Two

Two more days passed, and Garrett couldn’t account for a single hour, a solitary second. It was all garbled and jumbled, tiny inconsequential particles suspended in a thick, muddy toxic muck.

Each particle represented a second of wallowing, self-loathing, throat burning from every last drop of alcohol he could get his hands on. He drank his apartment dry. He had no idea how many bottles he had stashed away here and there...saving for a rainy day. A shitty day. A shitstorm of epic proportions kind of day.

And this was a shitstorm of epic proportions if there ever was such a thing.

There were times he believed her—moments of doubt so strong, so intense that he nearly left his pit of doom, if only to stumble through the darkness and throw himself at her feet. He could beg for her forgiveness, grovel for a chance at redemption. But then the reel would start up again in his mind, and he’d see her hands on his chest, her hips grinding into him. Her sweet words tumbling from honeyed lips.

The truth didn’t matter because he had lost everything.

Everything. Absolutely every fucking thing he had ever worked for, worked toward, was gone. Vanished. Evaporated. Decayed and buried in a hole so deep he could never dig himself out.

He wanted to be in that hole too, chained to his misery as it sunk to the bottom of a deep, dark sea.

There were flashes of memories that came to him between long periods of blackouts. Hands on his ass. A dim light. A searing pain. Violation. Long, dark hair twisting around him. A classroom buzzing with voices. Brown eyes shining like hope. Stage lights. A swelling melody. A soothing laugh. Arms around his neck. A soft kiss. A flogger striking. Ropes strangling.

Suspended with a birds-eye view of the world...just move that rope up...reposition it...slip it around his neck. He could hang there, looking down on the wreckage. Swinging like a pendulum between living and dead. No longer a victim. But not a survivor.

Merely an escape artist.

After those 48 hours, he wasn’t sure what was truth and what were lies. He walked a tightrope of the surreal. Throbbing pain. Heart racing, then slowing down to where it might just stop beating. Stop forever. And he’d welcome that, if only it meant he hadn’t failed himself.

But he had. And there was no way to atone. No appeals. No pardons. He was a prisoner in his own mind, his own body.

Yet somehow the sun still rose.

There was little money in his savings account. He assumed he’d still get his last paycheck from the university, the part of his assistantship stipend that was deposited into his checking account on the first day of every month, but he wasn’t holding his breath. Where did summer go? he wondered as he stepped outside into the brisk late September morning. Never had he craved Indian Summer more than he did at that moment.

He looked back at his apartment building, its stalwart brick edifice looking more like a prison than a home. It was only lacking the bars on the windows; otherwise, all the elements of incarceration were present and accounted for. If the money failed to appear in his account the following week, an eviction notice would arrive soon after. Even if he got a roommate, there was no way he’d be able to stay. Not without a job.

He’d spent the last four years pursuing his dream of earning his doctorate. Some boys dreamed of playing in the NBA or winning American Idol. Not Garrett. He had known from the first time he aced a social studies test back in fourth grade that he wanted to be a professor. It was the only thing he had ever wanted to do, besides maybe his brief fascination with the law and cooking. But he figured his past was too dirty to pursue a career in law enforcement, and his outlook too idealistic to pursue law school. Academia was the sweet spot in the middle.

Scrolling through the contacts in his phone seemed like a good distraction from making any decisions. Vodka had numbed so many brain cells in the past week, he wasn’t even sure making decisions was possible. He landed on the face of his friend Nigel, who had been an MFA student in theatre but had graduated a couple of years back only to start a second masters’ degree film studies. They’d met at some cheesy orientation program the university had for new graduate students, striking up an interesting relationship that gradually evolved into more of a friends with benefits situation—at least when Nigel wasn’t in a relationship. Garrett was fairly certain his old friend was flying solo at the moment. It was worth a shot, so he sent a text. Anything was better than continually wallowing in self-pity.

Not even a minute later, Nigel fired back: Look who the cat dragged in. Hey, Nav.

Nigel had one of those pretentious British accents, as he hailed from London. He had come on a student visa years ago and was still chugging along. Garrett suspected he’d keep earning degrees until the U.S. government forced him to return to the Motherland.

Garrett responded: Hey, now. It was a long summer. Would be good to catch up.

He waited fifteen minutes for Nigel to reply: Naked?

Garrett delayed enough time so as not to look desperate for company before answering: As you wish.

It was only an hour later that Garrett was knocking on the door of Nigel’s townhouse in trendy Fells Point. It was an ancient building that had been restored to its former turn-of-the-century glory. Someone had recently filled the two huge concrete planters out front with mums—yet another reminder summer had faded.

“Hey, man, how goes it?” Nigel greeted him, his accent as thick as ever. His wide brown eyes and glowing white smile were exactly the way Garrett remembered. And he had fond memories of other parts of Nigel’s anatomy too.

“Wine?” Nigel asked. He was not a beer guy. Garrett had not forgotten. He had never understood  all the fuss over beer either, so he smiled and nodded.

With two glasses nearly full, they stepped out onto Nigel’s patio in the sinking sunlight. With every minute that passed, the bright orange orb glowed a bit more crimson as it slid toward the arms of the heather blue horizon. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Nigel asked as he took a sip of his Pinot Grigio.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Garrett replied. He’d already drained his glass, realizing too late it was the first thing he’d put in his stomach in a day or two. He’d run out of booze at his place, and there was nothing in the refrigerator. The alcohol had already started to seep into his blood, and his patience was thin. He wanted to fuck and run. Or fall into a greedy sleep on Nigel’s comfy memory foam mattress.

“I know what the chase is, Nav, but why rush things?” Nigel looked at him with growing concern in his dark eyes. He stroked his perfectly manicured fingertip down Garrett’s arm. “I care about you, man. I didn’t see you all summer. You could at least tell me what’s new in your life.”

Garrett grunted. He should have known Nigel wasn’t going to jump into bed with him without a little verbal foreplay. “I was dating a girl this summer; sorry I wasn’t around much.”

“I was really bummed you didn’t audition for Little Shop of Horrors at the DuPont this summer,” Nigel pouted. His lip literally jutted out so far that Garrett wanted nothing more than to snag it with his teeth and suck it into his mouth for a tasty little nibble.

“I was teaching two classes all summer,” he explained. He stretched his arms high over his head and yawned. The wine was definitely getting to him now that Nigel had poured him a second glass. Need to slow down, he chided himself. Or I’m not even gonna make it to the bedroom before I pass out. “I haven’t done a show since Anything Goes last summer over near College Park.”

“Don’t deprive your fans of your talent, Garrett Stone,” Nigel said in his director’s voice. That was what his MFA was in: directing. Garrett’s skin prickled with goosebumps at the way Nigel pronounced his name in his alluring British accent.

“You aren’t hiring over at the DuPont, are you?” he suddenly blurted out. The wine hadn’t been able to completely squash the memory of his current predicament.

“Surely you don’t have time for a part-time gig?” Now Nigel’s eyes grew even wider, as if he suspected there was something wrong but was even more surprised to learn he was correct. “Don’t you have a full load this semester?”

Garrett chuckled. “You said ‘full load.’”

Nigel rolled his eyes. “You know we don’t pay our actors much. I am not sure it would be worth your time, Nav.”

He nodded and stroked his fingers down the reddish-blond stubble that had sprouted from his chin during his time of solitary confinement the past few days. “Are there other positions? Full-time ones?”

Nigel laid a concerned hand on Garrett’s knee. “You aren’t teaching this semester?”

“Taking a semester off from school,” Garrett fired back, trying to make his voice as confident as possible. “I need to do something mindless for a few months to get back on track.”

“Dissertations are a bitch, huh?” Nigel chuckled, nodding in understanding. “Actually, we have a maintenance position at the theatre. It’s an old building, you know, always needing handyman-type stuff...janitorial too, that sort of thing. Though, it’s probably beneath someone of your...stature.” He laughed again, his gaze darting between Garrett’s forest-green eyes.

“The only thing I want beneath me is you,” Garrett retorted. He was always amused when his friends assumed he came from money...or any type of social status. Nothing could be farther from the truth. If anyone he knew had seen where he came from—what he had been through—they would never look at him the same way again.

“I think that could be arranged,” Nigel said, standing up. He began to unbutton his shirt, then peeled it away, revealing how perfectly his skinny jeans hugged his thighs. His chest was smooth, brown and bare, with tiny pert nipples Garrett immediately envisioned raking his teeth over.

His eyes locked on Nigel, Garrett used his long arms to reach behind his friend and shove his whole body two steps closer. Nigel let out what almost sounded like a squeal, but turned into a soft sigh as Garrett began to unfasten the buttons on his fly. “Damn, I missed you, Nav,” he whispered, Garrett stealing the volume of his voice as he bent to press a hot, breathy kiss on top of his boxer briefs.

Nigel’s cock stirred to attention as Garrett’s eyes trailed back up his body. His gaze was unwavering as he lowered Nigel’s briefs, allowing his erection to spring out into his face. He used his long fingers to stroke down Nigel’s satiny brown shaft, squeezing a drop of pre-cum out the end of it like a liquid pearl.

“Do you mind if I suck your cock?” Garrett asked in a gravelly, lust-filled voice as he stroked up and down ever so lightly.

Nigel nearly whimpered as he uttered the word “please” on a long exhalation, and in seconds, Garrett’s soft, wet lips were pressed against his crown.

“Like this?” Garrett questioned, though he didn’t need any confirmation to know his friend was enjoying his ministrations. The blissful look on his face coupled with the way his cock throbbed in Garrett’s mouth was enough.

He engulfed the entire thing in one fell swoop, almost knocking Nigel back with surprise. He slid his lips back down and let it go, pleased by the way his saliva glistened on the velvety soft skin. “I think you need something in your mouth too,” Garrett observed.

Still breathless, Nigel could only nod in agreement. He reached out a hand for Garrett, who was still seated on the patio furniture. “We should probably quit giving the neighbors a show,” he mused.

“Some people would pay good money to watch a show like this,” Garrett said, chuckling as he rose to his feet. He followed his friend inside, through the living room and then down the hallway to his bedroom. It was exactly as he remembered: masculine but with soft, luxurious details like a silky gray duvet cover over a thick down comforter. Nigel quickly tossed it aside, revealing charcoal gray sheets that looked mighty inviting.

“You’re a bit overdressed,” Nigel observed, giving Garrett a flirty smile.

Smirking, Garrett undid the button and zipper on his olive cargo shorts. They were baggy on his tall, lean frame and well-worn. He’d had them since his undergrad days and wasn’t sure how they still managed to fit. He was convinced they must be magic, as he’d been quite scrawny as an undergrad. He slid them down his legs, which were fuzzy with amber hair, just like his arms and groin. There was no way he could ever escape his designated place in the world as a redhead. No one ever let him forget it, either. He had decided to embrace it, not even batting an eye when either women or men asked him if the carpet matched the drapes. Yeah, no one’s ever heard that one before...

“There’s that gorgeous cock I remember,” Nigel cooed from the bed. He patted the mattress beside him. “Come on. I want that thing in my mouth right now. See if it tastes as good as I remember.”

Garrett didn’t hesitate to slide his naked body across the sheets, aligning it with Nigel’s as his friend’s eyes raked up and down from his head to his toes. “Flip around,” Nigel commanded.

“Oh, I like it when you run the show,” Garrett remarked, turning his body so his feet were at his friend’s head. It had taken Nigel a long time to come out of his shell around Garrett. Garrett knew Nigel wasn’t going to be topping him any time soon, but he was so shy and submissive at first. Garrett didn’t mind being in charge—but sometimes he just wanted to relax and let things unfold organically instead of having to be in charge. It took several episodes between the sheets for Nigel to grow comfortable enough to ask for what he wanted, and Garrett was pleased he hadn’t regressed during their time apart.

Garrett felt the warmth of his friend’s mouth engulf him. He wasn’t 100% hard yet...but after Nigel circled his tongue under his glans a few times, it was on. One thing Garrett noticed about finally entering his thirties—it took a little longer for the blood to get down there. But then again, it takes a lot of blood to fill that thing up, he thought with a cocky smile. Pardon the pun, he added to his amusing inner monologue.

He didn’t waste any more time returning the favor. Nigel’s cock, still damp from his earlier attention, bobbed against his face, seeking the heat of his mouth. He obliged, sucking it deep into his throat and holding it there while he felt it stiffen even more. Nigel didn’t believe in a slow warm-up tease. He was going at Garrett’s cock full-force from the first lick.

“I’m not going to last very long if you keep that up,” Garrett mumbled, his mouth still mostly full of Nigel.

“Ask me if I care,” Nigel mumbled back.

His warning only seemed to encourage his friend more, and his powerful deep-throat action bordered on relentless. Garrett nearly lost his mind, and he certainly lost his concentration on his own task. Barely able to keep Nigel’s cock in his mouth for all the panting he was doing, he reached for Nigel’s head, steadying it as he thrust into his mouth, eagerly fucking his face as his balls tightened with his impending climax.

He dangled on that spot, on the narrow point of no return, for what seemed like forever as the embarrassment and shame of what had happened to him earlier in the week tried to return, to catch him up in its vicious grasp. But the desire and need coursing through his veins, sending all his energy straight into his cock as it pounded into Nigel’s mouth like a piston, overpowered the negative. It won the battle, and in only a matter of seconds, his cum came spurting out the tip of his cock in thick white streams, only to be greedily lapped up by a very hungry Nigel.

In the end, there was the simple mitigating circumstance of Garrett being no stranger to shame. It had been a big part of his childhood and adolescence, after all. Sure, he’d carved out a nice, thin veneer to put over his past, wearing it like a crown upon his fiery head.

He wasn’t sure what time he slipped out of Nigel’s embrace and headed back to his apartment to shower and change clothes. If he wanted to keep his apartment, he needed a job fast. This was not a time for pride. He already knew what it was like to be homeless.

He thought back to something his stepfather told him when he was twelve or thirteen. “You need to sign your ass up for the military, Son. They’ll make a man out of you. There’s no chance of that happening otherwise.”

His stepfather was a Marine. Marines were the Few, the Proud. All their commercials said so. Like it was so exclusive and so much manlier than any other branch of the service. But Clark Bowman was a vile, disgusting waste of oxygen. If he was an example of the kind of man the military created, then fuck no. I’ll have no fucking part of that, Garrett decided, even at the tender age of thirteen.

But he did sometimes wonder how his life would have been different if he’d enlisted. There was a split second at age eighteen he considered it, mostly because he wanted to get himself as far away from his hometown as possible. But he assumed with his past, they’d figure out some way not to take him, some way to declare him unfit. His whole life was about being unfit for something.

And how is now any different? he wondered as he checked the clock on his stove. It was only 4:30 AM, and the sun was still nestled blissfully, awaiting dawn’s alarm.

I’m unfit to mold young minds. He breathed out the restless energy crawling all over him like a mound of fire ants. He could feel their stings biting into his skin, making it even redder than his natural complexion. When he was little, his grandfather told him God made him with so much fire and passion inside, it turned his hair red. He always thought that was nicer than being taunted with the labels of “Ginger” or “Carrots.” His mother’s parents died before his twelfth birthday, and that was one of the only memories he had of his grandfather.

Maybe he wasn’t fit to do anything but sweep floors, empty trash cans, and fix the occasional leaky faucet. He ambled over to his dilapidated laptop to pull up his curriculum vitae. He hadn’t done a one-page resume since he was in his early twenties, but he couldn’t very well go apply for a maintenance position with a C-fucking-V. He looked through all the bullshit papers he’d co-authored with big-name professors at Johns Hopkins and UMD. There was even a project he’d gotten in on at Berkeley. He developed quite the pedigree over the past six years. And now here he was, one year out from defending his dissertation, and all the work he’d put in—all the time he’d invested for the indentured servitude wages he was paid to teach undergrads—it was all for naught. What could he do now? He couldn’t very well walk over to University of Maryland and say, hey, I got kicked out of my program. Will you take me?

Academia was a tiny universe. Each academic discipline was a microscopic galaxy with only a degree or two of separation from one star to the next. All of those collaborations on journal articles and research studies? Yeah, they were all devised through a network of colleagues who knew each other from undergrad work here, conferences there, or masters programs at a third school. It was incestuous, this crazy world of scholarship. He would never be able to set one foot back into that world again. Not now. He was forever tainted, and it was all because some pretty girl wanted his cock.

And he couldn’t say no.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t take responsibility for his actions. He knew he was to blame for the shit-show that was his life. But there came a point when he thought that maybe, just maybe, not every single thing he did could possibly end up as a punishment.

Why didn’t he learn his lesson from Sarah Lynde? When she was contacted by Garrett’s submissive Natalie to warn her to get tested for herpes, Sarah had come unglued, confronting Garrett at his apartment. Of course, neither of them turned out to have it. He would never forget what she said to him the next day at rehearsal for the show they were in together:

The only person you love is yourself, Garrett. You are far too selfish and far too immature for this lifestyle.

...the lifestyle being polyamory. Garrett had dabbled in the BDSM lifestyle as a switch for quite some time before meeting Sarah, but she was more into polyamory. He’d been fascinated by her. He’d always had a weakness for brunettes, but smart ones with PhDs were even more alluring.

Polyamory—and other forms of ethical nonmonogamy—had a covenant termed “fluid-bonding.” It was an agreement to only exchange bodily fluids between certain partners, who were then “fluid-bonded” to each other, and with any other partners outside that bond, condoms and other barrier methods were used. He’d been fluid-bonded with Sarah but had failed to use condoms with his sub, Natalie, who had a boyfriend. He tested positive for herpes, and all hell broke loose when Natalie told Sarah before Garrett had had an opportunity to.

He lost Sarah, and then Natalie too, because he had been selfish. Because he hadn’t acted ethically. And when it came right down to it, no matter how much he wanted to fuck Mara Atkins, she was his student, and it was against university policy to have a sexual relationship with her. And that meant it was wrong, no matter how much she begged, no matter how soft her skin was or how pouty her lips.

I’m obviously a giant fuck-up, just like my stepdad told me from the first day he met me when I was five years old.

When dawn began to crack through the peachy-pink clouds, Garrett tightened his tie around his neck and headed to the DuPont Performing Arts Center, which most people called DPAC, to put in his application for the maintenance position. No more wallowing in self-pity, he told himself as he looked over his new resume for the last time. It’s time to go into fucking survival mode.

That’s what The Navigator does.