September 2024
Portland, Maine
"You're staring."
Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his seat - he tried to "mask" and not act obviously autistic in public, especially in a profession where he had to be The Normal One in a sea of chaos, but it wasn't foolproof, and sometimes he had socially awkward moments. "Er," he said, and gave a sheepish little grin. He quickly found his words. "Fingie?"
"Fingie" was short for Fucking New Guy. At the end of August, Anthony had used up some of his yearly allotment of vacation time with a two-week "staycation", spending time with his nineteen-year-old kid Rae - they'd visited quite a few beaches and national forests here in Maine - and he'd helped them get ready for their first semester at community college after a gap year. Yesterday, Anthony had returned to work at Pine Creek Behavioral Health Hospital, and he'd heard there was finally a replacement for Colleen, the art therapist who'd died from a sudden stroke a month ago, but his unit only had art therapy on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, and he hadn't seen the new guy in the break room yesterday.
Carla, a Puerto Rican tech at his break table - the one who'd pointed out he was staring - nodded. "New art guy, started last week."
"He's..." Hot as fuck, Anthony thought to himself, but kept that opinion private, trying really hard not to keep staring, though the way the art therapist's scrub pants clung to his firm bubble butt didn't help. The new guy looked like a cross between a Viking and a hippie, with long curly black hair to the middle of his back, and a short beard framing full lips. He had pretty brown eyes, and was about five-ten with a lean athletic build, wearing a royal blue scrub top over a long-sleeved rainbow tie-dye shirt, two tiny silver hoop earrings in both ears, and a crystal point necklace along with his ID and lanyard of key cards to get on and off the units. Anthony realized he'd had a dry spell for some years now but even without that, the new art therapist was easily one of the most gorgeous men Anthony had ever seen in his forty-four years of life. The new guy was also vaguely familiar in a way Anthony couldn't place, and Anthony made a vague hand gesture, trying to find his words and finish the sentence. "Has he worked here before? I feel like I've seen him around somewhere -"
"Yeah, you have." Donna, who was Jamaican and a fellow psych nurse, smiled and began to hum the theme song to Game of Thrones.
"One of my patients called him Jesus Snow," said Theo, Greek-American, another psych nurse who worked on the under-21 unit. "Because he looks like Jon Snow but with really long hair."
"Oy." Anthony smacked himself in the forehead, feeling like an idiot for not getting it with how hugely popular Game of Thrones had been last decade. "Well, clearly I know nothing."
"It's all right. I mean, he started when you were on vacation, and you haven't really interacted with him yet," Carla said.
"He's a nice kid," Theo said, then chuckled. "Well, not a kid, but at my age everyone under thirty-five is a kid." Theo was fifty-two and the oldest of the four; Carla and Donna were closer to Anthony's age. Most of the staff at Pine Creek was younger than thirty-five, with a couple other exceptions, and the "old farts" tended to sit together on break. One of them had been Colleen, who was sorely missed.
Enough so that Anthony had a slight twinge of guilt at the stupid little crush he clearly was developing on "Jesus Snow"... feeling like Wednesday was an awfully long wait for their impending first interaction, even though it was the day after tomorrow. Trying not to be obvious in his continued staring, he noticed that "Jesus Snow" was lingering at the display case of different sandwiches, salads and desserts available for purchase, as if he was trying to figure out what looked appealing. Anthony saw an opportunity to go interact and give his opinion, but it felt weird to get up and have everyone assume he was done, leaving a half banana on the table. So he shoved the half-banana into his mouth...
...just in time for "Jesus Snow" to turn around and make eye contact, and give a grin that lit up his entire face just before he stifled it by biting his lip, cheeks pink.
Anthony suddenly realized he'd basically deep-throated the banana... and "Jesus Snow" had a reaction that indicated he might be gay. Number one, you're not dating a co-worker. Number two... Well, Anthony didn't need to finish the "number two" thought, just leaving it hanging was enough to bring on the bitter sting of the bullshit he'd put up with trying to date as a gay trans man AND a single parent. There was no hope to be had here, and now Anthony's face was on fire, chewing the mouthful of banana slowly, wanting to crawl under the table and die of embarrassment even though he was pretty sure his colleagues hadn't noticed - Carla was going on about the Diddy allegations again, her favorite break room topic as of late, with Theo insisting that Diddy was responsible for Tupac's and Biggie's murders.
When the banana was gone, Anthony got up to get a coffee refill - "Jesus Snow" was finally paying for a salad and sandwich. Once again trying not to be obvious about looking, Anthony caught a glimpse of "Jesus Snow"'s ID, which read Soren. Interesting, Anthony thought to himself, reaching into the canisters of individual servings of flavored creamer to retrieve a hazelnut, and watched Soren move to a table by himself as he poured the hazelnut creamer into his coffee and stirred it. He wandered back to the table with Carla and the others, right as Theo yelled, "A THOUSAND BOTTLES OF BABY OIL? THE FUCK?" For a brief second you could hear a pin drop in the break room with everyone staring at Theo, then they went back to their business, and Anthony told himself, See? You are overanalyzing everything. Again. Literally nobody cares that you were staring. Or giving a banana a blowjob, apparently.
After Anthony's break was over, he visited the restroom - grateful that the bathroom was unisex because he couldn't use a stand-to-pee packer and it made the men's room fraught even though he otherwise passed and lived stealth. On his way out of the restroom, Soren walked by, caught his gaze, and stopped in his tracks.
"Hi," Soren said, giving a shy little smile and wave.
"Hi, you're Soren, the new h- art therapist, right?" Anthony stopped himself from accidentally blurting out hot therapist instead of art therapist. He didn't need to be sexually harassing one of his co-workers. Anthony put out his hand. "I'm Anthony." Of course, it said that right on his name tag, and Anthony felt like an idiot. "I work on the PTSD unit, you'll be there on Wednesday."
"Hi, Anthony. And it's Sur-ren, not Sore-ren." Soren's smile became a smirk. "There's no umlaut on my name tag, so it gets mispronounced a lot."
"Ah, OK. Sorry about that." Then Anthony noticed Sören's accent, which he assumed was some flavor of Scandinavian because of his name, but still couldn't place - breathy, lilting, rolled r's. He had a pleasant voice, too, deep, soft-spoken, and a little smoky.
"No problem." Sören bit his lip adorably and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I have a stupid question."
"Go for it."
"They showed me in orientation but I forgot because, like, ADD brain." Sören pointed to his temple and then made a washing-wave gesture. "There's a first aid station with aspirin and whatnot? I've got a terrible headache - still not used to the fluorescent lights - and I forgot to bring my travel aspirin and don't want to have to run home."
"Sure, follow me," Anthony said.
In the back of the break room, there was a smaller room with supplies for the break room, like paper cups and plastic spoons and boxes of non-dairy creamer, and in the corner was a Sterilite drawer unit with a sign that said FIRST AID, and each drawer was marked by type. Sören walked over, and then he gave it a weird look, scrunching up his face and narrowing his eyes. "What the fuck does that say? Anal Jessica?"
Then Sören clapped his hand over his mouth, his eyes widened with alarm as he realized what he'd said aloud, but Anthony cracked up laughing and had to lean against the wall, eyes tearing up.
"Analgesics," Anthony said. "That's where you find the OTC pain relievers like packets of aspirin."
"OK, thank you, sorry, English is my second language. I'm pretty fluent but some words still trip me up." Sören opened up the drawer marked ANALGESICS while Anthony continued to chuckle.
"Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?" Anthony inquired, curious - and painfully aware that he was definitely crushing on this guy now, even though nothing could come of it.
"Iceland," Sören said as he poured himself a cup of water from the tap and ripped open an individual packet of two acetaminophen.
Anthony's eyebrows shot up. He'd guessed Scandinavia but the answer still surprised him. "And you came to this shitty country?"
Sören grinned before he popped the two pills. "Long story," he said. Then he cocked his head to one side. "You're from... England?"
Anthony nodded. "London, born and raised. I came here in 2012. Also... long story." Anthony didn't want to get into his divorce and getting him and his seven-year-old then-daughter as far away from Steve as humanly possible, and also not waiting on an NHS waiting list for years to start transition care or potentially bankrupt himself with going through private insurance. And Brexit, and the UK becoming "TERF Island" with accelerating anti-trans rhetoric over the last several years had kept him here through the disaster that was Trump - it was still worse back home - especially now that his nineteen-year-old had come out as agender a year ago. He was an American citizen now, for better or worse, but his accent still gave him away.
Sören nodded, not pressing it - Anthony figured one "long story" person to another, Sören got it, even if their details probably weren't the same. "Well, thank you for helping me find the..." Sören smirked again. "Anal Jessica."
Anthony laughed so hard he snorted. "Thank you for brightening my day."
Sören's face lit up at that, and Anthony grinned back, his stomach all butterflies, face on fire.
You need to stop this bullshit now, Anthony chastised himself as he watched Sören's ass on the way out.
It was just after five-forty when Anthony arrived home. He was usually on the unit from seven AM to four PM - spending his last hour on the unit dispensing medication - then spent a half-hour in handoff to give the incoming shift information about each patient's mental state, behaviors and care needs, including medication updates. Then it was an additional fifteen to twenty minutes to get from the hospital in Portland to his duplex in South Portland, give or take depending on traffic, longer if he stopped at the store on the way home. This time, he visited the supermarket but not to buy anything; he pulled into an empty stall that didn't have too many other cars around, sanitized his hands, and spent ten minutes relieving himself with the stroker he kept in his glove compartment - T made him horny even well into his forties, and he was even more pent up than usual, with his newfound crush. Indeed, against his better judgment he'd fantasized about topping Sören, and spent a few minutes post-orgasm feeling deeply ashamed for crossing the taboo of masturbating to a co-worker, something he'd never done before.
Something he couldn't make a habit. I need to fucking get laid, Anthony told himself as his charcoal grey Prius - with a blue Bernie Sanders bumper sticker next to a white bumper sticker that said AM YISRAEL CHAI with a blue Magen David - pulled into the driveway. He sanitized his hands again before stepping out, hoping that got rid of any residual smell from his equipment.
Thankfully, the smell of dinner cooking was much more powerful, enough to make his stomach growl. Anthony and Rae traded off cooking duties - whoever didn't cook did the dishes that night - and today it was Rae's turn; chicken and dumplings were going in the slow cooker. Anthony's cats greeted him at the door - Solly, an elderly brown tabby with big owl eyes, and Shmuel, a grey ticked tabby. They followed Anthony to the kitchen, yowling for attention with their tails in the air, and after he washed his hands he stooped to pet each of them, talking baby talk. "Yes, you're good kitties. Yes, Dad missed you. Yes, you're sweet babies, I missed you so much, Dad loves his good kitties, yes he does -"
"Hi, Mumdad!" Rae poked their head into the kitchen from the hallway.
"Hey, kiddo." Anthony got up and held out his arms.
Rae ran over to him to give him a big hug. Anthony kissed their forehead - he was five-ten and Rae came up to just below his shoulder - and then Anthony mussed Rae's teal fauxhawk and booped their nose, making them smile. "How was school?" Anthony asked.
"Ehhh. Same old same old. I suppose that's good, right?" Rae shrugged. "I was getting worried, you were a little late and you didn't text."
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Long day." Anthony sighed.
"Did anyone freak out on the unit, like that Brody guy?"
Yesterday, after Anthony had returned from his two-week staycation, he'd been treated to Brody, a twenty-five year-old dual diagnosed with PTSD and substance abuse, punching the glass divider at the nurse's station when he didn't like the way Melissa, the other psych nurse on duty, had told him he needed to wait before he could have another PRN, as not enough hours had passed since he'd previously had the PRN. Security was called and Brody was sent to the quiet room to listen to music piped in from the nurse's station and play with fidget toys until he was calmer; Brody had a medication increase today. "No freakouts today, thank G-d," Anthony said, folding his hands and looking upward. "Just Kevin, that Holy Roller veteran, noticing my Star of David today and being like, 'If you don't accept Christ as your savior you're going to hell. The Bride of Christ is G-d's chosen people now. Did you know the Jews have become so corrupt for rejecting Christ that they control the world? The Antichrist will probably be a Jew.'"
Rae facepalmed. "Oy."
"I mean, at least it wasn't blaming me for everything Netanyahu does like that one chick who called me a 'Zionist pig' out of the blue just before I started vacation, but still, it's pretty tiresome."
"I would have told both of them, don't make me get the space laser. And then I'd probably have gotten fired." Rae smiled.
"Believe me, I have to bite my tongue a lot." Anthony smiled back.
"AAAAAAAAA," Solly yelled, standing up on her hind legs and tapping his knee.
"Oh, goodness." Anthony scooped up the cat and held her close, skritching her and kissing the top of her head and her whisker pads. "Someone missed her Dad. I missed you too. What a sweet girl. My sweet, bootiful girl, yes you are."
"Dinner's almost ready," Rae said.
"Right. I need to go for my run first," Anthony said; there was a small park down the street and he took a daily run after work to keep fit and clear his mind, though in the winter he used his gym membership.
Anthony carried Solly down to the bedroom, with Shmuel leading the way; both cats got on the bed as Anthony changed into black sweatpants and a grey T-shirt, and Anthony stopped from time to time to give pettings and skritches. He felt a little guilty for leaving them yet again to go do his run, but not enough to keep him from it. He sprinted down the cul-de-sac to the park and did a couple laps, walking back, sweaty and full of endorphins. He jumped in the shower and tried not to think about Sören again as he soaped up below the waist. Once he was in his pajamas, he joined Rae in the kitchen to get a bowl of chicken and dumplings, and then he sat on the couch while Rae took the love seat and the cats begged like Rae hadn't fed them at five o'clock.
Silence was usually golden - both Rae and Anthony enjoyed spending quiet time together after the stress of their respective days - but tonight as Anthony ate his dinner, he kept thinking of Sören. Trying to push the mental images away only made them come back stronger, like delicious forbidden fruit. Anthony was exasperated with himself for his stupid little crush, and by the time he was finished eating he'd resolved to himself that maybe this weekend, he would go on Grindr after he'd declared himself done with Grindr two years ago following the last disaster with a chaser who expected Anthony to be the one to bottom because he was a trans man, even when Anthony had listed himself as a top on his profile, and the chaser was versatile.
After the dishwasher was loaded, Anthony took off to the third bedroom - used as a study with books and a desk - and did his nightly routine of checking his e-mail with a cup of tea. Usually, his e-mail was nothing exciting, just spam, advertisements, and sometimes an e-mail from his mother or his maternal cousin Judith or his paternal uncle Nigel. Tonight, though, there was something new.
Eight years ago, Anthony had set up an account on FetLife, a social networking site for BDSM practitioners. Like Grindr, FetLife had been mostly a disappointment. Not only was finding a partner already on "hard mode" as a gay trans man, but Anthony was a single parent and children were usually a dealbreaker for finding a non-straight male partner, and Anthony wanted someone who understood boundaries and knew to keep the kink to the bedroom and not be indiscreet around his child, especially if his sub was going to call him Daddy - Rae had called Anthony Mumdad since 2013, never Dad or Daddy, but that still wasn't the point. There was also the typical requirements of being disease-free, drug-free, and, in terms of compatibility, a submissive bottom - in particular, trying to find a queer man who was fully abstinent from substances was like a needle in a haystack, many thought using weed somehow didn't count as drugs, but if Anthony failed a drug test even once he could lose his job so he didn't want to risk it with exposure to weed smoke.
Because Anthony was up-front about his situation and preferences on his profile, he didn't get a lot of messages, and almost all of the small handful of DMs he'd received from the years were from guys who clearly didn't read his profile and failed one or more of the checkpoints. Of the remainder, he'd met two guys from FetLife, one of whom expected him to be the submissive bottom by virtue of being a trans man, the other of whom had terrible hygiene... and that had been five years ago. Since then, Anthony had all but given up on the site - he'd thought a few times about deactivating his profile, but most days he forgot he even had an account there.
Until today. He had received a notification that someone had messaged him. Anthony logged in and saw it was someone local, from Portland, Maine - the last messages he'd gotten were from the Boston area, and one guy in New Hampshire.
Not merely someone local, but a fellow gay trans man.
This was the first time Anthony had been messaged by another trans man. Since Anthony began transition in 2013, he'd encountered very few trans men - at least that he was aware of, as he assumed most trans men were stealth like himself. One of the only trans men he'd met was at a BDSM munch in Boston in 2016, and the trans man had been partnered to a trans woman. So even though Anthony sometimes thought he'd have better luck with another gay trans guy, as there would be some common ground coming out the gate and probably less room for misunderstandings, Anthony had mostly written off the possibility by virtue of how few gay trans men were out there who weren't already taken, and how even fewer were likely not other tops.
The guy's profile had no photo of himself, just a photo of an aurora borealis shaped like a phoenix, which fit his username, Xx_SpiritOfFire_xX. Anthony's profile didn't have a photo either - he had concerns about sharing photos of himself online and potentially being doxxed and ruining his professional life. He guessed the guy who messaged him had similar concerns, which was possibly a good sign, or possibly a sign the guy was butt-ugly. Anthony decided to message back anyway.
Hi! Thank you for your interest. I am potentially interested, but tell you what, why don't we talk over a few DMs, and if it continues to go well, we can coordinate a chat, and if we chat a few times and it goes well, we can meet up for coffee and see how it goes. I have reasons to be protective of my privacy and a little skittish of meeting strangers from the Internet, which I'm sure you can probably relate to. Sound good?
Anthony opened another tab to check the news, not expecting a DM back anytime soon, but five minutes later he got another message from Xx_SpiritOfFire_xX.
That works for me - we're totally on the same page there. So, tell me more about yourself. If we're going to play games and fuck each other's minds, maybe I should know more about how that mind works. Do you read? What sort of movies and music do you like? Hobbies and interests?
Anthony stifled a little happy noise. Of all the responses he could have gotten, this was better than he'd hoped for. He knew not to necessarily expect a long-term partnership out of this, but he was actively turned off by low intelligence and feeling like he had to "dumb down" for someone, so having a prospective playmate start off asking him about books was a big, big plus.
I like big books and I cannot lie, Anthony messaged back, followed by, Where do I begin.
Maybe, just maybe, his luck was about to change. And right in the nick of time - he didn't want to make a fool of himself if his crush on Sören became obvious, so here was his chance to move on along.
Hopefully.