April Fools Day Story Contest 2023
*
My underwear drawer is empty.
This is an escalation. Brandon and I only move each other's keys, laptops, junk. I once moved his car from its assigned space to the visitor lot around the corner and he called the police. He hides my cans of tuna whenever I buy any - behind the TV, under the couch, in the trunk of my car by the spare tire. I found one taped to the back of my printer one time. I doubt I've found them all; maybe one day, when I'm married with six kids and a bigger gut than I've got now, I'll find an ancient can of tuna in the glove compartment. Maybe my kid'll find it. I'll post a picture of it in the group chat -- will we still have a group chat by then? -- and Brandon, wherever he is, will laugh-react. Maybe I'll reply with a picture of his Bluetooth speaker; I took it right after we moved in together. (He never found it; I don't know if he even suspects I took it.) Brandon will flood the chat with emojis and gifs. The others might know it's related to our stupid little game, but they won't know all of it, won't feel time collapse or be transported to that shitty carriage house on Sixteenth Street, Brandon singing along with the radio in the shower, not well but not badly, me in the living room, slipping the speaker out of its case and into my pocket. But Brandon will. All at once what happened -- what must have happened - will dawn on him. He'll be proud of me.
The drawer hangs open like a toothless mouth.
We don't go into each other's bedrooms. At least I've never fucked around in his bedroom; he could have been coming into mine for the whole time we've lived together and I'd be none the wiser. I try to imagine him in here, touching my game controllers, my shoes. The curtains? Clothes. The bed.
I shut the drawer.
Me:
My swim trunks were in there too
Me:
What the fuck am I supposed to wear
Me:
I'm already late
The bubble telling me he's typing appears, and I stand in front of my dresser, naked as anything. It feels like I'm racing toward a yellow that'll turn red before I reach the intersection, except I'm not usually hard when that happens.
Brandon:
Look around
The typing bubble appears again, then disappears. Appears. Disappears.
Stays gone.
Nothing's been touched, or else has only been touched by me. The other drawers don't reveal anything, and the bed's the same as it always is. I'm ready to text him again when I spot my miniature piggy bank. It's about a foot too far to the left on top of my shelf.
I turn it over in my hands, shaking it, but I can't hear anything inside. I've never even used it for coins; I only bought it to support the local frisbee team. I pull the plug on its belly, reach in with my fingers and feel cloth. Cotton, maybe? I yank it out.
Underwear. Not mine.
Briefs.
They're clean but not new; stretched and a little worn with a fading print I can't make out. When had he put these in here? I think about what he might have done with these before he washed them, running my fingers over the stitching. Will they even fit me? And he probably has some plan to see me in them -- barging in when he knows I'm changing, maybe. Daring me to streak across the lawn with no pants on when he knows I'm wearing these --
This is what he wants. He knew I'd end up here, with my dick in one hand and his underwear in the other. How long had he waited for me to find these? Months? Maybe that was why he'd cleared out my drawer -- I was taking too long, and he was tired of waiting. Tired of watching me, wanting me, of keeping his hands off me. Of using his hands on himself. Maybe he has pictures of me. We've gone swimming a lot this summer, and the local pools have communal showers. I wasn't paying attention, had no reason to, but now I can imagine his eyes raking over me, taking notes. Making memories.
I take my hand off my cock. Try to ignore the throbbing.
I'm not exactly surprised. Neither of us is flying any rainbow flags, but Brandon's never been shy about bringing the occasional gentleman home, and I...well, most of my experience is with women, or guys I meet someplace dark and follow someplace darker. I've never brought anybody home where Brandon could see them. It felt wrong. Not that we've never fooled around; there was always the caution tape of genuine friendship between us. I haven't even really thought about it, make it a point not to think about it. But I've wanted to think about it -- about his intense physicality, the gracelessness of his movements, the tightness of his calves, the dark hair on the back of his fingers. His eyelashes. Lips. It's all pooled and aching between my legs now, and there's no way it's going away on its own. Not this time.
*
The party is at my dad's house.
It's a barbeque and he invites everyone he knows. It's especially important to him since the divorce; every year he throws one to celebrate his freedom. That's what he says, anyway. I think he's just lonely. His freedom was thrust upon him by a woman who was tired of a marriage that took place mostly over a wireless network.
He got the house in the split, something he never lets anyone forget. It's a big ranch style place, with three acres of lawn he takes great pride in mowing now that my mom lives in a condo downtown. Must be miserable in such as small space, he often says. Hopes. Imagine throwing all this away for a place like that.
She moved out when I was away at college. I'd avoided going home until I graduated, when I'd had no money and no choice, and my dad glommed onto me like a barnacle, asking me way too many questions and patting me on the shoulder like a peewee baseball coach. We hardly know each other.
"Hey, kid." He pulls me into an embrace; I don't resist. "Long time no see."
"Oh, you know." I shrug. "Work and stuff."
"Yeah, yeah." His tone is flat. He flips over a few burgers with the tongs. "Busy man."
"Did I see Aunt Sarah back there? Is she in from Seattle?"
He brightens. "Yeah, she landed yesterday. We went sailing, you know she loves that. Got a nasty sunburn."
He got the boat in the divorce, too.
"Is Brandon around?"
He smirks and nods his head in the direction of the yard. "He's back there somewhere."
The barbeque shelter was set away from the backyard on the side of the house, so it takes me a few moments to get into the backyard proper. I'd heard voices coming in, but I'm still surprised by the number of people that have turned out. The whole neighborhood is here, along with a dozen of my dad's friends from work, laid about in lawn chairs or standing around with beers. Some of my buddies from the construction site made it out, and they're in a big cluster with a few of Brandon's friends around some umbrella tables on the pool deck. Brandon isn't with them. I say hey and keep walking, wandering around the yard, the shed, the side of the house until I find him on the side porch near the garage. He's straddling a chair, shirtless, his arms folded atop the back. He's laughs when he sees me, a big ugly sound that should embarrass him. He's been waiting for me.
I've always envied his easy manner. Not that he's some kind of king of cool; he's as lumbering as they come. Couldn't catch a ball if his life depended on it. Trips over his own feet. But he doesn't care, just tumbles along like the world belongs to him, like it'll get out of his way or he'll crash into it at full speed, and he doesn't care which. He's boisterous and unguarded, and if it wasn't for our game I'd think he was incapable of guile. But the drawer tells me that he can be bold in quiet, secret ways, too.
"Everyone's in the pool," he says breezily. There's a beer bottle in his hand. "You want to get in?"
He flashes a dangerous grin that hits me in the gut.
"No." I stretch, let the waistband of my jeans slip down. Not low enough for him to confirm anything, but enough for him to know it wasn't accidental. "Not dressed for it."
