Bad Stepfather

though that strange Mustang is in the driveway, I decide to take a look.

I step into the living room and turn to stone.

Bathed by light from the glass doors to the porch, Justin is sitting sideways at the island

counter that sets the kitchen apart from the living room. He’s shirtless and consumed by

something on his laptop screen, one hand idly tucked into the front of his sweat shorts.

I spot a vape pen next to his laptop and catch a whiff of weed. He totally didn’t hear me

come in.

For a highly culpatory lapse of time, I’m a voyeur, rapt on the shapes and textures of his

ridiculous bod. His arm is sick, and his bare leg is both perfectly hairy and perfectly

developed and proportioned. Even sitting down, hunched over a little, his six pack of abs

are defined, and the peek of his chest I can see is supple and tight and waxed baby

smooth. He could be on the cover of a men’s fitness magazine. He’s the epitome of how a

man should look. I stare at that hand between his legs. My cock strains to attention.

Then he glances over at me, and I feel like I ought to be incinerated.

Justin slips his hand out of his shorts, slides off his stool, and puts on a smile like he’s

covering up a crime.

“Hey, Elijah. Margie didn’t mention you were coming over.”

He grabs a tank top from a nearby chair and pulls it on. It gives me time to adjust myself

and breathe some air into my lungs. Then he struts over and holds out his hand. The one

that’s been snuggling between his legs.

“How you been, man?”

I hesitate for half a second, then fuck it, I grab that filthy hand.

Justin pulls me in for a bro hug and a clop on the back. My nineteen-year-old body is

reacting in ways it shouldn’t. He’s got that deliriously sexy smell of having rolled out of bed

and not taken a shower. I want to sneak off and sniff my hand.

This friendly hug he’s sprung on me lingers. I can feel the heat between his legs, and I’m

pretty sure he’s not wearing underwear. I went looking for death, and I found it. In my

defense, I haven’t had this much body contact with a guy in like a month.

He finally steps back and grins at me. “So, what’s the deal, bro?”

That wakes me up. He’s such a dude, and I hate that expression. I’m drawing blanks on

what to say.

Justin glances over his shoulder to the kitchen. “You want something to drink? Your mom

stocked up on coffee. She said you’re a coffee drinker. We’re both doing the sodium and

caffeine free thing.” His face brightens. “I could make you a killer smoothie. Blueberries

and goji. Get you flying on antioxidants and all the good stuff.”

My boner is killed. Health food fanatic-speak has that effect on me. It also reminds me the

fitness hustler charmed his way into bed with my mom, not giving a shit we’d lost my dad a

little over a year ago based on the timeline my mom told me.

“No thanks. I just stopped by to grab some of my stuff.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

“Oh, I’m cool. I’ll just run upstairs and be on my way.”

Justin looks at me like I’m a clown. “You’re going to need help finding your stuff. Margie

unpacked everything and put your luggage and crates in the attic. She’s pretty serious

about keeping the house a certain way.”

He wriggles his eyebrows as though we’re buddies with a little in-joke. It’s true my mom’s a

neat freak, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of sharing some humor.

Justin takes off, and I follow his quick strides upstairs. Yep, climbing the stairs behind him,

I can see there’s no underwear between his bare, beautifully shaped booty and his cotton

sweat shorts. Sometimes it truly sucks being gay. Like lusting after homophobic brahs in

high school, and getting hot and twitchy around your mom’s live-in boyfriend. I’m racking

up prolific quantities of self-hate.