, but everything they send goes straight to my dick. By the end of Sunday, I’m seriously considering meeting up with one of them.

I go for another run instead.

I text some suburban looking dad named Greg that I’m busy training for a marathon. An hour into a lung-piercing run, Greg texts back that he can come meet me where I am and suck me off in my car. My car, that still has Tommy’s cum staining the ceiling.

Greg

Say the word and I’ll make up an excuse to slip away for a bit

Just can’t be gone too long or my wife will ask questions

I need your cock in my mouth so bad

I want to tell him to fuck himself. I want to tell him to come here so I can fuck his face behind the bathroom.

I leave him on read, silence my phone, and run hard for another hour until my leg bones feel close to splintering.

It isn’t until I’m hyperventilating against the hood of my car that my mind is clear enough I can read Tommy’s messages.

Tommy

Running late, huh? Tsk tsk

Tommy

You ok?

Tommy

So much for “I’ll see you tomorrow” huh?

Tommy

It went well. Coach wants me there for start of summer training.

Tommy

How did cleaning your place go?

On Tuesday, I skip the pickup game and go to Mustache Jack. It’s karaoke night, which is as terrible as I expected. Even when someone is singing well, the song choice is nauseating. Is this proof I’m not actually gay? That I can’t stand 80s pop karaoke and none of the dudes here turn me on?

But none of the women here do either. Funny enough, they’re all dressed skimpier than the women I’ve seen in straight night clubs. Lots of fishnets, mesh tank tops and exposed underwear. Actually, a lot of the men here are dressed similarly. Meanwhile, I’m in cargo joggers and a Raiders t-shirt. I order a blackberry margarita with sugar on the rim, and that feels pretty fucking gay.

I never replied to Tommy. I can’t deal with that boy yet. Once I get laid, I can stop drooling over him like he’s the last meal on death row.

“Well, well, well!”

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