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Not Another Bad Boy

By:Devyn Morgan

Chapter 1

I love dicks and assholes. Those cocky bad boys that just grab you by  the collar in the middle of a party, fuck you in the host's bedroom, and  then walk away without ever leaving a phone number really do a number  on me.

Yeah, it's not the best way to go through relationships, but damn, when  it's on, it's hot as fuck. Even the breakups make me horny. Somewhere in  the back of my head, I imagine the make up sex while we're yelling at  each other in the bars, hallways, or taxis.

Tom is so not a bad boy.

He wears cardigans and coordinated slacks. He walks his two little  wiener dogs every night after dinner before settling in for a nightly  glass of wine while watching the news to see what the weather will be  tomorrow.

I think I love the dude, but I really miss being tossed around roughly by the bad boys sometimes.

"Come on, Parker. We have to leave now or they'll be sold out."

Muffins. That's our crisis of the morning, potentially sold-out muffins  at the downtown farmer's market. Every Saturday when the weather allows,  we trek down to the farmer's market instead of sleeping in or fucking  in bed or just watching paint dry, and wait in line hoping to get  cranberry high-fiber muffins. Not even full-sized muffins. Just the  tops.

That's me in a nutshell these days.

I need a full-sized muffin, maybe something with chocolate chips that  knows how to give me the roughage. Man, I'm losing my mind.

"Coming, Tom." I hang my head, grab the keys to the Prius, and trudge out the front door.

Tom hands me my windbreaker while trying to get me to hurry along. He  knows I don't do windbreakers. It goes in the back seat. Hopefully,  he'll forget it is there instead of making us clean out the car when we  get back home.

Chapter 2

I really do love farmer's markets. I might miss the heat of the moment  with the bad boys that I've dated in the past, but I have big enough  dreams of being a yuppie that I can appreciate the array of colors and  scents of a good farmer's market, and this one by our apartment in San  Jose is a good one.

Tom threads his fingers through mine. He actually hums while we walk  down the middle of the street. He occasionally pauses his song long  enough to kiss my hand.

When he stops to literally smell the flowers at one of the street  vendors, I half expect a bluebird to land on his shoulder and tweet  along with him.

His idea of passion is underwhelming me today.

I let my eyes wander while Tom discusses planting cycles and fertilizer  with the middle-aged woman wearing the skin-tight, white spaghetti strap  top and full length, wildflower pattern skirt. I'll hear all the  details later when we get home anyway.

There's less foot traffic than usual now that school is back in session.  All of the college hippie wannabes are busy in classes or loafing  around campus instead of looking for bong paraphernalia.

In a small alley between two buildings, a couple is making out in the  shadows. The larger man has the smaller pressed against the building.  The smaller man has his head tipped up to kiss the larger man's neck.  The larger man nudges his knee between the other's legs, giving him  something to grind against. Just when the smaller man hits a good  groove, the aggressor removes his leg, grabs his boyfriend's hand and  shoves it down his own pants.

The smaller man doesn't show any frustration about losing the leg to rub  against. Instead he starts rubbing his man's dick with a frenzy that I  recognize from my own romps in the alley.

My dick recognizes the heat of the moment and wants some heat for itself.

Tom kisses my hand again.

"Hey, what are you watching over there?"

My embarrassment at getting caught peeping causes color to rise to my  face. As much as I wish we were the ones making out in the alley, I want  Tom to figure it out on his own rather than me being forced to beg for  him to take charge.

"A couple guys...."

"Isn't that Mauricio and Frankie?"

I squint to try to get a better view. Tom is right, though, I'm sure. He  always notices things before I do. Just another reminder for me to get  in for an eye exam.

"Let's go scare them," Tom says with a playful glee in his voice that gives me goosebumps.

Tom jogs while crouching. I follow at a more casual pace. Tom always  fucks with Mauricio and Frankie when he catches them in public displays  of affection. Other than holding hands and maybe kissing my knuckles,  Tom thinks affection should happen in private.

Mauricio and Frankie are lost so deeply in their own little world that  they don't notice us approaching until Tom taps Mauricio on the  shoulder. Mauricio spins, his elbow smashing into Tom's temple. Tom  stumbles.

A high pitched scream escapes my mouth.

"Shit. Lo siento, Tom."

Mauricio has a sexy accent. Words roll off his chest and nibble playfully on your ears.

He offers a hand to Tom while saying, "Why are you sneaking up on us,  you fool? Why not just grab your own man and pin him to the wall?"

My heart races hearing the words. If only it were that simple.

"Damn, Mauricio. I didn't think you were the sucker punching kind of guy. I'll send you a text before I say hello next time."

Tom's lack of passion normally extends outside of the sexual realm. He's  just as likely to avoid a fight as he is to avoid doing something wild  in bed.

Frankie's phone starts beeping.

"Shit, Mo. We gotta get over to the theater. The show's about to start."

"Amigos. We'll check in later. Maybe get together for some vino next weekend at our place? Two Saturdays from now? Seven?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. It isn't really a question. When Mauricio  asks something like that, he expects you to show up. It's just his  polite way of making a demand seem like your own idea. Mauricio is one  sexy motherfucker and a genuinely nice guy. They really do exist. I stop  myself from imagining what kind of demands Mauricio must make in the  bedroom by focusing on Tom's injury.

"You okay?"

I pull his hand away from his eye.

"No blood, but it might turn black. Let's go get some ice."

At the corner coffee shop, we order a baggie of ice and a plain black coffee for Tom and a strawberry fruit smoothie for me.

Tom collapses onto an empty chair at the table next out the front window.

"Man, that Mauricio is crazy. So wild and unpredictable."

I nod my agreement, trying to hide my approval of wild and unpredictable.

"You okay with us going to their place on that Saturday? I know you have a big couple weeks at work coming up."

I have a website that will be going live next week. We're behind  schedule waiting for some work from the graphic designer. I've been  testing the back end by using dummy placeholder images.

"We'll be fine as long as the artist gets us the fucking files."

Tom flinches at my profanity. He looks around the room to see if I've offended anyone else.

"Sorry, Tom. I'll be fine if we get the files. If not, the whole thing  will get pushed to the following week. As long as it's done by then,  none of the big bosses should stop to yell at us."

"That's great news, hon. I was hoping you wouldn't need to get stressed or work crazy hours.

That's Tom. Nine to five. Don't shake the routine.

He's an actuary. I literally don't know what that means other than he  analyzes risk and decides how much insurance companies should charge  assholes for dangerous things they do. Good old Tom. A buzzkill at work  and outside of it.

"Here, let me see that eye."

I lean forward to move his hand away. My chest brushes against my  smoothie, knocking it over. Strawberry smoothie splashes onto his lap  and the cardigan.

Tom screeches and swats at the crushed ice, but not before it leaves a stain on his sweater and pants.

"Parker, watch what you're doing. You just ruined my clothes."

He makes an attempt to dab up the mess with a napkin. Unfortunately, my cup had been pretty much full.

"I need to get home, change, and see what I can do to save these." He's practically screeching. "Let's go."

Chapter 3

As soon as I unlock the door to our apartment, Tom pushes past me while  frantically unbuttoning his precious cardigan. He struggles with the  bottom one. With a whimper, he pulls both the cardigan and his t-shirt  over his head in one jerky movement.

I feel like shit.

"Tom, I'm sorry. I'll buy you a new one."

"Kristen bought me this."

His sister. The one who lives all the way across the country. The one he  has put on a pedestal since she's the only family member who is  supportive of him being gay.

I flop onto the couch, but don't bother to turn on the TV. I deserve the silent punishment.

"What the hell was that all about back there anyway?" he yells down the  hall between sniffles. "Between Mo and Frankie, and your clumsiness, I  don't know if I can handle the farmer's market anymore," he says with a  laugh.

There's a kernel of truth in his mock complaint, though. He can't handle  chaos or surprises or uncertainty, and it is becoming a major issue in  our relationship.

He's just too timid.

How can I explain my need to be taken, not just made love to? The man  wears cardigans. He won't understand my love of being on the receiving  end of handcuffs, of being pressed against the wall with a strong man  leaning against my back and his dick shoved in my ass.