Drew Merritt yells into the intercom, “Dude, let me in now.”
I press the button, allowing him into the building, and question my sanity. Ever since I moved here, the security guard at the reception has given me the weirdest expressions, and I don’t know if it’s because of Drew’s Drewness, or if he secretly knows about AATD. I suspect the former since, really, Drew on a good day is much more scandalous than an anonymous dick blog.
I’ve known the guy my whole life and he’s never not like this—making me laugh and forcing me to do things I don’t wanna do. We went to pre-K together, our mothers are old friends, and we’ve had almost every class together growing up. But while I studied—the last of the Cartwrights has a reputation to uphold—Drew has been, and is, a complete fuck up. He knows it and doesn’t care. Since his family built a wing at every school he attended, he never got kicked out. Not for the pranks, not for ditching class, not for bad grades, not for anything. Hence his nickname, Demerit.
Bastard.
But he’s my best friend.
He bursts into my space, a thick mass of barely contained energy and out-of-control hair. Although he’s as tall as me, he weighs about fifty pounds more—and it’s all around his middle. I’ve given up trying to get him to work out with me in my basement gym. While I take care with what I wear, he’s a total ‘90s grunge slacker in a flannel and ripped, baggy jeans. You’d never know his parents own the biggest department store chain in the United States.
“Did you do it?” he asks without preamble as he plops himself down on my black leather couch and props his feet on the glass coffee table. I try not to cringe, but he sees, grins wide like a Cheshire cat, and starts wiggling, settling his ass in more, scraping his Converse across the top of the table. Asshole knows I like things neat and clean, and he knows that shit gets to me.
I pretend not to notice as I open the stainless-steel fridge, take out two beer bottles, uncap them, and hand him one. Local microbrew, of course. This is the beeriest city in America. “Do what?” I’m not being intentionally obtuse. There are a number of things he could be talking about—getting a new client, getting an idea for a new design, getting a lawyer, getting a corporate sponsor.
Getting laid.
But Drew’s idea of good sex is a quickie in a bar bathroom. Random hookups aren’t my style. I’m not after quantity. Never have been. Finding women isn’t a problem for me—finding the right one is.
He raises an eyebrow. “Forget about her yet?”
I roll my eyes at the idiot. “You do realize that reminding me of her will have the opposite effect, right?”
“How long has it been, seven months?”
“Yes, dumbass, now stop.”
Drew ignores me, of course, and takes a gulp of beer, then burps so loudly I think they hear him in Lake Oswego. “I’m gonna send her your blog link anonymously as a ‘fuck you very much.’”
I stare at him in horror as he roars with laughter, then dribbles some beer on my coffee table when he sets down the bottle. Double dumbass. “Fucker, that’s not even funny. She’s the only one who’d be able to identify me.”
He howls even louder. “The only one? You’ve been with more women than that.” Now he’s doubled over, practically drooling on my furniture. It’s nice leather, and he doesn’t care because he likes to fuck with me.
Still, I grin. “True. So maybe she’s not the only one.” I hand him a rag to clean up his spilled beer. He takes it, rolling his eyes, and wipes his mess, then hands it back to me. His breathing returns to normal, and he takes another drink and glances over at my laptop.
In the open floor plan, he can see everything—my bedroom, office area, living room, and kitchen space are all one big room. Only the bathroom is separate. I follow his eyes to my laptop, which is open. I should never leave it open. It’s not safe for work or home or anywhere, really. Especially with Drew around. Walking over to it, I snap it shut and take a sip of my beer.
“Now you have what, almost two million women watching?”
“I’m sure a great percentage are gay men.”
He shakes his head, his wide grin permanent now. “I still can’t believe you did it.” He does a little wiggle dance on my couch, again digging in his ass, and I want to punch him.
“You know me. I don’t do anything half-cocked.”
He snorts. “You did this full-schlong, dude! I said you’d be off the hook once some girl saw your dick. Meaning one. I didn’t mean you had to go viral.” He chuckles. “You’re so anal retentive, Clark Kent.” He drops his voice and looks around my space. “This is getting awkward. I mean, not that I study your blog. I’m just looking at your dick because it’s you. Gotta keep tabs on my oldest friend.” Then he says in a louder voice, “Only you would have stage sets for your wang. Only you would have a fucking artsy blog. Meticulous architect gets creative.” He stands up and bursts out with a pretend sob, pretending to wipe his eyes. “I’m so proud of you. Man hug?”
“No fucking way.”
“Good.” He sits back down and kicks up his feet again.
I take a long pull of my beer. “So I’m off the hook?”
“No. You are not off the hook.”
After we finish our beers, we walk down to the craft brewery-slash-funky pizza place on the corner a block away. As usual, the air smells like hops from all of the microbreweries and rain. We enter the old brick building, order an extra-large meat lover’s and a pitcher, and sit down in a booth.
“So have you heard back from Caligula Toys?” he asks.
I glare at him and take a drink of the especially bitter IPA. “Can you say that a little louder? I’m not sure my mom heard.”
He ignores me. “Well, have you?”
I nod. “They’re offering six figures for an endorsement deal. For starters.”
“What kind of deal?”
Glancing around to see if anyone is paying attention—they aren’t—I answer in a low voice. “Celebrity dildo mold.”
He bursts out laughing. “You?”
“Shut up, dude.”
“Your parents would be so proud. Your sister’s sculptures that are all in museums and shit? Nothing. Their son has his prize member out there for millions of people to fuck themselves with? Priceless.”
I pause. “That is sort of weird, now that you mention it.”
“And kind of awesome.” Shaking his head, he continues, “Dude, most guys want to be able to fuck everyone. This is your way of doing it.”
“They want me to endorse an organic lube, too.”
Just then, the pizza comes, and we don’t say a word. Drew can hardly keep his mouth shut, and he’s turning purple. His whole upper body shakes right next to the table as he struggles to keep it together.
Once the waitress leaves, he laughs so hard I think he’s going to need hospitalization. We each grab a slice, and all he says is, “That’s my boy. Joshua Cartwright. Master masturbator with his meat rocket pointed to the stars. And now he’s gonna get paid to jerk off, unlike the rest of us.”