Break-up expert
 

There’s a lot of ways to screw up a relationship. I should know; I seem to have a knack for it. It’s not like I’m a slut… not a huge slut, just average. And I’m not ugly—pretty cute, actually, if I do say so myself: short golden-brown hair, green eyes, tan. I’m a decent boyfriend too. I think. I mean, I’ve tried to have relationships, but for some reason or another, they’ve just never stuck. Actually, I’d been doing pretty well recently. My boyfriend Kenneth and I had been dating for four months—a record for me, believe it or not. Then again, Kenneth was very easy to be with, and very into me. At the moment, he was balls deep into me.

“Oh… fuck yeah!” I groaned.

I was straddling his thighs in one of my favorite positions. Flexing my legs, I lifted myself up and worked myself up and down on his rod. Ken gave a choked grunt and I grinned with satisfaction as I studied his cute face.

Okay, so most people wouldn’t describe Ken as ‘cute.’ With his sandy hair, striking, chiseled features, and melt-you-with-a-glance sea-grey eyes, most would use the word ‘gorgeous’ or, because of his hugely muscular build, ‘gladiator-like’ might be more appropriate.

But to me, he was damn cute. And despite Kenneth’s intimidating looks, I wasn’t afraid to tell him that either. I smiled down at him.

“Guy, oh, baby!” he moaned.

“You like that, huh?” I asked, making his manly cheeks blush. “You like it when I ride you hard, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” he barely managed.

See? I told you, totally cute. I grinned and leaned back, grasping his big thighs for balance.

I’d been amazed at how compatible we were the first time we fucked. Ken wasn’t my usual type. I liked getting my ass fucked as much as the next guy, but before Ken I’d been on top more often than not. Something about Ken just made my ass ache for action, though.

“Oh, god. Yes!” I gasped, slamming myself down on his cock. I focused all my concentration on one goal: sprinting to my orgasm. Shifting, I rested my hands on his broad chest and squatted over his dick. I pistoned myself up and down, working myself into a frenzy until my leg cramped.

“Shit,” I groaned, rubbing my calf. “Think you could—”

Before I could even get the words out of my mouth, Ken flipped our positions and I was pinned down with my ankles up in the air.

“Oh! Christ, yes!” I shouted, as Ken began to fuck my brains out.

I loved it when he went all primal like this! It usually only happened right before he came. It sometimes left me sore for hours afterward, but, goddamn, it was worth it!

He pumped my dick in his meaty hand as he drilled my ass and I came so hard I swear I saw stars. Ken slammed into me one last time and shuddered, mouth open in a silent O of ecstasy as he flooded my body with his come.

I lay there panting while he rolled off me. “Fuck, Ken. You outdid yourself!” I chuckled.

His arm wrapped around my waist as he pulled me in to snuggle against him. He always wanted to curl up after sex. I always wanted to take a shower. I nudged him and he grunted.

“I wanna hold you!” he whined.

Yeah, the big, burly man whined—a lot. Good thing he somehow made it adorable, because I usually hated whiners (being one myself after all).

“I’m all sticky and gross!” I complained.

“I don’t care.”

I do! Paws off and let me up!”

He grumbled and pouted, but I managed to wriggle out from under him. Seconds later I was under the hot, pounding water. I loved his shower. On my suggestion, he’d gotten one of those massaging showerheads and it always felt amazing. I was halfway to heaven when I heard him step into the bathroom. Maybe he wanted a little soapy action, I thought with a grin. I wouldn’t mind that myself.

Pulling the shower curtain back, I was all set to give him a big, saucy, come-hither grin when the look on his face stopped me. He was looking down at his cell phone with his strong brows drawn together in a look of confusion and something else that suddenly made my gut churn.

“What is it?”

He looked up at me and I still couldn’t quite read his expression.

“Who is Jason?”

For a second, I was bewildered. Then something clicked, and I realized he had my cell in his hand.

Oh, shit.

“Jason?” I shrugged, panicked but trying to look innocent. “Why?”

The confusion melted from his face and was replaced with anger. His grey-blue eyes were so stormy I thought I heard the rumbling of thunder behind them.

“You just got a text from Jason, wondering if you’re free for another fuck this Saturday.”

My blood ran cold.

“A-a mistake! Must’ve texted the wrong number…”

I’ll skip over the yelling and the drama and go straight to me standing naked and sudsy on Ken’s doorstep. He was throwing my clothes at me and aiming badly, since his eyes were spilling over with tears.

“How could you?!” he whimpered, just before slamming the door in my face.

“Fuck!” I spat through gritted teeth, banging my head against the door. His neighbor in the next apartment apparently overheard the noise, because the old man stuck his head out—only to go bug-eyed at my nakedness and shut himself back inside.

I pulled my clothes on, mustered what was left of my dignity, and drove home.

I know what you want me to say now. You want me to say that it was all a misunderstanding, that Ken got it wrong, but he didn’t. Two weeks before, Ken had been out of town and I’d gone out to blow off some steam. I’d gotten drunk and gone home with some little twink and topped him.

So, yes, I was the cheater. I was the asshole. I won’t give excuses. I don’t even know why I did it, but what can you expect? I warned you that I was a master at the art of break-ups. And this was why, because I did dumb-fuck things and didn’t even have a good reason why.

I was in a daze for the next couple weeks. Ken wouldn’t return my calls. I couldn’t really blame him. I went out, tried to forget everything, tried to put yet another failed relationship behind me. But unlike in the past, this one wouldn’t let go.

Ironically, even though I’d screwed up my relationship by sticking it where it didn’t belong, my dick had no interest in anyone after Ken threw me out.

Geez. I was one sick puppy.

All I did was masturbate—even had some good orgasms—but every time the thrill faded, I still felt… hollow. It never seemed completely fulfilling anymore. Not without Ken around. I’d never felt that way after a break-up before.

I sat back on my bed one night and dreamt about Ken—about the night we’d first met. It had been at a club, of all places. Pretty damn clichéd, but what can you do? I’d just split up with my former boyfriend (yes, shocking, I know) and I was so goddamned tired of the whole scene—all the little games guys play, the lame pick-up lines, the drunken make-outs. I was also with Kurt, a guy I love like a brother but who can be a damn self-conscious little queen sometimes. He’d gotten shot down by some ass near the bar and was whining up a storm about how he’d be alone forever. I was trying to explain that rejection didn’t mean shit.

Everyone has their own little hang-ups and most of the time, people get rejected for the dumbest reasons—things that have nothing to do with how good-looking you are, or how good a person you are, or even whether you’re a great lay. You can be all those things and someone can still turn you down. I knew because I’d brushed guys off for reasons others would think were totally stupid: weird chest hair patterns, kissing me with beer-mouth, ordering for me at a restaurant under the mistaken notion it was thoughtful. I’d also gotten dumped by others too many times to count, but I didn’t gripe about it until everyone’s ears bled. People were either compatible or they weren’t. No sense taking it personally.

Kurt wasn’t getting the point though. “It’s easier for you,” he complained. “You don’t have to try as hard. When’s the last time you actually tried to hit on someone, and not the other way around? I think you’ve forgotten how rough it is.”

Since talking was obviously pointless, I handed Kurt my drink and headed out onto the floor. I scanned the place until I found the juiciest piece of beefcake I could find. My eyes landed on Mr. Perfect: he was all muscle and looked like he was bulging out of his skin-tight t-shirt. His muscles were impressive without being overly bulky. His face was classically handsome to boot. I quickly surmised that he was probably the primest catch in the club that night and he most likely knew it, too. Arrogance usually went hand-in-hand with looks like that. He’d probably shoot me down before I could get two words out of my mouth.

I headed straight for him.

I’d show Kurt not to be intimidated by anyone—and not to give a rat’s ass if someone rejected you offhand. I sauntered up to where the guy stood with his friends, fully prepared to go down in flames.

“Anyone got a light?” I asked, smiling up at him.

I waited for the inevitable dismissive smirk at my pathetically clichéd opening line. Instead, the dude blinked and shook his head. “I don’t smoke,” he replied regretfully.

He looked so damn apologetic it was adorable.

“S’okay,” I said, grinning. “Neither do I.”

“Oh, it’s for your friend, then?” he asked, nodding in Kurt’s direction.

What? Had he been eyeing us?

It was my turn to blink. Thankfully, I recovered quickly.

“Nope. It was just a lame excuse so I could hit on you,” I said, blatantly flirting.

He stood there for a moment, trying to work out if I was joking or really was being that obvious. Then he started laughing.

Somehow, we ended up talking and flirting the rest of the night. Kurt eventually came over and chatted with Ken’s friends, but he was still angry with me for a week after that for succeeding when he’d failed. It wasn’t my fault that Ken had turned out so different than I’d pegged him, though.

What struck me most that night was what a genuinely good guy Ken was. Most guys as gorgeous as he was had their heads so far up their own asses they couldn’t see the light of day. I guessed he had only grown into himself as an adult, which Ken later confirmed. He had that aura of a kid who’d gotten teased for being chubby in grade school and suddenly turned into a linebacker in college. You could tell he was slightly uncertain if people who gravitated toward him for his looks were going to stick around after they really got to know him.

So despite the fact that he made me feel like a petite little princess next to his muscle-man physique, I actually enjoyed his company. And once we’d slept together—oh lord!—it sealed the deal. Ken’s generosity in bed was just one more sign he wasn’t used to relying on his looks.

And the more I got to know him, the more he managed to avoid all the other clichés you’d expect from someone who spent so much of his time at the gym. He was a personal trainer, but he wasn’t stupid. Even though I liked to call him a meathead, he didn’t watch sports like football or basketball or hockey—thank god. What did he watch?

Track and field.

Discus, shot-put, that kinda shit. He loved all the old classics, the kind of stuff the Greeks did back in the day. It irked the hell out of him when TV coverage of the Olympics pushed those types of events off into late-night.

“Discus and wrestling are like the epitome of the Olympic image! Why don’t they show more of it?” he’d grumble, in that endearing way of his.

God, I even thought his complaining was cute. What was wrong with me?

And, seriously, who uses words like ‘epitome’ in daily conversation? But this was Ken. He preferred non-fiction over novels—usually about forensics, or fossils, or insects. The guy was positively obsessed with insects. I’d imagine him sometimes as a kid. He’d be standing there, already taller than his friends, digging in the mud for some critter and grinning like a madman as he trapped beetles in jars.

If I’d known him as a kid, he would’ve been the most ‘boyish’ boy I’d known. When I was a kid, I’d played with my sister’s toys as much as my own. I think my parents probably knew I was gay even before I did—not that it made my coming out much easier on them.

I’d always wished I were more of a manly-man growing up. I wondered what it had been like for Ken. He might’ve been chubby, but he’d never been a sissy. He’d avoided being called a faggot. Then again, what must it have been like to tell his friends that their golden boy was gay?

I’d asked him about his family once, but he’d only said, “They don’t know.” I didn’t think that was true—not the whole truth anyway. Maybe he hadn’t come right out and said it, maybe they’d never admitted they knew, but I could tell the cat was out of the bag. If he wasn’t ready to talk about it, that was okay. I didn’t like talking about my family either.

And that was the thing with me and Ken, we didn’t always have to talk to understand each other. We could just be, and that was enough. And we both knew that was special.

God, I’d really fucked up this time.



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