Polysomething

It was Friday, eleven o'clock. Aaron stood outside The Cock, a neon rooster buzzing over his head like a demented hallow. All right, calm down, he thought with a tense gaze at the ground. It's going to be fine. If you survived Polyamory Night, you can definitely survive this. Just make sure you don't throw up again. He paused. Or, you know, poop your pants. He laughed through his nose. God, you're going to poop your pants, aren't you?

He continued staring at the ground until a quick groan escaped his mouth as he felt a thick film of sweat on each of his palms. Jesus Christ, Aaron. Why are your hands so sweaty? Seriously, I know you're nervous, but this is just plain ridiculous. He started wiping his hands on the legs of his jeans. It's almost like you were fisting a cow for fuck's sake.

Just then a young massage, a fur coat wrapped around his thin arms, passed by raising one of his manicured eyebrows at Aaron. Immediately, Aaron placed his hands at his sides and looked down. God damn it, he said to himself. This is going to be like high school all over again, isn't it? Just a bunch of bitchy white people staring and judging you because you're so awkward.

Fuck it, he thought after a couple seconds of looking at the blotches of sweat left on his jeans. Who cares about these people? You're hanging out with Wilson and no one else. Okay? He nodded. Okay.

He looked up and checked each side of the quiet, Manhattan street. There was still no sign of Wilson. "He's probably going to stand me up," Aaron said with a quick sound of displeasure. He followed it with a short, bitter laugh through his nose. "Yeah right, you're not that lucky." He then bit down on the inside cheek and started chewing the skin as he stared out in front of him hoping he was finally wrong about his bad luck.

A moment later, his eyes widened in alarm. Shit. What the hell are you going to talk to Wilson about? He pictured himself, standing next to Wilson in complete silence, disco lights flashing to the beat of some extremely loud, generic house music, then went on in his head: God damn it, you need to think of something to say or he's going to make some excuse to leave. And then you'll be all alone. In. The. Cock.

Aaron snorted. "Oh, no, I'm stuck in The Cock and I can't get out," he said underneath his breath then let out a sigh of frustration. Come on, Aaron. Get over yourself. Just think of some questions to ask him and you'll be fine. He then bowed his head down to the sidewalk, brainstorming ideas. After a minute of hard concentration, the questions started coming: What do you do for a living? ...How long have you been seeing Scott? ...How long have you been a polyamorist? ...Is Scott okay with you being a polyamorist?

Aaron clenched his teeth at the last question. No, he told himself. You can't ask that. That's like way too personal. He paused. And besides, why wouldn't he be okay with it? Wouldn't he like...not be with him if he wasn't?

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, his pale, slender face gave a look of instant shock; it was Wilson, standing in front of him in a pair of skin-tight leather pants and a black, see-through jumper that showed off his muscular, caramel-colored chest. "Oh my God, hey," Wilson said with a gigantic smile then leaned in and hugged Aaron. "How are you doing?"

Aaron gave an uneasy laugh, feeling the hard tips of Wilson's nipples. "Um, I'm good. And you?"

Wilson let out an exaggerated sigh. "Scott and I had this huge fight. It like started out as nothing, but then of course it turned into something way more serious." He rolled his eyes then continued: "But I'll tell you all about it once we get inside. I'm dying for a drink." He gave a quick, machine gun-laugh. "Sound good?"