Dating Rules and Pretty Fools Chapter 1

Dating Rules And Pretty Fools – Ch. 1

By Laura S. Fox

Gay Erotica

Intended for Mature Audiences Only

This story will contain graphic depictions of sexual intercourse, strong language and it is not meant for readers who are less than 18 years of age.

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Summary:

To have someone to love is one of life's greatest gifts, his grandma used to say. However, what grandma didn't know, and Otis didn't have the heart to tell her, was that getting there in this day and age required going through a painful phase called dating. Something he's not very good at, to put it lightly.

However, when someone moves into an apartment a few doors down from his, Otis begins to see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Because, based on the impressive number of young men going in and out that place, inhabited by an impressive man displaying equally impressive sleeve tattoos on both arms, that must be someone who knows an awful lot about dating.

Otis wants a bit of advice. Just a bit.

Chapter One – The Ugly Duckling

One of the stories he'd enjoyed the most as a kid – and grandma always obliged him by reading it to him on the days when he felt sick and missed school – was that of the ugly duckling turning into a beautiful swan. The ardent question on his mind had always been if such things happened in real life. Could an ugly duckling turn into a beautiful swan? Grandma never really answered that question. She just caressed his hair and kissed his forehead, to check if his fever had finally gone down, her kind smile never leaving her face.

Well, as an adult, he knew the answer to that one. Things rarely changed, and, if they did, they took a significant amount of work. Otis stared into the mirror and painstakingly arranged the long bangs of his hair so they fell over his left eye, to obscure the fact that it was smaller than the right one. Plastic surgery could do a lot of things today, wondrous things, but fixing that kind of defect wasn't on the list, or at least his research had led nowhere on that particular topic. Not that he had the money necessary for such complex procedures anyway, but it felt good to dream that fixing his face was a possibility.

He sighed as he finally managed to make his straight hair settle into some kind of draping over his smaller eye. The color of his hair didn't help the overall effect of his face on people, either. It always looked like a hair-dyeing appointment at the salon was long overdue. Otis had never set foot in one of those, but that didn't make it less worrisome that the roots of his mane always remained dark, while the rest of it was an unnatural – that was what people called it – dirty ash blond. After reading dozens of magazines abounding in beauty advice, he had ended up more dumbfounded than before. Maybe all that advice didn't apply to men.

And his strange light blue irises were surrounded by such dark limbal rings that whenever he stared too long at someone – or just looked at them with no particular interest – people just averted their eyes as if he intended to curse them or something. That staring habit of his had gotten him into plenty of trouble in school, and teachers had warned him that people would start calling him weird if he didn't cut it out. Apparently, he didn't need to blink as much as normal people. He tried to remember that himself and blink intentionally, as often as possible.

He shrugged and pulled his shoulders back, but good posture didn't fix the fact that he had almost no meat on his bones. Any clothes he wore ended up looking like they were hanging on a hanger. People complained about body fat percentage and whatnot, but was there such a thing as a meat percentage? He would have to look that up online, but later. Now, he needed to bring out the last of his grandma's things from the old place that had been in storage since forever.

***

The delivery man was already waiting outside and gave him a short, annoyed look while mumbling something under his breath. He handed Otis the tablet to sign for receiving the items, threw another look around, this time a disgusted one, and got back into his vehicle, leaving him on the sidewalk with a white credenza, a large mirror, and a handbag full of personal items. Otis considered his predicament for a little bit, but then, as always, came up with a solution. He wrapped the rope he had come equipped with through the spaces in the ornate frame of the mirror, the one his grandma had loved so much, and created a harness. Stepping into it carefully, he finally hiked the mirror up on his back, and then grabbed the handbag. That left him with only one hand for the credenza. He could just drag it along. As long as he got everything into the elevator, he would be fine.

Getting back into the building seemed like a real adventure, though. On more than one occasion, he feared that he might turn the beautiful mirror into many useless pieces, and while breaking pots and plates was a sign of good luck in some cultures, it appeared that breaking a mirror was in the exactly opposite category for most people.

He noticed that there was someone already waiting in front of the elevator. A man, at least six foot three tall, and his body obviously possessing an optimal meat percentage. And the meat was well shaped and, as far as one could tell from a distance, covered with tattoos. On both arms. He wore a tight white t-shirt and regular cut jeans that hung on his hips just right. Otis looked at him from behind and then noticed the earbuds. The man was probably listening to music or podcasts. He was probably bettering himself right now by listening to self-improvement advice. His hair was cut short and close to the head, and Otis admired the shape of the back of his head, too. He shivered just imagining how it would feel to move his hand over that short dark hair. Would it be like petting a shorthair cat?

The elevator arrived at the ground floor and the doors opened. The man stepped inside, absorbed in his self-improvement book, and turned, allowing Otis an unimpeded view of his front, too. The tight white t-shirt stretched over a chiseled chest – words like chiseled made Otis's tongue feel funny, slightly ticklish – and his abdomen looked flat, not skinny. What was that expression? Washboard abs? Otis didn't like it much. He didn't see himself rubbing soapy laundry over that man's abdomen. Or anyone else's, for that matter.

The man's was frowning in thought, but he had a very admirable face. His jawline was square, as it should be, and he had a straight nose and thick, dark eyebrows. Everything on that face was intense, strong, remarkable.

Otis continued to watch as the man reached for the control panel without looking at what he was doing. That had to be a very interesting podcast or book. Just as the doors began to close, the man looked up and saw Otis standing there. His brows unfurrowed into an expression of surprise, and now they were visible his eyes were revealed to be almost as dark as the hair on his head. He quickly shot one arm forward and stopped the doors from closing. Then, he touched one of his earbuds. "Hello there. Are you coming?" he asked in a deep rough voice.

That was another thing Otis found ticklish – voices like that. They were mesmerizing voices, indeed.

The man waved his free hand. "Hello?" he called out loudly.

Otis shook his head. The man was talking to him, obviously. "Yes, thank you," he shouted back, just as loudly.

One of the dark thick eyebrows quirked in question. "Just moving in?"

Otis began his march while dragging the credenza after him, as the man half-stepped outside to hold the door and make room for him to get inside. "No. I just had some beautiful things I needed to bring in."

"Let me help you," the stranger offered, and when he moved, Otis caught a glimpse of his neck.

He touched his self-consciously. In that respect, he was something of a crane, and a crane was a far shot from a beautiful swan, while this man... well, this man had the strong neck of a beautiful mammal, like a horse or something similar.

The man quickly moved the credenza inside first and took the handbag from Otis, placing it on top. He then stopped and threw Otis an odd look. It had to be because of the mirror and the way it hung on his back, but, at this point, he couldn't help it. He slipped inside, brushing unwittingly against the stranger. Now that he was in, it appeared that there wasn't any room left, but the stranger didn't seem to care and pushed Otis gently but firmly against the credenza until the doors closed behind him.

"What floor?"

Grandma always said that being polite opened doors, so Otis decided to show that he knew how to do that. "I'm imposing," he said. "Please, let's go to your floor first."

It was difficult to carry on a conversation like that because he was staring directly at the man's throat. To look him in the eye wasn't exactly an option because he would have to tip his head back a lot.

"No," the stranger said shortly. "Your floor?"

"Fifth," Otis said, deciding not to insist since every moment spent like this, cramped and inadvertently touching each other, was a moment that was not good for his overall state of mind.

"What a coincidence. That's also my floor. Also, you'll need help getting that out."

What a nice young man, his grandma would say. "Thank you. You are a nice young man," he said.

Hot air blew over the crown of his head, disturbing the bangs covering his smaller eye. The man had sighed, and it was not clear what he could mean by that. Was he annoyed by having to go up to his floor, cramped like that? Otis looked down by reflex.

"And what are you? Eighty?" the man asked in his gruff pleasant voice.

"I am twenty-two," Otis replied.

"Then, you're the young man here," the man commented. "We're here."

The elevator doors opened. Otis allowed the stranger to handle his belongings while he held the doors open.

"What's the number of your apartment?" the stranger asked.

Otis felt himself stiffen. Grandma was also adamant about not giving out personal information to strangers, mainly because there were so many scammers in this world. However, she also said that there were also plenty of nice people, and this tattooed man seemed to belong to the latter group. "508," he said, as soon as his deliberations regarding the stranger's intentions were over.

Without being asked, the man took it upon himself to take the credenza in his arms and carry it to Otis's door. He placed it down carefully and then gestured for the mirror, too. "Should I take that from you?"

"No, it's okay," Otis said. "You've done enough already for a stranger, which I am to you." He couldn't quite get over the fact that he had annoyed the other somehow, the way he had made him sigh while they were riding the elevator. That meant he couldn't expect any more favors or else he'd be in trouble soon. People always got annoyed when asked for too much, and Otis had to be especially careful about such things.

The man surprised him by offering his hand. "Then how about we stop being strangers? I'm Hudson. And I just moved into 505 two days ago."

"Hudson, like the river," Otis said. He realized a little too late that Hudson was still holding out his hand and shook it awkwardly. He began with a limp hand and was very much aware of how damp it was, too, and then he remembered that people appreciated a firm handshake. Therefore, he squeezed his neighbor's hand tightly.

Hudson laughed. "Ouch. Now that's a strong grip. Do you have a name?"

"Otis. Like the elevator." Hudson hadn't given him his last name, so he wouldn't either. Imitating others in social situations was a good strategy to make sure that he didn't do something that wasn't sanctioned by the general population.

"Okay, Otis, have a nice day." Hudson gave him another smile, the kind that made a dimple appear in his right cheek and made Otis stare a lot more than necessary, just because it was asymmetric, and there was no dimple in the left cheek too.

He took out his key quickly, feeling a bit hot and needing to get inside, away from those dark and, at least as they seemed to him, inquisitive eyes.

***

Hudson took another look at the young man fiddling with his keys and fumbling his way inside the apartment, and shook his head for a moment. He wasn't here to fraternize with the neighbors, but he couldn't act like he didn't want to know anyone there, or at least that was the justification he was giving himself. That was one odd-looking kid. Not in a bad or repulsive way but, quite the contrary, in a way that made you look a second time even if you met him out in the street by accident. Was he a model? Yeah, right. That rundown building was a nest to people of all kinds, but runway models didn't fit the bill.

Maybe no one had scouted him yet, but it should happen any day now, Hudson mused as he let himself inside his apartment for now. Otis was skinny enough to be a model, but that wasn't the striking thing about him. No, the most striking thing about him was the color of his eyes... of the eye, because Otis wore his hair over half his face, and that was all that Hudson had managed to see. That eye reminded him of Zeus, his Siberian Husky, who had to be relocated for the duration of his undercover mission since keeping him here, in this dingy apartment, wasn't an option.

The boy's eye was the same shade of blue, and the black ring around it contributed to its striking quality. He wasn't a boy, Hudson reminded himself. Otis had been quite adamant about telling him his age. Also, he had the manners of an old person, another odd thing about him. It was a wonder he hadn't smashed that mirror on his way into the building, and Hudson had kept an eye on it the whole time.

He shrugged. He wasn't here to get an eyeful of the would-be model living a few doors away from him. Or play the Good Samaritan, although, it appeared that he couldn't exactly help it when there was someone genuinely in need of assistance.

His phone beeped. He picked it up right away while taking off his earbuds. "Yeah?" he asked roughly.

"This is the last time I'm calling you until you're finished," his captain, who was also a close friend, began. "Is there anything else you need before getting started?"

"How's Zeus doing?" His captain had taken Zeus in, without one moment of hesitation.

"The girls love him. He loves them back. I'm afraid you won't have a dog anymore if you take too long with this mission."

"Thanks for the motivation, captain," Hudson said with half a smile. "Why did I agree to do this again?"

"I'd say it's because you need the paycheck, but that's not everything. You're the only guy in the entire department with the stomach for it, West."

Hudson snorted. "What you're really saying is that I'm the only guy in your department who won't have trouble staring at naked men all day long."

"That, too," the captain admitted. "So, any prospects so far? You know what we're looking for. Foreign, not too many friends, no actual job history, no means to call for help. These are their targets, and we need to identify leads, too."

For some unfathomable reason, Hudson's mind drifted to the odd-looking young man in 508. He seemed lonely, too. Again, he shook away the recent memory that kept coming back to him. It wasn't like him to dwell on things that weren't important to the task at hand. He was a master of focus.

Apparently, not so much when a striking blue eye was staring at him like its owner was trying to find a way inside his soul.

"Have a heart, captain. I'm just setting up shop. I did place the ads. Anyone who needs to turn a quick buck is going to come knocking on my door."

"Okay, I'll leave you to it. Get to the bottom of this, and I think there might be a promotion in store for you."

"Don't tell me you plan to retire," Hudson joked. "I don't want your chair. It already sags and has at least a few screws loose."

"Yeah, yeah, call me old and fat one more time." The captain laughed. After a moment, his voice turned serious again. "Don't let it get to you, okay? Don't make it personal."

"Hey, you said I was the only guy in your department with the stomach for this. Have a little faith."

"I also know there's a heart in there," the captain continued, his voice turning kind. "That's why I need to remind you that some things might be out of your control."

"A few, maybe," Hudson said. "But most of them can and will be in my control. I'll be fighting tooth and nail for it."

"I don't doubt it. Good luck hunting," the captain wished him before cutting off the convo.

Hudson took the phone apart with calm hands. From now on, he'd use a different phone and completely assume his new identity, that of a shady photographer looking for young men willing to pose in racy getups for a market with particular tastes. Ever since they had learned about the seemingly new human trafficking ring operating in the area, and a few bodies had turned up, the captain and a handful of detectives had been hard at work to find a way to infiltrate it and catch the bastards who had such a lack of empathy for human life that they used young people for the sick entertainment of others, just for the sake of money.

He brushed one hand over his eyes. The captain was right when he asked him not to make it personal. Just seeing what had been done to those young men, how much they had endured before their lives were cut short, had filled him with the sort of cold rage that never died out completely. The captain had also been right to choose him for the job, because now he was like a bloodhound with the promise of prey etched in his brain. He wouldn't stop until he took down that ring of human traffickers and put the ones responsible behind bars for good.

He sat on the couch with his laptop on his knees. For the sake of seeming to be the real thing, he had set up a site, and it looked like he had a few messages already. That meant he was starting.

***

Otis followed the words on the screen with his finger. "Date more than one person at a time," he murmured and frowned in thought. He had trouble getting one date, and the first rule was that he needed to date more than one man? He'd installed all the dating apps, but after that, he had started removing one after another, as some pictures he had seen there were too intimidating to even look at them for a second time.

He continued his research while lying on his belly on the bed. The credenza had taken up some valuable space, but it was one of the few things he still had from his grandma, which meant that sacrificing a bit of space wasn't an impossible feat. "Be authentic," he continued to read. Now that was another difficult thing to do. Being authentic, in his case, made people nervous. Sometimes, it made them laugh, but it wasn't the nice kind of laugh, and Otis could tell they were laughing at him, not with him. His intelligence was at least average, and he knew how to recognize the signs.

He turned his phone with its face down and then closed his eyes, his head resting on his right arm. "Grandma, I do want someone to love, but it's hard," he said out loud, as he'd started to do since he had been left all alone in the world. "Dating is difficult in the twenty-first century. First, a machine has to find a match for you. I did swipe right, but I believe that I've ended up talking with all the bots on each app. Bots are like fake people," he explained, since his grandma had a hard time keeping up with technology.

Today, he didn't have a lot of things to report to her. After all, not much had happened... but that wasn't true. He turned on his back and linked his hands over his belly. "I brought home your credenza. It looks really nice in the corner. It lights up the room." There was no point in telling her that there was barely any space left for him to move around in because of it. The mirror was in the hallway, causing its own kind of trouble. But it had been her who had taught him that white lies were good at times, and he was just telling one of those now.

"Ah, and there was a very nice young man in the elevator who helped me," he said, excited to tell her about Hudson. Suddenly, his dejected mood improved. "He did not appear to enjoy being called a young man, although he didn't seem older than thirty to me. His name is Hudson, and he lives in 505, just a few doors away from me." He hesitated, but in this case, not saying anything meant that he would be lying about something important. "He has tattoos on both arms. They're really impressive. And he has what you would call a brusque manner at times. However, he helped me by carrying the credenza to my door. Also, his smile is beautiful, and he has a dimple on his right cheek... it's not symmetric at all, but it didn't look strange or anything." His grandma would scold him if he admitted how obsessed he was with symmetry in the human face, so he stopped there.

"I still have trouble getting a date. Besides talking to those fake people online, it seems that when I talk to others they also think that I'm a fake person, and then they want my phone number, and I don't want to give that to someone who assumes that I'm not real." He sighed at the end of his tirade. "I need someone to teach me how to date. I'm not capable of figuring it out myself, even with the information readily available on the Internet. It just doesn't work."

With that thought, he drifted off to sleep. He'd see about the mirror later. Now, he had several hours left until his shift started, and being well-rested was important for a good and healthy life, just as his grandma had taught him.

His sleep soon turned into a world of dreams, and Otis saw himself moving down a winding slope, only to realize that it was a green serpent that reminded him of the tattoos he'd seen on his neighbor's forearm. What a silly dream, he told himself as he was dreaming, but silly dreams could also be funny, so he didn't mind them at all.

***

He was busy wiping glasses and putting them back in their places, so he missed someone calling for him. Usually, when he was working, he was as good as invisible, and being that was a good thing. There was no one to make uncomfortable with his stares and strange appearance.

His manager, a man in his forties, with a big belly, eventually had to pat him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Yes, Mr. Smith," he said dutifully. "How may I be of service?"

He hoped Mr. Smith didn't plan on firing him, because he needed each of the three part-time jobs he was keeping to pay the rent and for all of life's necessities. His grandma had taught him how to be content with little, but sometimes, it was hard, especially when he saw something he liked, such as tiny glass figurines.

"What would you say," Mr. Smith said slowly, as he usually did when talking to Otis, "if we send you out on the floor to wait on tables, too?"

Otis took his time to reply. That was the equivalent of a promotion, but did Mr. Smith understand that, maybe it wasn't a good idea to put him out in front of clients? "I am happy where I am, Mr. Smith," he said.

His manager sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Jerry pulled a no-show on us tonight. Missy will show you what to do, and she'll be close all the time."

"Do you want me to start right now? For how long? Jerry will be back."

"Or not," Mr. Smith said with a shrug. "Look, Otis, you are very polite and you do each task well. I'm sure you will do fine. Missy is going to show you the ropes." He turned to leave but then looked at Otis again. "Just push that hair out of your eyes. It will strain your sight if you're not careful."

Otis didn't say a word and touched his hair protectively. Mr. Smith's demands were, sometimes, difficult. With reluctance, he brushed his hair back over his head. He would try not to stare at the customers too much so that they wouldn't be put off by his asymmetric eyes. And, hopefully, he wouldn't end up making a mess out of their orders.

***

"You know, you are a lot more helpful than that asshole Jerry," Missy, his colleague, said as they began wiping down the tables. "And, I have no idea if you swing that way, but the man at table three, you know, the one in the expensive suit, asked about you."

Otis didn't remember any man. He had kept his eyes averted at all times, intent on not staring and making customers uncomfortable. Mr. Smith ran a respectable restaurant, and Otis was happy to work there, because it paid the most of his three part-time jobs. However, as respectable as the restaurant was, it wasn't the kind to warrant the presence of someone in an expensive suit. "What did he ask?"

"If you've worked here long, if you're looking for something else, things like that. He might want to hire you."

"Hire me as what?" Otis asked, puzzled. What could men in expensive suits want with him? He only knew how to clean and perform menial tasks.

Missy looked at him and burst into laughter. She pinched Otis's cheek. "Arm candy, what else? Don't worry, I told him we're not that kind of place."

Arm candy was an odd term that described beautiful people who accompanied others who liked having such attractive individuals by their side for the sake of beautiful photos. So, Missy was joking. Also, she had said a truth; the restaurant didn't sell or rent arm candies.

"You are right," he told the woman politely. It wasn't nice of her to tease him, but she always seemed nice, and had a good hearty laugh, so Otis wouldn't hold a thing like that against her.

"I'm telling you, he didn't seem pleased," Missy continued while energetically wiping down one table. "And he left a measly tip if you can believe it. Cheapskate. Otis, I'm telling you. Stay away from assholes like that. They parade their clothes and car and bling just to get your attention, and then they ask you to go Dutch if you say that you aren't going to go down on them on the first date."

Missy had a considerable list of disastrous dates under her belt, so Otis knew that he couldn't go to her for advice. If anything, she appeared to struggle just as much as he did. However, she was considerably advanced in her efforts to try to get a date, since she didn't talk to bots on the Internet like him.

"What does an ideal date look like to you?" he asked, partially out of politeness and partially out of curiosity.

Missy laughed. She did that a lot. She sounded like a very happy person. Also, the huge red mane on her head made her stand out. Otis would be terrified to stand out so much. It didn't appear to bother her, however. "I suppose it would be one at the end of which the guy doesn't expect a blow job as payment for a tepid beer and a couple of burritos."

Otis felt his face getting hot. He knew the term blow job, as well. It meant oral sex, and it was the kind of thing that made him uncomfortable in a way that caused a terrible shame to creep in. He had watched some videos. They had been enough to convince him that it was a very pleasurable activity. However, it also seemed to be something undesirable. Missy, for instance, didn't want to do it, and, from what she was saying, offering a blow job would make her seem cheap, something she wasn't. Otis wanted to tell her that people didn't come with price tags, but he had learned to keep his mouth shut more often than not. Like his stares, whatever came out of it also made people laugh at him, or, at least, uncomfortable.

"What about you?" Missy suddenly asked, turning her attention to him.

He grabbed his hair and pulled it over his eye. Since Mr. Smith had gone home already, there was no need for him to protect his eyesight by exposing his asymmetric eyes to the world.

His silence didn't seem to please his coworker. Missy came near and, much to his dismay, brushed away his hair, sweeping it back. "Any girlfriend? Boyfriend?" she asked with a large smile.

"No boyfriend," he said quickly. "A girlfriend wouldn't suit me."

"Go figure. That guy's gaydar worked just fine. Too bad he was a cheap bastard," Missy commented. "Why no boyfriend?"

"I am actively looking." That was more of a grey lie. He was trying to be active in looking. So far, it hadn't worked.

"I see. What are you using? Grindr?" Otis shook his head. He must have looked horrified enough because Missy laughed. "Yeah, you don't look like the type. For a while, I thought you might be some religious nut, a cute one, but still. Your clothes are so prim and proper. However, it looks like they're not enough to keep the interested at bay." She winked at him, although Otis didn't know what she meant by that.

"I end up talking to fake people," Otis blurted out. He had meant to say `bots', but that had been the first thing that had come to his mind.

"You're telling me?" Missy said with a snort. "The world is full of them."

So, he wasn't the only one who had that problem. That was a relief. "Do you happen to know anyone who offers dating advice?" he asked.

"I don't trust those bozos with their podcasts and whatnot," Missy said and tsked in disapproval. "The best way to get good advice is from someone real, someone you know, someone you can talk to, face to face. My girlfriends are also in the same boat as me, though. And my mom used to date in completely different times, so she's no use. My big sis is pregnant with her third. That's from her fourth beau, though. As you can see, dating experts are in short supply in my world."

Missy was right, once more. He needed to find someone with experience in the real world of dating, not read articles on the Internet. His mind took him to his new neighbor. Did he swing that way, as Missy put it? If he did, he looked like someone who'd have no trouble getting a date, Otis thought.

He continued wiping the table in front of him. It was worth keeping an eye on his neighbor. Just to see if he swung that way, at least.

TBC