Damaged Hearts. Jan St. Marcus

like he was a person. Wait. Is this a dream? Am I going to wake up in a few seconds and be covered in dirt and grime? Fuck it. As far as dreams go, this one is pretty good. So maybe I’ll just go with it for as long as I can and try not to wake myself up. I smile at the idea and walk into the bathroom.

      As soon as I flick on the light, it all comes back to me as I stumble on my shitty duffel bag and my disgusting clothes on the floor. I see the shower, and it all rushes back to me. Last night I was rescued by a guy with this amazing house, amazing bathroom, and amazing dog. Oh yeah, and he fed me. He fed me well. And he didn’t want to fuck me. In fact, he didn’t seem to want anything at all from me. I take a deep breath as I get my bearings and let it out when I acknowledge that I’m not in any danger. Okay. I remember asking him “So now what?” As I stand in front of the mirror acknowledging that a good night’s sleep did my appearance good, I realize that I might have to think about that question myself. What now? I have no reason to believe that he’s really going to let me be his “roommate” no matter how much his dog likes me. So I stuff my disgusting clothes into my duffel bag, and then I clean myself up. I’ll brush my teeth, use some of his deodorant . . . wait . . . if this thing—whatever it is—is coming to an end, I’m going to take another shower. You bet your ass I’m going to take another shower. I stuff both towels into the trashcan thing and push the button, smiling when I see the little red light illuminate.

      So yeah, now nice showers are a thing for me, too. Since my stomach isn’t growling, I decide to take the opportunity to take care of a little bit of personal business. That shower gel was so amazing and silky and soft and smelled great, so I lather up my cock and start stroking it slowly, carefully . . . dare I say lovingly? I mean, sex hasn’t really been a thing for me for a while, but a boy’s got needs, you get me? I don’t really remember the last time I rubbed one out . . . let’s just say that it was long enough ago that I forgot how horny I really am and now I’m coming in buckets. Hell, it seems like I’m coming in buckets because I can’t see the product of my exertions under that amazing waterfall/shower thing and . . . oh my God . . . I’m getting weak in the knees, and I have to reach out and brace my hand against the wall of the shower so I don’t fall down. Note to self: be very careful jacking off in this huge shower with this amazing gel because it’s kind of dangerous. But on the other hand, yeah, nice showers. Nice showers. Are definitely. A fucking thing!

      I’m still a little wobbly as I step out of the shower and grab one of the towels from the trashcan and dry off. I catch my reflection in the mirror and my image has improved—I’m actually smiling. And now I’m facing the first dilemma of the day: Do I put on my disgusting clothes again or take the chance that he’ll let me keep the sweatpants and T-shirt? Do I dare be that presumptuous? Yeah. I dare be. After a few minutes, I’m a teeth brushed, deodorant smelling, combed hair, sweatpants and T-shirt wearing nineteen-year-old human being. When I exit the bathroom, Sparky is gone, and there is a rhythmic thumping sound kind of reverberating through the house. I have no idea what it is. It kind of sounds like someone is thumping the lawn with a sledgehammer. I mean, I know it’s not that ‘cause that’s just a silly idea. But what the fuck? I walk past the kitchen, where I see that Michelangelo has put out a plate of cut fruit, politely wrapped in clear plastic wrap. And as soon as I see it, my stomach rumbles, but I need to find out what that sound is. I was never too good about not being curious, and this one’s got me. So I follow the sound past the kitchen, and I listen at a door in the hall and yeah, the sound is coming from there. I knock gently (like that’s going to be heard) and then I turn the knob and walk in …

      It’s the garage. There’s some kind of really nasty looking Porsche 911 something or other that looks like it could literally eat your face off. It’s got this huge spoiler in the back that looks like it came off a Formula 1 car. Jet black and just mean as fuck. Beside the car, there are hockey sticks, pads, and rollerblades. Ha ha. He must be one of those crazy guys that plays roller hockey by the beach. I never understood that game. I get it on ice. When you fall, you just kind of slide. But on asphalt? Ouch! Crazy. I guess it looks fun. Nah. Definitely crazy. I tear my eyes away from the crazy sport gear and, in the corner, I see these muscular legs straining, and my eyes explode with the sight of Michelangelo squatting what looks like about five hundred pounds. Okay, I’m not a weightlifter, and I’ve never seen someone squatting five hundred pounds, but that’s what it looks like. After every rep, the barbell clangs on the cage, and he gives a little grunt. Wait . . . how many reps is he doing? I first heard the sound when I was in my bedroom, and I walked all the way through the house, ogled at the car, and he’s still going. The guy’s a fucking monster! And his legs are all pumped up and he’s shirtless and his body is rock hard and covered with sweat. So I’m staring at this guy who looks like . . . he looks like . . . I got nothing. I have no words to describe him. But he sees me, smiles, and keeps doing his squats. He’s straining under this ungodly amount of weight after doing who knows how many reps and he’s smiling at me? Mind blown. Officially.

      He finishes his set, lets the barbell rest on the cage, and he grabs his towel. Perfectly flat abs—well, unless you count the engorged eight-pack he’s sporting—gorgeous and perfectly proportioned chest and really defined arms. I mean, the guy could be a fitness model. Not a roided out muscle-head, but a perfectly put together, powerful body that I can’t take my eyes off of. Sorry. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. I’m not gay or anything—not that there’s anything wrong with it. But except for the times I really needed money, I’ve never been into guys. I mean, not really. I think I may have had a crush on my best friend when I was fifteen, but we never did anything. Him being straight and my best friend kind of put a damper on any curiosity I might have been experiencing. But that’s not the point here. The point is there’s nothing wrong with admiring a really hot guy with an amazing body, right?

      “Good afternoon,” he says, still smiling. “I would ask you if you slept well, but nobody stays in bed till two in the afternoon unless they are having a good nap.”

      “Two o’clock!” I almost scream. “I slept until two?”

      “Looks like it. No biggie. I’m going to hop in the shower, and then I have a quick meeting.” He walks towards the door and points to the other side of the garage. “Washer-dryer is through that door if you want to do laundry. Why don’t you chill, and we’ll talk when I get back?”

      “Yeah, okay,” I stammer. And he’s gone. Should I be offended? I mean, this guy just assumes that I have nothing better to do than hang around in this house at his beck and call? Seriously? Who the fuck does he think he is anyway? He’s some kind of bigshot because he’s got a car and a house and a dog and a shower and a trashcan in his bathroom? And what does that make me? Am I really that much less of a human being?

      Ha ha! I’m just fucking around. I do that when I’m happy. And yeah, I’m pretty happy. The guy’s pretty cool, and he seems to be true to his word when he says that me staying with him is no big deal. I can live with that. Duh! Yeah I can!

      ***

      I faintly hear the sound of a shower running as I return to the kitchen and begin poking at the fruit he’s laid out for me. Bananas, apple slices, strawberries, blueberries, and a side dish of some sort of granola stuff. It’s probably the most nutritious meal I’ve had in a while. I mean, the breakfast was good and all, but bacon and eggs are not all that good for you, right? But this—this is some next-level nutritious shit. And seeing how he was working out, I’m thinking that this granola must be some sort of superfood or something. I just get the idea that the guy knows how to take care of that body of his. As I’m sitting in that really comfortable bar stool with the memory foam and munching on my breakfast . . . wait, at two in the afternoon, is it still breakfast? Is it brunch? Can I call it brunch? Now there’s a word I can get my head around: brunch. The “br” from breakfast and the “unch” from lunch. Makes perfect sense. I like it when things make sense. And speaking of making sense, there’s still a part of me telling me that this whole thing doesn’t make sense. But before I get myself sidetracked too much, I pull my eyes around the breakfast bar and begin to notice the house for the first time. I was so blown away by the events of last night and I was half-blind with hunger so I didn’t really see much.