That's My Ethan

By Tarian P.S.

They met in college. Damir was a player in every sense of the word and proud of it– Ethan wanted nothing to do with the game; yet neither would deny the attraction they shared was too potent to resist. So what are two young men to do when the lines are too irresistible not to cross? A safeword.
It was a lifestyle structure that gave them the means to grow together, even as they struggled to understand it along the way. But what never wavered was who they’d set their goals to be with. Sometimes you just know. The challenge is making it possible.

(based on the true story of how my two best friends met and fell in love, not to leave out the amount of intimacy that will make just about anyone, including this author, extremely envious hahaha)

75,196 words
Gay / Erotic Romance / BDSM / D/s / MM

• Language: English
• Publisher: TPS Publishing
• Release date: Aug 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370926077

Tarian P.S.

We Came- We Saw- and then we took you on an adventure.Both Proud Indy Authors: Tarian like his twin, Talon, love to torment their editor with a nefarious world of foreign-language, slang, local dialect, stretched/outside-of-the-box definitions, and have even been known to throw in some new word creations of their own at times. This, of course, is all thrown in there with the dyslexia soup stock they both suffer from that makes editing for them a joy {joy: n. see mental illness}.However, the final product comes out as richly detailed as we believe all stories should be created: holographic worlds of love, pain, frustration, and challenges beyond the every day. We believe a good story should take you on an emotional ride, pluck your heart strings, and zing you about until you're dizzy and screaming at the antagonist, while cheering for the protagonist before returning you to your cozy reading spot. And we've created these adventures within a mix of genres, so you can find the one right for you: Gay & Het Romances, Suspense, Paranormal and Sci-fi Erotic Romances, War-time Romance Fictions, along with Talon's favorite Space Sci-Fi Frontiers, and Tarian's favorite works of Post-Apocalyptic Dark Fantasies and Historical Fantasies. All for readers to submerse themselves into and escape from their day when they need or desire, and to whet your appetite for more.

Book preview

TRADEMARK ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following word-marks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Vehicles:

Hyundai - Hyundai Motor Company

Books:

Screw the Roses, Send me Thorns – Philip Miller and Molly Devon

When Someone You Love is Kinky – Dossie Easton

SM 101 – Jay Wiserman

Movies:

Star Wars

Music:

West End Girls by Pet Shop Boys

Let’s by Ivri Lider

TABLE OF CONTENT

TRADEMARKS

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SOME GREAT BOOKS TO CHECK OUT

DEDICATION

За мој Етхан, зато што те волим

Za moj Ethan, zato što te volim

To our friends and family,

for always being there and accepting us. And I don’t want to hear it if you don’t like the names we gave you in this. HA!

To our Bestie, Tarian:

Thanks to you, my Ethan has discovered his love for writing all over again

and you gave us a great place to spend one of our favorite pass times of roleplay,

Because of that, you will forever be in our hearts and a true friend.

To Talon:

You were such a cool fucking dude.

If I had never gotten to know such a great man,

We would never have met your twin.

Damir: They Call Me LJ, aka the Growling Guru

Dude! You know I don’t care to listen to you talk about your girlfriend’s pussy, I chastised Sheldon. He knew better, then again, that never stopped any one of my friends from saying what was on their mind at the time. And it almost always revolved around sex.

We were in college, with little more than football and fucking on the brain; however, my sex came with two or more peckers, any other scenario and I wasn’t interested.

Maybe I get tired about hearing you fucking your boyfriend all the time, Sheldon quipped back.

Dude, shut up and pass me the fucking sugar, Mitch barked, barging in on the conversation with about the same elegance of a Neanderthal. He reached over to snatch a few of the sugar-packs that were well out of his reach and damn near knocked over the coffee I was trying hard to get right for once.

I managed a quick snatch-n-grab rescue before it was floor bound. Boyfriend— riiiight— I quipped, jumping back on the issue, Maybe if I actually had one of those, I’d believe that, and I wasn’t hearing you complaining last night, I jarred Sheldon further while still more focused on the sugar and cream chemistry of my coffee. You’d think after half a lifetime of drinking the magical brown concoction, I could get this right just once and it not taste like shit.

Dude— Sheldon dropped into a hushed voice, not so loud. Besides, I can’t help it. Shit feels good and I was fucking horny as fuck.

Yeah, I didn’t need him to tell me that. He was fucking begging me. Damn, cum slut. I took a sip of my coffee then set it down, grabbing another sugar.

But, I’m not gay, Sheldon defended himself as to what side of the fence he was on. I just like fucking, is all.

And getting fucked, I added to his defense. Which felt rather gay to me.

But that doesn’t make me gay.

I stirred in the added sugar to my coffee, then taking another sip— it still wasn’t right. I glanced at the sugars and decided to give up and drank it as is. At least it wasn’t as bad as yesterday’s. Yeah, well, I am. I turned around, looking over the gathering of campus students that swarmed the coffee shop midafternoon. I leaned back against the counter like some silent overlord, my arms folded over my chest, drinking lazily at my fucked-up coffee concoction that was anything but magic. Sheldon went right back to talking about pussy and I distinctly heard him suggest something along the lines of me fucking him while he fucked her.

Not happening, I mumbled. My focus still out in the room, You, I will gladly fuck again. Tonight even. But I don’t do girls.

The conversation was nothing out of the norm for us really; we were part of That Fucking Frat house. A name containing a double meaning, partly iconic of modern verbiage, but mostly— as in like 90% mostly— because it was a known fact that damn near everyone among the twenty-five guys that lived in the off-campus sponsored frat home would fuck anything with two legs. Including each other. And every night was brothel night.

Tuh— do you mind? a heavy-hipped girl with thick curls of ebony hair gawked at me from the table in front of us.

I angled a hard stare down at her and her friend, who was equally giving me the glare. "Yes, I do mind. What part of ‘I don’t do pussy’, did you two not overhear?" To which, both girls grabbed their bags, their coffees— no doubt better tasting than mine— and they left. But their absence was only to be replaced by four other campus nerds who were less reluctant to be bothered with our open conversation of sexualized anatomy parts versus which ones I would actually come in contact with, an easy deduction of tolerance given the shift change at the table took place while Sheldon, Mitch, Lance, and Lamar were still openly clattering on about who was going to fuck what tonight. The four new table residents fell into some topic about mechanics or machinery, or something tacky. Not even something cool like the Scifi Con I missed out on last weekend where several of my favorite character-playing actors had sat in on a few of the panels.

A couple tables over, a couple of guys from the team were griping over a bonehead move someone pulled during the game a few nights ago, a move which cost us the win. After that, I didn’t hear, nor cared.

You ever seem to find yourself remote viewing your life? Being there, but not being there? Looking, without knowing you are looking— for something else. They called me the Growling Guru, on account of I growl— a lot. And maybe sex had something to do with it. I was a horny motherfucker; I was a player. I also played football, though I was in school for commercial arts. And as far as I was concerned, the world was at my feet and always willing to suck my dick.

My friends continued conversing back and forth from sex to football like a set of windshield wipers, because nothing else was more important. We were in New York. Everything you could ever want or imagine was here. The only time you needed a car is if you wanted to leave the city. Otherwise, you hopped on a bus, the train, or hailed a cab. That’s how the return ride went as well, and since most buses ran 24/7, drinking was never a problem for any of us either. Except hangovers at football practice, those sucked big time.

It was a good life to be living. I was missing nothing, except maybe a decent cup of coffee.

Sheldon’s tactic shifted, and he was now trying to convince Mitch to do it with him and his girlfriend with briberies of how well she could suck a mean dick. Just the idea of a girl around mine had me shriveling in my shorts.

Another gaggle of girls, sitting just cattycorner behind where Sheldon and Mitch stood and well within ear shot, apparently weren’t too thrilled with our liberated topic any more than the previous girl set. They scoffed at our open language with accusations of us being sick, then gathered their coffees and books, and pushed out to escape us. Was it impossible for girls to just admit they like getting fucked as much as dudes do? I know they’re getting it, I’d seen a few of them at the frat house, so what was the big deal about talking about it? Beat me, but oh well.

The next wave in was a mixed group with two of the girls turning to eyeball Mitch’s backside with considerable interest. A few introverts kept to themselves stuffed into corners or are far in the rear of the shop as possible buried in laptops or books. One table somehow hosted close to a dozen of the popularity stooges. What was it they called it? Social mingling? Chattering in a way that seemed fun or useful when it wasn’t.

I watched it all like one of those city resident falcon birds, perched up on the rooftop ledge, watching the pigeons below— impervious to the joking and carrying on beside me.

Then every bit of that changed when I saw him stroll in. —Fucking hello!— Body candy from head to fucking toe— and oh yeah, I would fuck those too. A disarray of brassy-golden hair set off by his lightly tanned face. Arms and a chest that had seen the gym or something on a casual basis wasn’t in the least bit diminished by the sloppy heather grey t-shirt that didn't fit tightly enough for my liking, but enough that all the blood was bee-lining it to my cock. Speaking of cocks, I could make out his lefty just fine through his jeans. He had country boy written all over him, but damned if he didn’t look good in this city. I could just picture him butt nekkid with his legs wide, on a bale of hay, and then there was me— taking the reins and diving in.

Mitch, or one of the others, said something but not one word of it registered in my head as I watched my pretty pigeon pay for his coffee at the counter and then head straight for me.

Did I say the blood was pooling? That shit was capping the flood gates and if it didn't stop, I was going to be sportin’ King Kong’s dick, and then I’d be having a hell of a time convincing him to let me get inside him. But, oh yeah, I was definitely going to tap that, one way or another.

He glanced up at me then instantly his blue eyes dropped down shyly. GAYDAR going off the fucking charts here. —And the Growling Guru SCORES!!!—

It took all I could not to smile at that mental touchdown. And no, I didn't fucking move out of his way so he could reach the sugar and cream baskets. I stood right there— arms still crossing my chest with my shitty ass coffee, and my hot-hot gaze glued to him. I wasn’t one fucking bit shy about it either. Undressed his ass right on the spot. He froze. I could just hear him cry out as I dragged my tongue over his puckered ass. Growls.

Excuse me, he spoke almost apologetically and still I didn't budge. I couldn’t. Holy fuck, it was insane! His body language stuttered a moment, as if he was contemplating whether to risk reaching around me or not. He finally succumbed, his right arm stretching out carefully, as far as he could to reach for the condiment packets behind me, putting his best effort without actually coming into contact with my body.

With no remorse on my part, I leaned in and inhaled. Can you fucking believe that shit? I can’t! But here I was— star-struck with a stranger. I didn’t know where the fuck he came from, but I already had plans to get to know him better by morning.

There was more pooling going on in my southern hemisphere, and because those timid eyes of his, the color of a morning sky, were cast down, he had to see it. Not to mention, he wasn’t making one of those sudden corrections to not look. But he did manage his packets and it was just fucked-fate against luck that Sheldon moved off for whatever reason, allowing this blue-jean-hay-toss the chance to inch over to prepare his coffee.

So, what’s your name? I asked as he poured his selection of additives into his coffee then stirred. He hadn’t stepped away yet, so I was wasting no time making my move.

Laughter to the side of us turned into interference. Guess LJ is going to be too busy to fuck you tonight, Sheldon. Mitch was laughing up a storm.

Fuck off, a grumbled retort came from Sheldon.

Yeah, guys, fuck off! I turned, giving them both the finger, but when I looked back to make some kind of excuse that I was really hoping would formulate on the spot, except my pigeon had flown off.

No lie, my ass was off the counter, and my neck was stretched like a giraffe’s, looking for his whereabouts.

I found him taking a seat at one of the far tables by the window where he preceded to pull out a laptop from his backpack and settled in.

I watched the rest of the room to see how everyone else reacted to him. Did they have the same magnetic gaze I did? They sure as hell looked, even a few of the straight guys did, but no one was going up to him. Ah, a new face on campus; no friends yet.

Yeah, he dissed ya. Mitch slapped my shoulder. Come on, man. Let’s hit the gym before we all go out tonight. But I brushed him off, not interested in being lured away just yet.

You go ahead without me, I said, not bothering to look. I was watching him, instead.

Excuse me, someone spoke, and I ignored. Hey man, you’re like blocking the station.

I reached out. Didn’t even look, just grabbed fabric, and then forcibly walked the intruder inside the gripped shirt aside. I wasn’t about to move— go left and my view was going to be blocked by the column that divided the sub section of the coffee house from where we were. Step right and Denzel Showfield, biggest dude on campus, would be blocking my view. So, I wasn’t moving— that was of course, until someone else’s gaydar went off and was making a move for my pigeon’s table. Offense maneuvers engaged.

I crowded in on the enemy hunter and shoved him away in the same instant that I sat down in the chair next to him. Still didn't catch that name.

Ethan ~ ETA: Coffee Shop, Twenty Minutes

I fingered the last two bucks in my pocket again and trudged down the lawn towards the middle of campus. Kind of sad when even a cup of coffee is beyond your budget; but then, at four-dollars a cup, some coffee companies that shall remain nameless are overpriced drivel. Even if they are delicious. My next mediocre paycheck was definitely going towards a French press.

I hitched my backpack up my shoulder and kept on; I had heard there was another student-run coffee shop this way and it wasn't long until I could smell the dark, heavenly aroma. Some people I passed even had little pastry bags.

I straightened my unironed shirt as much as possible and stepped into the dark cafe. The walls were a terrifying amalgamation of nerd-haven and school spirit, but lucky for me a large coffee was only a dollar, eighty-five.

After a brisk stand in line, I took my steaming java over to the counter with all the fixings and found myself face to face with a god. Bitch, all you want, this guy was built with a capital B, and damned if he wasn't checking me out as I stood there and stammered in pure freshman fashion. He oozed sex. And though I could smell the soap of a recently taken shower, something about him made my head scream ‘dirty’.

Excuse me, There. I remembered my manners at least. Not that his friends did. No, they seemed to thrive on making lewd generalizations about the god blocking the sugar station, which probably meant he was straight as a damn arrow. Oh well, a boy can dream.

I got my coffee the right pale shade and quickly went over to a miraculously empty table to double-check my homework for my creative writing course. Armed with coffee and homework, I tried to ignore the world, especially the wannabe-thespian making googoo eyes at me. Between actual work and school, I so didn't have time for a social life, let alone a girl or boyfriend anyways.

That's about the time Mr. Sexy dropped into the chair across from me. Still didn't catch that name. He shot me a cocky, winner-take-all grin.

So he IS gay after all. I chewed my lip then— I know, it’s a bad habit I picked up in high school— I didn’t even try to answer, instead sidetracking my thoughts to take a moment to log on to my crappy old laptop. That's because I didn't give it. Sorry if you got the wrong idea, but I'm not interested. But I was. I was so interested in peeling off that navy polo and sliding my hands down the back of those jeans. Does he like to bottom? I shook my head to clear it and drank some of my coffee to show him I was only clearing out the morning's cobwebs, and not thinking about what was doing the mambo in my jeans.

He didn’t look at all flustered. Mine's Damir LJubankovic. LJ for short, he said, as if that should mean something to me and took another drink of his brew with a grimace.

Realizing he wasn't going to leave me alone, I closed my computer and started to leave. I even gave him some free coffee advice. Next time ask for a light roast, it's less bitter. And if your friend's give you shit, tell them it's higher in caffeine.

He was still looking bewildered when I left him inside the coffee shop. Definitely getting a French press.

As it turns out, his name should have meant something to me. A quick search of the school's website and Damir LJ LJubankovic (good luck spelling that phonetically) aka Mr. Sexy-coffeeshop-god was staring out my computer screen and right at me in my boxers. He was a Placekicker on our football team, with a uniform that looked made to fit him. I can't explain why, but that arrogant, pixilated smirk left me feeling all kinds of exposed and on edge. I closed that page and tried to go back to my homework.

An hour later, I had exhausted every Myspace avenue and knew he was too good to be true. Even if only half the people who claimed to have slept with the guru of sex were telling the truth, this was not somewhere I wanted to dip my wick. I wasn't into casual sex, and if rumors were true, that was the most I could expect from anyone in his house.

True to my word, I bought a French press and tried to avoid being on campus as much as possible.

The rest of that semester flew by. Before I knew it, midterms and Thanksgiving were over, and it was Christmas break.

I looked around my little apartment and heaved my meager groceries up onto the kitchen counter. This would be my second Christmas alone in New York. Except, this year, I was determined to have a Christmas dinner that wasn’t on the Denny’s Holiday menu.

Christmas for one meant a Cornish hen instead of a turkey.

Tiny cans of green beans and cream of mushroom soup went into the cupboard; I had even splurged on some French onions and a little box of cornbread stuffing. A pint of eggnog went in the fridge, next to the full-size pumpkin pie and the homemade fudge sent over by a neighbor sometime last week.

The holiday decorations were summed up with the little plastic tree sitting on the coffee table with its one present I had been given at work this year. One present more than last year.

I took to the bedroom and grabbed my laptop to do a little research on how much my books would cost next semester and turned on the TV to fill the emptiness that seemed to encroach more every week.

Christmases weren’t always like this; cold and empty, and alone. I grew up Protestant in Kentucky, where December meant going to mass, sleigh rides, and a big dinner with the whole family that I ended up eating leftovers from for what felt like a month. When I was in high school, I had wanted a computer so bad— my parents got me a refurbished laptop. If I had known it was our last Christmas, I’d have cherished it more; remembered what Gram’s sweater looked like that year. But all that kept coming back was my disappointment. We were by no means poor, so why did I get the short end of the stick? By the next Christmas, they had already disowned me for my little fling with some guy I had met down in South Carolina— Jeremy.

Perhaps Christmas could wait ‘til later.

I grabbed the blanket off the bed in my one-bedroom and pulled it tight around me to ward off the chill sneaking through the walls.

Out the window, I could see snow falling from the dark, navy sky. The same navy as Damir’s shirt in the coffeeshop— I wondered how he spent his Christmas. Did he even celebrate it?

In my head, I could see the LJubankovic family, (never mind that I’d never met them), gathered around their football-playing son. His father would be proud of him. His mother would be trying to get him to eat more turkey, "Don’t they feed you at that school?’ she’d fuss like an old-fashion, doting mother. And maybe, just maybe he even had a little brother he would take out in the yard and play capture-the-flag with, or a little sister singing carols by a groaning, old piano.

Dropping the blanket back on the bed, I pulled on a thick sweater, and went to make dinner. Perhaps I even lit a candle, but I can’t promise you that I did. Or perhaps I simply ate the pumpkin pie and went to bed.

Damir: I Found You Cooking

Second semester was well under way, and it always felt colder up here after spending the winter break with my mom, my two