I stand back up and he’s peering over at me, his eyes half-closed, and I realize I’m holding a condom, a bottle of Boy-Ease, and a red dildo the size of my forearm. What the fuck is wrong with this nightstand! Goddamn sex dungeon of the drag queen Helena Handbasket!
“This is all a dream,” I manage to say. “You’re still asleep and when you wake up, you won’t remember any of this.”
He mumbles something else at me before he lays his head back down on the pillow. I honestly can’t believe that worked. I literally just convinced him that he was dreaming while I held a floppy rubber dong in my hands. Maybe it won’t be that bad. Maybe I can get control of this again. I can! I’ve got this! I’m Tyson Fucking Thompson, genius extraordinaire, and I’ve motherfucking got this!
“At least wait until I get more sleep before you try to use that on me,” he says. It’s followed by a low snore.
I don’t have this! I don’t! I’m Tyson Fucking Thompson, indecisive twinkie, and I don’t have this in the slightest!
I throw the dildo to the floor and flee the room.
THE HOUSE is quiet around me as I leave the sex dungeon. The sky is beginning to lighten through the windows, and I give strong consideration to getting back in the SUV and driving back to Seafare so Bear can protect me from the big bad world. Then I remember I am twenty years old and pretty much a man now. Well, sort of a man.
I’m thinking about wandering into the kitchen to find some coffee when I see Sandy out through the sliding door, sitting crossed-legged on the patio, back arched up straight. I open the door and step out into the warm air.
Sandy lets out a breath and glances back at me. He smiles sweetly when he sees me. “Good morning, baby doll. You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, closing the door behind me. “Been up most of the night.”
“Oh?” he says with an arch to his eyebrow.
“Not like that,” I mutter.
“Too bad.”
“He’s straight.” Right?
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” Right?
“Fascinating.”
I stand beside him. “How so?”
Sandy shrugs. “You would know better than I would.”
I don’t even know what that means. Desperately needing a change of subject, I ask, “What are you doing out here?”
He turns his face forward again, straightening out his back, wiggling his shoulders and taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “Meditating,” he says.
“Oh, man. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I feel really bad. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about breathing, is that it’s annoying to be interrupted. “I’ll go back inside.”
“You’re fine, baby doll. I’ll admit to not being very good at this yet.”
“How come?”
He frowns. “You’re supposed to clear your mind, but I find that absolutely impossible. I always seem to be thinking about something.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Though, it’s not really possible to clear your mind. Your brain is always firing.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. It’s better to think of something mundane and focus on that. If you do that, it’s easier to follow your breaths.”
That smile comes back. “Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”
I shrug. “I might know a thing or two.”