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Authors: L. A. Witt
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joint?
Eh, what the hell.
I took one more deep drag, and set the half-smoked joint in the ashtray to smolder while I debated whether or not I was finished with it. Which I mostly was. But whatever.
Closing my eyes, I just flew for a bit. One by one, every muscle in my body relaxed. The tension in my neck eased. The knots in my gut unwound.
Embrace the apathy , Michael had once said when we’d been high as kites in high school.
I wondered if he still smoked. Should invite him up here one of these days. And Jason too. Maybe Darren.
Darren.
Christ.
A shiver worked its way through the haze of don’t give a fuck . My mind replayed a moment earlier this afternoon when I’d surreptitiously watched him walk past the shop. Head down, hands in his jacket pockets, he’d glanced in the window and smiled just long enough to do all kinds of things to my pulse. Even now, lounging in a chair, three tokes to the wind, the memory alone was enough to have the same effect.
Especially when it triggered more memories. The first time I’d seen him. That first kiss that had come out of nowhere. “ I’m not normally so . . . ” “ Aggressive? ” “ Yeah. That . Not with someone I just met. ” “ Well, if it’s any consolation, I am. ” The sex. Fuck, the sex. “ In case you hadn’t gathered, I like tops .”
I shivered again. So much for getting my mind off Darren.
Getting high to get my mind off a minister. There was something almost poetic about that. Or maybe I was just high.
I tugged at the front of my jeans to accommodate my hard-on. It occurred to me now that I probably should’ve taken into consideration the fact that weed didn’t just relieve stress: it made me horny as fuck. Usually not such a big deal. In fact, it was kind of the routine: smoke, relax, go back to my apartment, jerk off, kill a bag of Doritos, jerk off again, and then sleep like the dead for a few hours. When I woke up at noon, I’d be a new man. And I’d probably jerk off again.
None of which did a goddamned thing to get my mind off that minister who had set up shop front and center in my brain. Instead of drifting off into the land of Don’t Give a Fuck, my mind turned into a nonstop porno, reliving every kiss and thrust. My nerve endings couldn’t quite tell the difference between reality and remembering, and erred on the side of making sure I felt the phantom brush of lips or scrape of teeth. My jeans were uncomfortably tight, and if I’d been in my apartment, I’d have resolved that problem by now. Weed up here on the roof, or jerking off down there in my apartment. Need for one outweighed the other. Though if this movie in my head kept going the way it was going, that balance would shift fairly soon.
Door hinges creaked. I jumped as much as the weed would let me, and turned my head.
“Hey, Al, it’s just— Darren?” I sat up, wondering why I suddenly felt like a kid who’d been busted misbehaving. Especially as I pulled my parka together across my lap. “Oh. I—” Crap .
“Seth? Oh. It’s you.” He laughed. “Sorry. I, um, I smelled the smoke, and just wanted to make sure some kids hadn’t come up here or something.”
“Nope. Just me.” I cringed inwardly. “Surprise?”
He laughed again. “Didn’t realize you were into that, but . . .” He shrugged.
“Eh, I’m an artist and a musician.” My turn to shrug, and as I tried to get comfortable with my nerves and this goddamned erection, I added, “What do you expect?”
Darren grinned. “Kind of a cliché, don’t you think?”
“Very funny.” I gestured at the joint and smirked. “Care to join me?”
I must have been stoned out of my goddamned mind. Completely FUBAR in the head. Because there was no way in hell the Reverend Darren Romero just strolled his fine ass up to my little plastic table and picked up my lighter and that half-smoked joint. No fucking way.
I swore I was getting higher just watching him. Not just the utter shock that he was
Eh, what the hell.
I took one more deep drag, and set the half-smoked joint in the ashtray to smolder while I debated whether or not I was finished with it. Which I mostly was. But whatever.
Closing my eyes, I just flew for a bit. One by one, every muscle in my body relaxed. The tension in my neck eased. The knots in my gut unwound.
Embrace the apathy , Michael had once said when we’d been high as kites in high school.
I wondered if he still smoked. Should invite him up here one of these days. And Jason too. Maybe Darren.
Darren.
Christ.
A shiver worked its way through the haze of don’t give a fuck . My mind replayed a moment earlier this afternoon when I’d surreptitiously watched him walk past the shop. Head down, hands in his jacket pockets, he’d glanced in the window and smiled just long enough to do all kinds of things to my pulse. Even now, lounging in a chair, three tokes to the wind, the memory alone was enough to have the same effect.
Especially when it triggered more memories. The first time I’d seen him. That first kiss that had come out of nowhere. “ I’m not normally so . . . ” “ Aggressive? ” “ Yeah. That . Not with someone I just met. ” “ Well, if it’s any consolation, I am. ” The sex. Fuck, the sex. “ In case you hadn’t gathered, I like tops .”
I shivered again. So much for getting my mind off Darren.
Getting high to get my mind off a minister. There was something almost poetic about that. Or maybe I was just high.
I tugged at the front of my jeans to accommodate my hard-on. It occurred to me now that I probably should’ve taken into consideration the fact that weed didn’t just relieve stress: it made me horny as fuck. Usually not such a big deal. In fact, it was kind of the routine: smoke, relax, go back to my apartment, jerk off, kill a bag of Doritos, jerk off again, and then sleep like the dead for a few hours. When I woke up at noon, I’d be a new man. And I’d probably jerk off again.
None of which did a goddamned thing to get my mind off that minister who had set up shop front and center in my brain. Instead of drifting off into the land of Don’t Give a Fuck, my mind turned into a nonstop porno, reliving every kiss and thrust. My nerve endings couldn’t quite tell the difference between reality and remembering, and erred on the side of making sure I felt the phantom brush of lips or scrape of teeth. My jeans were uncomfortably tight, and if I’d been in my apartment, I’d have resolved that problem by now. Weed up here on the roof, or jerking off down there in my apartment. Need for one outweighed the other. Though if this movie in my head kept going the way it was going, that balance would shift fairly soon.
Door hinges creaked. I jumped as much as the weed would let me, and turned my head.
“Hey, Al, it’s just— Darren?” I sat up, wondering why I suddenly felt like a kid who’d been busted misbehaving. Especially as I pulled my parka together across my lap. “Oh. I—” Crap .
“Seth? Oh. It’s you.” He laughed. “Sorry. I, um, I smelled the smoke, and just wanted to make sure some kids hadn’t come up here or something.”
“Nope. Just me.” I cringed inwardly. “Surprise?”
He laughed again. “Didn’t realize you were into that, but . . .” He shrugged.
“Eh, I’m an artist and a musician.” My turn to shrug, and as I tried to get comfortable with my nerves and this goddamned erection, I added, “What do you expect?”
Darren grinned. “Kind of a cliché, don’t you think?”
“Very funny.” I gestured at the joint and smirked. “Care to join me?”
I must have been stoned out of my goddamned mind. Completely FUBAR in the head. Because there was no way in hell the Reverend Darren Romero just strolled his fine ass up to my little plastic table and picked up my lighter and that half-smoked joint. No fucking way.
I swore I was getting higher just watching him. Not just the utter shock that he was
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