Recently, the wonderful OKW from Boy Meets Boy Reviews gave me some photo prompts for flash fics. I was supposed to pick one, but I loved them so much that I chose two. The first fic started off BMBR’s anniversary celebration and the second one will come later this month.
Here’s the link to the first one. As it turned out, though, that photo spoke to me–so much that I wrote a second, unrelated, fic too! So take a look at the photo, read the first story, and then come back here to read the second.
That Type of F’d
Wyatt had fucked himself. Again.
Not in a fun way, as when he spent a little quality Me Time with porn, toys, and extra batteries.
This was definitely fucking himself in a not-fun way. As in hooking up with a sexy scumbag, taking him home, and not noticing that the scumbag pocketed Wyatt’s spare house key. As in going to work in the morning, spending nine long hours in meetings, and returning home to find the scumbag had emptied the apartment. Furniture. Appliances. Electronics. Decor. Clothing. As in having to explain dumb life choices to Officer Alexis Villa, handsome and sympathetic but offering little hope for the return of Wyatt’s belongings.
As in waking up in the morning and discovering he’d somehow torn his only remaining pair of pants—and finding that the scumbag had finished all the milk.
That type of fucked.
“At least I have one good thing.” And that one good thing was Trumbo, the little yellow pup he’d adopted from the shelter to console himself the last time he’d fucked up his life. Trumbo now danced eagerly by the front door.
Wyatt groaned. The scumbag had taken the leash.
But because Trumbo would wait only so long, Wyatt walked to the bedroom closet and gazed into its maw. The only things left were the shoes he’d worn to work the previous day, a wadded-up tie the scumbag had overlooked, and a silver-sequined evening gown from Wyatt’s days working as a drag queen to pay his way through college.
He slipped the dress on, did a quick assessment in the mirror, and nodded. Even without a wig, makeup, and sparkly five-inch heels, it worked. “I can still rock this.”
Trumbo yipped in agreement.
With head high, billfold in hand, and Trumbo tucked under his arm, Wyatt left the apartment to buy milk.
At the nearby bodega, the clerk didn’t bat an eye at Wyatt’s attire. He petted Trumbo and listened with sympathy to Wyatt’s tale of woe. “That sucks, man. You gonna be okay?”
Wyatt sighed. “Yeah. Material goods are replaceable.”
“Sure, but I mean here and here.” The clerk tapped his own head and heart. “You’re a good guy. You’ll find something great when you least expect it.”
Wyatt was unconvinced, but the kind words comforted him.
Outside, he let Trumbo visit his favorite tree. He’d already anointed it on their way to the store but always liked a follow-up visit. Wyatt scooped him up again and continued walking. He had phone calls to make: to the office for a sick day and to the insurance company to file a claim, and maybe he could get a couple of outfits delivered by the afternoon.
“That’s fancy for seven in the morning.”
Wyatt started to scowl at the grinning man who blocked his way. But then he recognized Officer Alexis—gorgeous in uniform and equally handsome now in a T-shirt and running shorts.
Wyatt found himself smiling back. “People should celebrate surviving personal disasters. Formal wear’s the only way to go.”
“Good choice. It looks great on you.” The heat in Alexis’s gaze suggested that wasn’t false praise.
Wyatt decided to take a small risk, because why the fuck not? “Exercise gear is a good look on you.”
“Celebrating my own disaster survival. The divorce from my schmuck ex-husband was final last week.”
Alexis’s laughter rumbled warm and deep. “Tell you what. Let’s drop off that milk at your place and then discuss additional celebrations over a cup of coffee. Zia, the barista at that café up the street, makes a mean cup of joe. It’s a great morning to sit outside and enjoy the weather.”
“This is all I have to wear.” Wyatt gestured at his dress.
“Then I’m gonna have the best-dressed coffee date in the city.”
Wyatt’s heart skipped happily as he, Officer Alexis Villa, and Trumbo hurried toward the apartment. Maybe Wyatt hadn’t fucked himself after all. Maybe this time he’d accidentally done everything right.