Bossy Bottom
Jeremy Jenkins
Contents
1. Luke
2. Adam
3. Luke
4. Adam
5. Luke
6. Adam
7. Luke
8. Adam
9. Luke
10. Adam
11. Luke
12. Adam
13. Luke
14. Adam
15. Luke
16. Adam
17. Luke
18. Adam
19. Luke
20. Adam
21. Luke
22. Adam
23. Luke
24. Adam
25. Luke
26. Adam
A Note from the author
Newsletter
Also by Jeremy Jenkins
1
Luke
I cracked open a book about BDSM in the section at the back of this bookstore, giving a quick glance around to see if anyone was watching me.
No one was around except this harmless-looking overweight guy in the next aisle, so the keen sense of alert that was spinning up inside me slowed down.
I was alone. I could do this. No one was around to watch or judge me.
Leaning against the bookshelf, I thumbed through the pages, checking to see if the writing style of this book would be up my alley.
I saw the word “daddy” appear a few times — that was a good sign.
Then someone sneezed nearby and I slammed the book shut with a snap. All of my senses were on high alert.
I shouldn’t even have been lingering in this section… my mom had little spies all over the place.
Stealthily, I did my best to tuck the book under my arm, flipping it so that the cover was facing my body. If anyone was watching me in this bookstore, all they’d be able to see would be the back cover of the book, some indiscernible words scrawled across it, and a bunch of pink petals under the text.
My senses were on high alert, and I felt that familiar part of my mind begin to tremble. Even in this quiet bookstore, my senses were being overloaded. The music coming over the speakers was too loud, the chatter that was going on all around me were like razor blades in my ears, and the woman sipping an iced coffee at the nearby cafe was taking a loud, greedy slurp.
This familiar sensation came over me — this monster that had been eating at the back of my mind for the past few years — my anxiety — was stirring from its slumber.
I was unlucky that it was a light sleeper. Any certain combination of sounds or sensations could set it off and wake it up. Once it was fully awake, it would have complete control of my mind and debilitate me, rendering me incapable of forming coherent thoughts. I wouldn’t be able to do anything but curl up into a little ball and breathe.
My mouth began to go dry as I took faster and faster steps towards the bathroom. I needed to get away from all of this — get into a tiny, boring space where I felt safe.
Almost running now, I opened the bathroom door to a thankfully deserted single room. Closing the door behind me with a thud, I turned the deadbolt and then sank down to the floor. Breathing heavily, I clutched the book close to my chest.
I knew that this was a fabricated fear. As anyone with anxiety will tell you, one of the worst parts about this pesky little disorder is knowing that there was no threat. Knowing that there was no predator around waiting to get me.
But my body didn’t know that. My body thought that if there was a lot of noise or too much going on, or that I couldn’t see or hear all the things that were moving in a certain area, then the correct thing to do was to panic and shut down.
Totally makes sense, brain.
I put my head between my knees and counted to ten, forcing myself to breathe slowly.
It was lucky that I found this bathroom, and that it was quiet because my vision was starting to blot out and go white.
I sucked air slowly into my chest, then let it out just as slowly.
Control. I was in control here.
In my mind, I pictured myself as winding up a lasso, swinging it to capture the wild thoughts that were running amok in my brain. A thought about what would happen if one of my mother’s friends saw me looking in that forbidden bookshelf appeared. A thought about feeling like I wasn’t enough came — that was one of the most common ones that showed up there. And finally, the grand-daddy that was the leader of this little anxiety parade: The thought that I was a filthy abomination that had certain sexual tastes, and once people found out about them, bad things would happen.
As I breathed, my heartbeat slowed and I settled myself down, I stood up.
Even after a mild anxiety attack like that, my knees felt weak. My body had just blown through a small store of its adrenaline; wasting it on this stupid stuff.
I leaned on the sink and looked at myself in the mirror, scowling.
The reflection that stared back at me was that of a young man — twenty, with blonde hair styled to the side with gel, a smooth, boyish face, and full puckered lips. His eyes were light blue and heavily-lidded like he was aloof all the time.
I splashed some water onto my face, feeling the cool sensation alleviate some of the hotness that had come into my cheeks.
This was manageable. I was in control. I was always in control.
At least, that’s what one of my past therapists told me. Whether I actually believed that deep down, I wasn’t so sure.
Standing up straight, I tugged at my shirt from Zara — the one with all of the tiny flowers on it, picked up my book and dried my hands.
There was a knock on the door.
I froze and my heartbeat began to accelerate again.
Another knock sounded throughout the small room, this time the staccato matching the rhythm of my panic.
Deciding right then and there that I wouldn’t let my anxiety get the best of me, I took a few steps and opened the door.
Standing before me was a big guy — burly is the word I’d use to describe him.
My first impression of him was that of fear. He looked like he could knock me out if he just looked at me
