“So you just left?” Lydia cried. Brandon had spilled the entire messy affair of Anthony’s garage in the Michaelis workroom, which apparently had restored Lydia to confidant status. She eagerly and seamlessly stepped back into the role.

“Obviously, I just left. What else was I supposed to do?” Brandon shoved a tasseled drapery tie back into a drawer in irritation.

“Brandon, my dear,” Lydia said, her voice dropping into a soft patronizing voice she seemed to reserve exclusively for him, “that was an invitation.” Brandon turned to look at her, and she put her hands in the air as if to signify the statement was self-evident.

“An invitation for what?” Brandon said this as though this was preposterous, but truly he hanging on her every word. He would never admit it, but Lydia had an uncanny knack for reading people.

“To explain it all to him. To give him—“ she fumbled a moment, looking to the ceiling for the words, “—permission…to be who is really is.” Brandon shot her an expression that said “that’s lame,” but it was halfhearted, and Lydia knew it. “Don’t look at me that way,” she countered, reading his mind. “You know I’m right.” She casually picked at an onyx bookend on the counter, giving Brandon time to let her words sink in.

“You think I should go talk to him.” It was more of a statement than a question.

Lydia looked at him squarely. “I think you should stop acting like you’re the injured party here. You aren’t on this one. I get that he yelled. But he’s the one who needs someone to talk to him.” Brandon sighed. “If your plan is to sit around waiting for him to come around…well, he might not. It’s your turn this time.” Brandon stared at a carpet tile for a minute.

“Go,” she finally pushed. I’ll cover for you here.”

---

Brandon had never been Anthony’s office before. He stood at the elevator and stared at the cube farm ahead of him, rows of pale blue cloth covered walls with chrome trim bathed in a checkerboard of LED lights and ceiling tiles. It was one of the most depressing rooms he had ever seen, and he had seen a lot.

An enthusiastic middle-aged woman with a purple pixie cut and squat-framed glasses peered at him from behind a counter. “Can I do something for you, hun?” She had the voice of a pack-a-dayer. Brandon, thrust his hands into his pockets and tried to be cool as he moseyed over to her.

“I’m here to see Anthony Henderson,” he said softly.

“Anthony?” she repeatedly loudly. She ruffled through some papers. “Is he expecting you, hun?”

“No, actually. And I don’t want to disturb him if he’s busy.”

Purple hair clicked her computer mouse a few times, the glare of her screen reflecting off her glasses. “Look’s like he has a meeting in an hour,” she announced, looking over the frames at him. “Want me to call down to his office?”

That was the last thing Brandon wanted. “Actually, would it be okay if I just stopped by? I—“ he faltered. “I kind of want to surprise him.”

Purple hair beamed at this knowingly. After a few directions, she pointed him in the direction of his office, which was along a bank of windowed rooms to the right of the cube farm.

It took Anthony a moment to register Brandon’s presence when he walked through the door. He looked up from his screen and blinked for a few moments.

“What are you doing here?” His voice registered restrained surprise. It wasn’t the first time that Brandon had witnessed a change mannerisms that accompanied his environment. Anthony was somewhat of a chameleon, dropping his “hey, bros” and shoulder clapping just as quickly as he could change from Vans to loafers.

“Mind if I come in?” Brandon asked softly from the doorway as Anthony rose from his chair.

“Yeah, yeah…of course.” Anthony hurriedly whisked some stacks of folders from his desk, and pulled the door shut behind Brandon. Brandon’s eyes glanced around the room. Like the cube farm outside, it was spartan and depressing, and wholly unlike Anthony—at least, the Anthony he knew best. This Anthony seemed to be playing a role, although his character was convincing. Brandon surveyed Anthony’s crisp white shirt, olive tie, olive pants, olive herringbone socks, and mahogany loafers. It was remarkable to think what those elegantly dressed feet were capable of doing to him.

Anthony tucked his tie against his chest as he lowered himself back into his chair, gesturing an invitation for Brandon to sit in the chair opposite the desk. “What can I do for you?” he asked, sounding like he was preparing for an insurance-related conversation.

“I came to apologize,” Brandon explained. He surprised himself in saying it. “I pushed you the other day, and it was wrong of me.” Anthony shifted uncomfortably behind the desk.

“Brandon—“ he started.

“No, let me finish,” Brandon gently insisted. “I have shared a lot about myself with you. Probably more than I have with anyone else. I guess that made me assume that you were willing to do the same. That assumption—well, I shouldn’t have made it.” Anthony looked down.

“I can’t do this here, Brandon,” he said quietly with a small shake of his head.

Brandon narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see someone staring through the glass at them. No one was. He turned back to Anthony, who had raised his gaze to meet his.

“I appreciate your coming. And the apology. Really, I do.” His tone was soft and genuine. “But I’ve kind of worked hard to keep this place separate from…everything else…in my life.” He spoke in carefully measured words.

Brandon nodded understandingly. “I don’t know that anyone would get that better than I do.” He looked at Anthony, who had the same tired look in his eyes that he did before he exploded in the garage a few days before. “But I also know,” he continued,” that trying to wall off or bottle up a part of your life doesn’t work. It eats at you. And Anthony—I see you being eaten up.”

Anthony remained quiet, shut off. Brandon knew better than to push. “I’ll go.” He stood, but paused as he reached for the door. “Hey, I care about you. And I think I see you. This place?” he indicated the totality of the insurance company by nodding at the glass wall over his shoulder, “It isn’t all there is to you. I hope we can talk more later—I’m there for you if you want to.” He turned toward the door, but having second thoughts, stepped toward Anthony’s desk and leaned over it, lowering his voice. “And Anthony, you’re sexy as hell in those socks and loafers.” He flashed a smile and winked at Anthony, whose eyebrows had shot up in surprise. Before Anthony had a moment to say a word, Brandon left.

---

Brandon was just peeling the film off of a cauliflower crust frozen pizza when there was a rap at the steel door to the loft. He padded across the pine floors and slid the door aside, expecting to see Dell with more mail that had been misplaced in his box. Instead, Anthony stood in the lobby, still in his work clothes, a tan, lightweight trench coat draping from his square shoulders.

“Hey,” Brandon said in surprised greeting.

“Hey, bro,” Anthony replied, his usual outside-of-work greeting returning, but in the same somber tone from his office a few hours earlier. “Mind if I come in?”

Brandon led him to the living area, where the two took the same seats they had occupied during Anthony’s last uncomfortable visit to the loft several months earlier. Anthony’s eyes flitted to the partially unwrapped meal on the countertop.

“You about to make your dinner?”

Brandon waved it off. “Cauliflower crust pizza. It can wait.”

A weak grin played at Anthony’s lips. “That sounds like a pretty pathetic meal.” Brandon smiled, but didn’t reply, hoping the silence would spur Anthony to speak. When, after a moment, Anthony did speak again, it was not to say anything Brandon had expected. “Do you still have my shoes?” Brandon raised his eyebrows in question. “The Lebron Soldiers,” Anthony clarified.

Brandon blinked. “Well, yeah. I do.”

Anthony nodded slowly at the floor, as though calculating some unknown value in this answer. “Why?” he asked, looking up and squinting at Brandon.

“You know why.”

“I don’t,” Anthony objected.

Brandon started to protest the question, but stopped himself. If he was asking Anthony to be honest with him, it was time to face the music himself. “Because they were yours,” he said simply. “And if I can’t be close to you, I can be close to them.”

Anthony exhaled loudly through his nose. He leaned forward in his chair and tented his fingers between his legs. “You really like me, don’t you?” he asked the rug.

“You know I do,” Brandon replied softly. He took a leap. “Anthony, I think you like me, too. And I get that you aren’t ready to admit that to yourself, least of all to me.” Anthony looked up, but he didn’t argue. “Embracing something that you learn about yourself doesn’t mean that everything else is a lie, you know,” Brandon offered. “It took me a long time to realize that. In fact, it makes everything else…better. Sharper. I think you look at your marriage, your job…you think admitting that you have feelings for me—and you do, Anthony, I know you do—you think that makes everything else a sham. But these aspects of our lives aren’t mutually exclusive. My thing—my fetish,” damn, he still tripped over that word, “is a part of who I am. It’s been a bit messy since I’ve faced it, I’ll admit. But it’s also been a huge relief. It’s been like a piece of the puzzle that I finally found and put in place.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” Anthony admitted in a low voice. Brandon slid off the couch and knelt on the floor in front of him.

“Then don’t think about it too much. Just go with what feels right, and see where it takes you.” Brandon put a hand around the back of Anthony’s right loafer and another around his ankle. The silky herringbone sock felt amazing on his fingers. He slid Anthony’s foot from the shoe. Anthony was surprised, but watched without protest. Brandon brought the loafer to his face and breathed in. The scent was beautiful—leathery and a little salty from Anthony’s feet. Anthony raised his eyebrows as he observed this behavior.

Brandon cradled Anthony’s warm foot in his hands, feeling the moist warmth in his palms. He was rock hard already. He laid Anthony’s foot on his crotch and looked up at him suggestively.

“Really?” Anthony said, as though this was hardly the time.

“Trust me,” Brandon said softly. Anthony sat still. But just as Brandon was beginning to think he had put himself way out on that shaky limb needlessly, he felt the pressure of Anthony’s heel on his cock. Brandon closed his eyes and savored the feeling. He reached down and unzipped his pants, allowing the stretchy fabric of his underwear to blossom out under the tension from his erection.

Anthony slid his foot out of his other loafer and placed a foot on either side of Brandon’s shaft, curling the soles of his socked feet around it. Gently, he raised his legs and up and down, the silky socks gently rubbing against the underwear fabric. Brandon peeled off the next layer, feeling Anthony’s socks now directly against him. Brandon wasn’t the only one breathing heavily now. He looked up and noticed that Anthony was not just watching in amusement as he might have in the past, but seemed engaged. Intense.

Brandon’s juices began to soak into the socks, dark spots forming as Anthony rubbed harder and faster. Brandon moaned. “Can I?” he asked. “Can I cum on these?”

Anthony swallowed hard. “I want you to,” he whispered. That sent Brandon over the cliff. He grasped Anthony’s feet with his hands and squeezed them against his pulsing cock, semen sliding down onto the beautiful socks. The insides of both of Anthony’s feet were soaked with the cream. Anthony’s feet gently massaged the head to extract the last of it, Brandon whimpering at the sensation. Anthony lifted his feet and slid his cum soaked socks back into his loafers, closing his eyes at the sensation.

Brandon pulled up his underwear and sat up, putting his hands on Anthony’s knees. He observed the sticky bulge in Anthony’s pants. Gently, he dug his finger into Anthony’s fly and pulled the zipper down. Anthony opened his eyes and looked down, a moment of alarm crossing his face.

“Relax,” Brandon said softly. “Relax, and enjoy.”

Brandon slid his hand into the opening, placing his palm against Anthony’s hot, sticky underwear. Anthony gasped and squirmed in the chair. Brandon glanced up and smiled, then went to work, rotating his palm around the head of Anthony’s penis. Anthony’s breath caught in his throat. Then Brandon slid his hand down beneath Anthony and cupped his balls in his hand, gently squeezing them. He could feel a fresh hot dribble of precum issue through the underwear and onto his wrist.

“God, you are so sexy,” he said and he worked his hand back up Anthony’s shaft. Anthony’s face was one of tortured ecstasy. His shaky, heavy nasal breathing turned into low groans as Brandon ran his fingertip lightly around the head.

“I can’t,” Anthony whispered with closed eyes.

“You’re going to,” Brandon gently commanded. Using a single finger, he stroked the underside of Anthony’s shaft until he cried out, a rush of hot ooze suddenly trembling over his fingertip. Brandon removed his hand, rubbing Anthony’s cum between his fingers. He desperately wanted to smell it, to taste it, but he was aware it might be too soon for Anthony to handle that.

Panting, Anthony looked at Brandon. What was his expression? Was it horror?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Brandon asked, sitting back on his heels and zipping up his own pants.

Anthony put his head against the back of the chair and looked up, bringing his hands to his forehead. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

Brandon put a hand on his knee. “Hey. Look at me.”

Anthony brought his hands down and looked at Brandon with a pained expression on his face. “Don’t focus on now. How did you feel one minute ago?” Anthony stared, still breathing heavily. “It was pretty fucking great, wasn’t it?” Anthony closed his eyes, and nodded. “That’s the real part. This thing you feel now? That’s the lie. Trust me.”

Brandon and Anthony sat in silence for several minutes. Anthony finally broke the silence. “I don’t think I’m gay. I really don’t. I’ve known for a while that I enjoy the idea of driving people nuts. It’s why I started the YouTube gig. “ He looked Brandon in the eye. “But when you are turned on—when you lose control…it does things to me. Crazy things.” Brandon waited a beat before responding.

“I suggest you stop trying to square things with labels like ‘gay.’ You’re you, whatever it is. And if it just so happens I’m the only guy in the world who turns you on, I’m okay with that,” he added, smiling.

Anthony’s trademarked grin appeared for the first time that day. “Damn, bro. That was amazing shit. Please tell me we aren’t having cauliflower pizza after that!”