Shy

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Shy

Copyright © 2012 by John Inman

Cover Art by Paul Richmond  

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62380-148-9

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

November 2012

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-62380-149-6

Dedication

For John B., as always.

Chapter 1

I
T
BEGAN
innocently enough.

A simple invitation to my ex’s birthday celebration. Just a few people. Nothing to get antsy about. I had purchased a new shirt that looked pretty good on me. My hair had been cut just the week before, so it wasn’t poking up like blowfish spines, as it tended to do when too long. I had a nice bottle of Chianti tied with a cute bow and a funny card to go along with it. Jerry would like that. It might even make Stanley, his current lover, jealous. That would be nice. Checking the mirror, I could see no zits on the rise, thank God. Dermatologically speaking, things were copacetic.

But then, out of nowhere, came a tingle of warning. Just a glimmer of trepidation at first, like a warning shot fired across the bow, followed by a distant spark of harsh light, growing brighter by the second. Then there it was, that old familiar lightning bolt. It smashed into my gut and quickly turned all those rosy hopes of having a good time at Jerry’s little get-together into a twisted pile of rubble smoldering at my feet. Mental thunder rumbled in the back of my head like an F5 tornado gathering on the horizon. A sudden fluttering in my upper colon made me blink. A sheen of perspiration gathered at my hairline. One right after the other, all the usual symptomatic suspects converged on me
en masse
. Nausea. Tingling fingertips. Cold toes. Knocking knees. Thumping heart.

Aw geez, I thought. Here we go again. And the party was still two days away!

Like a trumpeting elephant stomping through the apartment, tossing furniture and smashing everything in its path, the fear was impossible to ignore. In a matter of five seconds, I went from vague unease to sheer, unmitigated terror.

I couldn’t go to this party. I couldn’t. But how the hell was I going to get out of it? Jerry would be hurt. And even worse than that, his lover would be ecstatic. Of course, he would be even more ecstatic if I actually showed up, had a panic attack, went into convulsions in front of everybody, then threw up on the cat. God, I hate people. Well, no I don’t. I hate me. No, that’s not right either.

I just hate me and people thrown together. Yeah, that’s it.

That’s it
exactly.

And Stanley. I really hate Stanley.

I
WAS
first diagnosed with social anxiety disorder a year and a half ago. Imagine how surprised I was to learn that the extreme shyness from which I had suffered my whole life wasn’t really shyness at all, but something with an actual name. And an embarrassing name at that. SAD.

Sad is right. Why did they have to make it sound so gothic? Why couldn’t they call it something frivolous and lightly charming, like party pooper paranoia. “I have PPP,” I’d tell people. Doesn’t sound too bad. Sounds kind of perky. I can’t tell them I have SAD. It’s just too pathetic. I’m not a sad person. I’m a happy person.

As long as I never have to interact with anybody in any sort of social situation.

Like Jerry’s goddamn birthday party!

I squinted into the foggy bathroom mirror, and my eyeballs were bulging out of the front of my head like ping-pong balls. The body looked good though, I reflected, trying to take my mind off the panic. I stood there fresh out of the shower, dripping on the rug, gazing into the mirror with my buggy-assed eyes. I was nicely tanned from hours on the beach, my brown hair tipped platinum from sun and sea water. A little trail of fuzz wended a path down my flat stomach to a very attractive package, if I say so myself, uncut, nestling in a velvety pillow of light brown pubic hair. A smattering of soft hair was splashed across my chest, my nipples erect. (The bathroom was cold.) One of my ears was twitching. That was new.

I watched in the mirror as my fingers gently circled my penis and slid my foreskin back. I considered taking Tom Junior out for a little spin just to take my mind off the upcoming birthday party, but no sooner had I thought that than my telephone rang. With a twinge of regret, I stopped ogling myself and, still dripping in more ways than one, dragged my naked ass into the living room to pick it up.

“You’re panicking, aren’t you, Tom?” It was Jerry. “The party is two days away and you’re already going into meltdown mode.”

I wiped the sweat off my upper lip. My hands were shaking. I wasn’t sure if it was a residual symptom from my social anxiety attack, or guilt at having been caught with my pecker in my hand. “Why would I be panicking?”

Jerry and I were both twenty-seven years old. We had been lovers for five years. We broke up more than a year ago but still remained friends. I wanted him back. He didn’t want me. He knew me inside out. Literally. And I could close my eyes and recall the taste of every one of his bodily secretions. Sometimes, just to torture myself, I did exactly that.

(I know what you must be thinking.
Tom and Jerry?
These two were a couple and their names were
Tom and Jerry
?
Well, we did hear a lot about that, as you can imagine. Later in the relationship, however, we weren’t a cartoon cat and mouse anymore. We were cartoon magpies. Heckle and Jeckle. According to Jerry, I was Heckle, the more annoying of the two. My opinion differed.)

“Well?” Jerry asked again. “Are you panicked or not?”

I knew he would hear a tremor in my voice if I said anything, so I opted for silence. Dead silence. What a coward I am.

“Listen, Tom,” Jerry crooned. “Stanley says not to worry. He’ll make it as comfortable for you as possible.”

Right. Stanley. My old lover’s new squeeze. A gorgeous package of manhood enclosing a soul with all the warmth and compassion of a frozen bag of chicken legs. He’ll probably drag me up to the front of the room for charades the minute I walk in the door, then stand in the kitchen and giggle as I swallow my tongue and have a stroke while everyone is staring at me. He knows I hate charades. Stanley’s such a dick.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure he’s terribly concerned. Kiss him for me, won’t you? Then kick him in the nuts.”

Jerry laughed. “I wish you two would get along.”

“Keep wishing.”

“Have you taken your meds?”

“What, I don’t have enough problems with the shyness, but I have to be impotent too? Those pills put my dick to sleep. They put everything to sleep. I was a zombie. Well, no, zombies are interesting. They actually make movies about zombies.”

“You’re interesting.”

“Oh shut up.”

“And when your dick does wake up, it’s a wonder to behold. The term ‘sleeping giant’ comes to mind. I remember it fondly, your dick.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What do you want?”

“Just checking on you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay. I need a favor.”

“Stanley require a kidney?” A heart, more like it. Or maybe he needs a dick, since Jerry was remembering mine so fondly. I smiled at that thought. Stanley, dickless. I could die a happy man if I thought those two words were somehow permanently connected.

“No, dearest. We need someone to squire his brother around. Show him the town. He’s in the process of moving here from Indiana. For some reason he doesn’t get along with Stanley.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Now there’s a shocker. Is he gay?”

“As the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la.”

I guess I thought about it a little longer than Jerry was willing to wait.

“He’s cu-u-ute,” Jerry cooed, waving the two words in front of my face like a farmer dangling a carrot in front of a recalcitrant jackass. As if I could really be bribed so easily.

“
How
cute?” I asked. Okay, maybe I could. And before that thought could travel from the back of my brain to the front then dribble out my mouth, the old demon rose up and stopped me cold. Butterflies. Tingles. Annoying flashes of light. Shit.

“I’m sorry, Jerry. I’m not up to it. Right now it’s all I can do to come to grips with your birthday party. Besides, if he’s anything like Stanley I’d probably hate his guts right off the bat. You do know I hate Stanley, don’t you?”

I could hear fingernails tapping a tabletop through the receiver. I thought I could also hear eyeballs rolling around inside a human head like two marbles in a plastic bucket, but that might have been my imagination. “I’ve suspected it all along,” he droned, sarcastic as hell. “Look, Tom, the reason we’re asking you is because the two of you have something in common.”

“We both hate your lover?”

“No, jerkwad. He’s shy. According to Stanley, his brother is really, really shy.”

“How shy?”

“He’s had some therapy for social anxiety.”

“So he’s nuts.”

“Yeah, Tom, he’s nuts. Just like you. So you oughta get along. How about it?”

“And you say he’s cute?”

“For Christ’s sake, yes! He’s cute!”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-four.”

“What’s his name?”

“Frank.”

I nibbled a fingernail for about thirty seconds, gazed out the window, dusted a piece of lint off the phone table, and bent down to pet my Chihuahua, Pedro, who was peeing on my foot. I’d have to take another shower.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Great.” He sounded relieved, probably afraid he’d have to squire the guy around himself. I guess after five years with me he’d had enough of social anxiety disorder to last a lifetime. Jerry has never been shy in his life. Most sluts aren’t. Not that he’s a slut. Well, yes he is. He cheated on me with Stanley. That’s pretty slutty.

“But only once,” I firmly stated. “I’ll show the poor guy around town, maybe take him out to eat, show him where the bars are, the insane asylums, then I’m outta there. Deal?”