Arabian Nights

Arabian Nights by RJ

This story is about the relationship between two young men who have been best friends their whole lives.

If you have any questions or comments about this piece, want to know about any of my other works, or just want to reach out, please don't hesitate to email me. A list of my works, including links and descriptions, can be found here: https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI. If you would like to be added to a mailing list for this story (or all stories) and receive emails about any updates, let me know.

Please note that this chapter serves as an introduction and contains less sexual content than future chapters.

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~ Chapter 1 ~

Coming to the gym early in the morning was the best decision we could have made. Sure, it's much quieter and there are less people potentially minding our business instead of their own, but nosiness has never really bothered me before. For me, the best part about coming in at the crack of dawn is being the first ones to use the locker rooms. They're freshly cleaned from the night before, so it doesn't smell like sweat and musk and other nameless body odors by the time we arrive. We used to come at night, and after a long day of use, it was guaranteed to reek. And since I'm an early riser anyway, starting my day with a good workout seems like a no-brainer.

Plus, it gives Zane the privacy he needs to be able to sing while he's in the showers. I just grin to myself, going through my usual stretches as his deep, crooning voice fills the locker room. It's been the same three songs, all by Frank Sinatra, ever since we made the switch to morning gym sessions a week ago. "Don't you have anything else in your repertoire?" I call out.

He cuts his song short. "Let me have this, bro," he says, and I laugh. Zane is a total closet singer. If you confront him about it in a group setting, he'll vehemently deny it. But the thing is, he's not bad at all. He does it just for fun, though. Says it "relaxes him."

I hear his shower shut off in the adjacent room as I stretch out my legs on the bench, reaching down to wrap my fingers around my heel. A few seconds later, Zane and his towering form come into the locker area with nothing but a towel around his waist, hair still damp and his body dripping in a few places. He's a bit of a beast. Standing at 6'4", Zane has the chiseled body most guys dream of having -- but he still manages to find that nice balance between fantasy and attainability. He's not overly muscular (which he always has said looks gross if you go too far), but he's well-defined: distinct abs, tough-looking arms, powerful thighs and calves, ripped back, shapely pecs that don't resemble tits. Honestly, it's somewhat of an inspiration to be close to someone who has (if we're talking about what is considered "traditionally" masculine) the perfect body. I'm a little leaner, myself. My core is my best feature -- not as defined as his, but proportional to my shape. And though I'm just a couple inches shorter than Zane, I'm happy that I've at least broken the height regulation that a lot of girls have. I can't count how many times I've heard a girl say "I don't date guys under six feet tall."

"You sure you're not gonna stretch?" I ask him.

"You know I hate stretching," he says, opening his locker to grab his spare clothes.

"K, but don't complain to me when your pussy gets sore."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, bro," he says, grinning a bit as he unzips his bag, rummaging around for something. "Damn, I forgot my deodorant."

I roll my eyes. He's so forgetful. Probably his biggest flaw. I just reach under the bench, grab my Old Spice out of my bag, and say "Here" before tossing it to him.

He catches it and thanks me, popping the cap off and applying the antiperspirant to his hairy pits. "Your dad didn't invite my dad, did he?" Zane asks me before tossing me my deodorant back.

I set it down on the floor before I switch legs, bending my back a bit and stretching my calf out to the max. "I don't think so," I say, "Just us."

"Tight," he says, nodding. He pulls off his towel from around his waist and uses it to dry off his hair a little more, his body on full display. "Don't think I can handle my dad this early in the morning."

I don't respond immediately because I'm distracted by what the towel has revealed: Zane trimmed his pubes. He only goes to such lengths when he's "talking" to some girl. I grin a bit, wondering who she might be. It requires complete imagination, considering he never gives me any sort of details. "I don't think any of us can," I say, looking back up at him.

"That's the truth," he says, draping his towel over the bench before he grabs a fresh pair of boxer briefs and pulls them on, covering up the clean-looking bush and the thick, uncut, low-hanging cock-and-ball set hanging from it. "You gonna shower?" he asks me.

I shake my head, standing up. "I don't sweat like you do."

"God, I fucking hate you for that," he mutters, quickly rolling his shirt into a whip and then snapping it at me.

I laugh, swatting it out of the way before he can hurt me. "Fuck outta here with your jealousy," I say as I stand up, taking my shirt off.

"Jealousy? Is that what we're calling it?" he asks, grinning.

"We're calling it what it is," I tease, starting to remove my shorts.

I feel Zane's eyes on me. "You still wear Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs, bro," he says -- his way of saying "How could I possibly be jealous of you?"

I look down at my cotton briefs, snug and black. "So? They're comfortable."

"I can't be seen with you," he teases. I will admit that Zane has always been a little more fashionable than I am, quick to understand what's "cool" versus what's not. I guess my cozy briefs are off-limits. "Throw 'em in the trash." I know he's joking, but it's fun to mess around with him, so when I take my briefs off, I fling them right at his head. I burst out laughing as he recoils, too slow to have stopped my underwear from covering his entire face. He pulls them off with a hearty laugh. "Fucking bastard," he says, rolling my briefs up into a ball. I notice his eyes shift to the garbage can nearby, and before I can react, he does a little fadeaway, both of us watching my underwear fly through the air, hit the rim of the can, and land in the garbage.

"Dude," I say, laughing. "That was fucking rude."

"That shot? I know," he says, grinning smugly.

"For throwing out my damn underwear," I say. I glance in the garbage and wince. There's too much unidentifiable stuff in there. Bye bye, black briefs.

"They're two fucking bucks anyway," he says. "I'll buy you more if you're that upset about it."

I just shake my head, reaching into my bag to pull out my fresh clothes. Thankfully these briefs are a little more socially acceptable according to Zane, so he doesn't comment on them as I pull them on. "Maybe I'll get some like yours," I say, glancing at his boxer briefs as he pulls on his shirt.

"These?" he says, lifting his shirt to look at his crotch. "Yeah, they're comfy as fuck. Here, touch 'em," he says, coming over to me and cocking his hip towards my hand.

I reach out and slide a finger up the leg, stroking the fabric between my thumb and index finger. "Damn, that IS soft."

"Armani, baby," he says with a chuckle. "I'll let you borrow a pair."

"Do you have any that are just briefs?"

He chuckles. "Why you so obsessed with that cut?"

I shrug. "I'm a briefs guy. Fuck off."

"Hey, I'm not judging," he says, going back to his bag to grab his pants. "At least you're not a boxers guy. Then I'd judge you," he teases. I laugh, recalling a previous conversation we had about how we both hate free-balling it, even in boxers. We both agree that our goods need a place to sit. It just feels nicer to have everything together rather than flopping around all day.

Zane gets dressed a little faster than I do, sitting on the bench and chewing on his nails while he waits for me. Once I finally get my shoes on, he stands up and pats my back. "'Bout time," he says, smiling. "Let's go see Baba G."

We were destined to be best friends, Zane and I. Hell, Zane's first word was (allegedly) the last syllable in my name: the "Leed!" in Khalid. My father and his father have been friends since they were three-feet tall, so it's no surprise that when they both had sons, they paired us together and raised us like cousins. Maybe even brothers, considering how easily accessible we were to each other. I think that was the goal when both our fathers migrated from Egypt to the US -- to be in as close contact as possible. Somehow they managed to find homes on the same street, just a brisk two minute walk from each other -- Seth with a somewhat grandiose home, and my father with a smaller half-home, neighboring a friendly but rowdy family that often bangs on the walls for some godforsaken reason. Though there's a stark difference in the quality of housing, it seems their gap in wealth couldn't separate them too much. So they practically raised me and Zane together. Our friendship wasn't really forced upon us, though. We just naturally fell into the roles they expected us to fulfill. And even though we differ in a lot of ways, there's a bond there that I've always known to be unbreakable.

Zane's parents are an odd couple. His father is a boisterous, beer-bellied, materialistic conspiracy theorist. His mother Rashida is the level-headed one, a bit subdued and sweet and slim-figured. Everyone says opposites attract, and in a way, I can understand how they would function together. Rashida has everything that Seth lacks. Even the differences between Zane and I make things interesting rather than a hindrance. But I don't know how Rashida tolerates her husband. She's always been like a mother to me, but Seth is more like an embarrassing uncle that I try to keep at arm's length. Zane and I always joke that my father and his mother should have been a pair. They would have made more sense, since they share similar qualities and values: dependability, curiosity, liberalism, never wanting to be in the spotlight. But I guess the issue there is that my father is gay.

It should have been obvious to me from a young age. I remember seeing a fair few of my father's "friends" over the years, but I didn't understand who they were until I was old enough to have the talk about sex and puberty. He told me flat-out, too, after I asked him if boys can have sex with boys and girls can have sex with girls. I had heard rumors about homosexuality from my peers, but it was all strange (and incorrect) speculation. He figured he'd be honest and upfront with me about it, which was the best way for him to handle it. I think that tactic is what made me so unbothered by his sexuality.

But that kind of openness isn't universal. Seth has always asked "Gamal, my man! When will you settle down and find you a wife?" because he's too blind to realize that my father has never looked at, dated, or desired a woman when they were growing up. Everyone knows but Seth -- even Zane's mom knows. It's an unspoken agreement between the four of us that Seth should not be told, because we all know how he gets about particular conservative-American subjects -- especially homosexuality. I think he does it just to fit in to what he thinks an American should be and believe, but he's unreasonable. It hurts me to see my father have to shy away, or hide part of himself, but I understand. No use jeopardizing a lifelong friendship for something as trivial as sexual preference.

I'm just happy the rest of us aren't like that. I can go to my father for advice, stories, inspiration; Rashida if I need to be nurtured, or if I need advice that's more practical than what my father's lofty ideals provide; and Zane, for absolutely anything, including sexual things that might be too uncomfortable for parental figures. It's nice to feel like I can go to someone with any issue, any bit of joy, any menial detail, and have them accept what I have to offer. Sometimes I wonder if Zane feels the same way, though. Even though we do have a bit of a bromance built up over years of growing up together, going to the same schools, graduating college together, and now renting an apartment together, he's weird about girls. I always wonder who he's dating, or fucking, or even just talking to, because he never introduces me to them, never shows me a picture, and never even gives me a name. He talks about who he's seeing in vague terms, and even though I find it strange that he doesn't offer up even a semblance of the level of detail that I do, I don't think he's lying. I think he's just private when it comes to these matters. They never seem to last long anyway, so I don't push it. If he really wanted to tell me, and if it really mattered, he would tell me.

"Ali!" my dad exclaims, looking as jovial as I've ever seen him.

I just smile, leaning down and hugging him in the doorway. As always when he calls me by that nickname, I'm taken back to my younger years, where I'd spend countless hours in front of the television watching "Aladdin" on repeat. Out of all the animated characters I'd seen up until that point, I thought he was the coolest, since (in proper Disney fashion) he somehow made homelessness look like a thrilling adventure. I wanted to be just like him. "Sorry, Baba," I say after we kiss cheeks, apologizing for needing him to answer the door. Usually I just let myself in. "I forgot my key."

"It's alright," Baba says, giving me a squeeze before pulling back. Then he turns to Zane and smiles. "Zane, my boy," he says, opening his arms for a hug. Zane, who's slightly taller than I am, has to lean down even more to hug my father, but he does so with a smile.

"Hey, Baba G," he teases before they kiss each other's cheeks and then pull away.

Baba just laughs. "Come in, boys."

Immediately, I'm hit with the deliciously sweet aroma of my father's croissant French toast. I don't know how he makes it so flavorful without being overwhelming, but any time I sensed breakfast cooking growing up, my mouth watered uncontrollably. Pavlovian-style. "God, I miss that smell."

"You should visit me more often, then," Baba says, poking my chest before he chuckles and heads into the kitchen. Zane and I follow, walking past the narrow staircase and through the (in my opinion) overly decorated living room to get into the kitchen and dining space. Baba heads right to the stove as I go to the fridge, grabbing two apples from the bushel. I toss one to Zane and keep one for myself before hovering over my father as he cooks.

"When are you going to teach me your secrets?" I ask, grinning before I take a bite out of my apple.

"Bah," he says, waving me off. "You'll never be able to cook no matter how often I teach you."

"Ouch," I say, laughing. But it's a fair accusation. I pride myself on having a number of skills -- cooking is not one of them. "What if I hired you to be a personal chef for me and Zane?"

He suddenly turns to me, eyeing me up and down. "Are you eating?"

I can't help but laugh at Zane smirking in the corner. For some reason, my father's biggest concern is that I'll die from starvation. "Yes, I'm eating."

He looks at me almost disapprovingly. "You look skinny."

"I'm not skinny, Baba," I say, trying to keep my amusement to a minimum.

"Hm," he says skeptically, giving me a "You don't know what you're talking about" sort of look. "You should be more like him," he says, pointing his spatula towards Zane.

"Or like you?" I tease.

My father grins a bit at my playful joke. He's a short man with a slightly above-average build, but he always says how he's been letting himself go lately. So I tease him about that. "Just be happy you're pretty," he says to me, and Zane lets out a booming laugh, entertained by our banter. "Another blessing from the gods."

I shake my head and laugh. How many times have I heard him say "a blessing from the gods?" That's how he used to talk about me, considering I showed up on his doorstep when I was only a week old. Baba vaguely knows who my mother is -- not by name, or by address, or by any other detail about her life besides her physical appearance. He always said she was beautiful, and she was kind to him, and that's all he knows about her. It was at a low-point in his life, when he was wrestling with all the conflicting thoughts and emotions that come with trying to accept his queer identity. So he drank one night, "befriended" a brothel girl for the evening, told her everything he was grappling with, had his moment of exploration, and that was that. Nine months and some change later, I showed up at his doorstep in a basket with a note attached to my diaper like an Egyptian Harry Potter. Even though I know my father's intention wasn't to have a kid, he ensures me that he is happier because of it. And I don't mind how things ended up. Even not having my real mother with me has never bothered me for longer than a handful of days. Whenever I picture a mother, Rashida's sweet face is the only face I see.

"Speaking of pretty," I say, leaning against the counter, "guess who reached out to me again."

Baba looks at me. "Who?"

"Kyra."

"Ugh!" he says, looking positively scandalized, and both Zane and I burst out laughing. "Don't entertain her!"

"I'm not, Baba," I say through laughs. Kyra and I used to "date" -- back when I was a bit of an asshole and strung girls along just for sex, she was adamant on wanting to get married. My father was particularly excited that I actually met another Egyptian girl in college, but when he met her, he did not approve. And I understand why. The girl is a total airhead. Nothing going on upstairs, but she's disgustingly gorgeous and fucks like a banshee. There's no way I'd ever marry her, though.

Baba rounds in on Zane when he doesn't believe me. "He's not entertaining her, is he?"

Zane, the bastard, shrugs. "He might be."

He's joking, but Baba gets this fearful look in his eye. I chuck my half-finished apple hard at Zane's chest, and he attempts to catch and/or block it, but he's too busy laughing. "I promise I'm not," I tell my father.

He sighs heavily. "You're a grown man now, you can do as you please," he says rather begrudgingly.

"I'm not gonna marry Kyra," I insist.

He seems to believe me after the third time. "Good," he says, turning back to the stove. "What about you, Zane? Going to break my heart like Khalid does?"

Zane chuckles. "Nothing serious on my end, Baba G," he says.

"I wanna set him up with the lady who does your taxes," I say to my father.

"Belinda?" he asks, genuinely confused, not catching the fact that I'm joking. "No, no. She's far too ugly for Zane."

Again, Zane and I are cackling. My father has a knack for being blunt, even if that means being somewhat rude with his honesty. He doesn't ever mean it in a negative way though -- to him, some people are ugly, and some people are beautiful. Those are just facts. He's always thought people should stick within their "tier of beauty," I believe he called it, where everyone is on a separate level of attractiveness. Like a floor of a building. Zane belongs towards the top floor. I've always thought Zane was more handsome than me. Well... Maybe not necessarily more "handsome," since we do look pretty different aside from our caramel skin tone, but he is definitely more interesting-looking: bored, half-lidded eyes, with a striking amber color behind the lids; insanely masculine jaw with the light scraggly scruff that somehow doesn't look unkempt on him; strong, angular facial structure; large, shapely lips; a dusty crop of brown hair... He's a perfect hybrid of his parents, taking the best of each of their features. He has a face that makes him look raw, whereas I look slightly more polished and clean-cut. My face is clean shaven, my hair is always tidy, and my skin is always smooth because I take damn good care of it. I think those factors alone separate me from Zane, but not in a good or bad way. We're just different. I kind of like that, too. I never feel like I'm competing with him when we go out together.

"Am I pretty enough for Zane?" I ask teasingly.

Zane just grins at me as my father laughs. "PRETTY enough? Sure," he says. "But enough?" He shakes his head. "No."

Zane snorts as my mouth hangs open. "That was rude!" I say before laughing.

"You know I love you," Baba says with a bright smile, reaching up to pat my cheek. "You coming back tonight to help me, yes?" he asks.

"Not after that comment," I say with a slight grin before nodding. "Of course I am." I promised I'd help him move some old junk out of the basement. One of his friends is letting him borrow his truck, so we're going to pack it up tonight and haul everything off to the dump in the morning. It was my suggestion to do it overnight, so I could sleep over and spend a little more time with him -- a sentiment he greatly appreciated.

"You're a good boy," he says with a smile. "Now get the table ready. Breakfast is almost done."

Breakfast is always a short ordeal. It's nothing more than an excuse to get the three (or more) of us together. It's always nice to enjoy their contrasting companies simultaneously -- Baba with his worldly, airy qualities, and Zane with his strong, quiet, comforting aura. The two most important men in my life. Ah, if only Rashida were my real mother and Baba were straight. Then we could be a solid unit. I'd be happy with that.

After scarfing down our delicious French toast and topping the morning off with a quick cup of tea, Zane and I head back to our apartment. Since it's a Saturday, we both have the day off from work. I don't have to play nurse today, and Zane doesn't have to punch in at his insurance gig. I think he's an "insurance underwriter slash investigator," but because finance is not my specialty, his explanation always goes over my head. He seems to like his job, though, and the challenges that come with it. As do I. Being a registered nurse is a hell of a lot of fun, but it can be exhausting, so both of us always look forward to any time off. We decide to spend our afternoon completely lounging around, going through some of our favorite classics -- the "Alien" franchise.

Through most of the second movie, though, I'm texting Kim -- a fellow nurse who I've been heavily flirting with the past few days. And she packs it on heavily over text. The exchange is pretty innocent throughout, but it's peppered with suggestive text messages and sly remarks about sex without saying the actual three-letter-word. I chuckle when she sends me a picture of a random person who has a magic lamp tattoo, with the caption "This is you." All I did was tell her about how much I love the movie "Aladdin."

I turn to Zane. "Would you judge me if I got this tattoo?" I ask, pointing my phone towards him and showing him the photo Kim sent me.

He chews on his popcorn slowly as he turns his head towards the screen. Then he laughs. "God, you're so corny, Khalid."

I chuckle. "It'd be cute, right?"

"Long as it's on your ass cheek," he says.

"Left or right?"

"Left," he says decidedly. "Your left side is better than your right."

I snicker, shaking my head. For a brief moment, I wonder if that's actually true, but I just shrug it off. "Left it is, then." Then Zane starts singing Aladdin's "Arabian Nights" softly. I laugh, nudging him with my knee. "Can you stop?"

"Why do you hate my singing so much?" he asks with a grin.

"I actually like your singing," I say seriously.

"Hm." He just smiles, tossing another piece of popcorn into his mouth.

"Write a song and I'll tattoo the lyrics on my other ass cheek, just for you."

He snorts, almost choking on his popcorn. "I hate you sometimes," he says, laughing. Then he looks at me. "You don't actually want that magic lamp tattoo, do you?"

"No," I say, laughing. It would look so fucking dumb. "Kim thought I should get it though."

He rolls his eyes. "Sounds just like you to get a tattoo for a chick," he says, grinning at the television screen as he pops a few pieces of popcorn in his mouth.

My mouth opens in surprise. "Fuck you, dude," I say, half-laughing, but just then, Kim sends me a surprise text: her in particularly sexy lingerie, saying that I can call her Princess Jasmine. I gulp a bit, staring at the picture, my cock twitching in my shorts.

"I just tell it like it is, bro," he says, still focused on the TV.

"Whatever," I say. Kim hits me with another quick text, saying it's my turn to show her something. I lick my lips a bit. "Uh... I'll be right back," I add, hopping off the couch quickly.

"Where you going?" he asks. "There are like five minutes left!"

"Just a quick phone call," I say before heading out of the living room.

"Want me to pause it?" he shouts.

"No, it's okay!" I say, already in the hallway. I think about heading to my bedroom, but the bathroom has much better lighting, so I quietly slip into the bathroom and shut the door. I'm already chubbing up quite a bit when I glance at her photo again. Red red red. I'm a sucker for red, so the scarlet, lacey, nearly-sheer bra and panty she's wearing is almost making me sweat. She looks fucking sexy, and even positioned herself in front of the camera to show off her curves and breasts in a subtle but alluring way. This is a killer photo. Worthy of the likes of Playboy, or something. I bite my lip as I slip my hand into my basketball shorts, right inside my briefs, and wrap my fingers around my cock. I squeeze it tight and start stroking, bringing it to hardness pretty quickly considering the quality of the photo. She said that it's my turn to show her "something." And that something can only mean one thing. I tug my shorts down slightly and let my cock swing out -- one that I'm pretty proud of. I'm like any other guy who says they'd love to be a little bit bigger, but all in all, I'm satisfied with what I've got between my legs: a thick seven inches, dark and cut, shapely and completely straight. He's a handsome fellow, jutting out over a smooth set of balls. I never fully shave my pubes, but I always keep my balls smooth. They just feel better that way. And girls tend to appreciate it, I've noticed.

I bring my phone camera above my cock and hold it in my palm for proportion. Then: click. However, I don't hear Zane humming a little tune until the bathroom door swings open. I swear as I hurry and hide my hard-on, but Zane just stands in the doorway, confused by the sight of me for a moment. Then, he puts two and two together, seeing that my phone is in one hand and that I'm attempting to hide my dick in the other. Immediately, he starts laughing. "Seriously?"

"Can you fuck off?" I ask, tugging the waistband of my shorts back over my crotch. The back of my waistband gets caught under my ass, and I have to reach back to pull them up. "And don't you knock?"

"I thought you were in your room," he says, "and I had to piss."

"Sorry," I say, moving to get around him.

But he stops me. "Wait wait wait," he says, eyeing me up and down again. "Do you really still take dick pics like that?"

I squint. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's just... You embarrass me, is all," he teases, trying not to laugh again.

"I fucking hate you," I say after a moment, laughing slightly as I hide my face. I'm definitely embarrassed, but not mortified. We can be casual about this. Hell, it's not the first time either of us have caught each other in an aroused state. But it's definitely the first time a camera has been involved.

"At least tell me you take proper nudes," he says, and his eyes flicker to my hand. Before I can react, he reaches down and snatches my phone from me.

"Hey!" I say, but he's bulkier than I am and easily holds me back as he studies the photo.

He starts tsking. "This is horrible, bro."

"Can you not make fun of my dick?" I say, trying not to get irritated. Now it just feels like he's being an ass, attacking my manhood.

"I'm not making fun of your dick," he says, handing my phone back to me. "You actually have a pretty nice dick."

I roll my eyes, pocketing my phone. "Fuck off."

"I'm serious," he says, laughing. "You just don't know how to show it off right."

"What, and you're the expert?" I ask skeptically.

He just shrugs, but in an affirmative way. "I mean, it's basic sexting. Like... Don't you hate nudes that are just straight pussy pics?"

I fail to see his point here. "No."

He gawps at me for a moment as if I'm crazy before he just rolls his eyes. "You're hopeless."

I laugh. "It's not fucking art, man. It's just sexting."

"It's just so..." He moves his hands around, trying to find the right word.

"What?"

"Silly?" he says, wondering if that's a sufficient description. "Primitive? I mean, where's the fun in being clinical about it?"

Primitive? Clinical? Is he serious? "I'm just giving her what she asked for."

He scoffs. "I promise you no one likes straight-up dick pics. Maybe once, just to see what you're working with," he says with a grin, "but sexting is more about teasing than anything else."

I furrow my brows. "Teasing?"

"Yeah, like... Here, gimme your phone," he says, holding out his palm. Reluctantly, I pass him my iPhone, and when he opens up the camera, he steps into the bathroom more, positioning himself in front of the mirror. Then, he hooks his thumb into the front of his shorts, tugging down just enough to show the base of his cock and not much else. He adjusts the angle of the phone for a moment before snapping a picture, checking it out, and then giving me a satisfied smile. "Voila," he says, handing me my phone.

I look at the picture and immediately realize he was right. Now I know what he means by "clinical." There's something undeniably sexy about a tease -- just a little taste of something that makes you wonder what the rest is like. Guess that's why Kim always sends me pictures of herself in lingerie. "Alright, that's pretty good," I admit with a laugh.

"Told you," he says, patting my back. "Now go practice elsewhere, I'm about to fuckin' burst."

I smirk a bit, leaving the bathroom to let him do his business. I head into my room fully-prepared to take his advice. I have to think "tempting" rather than "revealing." Teases rather than full-blown nudes. And I get where Zane is coming from, in retrospect. Once I've seen everything a girl has to offer, the whole courting situation seems kind of boring. Like the conquest has been completed already. I hop onto my bed and try angling the camera above me, just lightly lifting my shirt to show of a hint of my core and then pulling a Zane: tugging my shorts down just enough to show a hint of the base of my cock. I send the image to Kim and immediately I can tell I made the right decision not to hit her with a cock-shot. Now I've got her roped in.

Zane knocks on my door twenty minutes later before poking his head in. "Yo."

I grin. "You knocked this time. I'm so proud."

"Fuck off," he says, standing in the doorway. "I'm gonna go out for a bit."

"Hot date?" I ask with a grin.

He shrugs. "Something like that."

"Okay," I say with a laugh, checking the time. "I might head to Baba's soon anyway."

"Oh yeah!" he says, looking like he only just remembered. "Aren't you sleeping there or something?"

"Yezzir," I say stupidly.

"Okay. Well, I'm gonna shower. Give Baba G a kiss for me."

"I will. Have fun tonight," I say in a teasing, girlish voice. Zane just turns around, flipping me off as he walks away from the door, leaving me laughing.

It doesn't take my father and me long to fill up the back of the truck, even with the heavier furniture. In fact, Baba says we're "way ahead of schedule," and once we finish, we find that we have tons of time on our hands. The first thing we do is sit down, have a cup of tea, and talk for at least an hour. He's been very interested in my romantic life ever since I graduated college. I think he believes it's about time for me to start thinking about settling down, maybe starting a family -- mostly for selfish reasons. He wants grandkids. I keep telling him that the closest he'll get to having grandkids is waiting for Zane to settle down. Zane is much more of a romantic than I am, and would be way more willing to settle down sooner. I'm just not at that point in my life right now. I still just want to explore. Fuck around. On some level, Baba understands that, but I know he just wants me to grow up already. "Nearly twenty-five-years-old and you still act like you're seventeen," he says, shaking his head and tsking me.

"I'm just having fun, Baba," I say, amused.

"You can't have fun forever," he says, giving me a stern look.

"Or I could just be a perpetual bachelor like you."

His face softens for a moment before he sighs. "No, love," he says. "I don't want that for you." I'm surprised by the shift in his tone. "It's not a fulfilling life, living like this," he says with a sad smile.

That breaks my heart to see a glimpse of his struggle. I know Baba has had a fair few boyfriends over the years, but I never knew how the instability affected him. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes," he says, trying to wave it off. "I just want better for my son."

Part of me wants to continue this conversation, to get into my father's head a little more, but he switches the subject towards another scrapbook he's been working on. Baba is incredibly crafty, there's no doubt about that. He's halfway through working on this beautiful book chock full of photos of me, Baba, and Zane's family when Zane and I were young. Baby pictures, birthdays, candids. It's a treat to slowly going through each page, laugh at the more humorous pictures, and listen to stories I've heard a thousand times before but never tire of. When we get towards the end, Baba sighs. He was hoping to find more pictures in the basement when he cleaned it out, but I remind him that I have a lot of them tucked away in a dresser in my room. His face brightens up, and after I ask if he wants me to bring them by next time, he asks if I can get them now.

I protest a bit, just because I don't want to drive back and forth at this hour, but he's insistent, brightening up at the prospect of continuing this scrapbook. I sigh and give in, only because of how joyful he seems. After his comment about being single, all I'm thinking about is how I can make Baba happier. So I take just my keys, wallet, and phone and make the twenty minute drive back to my apartment. I know exactly where the photos are, all tied together with a large rubber band. I actually looked through them a few weeks ago with Zane. We were tipsy and reminiscing about the past, when careers weren't sucking up all our daylight and we had much more energy and imagination and drive to take on the world. Simpler times, I suppose.

I see that Zane's car is still here when I arrive, so maybe he got back from his date -- or he walked and is still out. I smirk to myself a bit, wondering if and when Zane will dish out any details about his love affairs. So far I'm completely in the dark. I don't even really know his type, though I can only picture him with someone extremely sexy. A slim girl, most likely, to contrast his figure. But she'd be tall, like him. Long, radiant hair. Maybe even older. I could see him with a hot older lady. Maybe that's his secret -- he has a thing for older women. Suddenly, my mind is fixed on that idea, and I laugh as I head up to our apartment, find the door unlocked, and let myself in.

But that's not his secret. Not at all. I completely freeze in place, my jaw dropping as I stand in the doorway, staring into the living room. At the two people on the couch. Particularly, the position they're in and the lack of clothing they have on. My heart starts racing once Zane looks up at the disturbance, his eyes shifting from lustful to shocked. "Shit!" he hisses, reaching back and pushing the guy who's been fucking him from behind away. The mystery man takes notice of me once Zane starts freaking out, and he quickly grabs a random article of clothing to cover his crotch.

"What the fuck?" I ask, totally bewildered.

"I thought you were gonna be at your father's!" Zane says, looking panicked.

"I thought you were with a girl!" I fire back.

"I never said that."

"I--" Fuck, he's right. He never did say specifically that he was going to be with a girl. I assumed. I... Shit, am I terrible for assuming? Am I Seth in this situation? Am I the blind one, totally oblivious to the fact that my best friend never introduced me to any of his girlfriends because they weren't girls? Maybe I'm just assuming again... There's probably a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why my best friend was getting railed on our living room couch by some dude I've never met.

Zane slumps onto the sofa, sighing heavily and rubbing his face. His friend speaks up after a tense moment of silence. "Uh... Should I go?" he asks Zane.

Zane just sighs and nods. "Maybe," he mumbles.

The guy gets himself dressed, half-putting on his jeans and then sliding his shirt over his head as he slips on his sneakers. "I'll call you," he says quietly, seeming to debate whether or not he wants to lean in and kiss Zane. But he thinks better of it and, when Zane just keeps rubbing his forehead with his fingertips, he takes his leave. That's when I realize I've been frozen in place this whole time, hand still tight around the doorknob. I shift out of the way as the guy gets closer and comes into the light a little more. At first, I think he's intimidating. He's taller than I am, and equipped with two little face tattoos, light eyes, and a tough expression. But we don't say anything to each other. He just gives me an awkward smile before slipping by me and heading out the door.

I look over at Zane, who's just sitting naked on the couch, probably mortified. I take a deep breath, shutting the door. "You didn't have to kick him out," I say.

"Shut up, Khalid."

I wince at the tone in his voice -- not harsh, but slightly broken. He's probably so embarrassed, so I know I should tread lightly. I come over to the couch and slowly sit down next to him, looking at my lap. Neither of us say anything for a long while. I don't know what TO say. Do I comfort him? Tell him it's alright that he's... whatever he is? I don't know his story.

"This isn't how I wanted you to find out," he says after a while.

I just nod. I don't know how to respond to that, but I wish I didn't find out this way either. But, then again, what exactly am I finding out? Am I right in assuming that he's gay?

"Say it," he says when I don't respond.

I blink, turning my head towards him. "What?"

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"How shocked you are, and how crazy this is, and how you never would have guessed, and blah blah blah." He sounds a little bitter.

I swallow thickly. Something tells me I shouldn't say all those things, even though that's the truth to how I'm feeling. "I'm surprised, yeah," I admit. "But... I don't know anything."

He sighs heavily, still not looking at me. Then he pulls a pillow over his lap to cover himself, hugging it before saying "Sorry."

I'm not sure if he's apologizing for the nudity or the tone in his voice, but I just say "It's okay" before biting my lip a bit. I have to ask. I can't resist. "Are you gay?"

Zane glances at me for a split-second before inhaling shakily. "Yeah," he says.

So I was right to assume. He's fucking gay. How did I not notice this before? How has he kept this a secret from me? "Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, sounding a little more accusatory than intended.

"It's not about you, man," he says in a tired voice, slouching a little more.

He's right. It's not about me. At all. This is about him and his identity. "Sorry," I say, shaking my head in order to refresh my perspective.

"I didn't mean to..."

"Neither did I..."

"I just--"

"Yeah."

I don't know exactly what we're saying, but there's a pause for a few moments. Then he looks in my direction, but doesn't meet my eye. "I don't know why I didn't tell you. I wanted to so many times, but... I was fucking embarrassed. And scared."

I raise my eyebrows. "Of what?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. How you'd react."

"My own father is gay, Zane," I remind him.

"Yeah, but we've known that forever. You grew up with that. And you and I have a very different relationship," he says, finally looking up towards my face. "I just... didn't want it to affect... you know... us." He sighs. "I don't want to lose you."

I give him a half-smile. I get what he's saying, and I want to comfort him, but I don't know how. I didn't have to console my father when he came out to me, because he wasn't ashamed of it. I don't know how to help Zane. Is there something specific I can say? Probably not. All I know is that I just need to be here for him, however he needs me to be. "You seriously thought I'd just drop you like that?"

"No, but... I don't know," he says. "It's that... irrational fear talking."

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell him, and he smiles, his relief incredibly apparent. "How long have you known?"

"That I'm gay?" he asks, and I nod. "Um... Early high school, maybe," he says.

My eyes go wide. "THAT long?!"

"Don't look at me like that," he says with a tiny laugh.

"God, I feel like such a shitty friend," I say, feeling weirdly sick to my stomach.

He looks almost amused. "Why?"

"Because I never fucking noticed," I say.

He smiles. "It's not on you, bro. I was good at hiding it."

I really do feel bad, though. Like I didn't do enough as a friend. He's been harboring this shame for a fucking decade... Maybe I could have been there for him in a better way, or could have done something to make him feel comfortable enough to tell me. This situation is asking me, what can I do better? "Still," I say.

He just nods a little bit, and we sit in silence for a while before Zane looks down at the pillow. "Maybe I should get dressed," he says, sitting up a bit

"Right," I say, glancing at his clothes on the floor. Then I laugh a little. "Sorry for cock-blocking you," I tell him.

I swear Zane starts blushing a bit. "Please don't mention it," he says.

"Seriously though," I say, "I only came back to grab some photos for Baba, so... Call up your friend or whatever."

But he just shakes his head. "I'm not really in the mood anymore. Way too embarrassed," he says with a small laugh, looking at me.

I can imagine so. Somehow getting caught with someone wearing your ass out seems a little bit more embarrassing than if the roles were reversed. Plus, I never expected to find Zane being the one taking it. He just looks like a top. "Well... Do you wanna be alone?" I ask him. When he looks at me curiously, I say that he can come back to Baba's with me and sleep over. "Up to you, though."

He thinks about it for a moment before nodding. "That'd be nice," he says, and he smiles gently at me. Then we both stand up. Before Zane can grab his clothes, though, I have to make my feelings apparent. So I step forward and wrap my arms around him. "Khalid--" he starts to say as I hug him.

But I cut him off. "I love you, man," I say, keeping the hug firm and close. "Don't ever forget that." After a moment I feel Zane's arms wrap around me. He's hesitant at first, but when I don't pull away, he gives me a tight squeeze in return. In appreciation.