Peyton blinked at him in surprise. Taylor had always been a little bit rough around the edges—hard corners where Peyton was soft lines—but it was rare to see him worked up. “You wanna talk about it?”
Taylor shook his head. “Nah. It’s not important. He just…” Taylor licked his lips, then shrugged. “He made some joke about how I’m neutered and whipped because I want to hang out with my wife and kid. I was talking with one of the other nurses about diaper stuff and he laughed in my face when I told him that I changed the baby without my wife nagging me.”
Peyton winced. Taylor and his brother Ethan, who had finally left town, struggled growing up with an emotionally unavailable father. At least, that’s what Taylor and Ethan called it. When Peyton listened to the story, he called it emotionally abusive.
He’d said that once to Taylor though who turned red, got furious, and didn’t talk to Peyton for a week. He realized he’d over-stepped, but he was the kind of person who was used to confronting the difficult parts of his past, so it just made sense to him that Taylor would want to embrace what was instead of what could be.
But his best friend had grown up bound and determined to be nothing like his old man. Peyton would watch Taylor with his wife and daughter and feel bursts of envy because God, what’s he’d give to be in love like that. To have a partner who thought the sun shone out his ass? Who loved him beyond reason?
He knew men like Taylor were generally the exception to the rule, but a small part of him still hoped there was one more out there who was a bit more queer and a lot more available.
“Alright, enough about me,” Taylor said, nudging Peyton gently in the side.
Peyton sighed. “Nothing to report, sergeant.”
Taylor rolled his eyes and elbowed Peyton again, hard enough to make him grunt. “Now, do I need to call you a liar to your face, or…”
Peyton threw his hands up in an exaggerated shrug. “What do you want from me? Like, the bag still kind of sucks, but not being in constant pain is amazing. My therapist is really happy with my progress, but I think she’s secretly waiting for me to have some sort of grief breakdown.”
Taylor shifted around so he could face Peyton. “Do you think that’s going to happen?”
Peyton stared down at his hands. There were clumps of flour sticking to his nails and in between the wrinkles on his knuckles. He started to pick at them until Taylor smacked his hands down. “I don’t know, dude. I want to say no because the good outweighs the bad. Like, even more than I was prepared for.” He found the courage to look up and saw Taylor watching him with more concern than anything else which helped. At least it wasn’t pity. “I still can’t…” He swallowed thickly and fought back a half-hysterical laugh. “I can’t get hard. I can’t seem to connect to my body like that anymore, and I just…” He trailed off and looked away.
Taylor’s hand dropped to his knee, giving it a tentative squeeze. He very much appreciated that he could talk to his very married friend about shit like this and Taylor wouldn’t have some sort of gay panic. “What have you tried?”
“Jerking off,” Peyton said, rolling his eyes as he glanced up again. “Since I have my Ken doll ass now, there’s not much more I can do.”
“Bullshit.”
Peyton blinked at his friend. “Uh. Dude, you saw it.”
“Yes, but that’s still bullshit,” Taylor said. “Remember that guy Booker from my office?”
Peyton frowned. The name sounded familiar.
“He had that accident two years ago—a spinal injury. His dick doesn’t work, like, at all. He has to use a catheter. You know what that is?”
Peyton rolled his eyes. “No, I definitely haven’t had one in the hospital while the doctor was removing my literal asshole. That’s,” he said with an exaggerated ignorant tone, “one of those pee-hole tube thingies, right?”
Taylor slapped his leg with the back of his hand. “Okay fine, I get it. But my point still stands. He has no feeling below his injury line, but the fuckin’ stories this guy tells.” Taylor let out a low whistle. “Trust me, he gets his.”
“It’s not the same, Tay. I don’t have a spinal injury,” Peyton said flatly. He didn’t have the energy to explain to Taylor how the differences worked. He wasn’t lacking in sensation—he’d just lost the one thing that ever really got him off.
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying that there are other ways to feel good. You just need to give yourself time and maybe stop tugging on your poor dick since, you know, that’s not working.”
Peyton flopped backward and covered his face with one hand. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t. Anyway, I’m gonna talk to him and see if he has any suggestions.”
“Please don’t,” Peyton begged in a whisper.
“I’m doing it. You can’t keep going on like this,” Taylor said. “I know you, okay? You’re a sexual guy.”
Peyton wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Taylor was right. Peyton could distract himself by baking, and even by basking in how human he felt again. But at the end of the day, he was struggling to get back pieces of himself the surgeon had carved away, and he wasn’t sure he could.
“Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I ever have to meet the guy,” Peyton eventually grumbled.
Taylor smiled without looking up. “That’s the spirit.”