Manties in a Twist (The Subs Club Book 3) (21 page)

One night I made the mistake of clicking on a link about burdizzo clamps. “Ryaaaaannnn!” I called.

He emerged from the bedroom. “Yeah?”

“Sometimes pony players have pretend vet examinations and sometimes they use these clamps that get used on real horses to crush their balls and make them fall off, except they don’t actually crush the human ponies’ balls, but they pretend to with the burrito clamps and it’s horrifying.”

He didn’t quite catch all that, so he came to read over my shoulder. He made some faces as he read. “Those are not called burrito clamps.”

“Bur-donka-donka whatever clamps. I don’t care.”

“So are you saying you want to get fake gelded?”

“
No
. I am saying that if you ever even think about gelding Thunder Canyon, he will trample you.”

Ryan put an arm around me. “I vow to keep my pony intact.”

“Forever,” I said.

“Forever,” he agreed.

Later, when he was locked away in the bedroom again with his drawing program, I was looking online for more pony play info.

That’s when I found the Pegasus Sheath.

A seven-inch sheath shaped like a horse penis, which could be worn with or without an erection. The idea that Thunder Canyon wouldn’t have one was unfathomable to me. Plus it was on sale. Plus it was black, so it matched Friesians.

I glanced at the bedroom door. How freaking surprised would Ryan be? I put it in my cart and ordered it, and then spent the next fifteen minutes repeating the words “Pegasus Sheath” in my head and snickering.

Dave assembled Miles and me at the duplex for a top-secret meeting on Tuesday while Gould was at work. “I wanted to talk to you about Gould’s birthday, which is now two weeks and six days away.”

Shit
. I’d forgotten. And from the expression on Dave’s face, he knew I’d forgotten.

“He doesn’t want anything big,” Dave went on. “But I was thinking maybe we could throw him just a medium-sized turning-thirty party.”

Miles narrowed his eyes. “But he’s not turning thirty.”

“I know. But he’s been getting a lot of crap from his parents lately about how if he’s not married by thirty, his ancestors are gonna start, like, rotating in their graves like rotisserie chickens, and I think it’s getting to him.”

“Do they know he’s gay?” I asked.

“He’s not. He’s bi or queer or whatever he’s going by now. And I don’t think they care if he marries a man or a woman, they just want him married.”

Miles sighed. “He should know better than to listen to that nonsense.”

Dave shook his head. “It’s not that easy, dude. My mom tells me about all her friends who are becoming grandmas, and it, like, makes me want to instantly have a baby just so she won’t stop loving me. Anyway, he thinks his thirtieth birthday is gonna be completely miserable because his family’s gonna be judging him. So I thought we could throw him a really fun thirtieth two years in advance, without his relatives around, to counteract the real thing.”

“That sounds awesome,” I said.

“What if he
is
married by thirty?” Miles asked.

“Then you can never have too many pleasant thirtieth birthday parties.” Dave slid a card across the table to us. “I got this for us to sign.”

The card was for a special bar mitzvah boy.

Miles frowned at it. “Classy.”

“I know, right? He gets me ‘For the world’s best grandma’ cards every year, so this is only fair.”

Miles signed the card, then passed it to me. “Drix and I can make a cake.” He took out his phone. “I’ll let him know.”

I looked up from the card. “I can sing him a Marilyn Monroe happy birthday.”

“Cool.” Dave nodded. “I haven’t decided on the exact theme, but I figure we’ll go to dinner somewhere that serves gluten-free beer. And obviously, everyone’s welcome. Partners, friends. Friends of partners.” He looked at me and grinned. “Even Ryan, if he can behave himself.”

That kinda gut-punched me, but by the time I even got my thoughts together, Dave was talking again.

“We’re gonna plan the greatest non-thirtieth birthday ever for one Mr. R . . .” He stopped. Squinted. “Oh my God. What is Gould’s first name? Robert or Roger?”

I hesitated. I’d never called him anything but Gould. And yeah, pretty sure some drunken night years ago I’d asked him what his full name was, but hell if I could remember. “Uh . . .”

Dave’s mouth hung kinda open. “This is ridiculous. He’s our best friend. His name is on my lease. I
know
what it is. I’m just having this epic brain fart.”

Miles raised his eyebrows and continued typing on his phone. “They say your memory begins to deteriorate after age twenty-five.”

Dave waved at him, frustrated. “Miles, you have a beautiful mind. Is it Robert or Roger?”

“I think it’s Robert, but I’m not sure. He was introduced to me as Gould. Even Hal called him that. Who’s his mail addressed to?”

“Mr. R. Gould.”

Dave glanced at each of us. “Seriously, nobody knows his first name? And we’ve been friends with him for how long?”

“Forty-seven years.” I tried to draw a nice heart next to my message on the card, but it looked like a butt.

“Nobody has been friends with him for forty-seven years.”

“If you count past lives.”

“Nothing you’re saying is real.”

“I think it’s Robert,” Miles said.

Dave sighed, drumming the table. “It’s either Robert or Roger. How can his last name be so Jewish when his first name is so something you would name your cat to be ironic?”

“What about his parents?” Miles tried. “We’ve definitely heard them say his name. Right?”

Dave shrugged. “I don’t know. His mom used to take us shopping at Kohl’s and be like—” he put on a British accent “—‘Robert, do you need any drink-specific glassware?’ Or maybe it was ‘Roger.’”

I slid the card back to him. “Dude, his parents aren’t British.”

“I know. A lot of people are British in my mind, though. Like Miles.”

Miles rolled his eyes.

“I’m gonna call him.” Dave took out his phone and dialed. I could hear the ringing on the other end, and then, faintly, Gould’s hello.

Dave leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Hi, R. Gould?” he said, in a fake polite tone. “It’s your friend David. Yes, David Holbrook. I live with you.” He listened for a moment. “It’s okay—I’m told I’m not very memorable.” Another pause. “What am I wearing?” He glanced down. “Uhhh . . . your clothes. I dress in your clothes while you’re gone and have tea parties with myself, pretending to be you.”

He listened some more. “Wonderful. Anyway, I wondered if you could solve a dilemma we’re having. And please don’t think I’m a bad friend. But what the fuck is your first name?”

A pause. “Is it Robert? Or Roger?”

Another pause.

“Miles and Kamen don’t know either.”

I couldn’t quite make out what Gould was saying, but I could tell he was laughing.

Dave slumped. “Pleeeaaaase just tell us?” He made a face at Miles and me as he listened. “Rathbone? That is
not
a real name.”

He placed a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “He’s being difficult.” Into the phone, he said, “It’s Robert, seriously? See, now I can’t tell whether you’re screwing with me, or . . . I see. Well, I can’t wait until you come home and hold me until deep in the night.”

He laughed at whatever Gould said next.

“Gould! I don’t even— What does that even
mean
?” His jaw dropped. “Oh dear God. Is that seriously a thing people do? Okay. Then yes. You can do that to me when you get home.”

Dave hung up slowly. Glanced at Miles and me. “He pretends he’s all innocent, but he’s the craziest mofo of us all. Anyway, he says Robert, but he may be fucking with us, since he seems to think it’s highly amusing that we don’t know.”

I remembered something all of a sudden. “It’s Robert.”

Dave smoothed a hand over his hair. “You’re sure?”

“I saw it on a document.”

It had been on Gould’s hospital release form, which I’d seen when I picked him up. I remembered watching Gould sign it and thinking his wrist looked weirdly skinny. His face too. He’d been so worried about being overweight for as long as I’d known him that it was surprising to realize he must’ve lost a lot really fast. I remembered thinking I should hug him, but not doing it because . . . I don’t know. He seemed delicate. Like he’d fall apart if anyone touched him. And I was pissed at him, a little, I guess. Which wasn’t fair, but I was.

“Ah well,” Dave said after a moment. “I guess it doesn’t matter much. We’re just gonna call him Gould forever.” He paused. “But it’s nice to know.”

That night while Ryan was in the shower, I looked online for any local pony info or events in the area besides PetPlayFest. It would be really cool to get to watch some other people do pony play before I had to do it. But all I found was some pony munch thing through a Fet group, and it turned out to be a couple of hours away.

Since I was on Fet for the first time in months, I stalked my friends to see what they were up to. Gould had joined some poly group, so hey. Dave had nothing new in his feed. D had put up some quote about the power of silence. Miles had written some wall post about true love that was full of fancy words. Maya had recently commented in, like, eighteen discussion groups.

And Ricky . . .

Ricky’s profile said he was in a relationship, which had been the case last time I’d checked a few months ago. Except now his status read:
Belongs to: SayImADreamer
.

It took me a sec to register. ’Cause I’d heard that username before, but I couldn’t think where. And then a memory came to me of the Subs Club’s earliest days. Gould telling us that Bill Henson was back on Fetmatch under a new name.

“No pictures of his face, no mention of who he is. He’s SayImADreamer. I thought people should know.”

I stared at the status for a while longer.

“What the fuck?” I whispered. Then I said it aloud to Collingsworth, who was snoring in a corner of the room.

I grabbed my phone and called Dave. It rang a bunch, and I started to worry Dave was at work. But he finally picked up. “Hey, buddy.”

“I think Ricky’s playing with Bill.”

“What?” It was a “what” like he hadn’t heard me, or hadn’t processed what I’d said.

“Get on Fet. It says he’s in a relationship with SayImADreamer.”

“Did you say Ricky’s playing with Bill?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Look,” I insisted.

I listened to the click of the keyboard. Eventually Dave came back on. “It’s on Bill’s profile too. It says Ricky
belongs
to him.” His voice was kind of . . . annoyed, almost, which was not what I’d expected. I’d expected him to go apeshit. Or maybe, like, cry or something.

I scrolled up and down through Ricky’s profile, like maybe his status would change if I kept doing that. “So this is why he didn’t want to tell us who he was seeing.”

Dave was quiet for a few seconds. “I’m going to hang up with you and call him.”

“Hold on. We can’t just jump on him about this.”

“Why the
hell
would he do this?” he snapped. “He knows what Bill did. He
knows
Bill’s not safe!”

“I don’t know.”

“Last year he was all, ‘Oh I’m so scared I’ll die if I do BDSM, and now he’s fucking
playing with Bill
?”

“We should definitely talk to him. But we need, like . . . finesse.”

“Bullshit. I’m calling him.”

“
No
,” I said firmly. “You’re not his dad. You can’t forbid him to date someone you don’t like. Think first. Isn’t that what you and D are working on? Thinking first?”

All I heard for a moment was Dave’s breathing. Then: “Could you talk to him?”

Whuuut?
“Me?”

“I’m overbearing. But you’re very innocuous, and he loves you.”

“I don’t . . . Dave, I seriously don’t know if this is any of our business.”

“What are you
talking
about?” he asked coldly.

I heard the shower turn off, and I took the phone into the front hall. “Ricky’s an adult. And like you said, he
knows
the risks.”