Absinthe

Chapter 39: Bad Decisions

"Very funny, Jiwoo," I said, genuinely laughing at his preposterous suggestion to have sex. "Hand me

the filling you made so I can puff up these bad boys, will you?"

Jiwoo took one of the buns resting on the counter and played with it. He was caressing it with his hand

while staring at me, hard.

"Some good buns you've got there," he said.

I didn't need a mirror to know that I'd turned red. Fuck Jiwoo and his antics. He then grabbed a piping

bag and filled it with the pastry cream.

"I'm pretty skilled when it comes to filling up buns," Jiwoo said, not breaking eye contact as he slowly

inserted the metal tip of the piping bag into the soft dough. "Just the tip won't be enough. You need to

penetrate them entirely."

For some odd reason, other than the fact that I was getting aroused by the stupid conversation, my

eyes were glued to Jiwoo's hands as he filled the coffee buns with pastry cream. The way he squeezed

the piping bag was enough to send spasms from my nether regions to the tips of my fingers and toes. Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

"You have to keep piping until the filling oozes out." Sure enough, the pastry cream became slightly

visible through the thinner portions of the coffee bun dough, a reminder of what happens after sex.

"You're disgusting," I managed to say, fanning myself subconsciously. "And you've ruined that piece of

perfectly good bread."

"You're right," Jiwoo said, examining the bun in his hand. "I tried to be as gentle as possible, but when I

lose control, I tend to rip things apart with my size and rhythm."

God, had things been different, I would have gladly taken a pounding from Jiwoo, the hot asshole. But

I'd decided not to mess up our friendship and not to engage in unsure relationships again. He was as

straight as a ruler, after all, and I was no longer willing to risk anything. I was not ready to end up like

Mowcah, not when there was someone as hot as Jiwoo who was ready to love me for who I am.

"You're feeling it, aren't you?" Jiwoo teased, inching closer to me. "The only way to dispel this tension is

for you to give in."

"What do you get from teasing me like this?" I asked, trying my best not to sound affected, especially

now that at the back of my head, my inner self was screaming for Jiwoo to take his shirt off.

"We started off on the wrong foot," Jiwoo began. "And you seem to be harboring the idea that I'm not

serious about you. I'm here to prove otherwise."

"If you're doing this because you really need money, I can help you out as a friend."

That seemed to do the trick. Jiwoo frowned and backed off a few paces. He was staring at the counter

now, probably thinking about what I had said. And before he could misinterpret it, I explained myself.

"Seriously, I like you as a friend. It's true that I'm gay, and it's true that you're extremely attractive. I just

don't want to take the same route Mowcah did. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I'm not giving

up on true love yet."

Jiwoo kept his stare fixed on the kitchen counter. He didn't say anything, so I wasn't sure if he had

understood what I meant. I approached him and took the piping bag from his hand. I proceeded to fill

the other buns with pastry cream.

"You already know I wasn't born rich. Faye's the same," I started. "Derrick's parents are successful

cosmetic surgeons. We have this other friend, Cassie, whose family is from the upper class, too. They

have hardware stores all over the south. But Faye and I had to hustle. So I understand that some

people need a bit of assistance to make it in life, and I see that in you."

Jiwoo didn't speak.

"That's why I'm willing to help you. A lot of people also showed me kindness when I was starting out."

"Have you ever met someone you just want to take care of?" Jiwoo asked, still not looking at me. "You

want to take that person out to the movies. Maybe hold hands inside and steal a kiss or two when he's

too engaged in what's on the screen."

I stopped filling the coffee buns. What he was describing sounded all too familiar.

"You want to buy things for that person, provide for that person. If possible, make a family with that

person."

Jiwoo's eyes hadn't left the kitchen counter. I noticed his hands were now balled up into fists.

"You want to go home and fall asleep with that person and start your mornings waking up to their face."

We were both quiet in the few minutes that came after. I didn't know if I should continue piping cream

into the buns, and I was worried that they'd be overproofed.

"That's how I feel about you," Jiwoo said. "And it sucks that I can't do any of those things because

you're too far from my reach."

That was a knockout speech. It was too pleasant and too off-putting at the same time, so I had no idea

how to react properly except to accidentally squeeze the piping bag and make a mess with the pastry

cream. It went all over my chest, fingers, and arms. I frantically reached for the kitchen roll on Jiwoo's

side of the counter, but he grabbed my hand, forcing me to look at him.

He took my index finger and slid it inside his mouth, sucking at it until most of the cream was gone.

Then he licked the length of it, slow and steady from the base to the tip of the nail, his tongue folding

and curling along as he wiped away the remaining traces of cream before he moved on to the next, all

the while his eyes boring deep into mine. It was as if they were trying to say something, but I couldn't

understand any of it. All I knew was that I wanted Jiwoo to take me into his arms and kiss me hard.

Which was what he did next.

In moments, his body was flush against mine and we were kissing. His mouth tasted of sugar and milk

and roasted peanuts and vague traces of some sweet alcohol I couldn't seem to get enough of. I

wanted him to kiss me harder, the way he did three months ago, but I changed my mind because that

was nothing compared to how he was kissing me now.

I bit his lower lip harder than I had intended to, partly because of my misplaced enthusiasm and partly

because of its texture, like a soft and smooth peanut streusel. Jiwoo then bit me back, a gentle nip on

my upper lip that drove me to grab him by the sides of his neck in a desperate attempt to keep him right

in front of me, kissing me. That was where his head, his lips, and the rest of him belonged.

His hands slid to the back of my hips, and my body did not put up a fight when he pulled me to him. I

felt my thighs burn when they started rubbing against his, and it was more than I could take. I was

going breathless, but I was afraid of ruining the moment.

Jiwoo seemed to have felt the same because he withdrew. For a second I thought it was over, but his

stare conveyed hunger that had nothing to do with his stomach. I was more than ecstatic—here was

proof that I was wanted, that I had value beyond the contents of my bank account.

I wasn't going to have to pay for love. Jiwoo made sure I felt that.

Jiwoo's shirt was suddenly on the kitchen counter. Who had removed his shirt? Was it me or him?

What he was doing to my neck was making me forget the details. Not that they were significant. The

only important thing at that moment was that Jiwoo's torso was bare for me to explore.

My hands couldn't get enough of the lines on his chest and the firm muscles beneath them. They kept

touching everything they could reach despite the searing warmth emanating from beneath Jiwoo's skin.

Then, they found his arms, a sculpture of living marble enough to rival those I'd marveled at in France

and Italy when Faye and I first traveled for the sake of art. Of course, those statues were no match

against Jiwoo. They had tiny, crumpled up dicks, while Jiwoo's own felt shockingly hard and massive,

angry and impatient through the fabric of his shorts.

"What did you put in the cream?" I asked, barely able to speak as Jiwoo's breath tickled my left ear.

"Put where?" Jiwoo murmured. "You want me to put it where?"

"You're crazy," I said as he tugged at the knot of my apron before flinging it out of the way.

His hands found the hem of my shirt and helped me out of it. He traced the tattoo on my collarbone

with one of his fingers before doing the same with his tongue, his warm and moist breath making the

skin there hotter with every second.

"Where's your room again?" Jiwoo demanded as he lifted me up and forced my thighs apart so I was

somehow sitting on him. I gestured toward it with a slight jerk of the head.

We walked to the bed, his hands supporting my weight and my arms holding on to his lean shoulders

for stability. I still did not have a lock on my door, so Jiwoo did not have the least bit of trouble opening

it. The next thing I knew, I was on the mattress, he was on top of me, we were kissing again, and

nothing else mattered.

Except for two things: Jiwoo was still wearing his shorts, and I still had my trousers on. He must've read

my mind because he then pulled my pants off, following it up with the softest, slowest caress from my

thighs to my ankles. His touch loosened me up in every way. Even my thoughts were unchained, and

they all had to do with what was in his shorts.

Jiwoo was giving me that all-knowing stare again. Although it had a hint of mischief, it exuded

confidence and excitement more than anything else. Jiwoo tugged at his shorts, revealing the only

layer coming between me and the thing that would give me pleasure in the moments to come.

"Where's your lu—"

"There," I said, pointing to the bedside table.

Jiwoo reached toward the drawer and opened it.

And then something went terribly wrong.

When he pulled his hand back out, instead of lube and condoms, he was holding a folded piece of

paper. I watched in horror as he opened it and read the contents. It was the letter JM had written for me

the night we slept together, the poem expressing what he felt for me.

The poem that made me fall harder in love with him.

I stood up at once and grabbed it from Jiwoo's hands. However, I failed to throw it away right then and

there as I could not help but read the words. I was but a moth to a flame.

After today, I can't help but think we'd make a good family,

but this is only possible if you agree to one day marry me.

And maybe someone like me isn't good enough for you,

but I promise to do everything to see things through.

I love you, BJ, and I don't really know why,

Maybe I don't deserve you, but why shouldn't I try?

And then I was crying. Not in the controlled, beautiful way actors do it—there was ugly sobbing, hot

tears running down flushed skin, snot, and spittle. With impeccable timing, the poem was a reminder

that straight guys are capable of pretending to want to have me, make love to me, and love me. That

their kindness and interest in me could be an illusion, and I was just going to get hurt in the end.

Because gay men like me will never find true love.

Unless we pay for it.