The Art of Gay Seduction

We broke up for a lot of reasons, Angela and I, as people always do. It was the laundry that triggered it. We must have squabbled over the laundry at least a dozen times before, but for whatever reason, this time the proverbial camel collapsed under the pressure. I’d been putting through load after load, trying to get through it all before she got home from work, hoping she’d appreciate coming home to a tidier living space. I was even starting dinner as she walked into the basement suite we shared. She huffed out an exhausted sigh as she dumped her purse and keys on the table and trudged to the bedroom. I heard the squeak of the bedsprings as she flopped down.
You’re welcome for making dinner, I thought, but instead called, “Rough day, babe?”
She didn’t answer. Five minutes later she stomped into the kitchen with a bra dangling from her outstretched hand.
“Again, Jason–you did it again!” she growled, glaring at me with unmitigated fury.
“Aw, shit–I’m sorry, babe. I know those aren’t supposed to go into the machine.” I shrugged helplessly. “I swear I looked. It must have been tangled into a shirt or something.”
“Right. It’s never your fault, is it?”
I furrowed my brow at her. “Can you relax a little? It’s just a bra. Honest mistake. Here–I can be your bra.” I grinned playfully, cupping my hands near her breasts as I tried to defuse the situation with humour.
“Don’t you dare!” she snapped, pulling away as if I were some random pervert, and not her boyfriend, who had touched her breasts on a regular basis for nearly two years. “I’m so sick of this… I’m so sick of all of it!” She flopped down at the table and burst into tears.
It all came out then–every petty frustration, every held...