I woke to the smell of dinner being prepared. Art has always been a great cook; some things never change. I quietly walked up the stairs to the kitchen where Art stood preparing food, legs spread wide, and a large man on his knees behind him, face buried in Art’s furry ass. They were facing away from me. Or they were until I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out, “Oh shit, sorry!”

I started to go back downstairs, but the damage had been done. Art pulled up his sweat pants and hurried after me, pulling me back to officially meet his partner.

“We were just talking about you,” Bjorn said, pulling me in with a big bear hug. He was even bigger than I had estimated and filled the room with an effortless amount of exuded Alpha confidence. I could see where some of it had rubbed off on Art. Although I knew he was Art’s partner, I melted with my head pressed against his chest. He made pleasantries and asked about my flight. The only thing he did not do was apologize for what I had walked in on.

Dinner was an event I was over-dressed for. Bjorn wore a white under-tank and basketball shorts, and very noticeably no underwear. Art wore even less.

“We’re trying to get him laid while he’s here,” Art joked, refilling my wine glass.

“Tons of great bottoms here in LA,” Bjorn encouraged in the most erroneous of ways.

“Sir, that boy is a bottom,” Art sang.

“Well, that’s going to be a little… harder.” The way Bjorn lingered on the word “harder”, the way his eyes seemed to burrow through my civility, it made me feel naked and exposed. “Anyone waiting for you ’back home’?”

“No, sir…I mean, Bjorn.”

“Just haven’t met the right one yet, I suppose.”

How do I explain the way I feel when I’m naked? How do I explain like I always have to wonder if someone is disappointed when we meet up? How do I explain that I wouldn’t fuck me; not in this state at least. I sipped my wine. “Something like that.” 

---

After dinner, Bjorn cleared the dishes from the table. Art led me upstairs to the patio on the roof so I could have a smoke and watch the sun set over the Pacific before he headed to shower off. I lit another cigarette as Bjorn came up to join me.

“Got one of those for me?” he asked. I pulled a fresh one from the pack, but he took the one I had just lit from between my lips and brought it to his own. I thought about how our lips were touching by proxy and I felt my cock twitch. Although I’m a smoker, I think smoking is disgusting. This man, however, made it sexy. If he had told me to suck his dick, I would have. If he had told me to bend over, I would have welcomed his cock in me. But he didn’t. He just pulled in a drag and slowly exhaled through his nose.

“Art tells me you’re an architect,” Bjorn broke my fantasizing.

“Yes, si–. Damn. Art has me doing it now.” I was thankful he laughed. “Mostly restorations; keeping the historic parts of older buildings and bringing out their natural beauty.”

“We’re similar that way. Art told you I’m a plastic surgeon? Lot of money to be made here with that in LA. But I try to focus mostly on restorations too – post-car accidents, hair lips, that sort of thing. Keep the historic parts and bring out the natural beauty.” Bjorn winked and I melted. It was as if he didn’t see the extra pounds I had put on, or the way I sucked in my gut when someone was close, or how it had been so long since I felt comfortable to be naked with myself, let alone with someone else.

“So what would you fix about me?” I had a long list and I wanted to see if he would be honest or polite. That answer would have to wait.

“You better not be smoking,” Art playfully called out to his partner as he joined us. He was naked except for his black cock cage. I looked around nervously in case any of the neighbors could see. They couldn’t, but even if they could, I don’t think it would have mattered to him. He stood in front of Bjorn and reached behind, taking the cigarette from his lips and bringing it to his own. My lips to Bjorn’s lips to Art’s lips. Except for one drunken night when we both tried (and failed) to be versatile, this was the most physically intimate Art and I had ever been.

“Who’s my ‘cubby bear’?”
“I’m your cubby bear.”
“And who’s your ‘papa bear’?”
“You’re my papa bear.”

The whole exchange seems saccharine on paper, but in the moment, it was the most intimate of tender exchanges. For a brief moment, I felt a little regret for objectifying Bjorn, but in the end, I settled on being happy for Art and what they had.