Suber: The Uber of Sex (Queer Erotica Short Stories)

Part 12: Jaymie

"You don't feel anything. You're like a fucking robot. All you ever want is sex."

Jaymie took the assault in silence, showing nothing. They were good at that. It was a talent they had always thought made them strong, cool-headed, resilient. But right now it just made them feel like Cayden was right.

"You think that all your nonbinary bullshit makes you cool and interesting, but really you're just another user." There were tears in Cayden's eyes, tears he kept blinking back and rubbing away. His voice was tight, trying hard not to break into a sob. 

The round face Jaymie knew, so often smiling, so often laughing, so often sighing in ecstasy, was gone. He was like a different person.

It always happened eventually.

And this is why I don't date. All the bullshit. People are so tiresome. The thought was venom bleeding from the cut he made in Jaymie's heart. "I'm sorry," they said quietly. "I thought we were on the same page."

"Oh yeah? What page is that? You treat me like a fucking booty call forever?"

I thought you wanted sex too. Why didn't you tell me? But maybe he had, in that cryptic, maddening dating-speak that everyone seemed to know but them. "I said from the start I only wanted to be friends. I never said anything different."

The look in his eyes flared with anger, fresh tears welling. "You never wanted to be friends, you just wanted to fuck."

"Well." There was something else they were supposed to say. "That too."

His eyes narrowed, tears spilling down her cheeks. "You," he growled the word through his teeth, and Jaymie invisibly braced from another cut "are a fucking sociopath. You don't feel anything for anyone and you never will. You don't need a friend or a boyfriend—you need a therapist and a, a hooker!"

He turned, snatched his coat off the back of the chair by the door and left. The door slammed, shaking the walls. Then there was silence.

Jaymie sat on the couch, looking down at the carpet. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to." They weren't sure how many—seconds? Minutes?—passed. Standing up, they sighed. Their chest felt tight and heavy, their stomach knotted. Every step towards the kitchen felt like wading through water. You are a fucking sociopath.

Cayden was a friend. They laughed together, talked together, went on walks, had dinners, and even went on vacations together. Sure, they kissed and had sex, too. What had happened? Somewhere, friends stopped being enough.

Maybe he's right. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm just broken.

Jaymie stood at the sink. There was a glass of water in their hand. They didn't remember filling it. "No more," they said softly, and took a sip. The silence was so heavy. Everything hurt. "No more."

#

"Do you think I'm a sociopath?"

A look of wry pity came over Clare's face. "No, Jaymie, you're not a sociopath. You just haven't found the right one yet."

A deep drink from the amber ale covered Jaymie's exasperation. The right one. People said that as if dating were putting a puzzle together. When, in fact, there was nothing logical or sensible about it. If there were, someone would've figured out a better matchmaking system by now.

"I don't think I'm going to date anymore," they declared. "Or... whatever the hell I have been doing. I don't like it. It's pointless. It's frustrating."

Clare gave a patient smile. "You say that every time. You just have to be a little more giving. Take her to the movies once in a while. You over-complicate things."