Page 61 of My Dead Wife's Ex Will Do
Victor pumps some into his own hand and wraps it around both our cocks, too. It takes a minute for us to find the right rhythm together, but when we do, it’s warm and slick and perfect.
I come first and shoot all over Victor’s stomach and our joined hands. When the stimulation gets to be too much, I let my cock slip free and watch Victor’s face while we jointly jack him off. His pupils expand until the blue is barely visible and sweat slips down his temples. His hand picks up speed and I follow along for the ride, our fingers entwined around his cock.
When he finally shudders and comes, I lunge forward and kiss him hard. It’s sloppy and wet because of the shower spray but also because he’s trembling and shaking while his cock jerks and spurts in our hands.
I release his throat and slide my hand around to the back of his neck. His head bows and he rests his forehead against mine. “Jesus, Jay,” he pants. “You’re…”
“Depraved?” I offer. “An unrepentant sinner? I believe we’ve covered that, haven’t we?” I kiss him so he doesn’t think I’m upset with him.
“Amazing, I meant.” He kisses me back until the hot water runs out and we’re pelted with an icy spray that does little to cool the heat between us.
If anything, he should be upset with me. All this week, I’ve alternated between pushing him away and pushing him to do exactly what I want. He’s been compliant—enthusiastically compliant—but I’ve given him no assurance that I won’t revert to the way we were before this week began.
Distant. Untouchable. Unreachable.
It was my defense mechanism. If I didn’t spend any time with him, if I barely spoke to him, I could keep the memory of what we did fifteen years ago buried. If I never touched him, I could keep myself from grabbing him and never letting him go.
All the efforts I put in to keep my wife’s memory alive and I’ve forgotten—or suppressed—all the good memories of her best friend.
He continues to hum the melody of Chapel of Love while he shaves and I brush my teeth. Then we swap places and I shave while he brushes his teeth. We’re jostling for position at the small bathroom sink, shoulders brushing, hands occasionally wandering to naughty places, and it’s so…domestic. There’s a sharp pain in my chest as I realize how much I’ve missed having someone to love.
The razor falls into the sink. My hand shakes and I’m staring at my face in the mirror. The right side of my face is still covered in shaving cream but my left cheek is almost as white.
Is that what this is?
Do I love Victor?
“Hey, are you okay?” Victor approaches from behind me and puts a hand on my back. “You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”
I can’t speak around the boulder lodged in my throat and Victor turns me to face him. He examines my face, turning my head side to side, then wipes a stray bit of shaving cream from just under my right ear. “You’re fine,” he says. His eyebrows draw together. “Right?”
I swallow that immense boulder down with no little difficulty. “Yeah,” I manage. “I’m fine.” I turn back to the mirror and fish the razor from the sink bowl. “Can’t believe our girl is getting married, that’s all.”
Mother of God, how inappropriate to connect our daughter to whatever illicit epiphany I’m having about her father, but I’m definitely not ready to tell him what’s really going on.
“No kidding,” Victor laughs. I finish shaving and watch his reflection as he leaves the bathroom. The muscles of his ass flex appealingly as he walks to the wardrobe in the bedroom and again as he steps into a pair of black boxer briefs and pulls them up over his hips.
Victor sings snatches of more wedding-related songs while he dresses and I have a quiet panic attack in the bathroom. I’ve been deliberately not thinking about what sleeping with Victor this week would mean when we leave Costa Rica. I told him from the very beginning that it would only be this week, and he hasn’t asked me for any future promises since.
Maybe he doesn’t want any. Maybe this is just a fling for him, too.
But what if I do want a future with Victor? It would upend everything about my life.
My job, for starters. How long could I stay on as director of music at Saint Sebastian’s if I’m in a relationship with a man? How long could I hide our relationship to keep that job?
I loathe lying. I’m terrible at it, to boot. The next time Mrs. Kowalski asks me if I’m ready to start dating again and offers to set me up with her divorced daughter, I should what? Say, “No thanks, I’m into dick now, just don’t tell Father Gabriel?”
Am I even into dick, or is it just Victor’s?
I shake my head at my reflection and pat some aftershave on my face. It doesn’t really matter. Whether I’m truly bisexual or whatever it would mean to be straight except for Victor, the consequences are the same.
I will lose my job. Either because the diocese fires me or because I can’t take the lying and the secrecy and I quit.
I don’t imagine I’ll lose many friends over this, although the small handful of friends who knew Leah that I’m still in touch with may be a little surprised. Especially at me falling for Victor, considering what they know of our history. Obviously, they don’t know what happened between us the night of Leah’s funeral.
To be honest, though, I don’t have much of a social life. There are the other men in the Saint Sebastian Six. We usually go out for a beer or two after rehearsals, though I don’t share a whole lot of personal information with any of them. Julian Adeyemi, who I was in grad school with and who founded the group with me, is probably my closest friend, though we spend more time arguing about early music repertoire than we do talking about our relationships.
My father is dead, so at least I don’t have to worry about telling him, thank God. My mom would have been okay with it, I think. She died a few years after my father, but she loved Kelsey and took her engagement to a woman in stride.
