Sink
Lit Fic Short Story [1124 words]
[CW: sexual imagery, nudity, strong language, homophobia]
I curl 30 lbs in each hand, staring at him. I bite my lip as I tense, release. He looks back at me. I wink. Tense, release. He winks. Tense, release. It’s as if he’s already pressed into my abs, the locker room water brushing off our sweat. Tense, release—metal thuds on my left foot. The ankle twists as I fall, yell awake. Tensed, released into the sweat of my sheets, my foot throbs under the cast.
I curse and reach for my phone, turn off the third alarm I set to take ibuprofen. I shove Mr. Snuffles into the nightstand drawer, strong-arm myself into a sitting up position. No glass of water. I swallow the pill dry, gag. I start with my right foot. At least that foot hasn’t let me down yet. A small shock as I lower my left, I curse. To the kitchenette sink, I limp. Logan Sr.’s voice shouting dirty echoes off the bottles of rancid protein shakes. I tip open the cabinets. My foot and ankle pulse on the fake hardwood. No clean cups. I hobble back to my bed, collapse.
I open my phone. Sighing, I reread last night’s conversation with someone who was more of a fuck than a buddy.
“u sure u dont wanna hang out”
“Don’t you have a boyfriend to play slob chicken with until one of you caves and does the dishes?”
“have u ever told a white lie abt being in an open relationship so men would find u hotter”
“How is that a white lie? You’re either with somebody or you’re not.”
“ok and apparently u lied about doing anything to get with this” I send a rather mindful, rather demure picture another one of my buddies had taken before my body failed me.
The read receipt hangs, no reply. Like there aren’t at least fifty other thirsty men in this hi-rise. My thumb swipes at the screen. Little hits of distraction dim the pulse under my cast. Faceless torso this, were u at that. I check my Bluesky: who needs clean dishes amirite with a pic of my pecs poking out of the covers. 320 likes, four comments. No DMs. Then, a ping.
He wants me. His torso isn’t half bad, either. Not as chiseled as mine, even after a week of sitting out the gym. Why would I want him to be hotter than me? I swat away another echo of Logan Sr.’s dirty from my thoughts.
“Be here in fifteen,” I hobble in a facsimile of scrambling to unlock the door, lie facedown. I hide my ankles under the sheets, grope around my nightstand drawer. Brushing away Mr. Snuffles, I grab the lube and Truvada. Click. Door’s open. I bury my head in the pillows. Just like he asks. Tense, release. A slap.
A slap of . . . metal on metal? The faucet hisses. A fruity sigh, scrubbing.
“Mateo?!?” I turn over onto my back, staring at him.
“Long time no see,” he keeps scrubbing, back facing me. “Just call me Mat,” I can feel the eye roll bounce off the plate he’s cleaning.
“When did you get so . . .well, hot?”
“The pain must be making you delulu. I had a friend catfish for me,” he turns to face me now, scrawny as ever. Dressed in bright colors as ever.
“So, what are you gonna do? Bash my head in with a plate, or—”
“Yep, that’s what I came here for: to return all the times you and your idiot football teammates t-bagged me in PE,” Mateo waves a crusty knife around like a magic wand.
“Look, I didn’t need my dad knowing I was a, well, you know.” I pull the covers over my torso. Tense.
“A dirty . . . like me?” he chuckles, returns to washing the dishes.
“Why are you washing the dishes? Why won’t you look at me?!?” My Mom’s blond curls replace Mateo’s black wolf cut. Release.
Mom scrubbed and scrubbed. Logan Sr.’s face blistered red. Spittle dripped from his open mouth. I backed out of the kitchen too quickly to catch all of the words. Someone’s ankle didn’t fail them. Nothing failed them. Their body buzzed. Someone like me backed away from the kitchen. They did not feel the weight of the duffle bag on their right shoulder. Did not feel the weight of get out you dirty . . . . Did not feel the weight. They sat in the Dodge RAM I’d sell. Did not feel the weight of the wheels turning, didn’t smell the gasoline. Didn’t taste salt. Tense, release.
“Um, I just looked at you, Logan,” I snap back to Mateo glancing back at me, the water running.
“Oh, I know what this is now,” I smirk, start to lower the covers. “You want me to have bullied you because I wanted you this whole time.”
“One, cut the covers thing; you’ve already shown me everything,” Mateo snapped his fingers, shook them. “Two, this is such an ego boost even ten years later.”
“Washing dishes for your high school bully?”
“No, knowing even someone like you will one day be huddled up in his bed, forgetting to hide his teddy, because his muscles won’t put him back together.”
“Y-you didn’t see that.” I shove the drawer shut. “It’s my boyfriend’s”
“Yeah, the one you have no pictures of in this entire apartment. Like you’d date someone who keeps plushies out,” Mateo turns the faucet off.
“Well, is that all? You don’t even want a little?” I gesture crudely with my right hand.
“Oh, I already got off, buddy.” Mateo places the last cup on the drying rack. Tense, release.
“Well then leave, pal.” I grimace as I stand up too quickly, point at the door.
“And miss the chance for this?” he whips his phone out. “No more lies, little Logan.”
I buckle my legs in, cover my crotch. He struts past me. I force myself after him. The nightstand drawer opens. Click, click, click. He faces me as I reach for his phone. My ankle shoots through me. I stumble, vision blurry. To the bed he guides my body. Tense, release.
*
A week later, a knock on the door. I shudder, restart the pivot table due for work. Hours later I close my laptop. A packet litters the doorway. I crawl to pick it up. I open it.
I touch the first of many photos. Mr. Snuffles sits in the open drawer. A spray-tan blur blocks my bed. Mateo’s free hand pulls a sheet over me. He lifts Mr. Snuffles’ right paw to wave at the camera. Mr. Snuffles kisses my cheek. Mateo tucks Mr. Snuffles in. He stares at me. I stare at the photographs, press them to my stomach.
Hey, hi, hello! This is my first lit fic since, well, undergrad when I had to write one for my creative writing class. I’m not sure if I’ll venture into this again for a minute, but it was fun to force myself to try to write within something more realistic. I still debate whether to call this a lit fic, but there’s enough symbolism and literary devices that I’ll let myself use the label. I’m not sure how often I’ll write realistic fiction, but it was at the least a fun writing exercise. Regardless, let me know what you thought in the comments. Criticism/praise are welcome in equal measure, since this is not usually a genre I write in.
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Loved this, Lee! It has a really unique tone—both intense and realist, but also refuses to take itself too seriously. Love a twist ending, also! It made me think a little of the song "Jason" by Perfume Genius.
Oh I like the dishwashing porn (hahahaha). Nothin hotter than a man who does the dishes. Ditto the man and his teddy. Isn’t intimacy ultimately about vulnerability?