by Damian Bloom
“I love your garden,” he says.
Before he came, I turned on the neon outside lights. To me, the yard looks rather sinister at the moment, but it truly is a beauty during the day.
“I’ve always found nature inspiring.” I sit down across from him and turn my laptop on. “Since staring out the window is a huge part of my artistic process, I like having a view.”
Following my cue, he pulls his laptop from the bag, and it comes to life with a rumbling noise. Luis’s face breaks into an awkward grimace. “Sorry, it’s pretty old.” He taps the keyboard as if he’s petting a trusty senior dog. “Still does the job, though.”
I smile.
Now what?
I realize, as he gapes at me with attentive, hopeful eyes, fingers joined under his chin, that I have no plan. I figured I’d wait and go with the flow, but now I wonder if that’s enough. “So,” I say, expelling a loud breath. “I figure the best way to learn anything is to simply do it.”
Luis blinks at me with curiosity. His puppy eyes make it difficult to keep teacher-student fantasies at bay. He’s so close, and it would be so easy to bend him over this table, yank his pants off to reveal that inviting ass, and—
I force myself to look away, brushing inexistent dust off my keyboard. “Maybe we could start with a short story. What do you think?”
Luis purses his lips. He doesn’t like the idea. “I mainly want to learn how to write a novel. It might mean biting off a little more than I can chew right now, but I’d like to give it a shot.”
“Fair enough. I like a challenge.” I shoot him another flirtatious wink. Damn it. “Then I guess we’ll start with the outline today. I’ll show you my process, and we’ll think of how to best adapt it to your genre. And hopefully, in a few days, you’ll be able to start drafting, which I’ll let you do on your own.” Luis gulps at the thought. “Anyway, you’ll have to be the main creative mind for the biggest part of this process, because this brain”—I press a finger to my forehead—“has never had a romantic thought in its life.”
“Agreed.”
“Are you comfortable enough? You need a pillow or something?”
He shakes his head. “All good.”
As soon as we begin, I cast my laptop aside, and we huddle up in front of his, chairs pushed closely together.
At first, we’re both troubled by the proximity. We move awkwardly, leaning unnaturally in opposite directions, in our best effort to prevent accidental touching. It was palpable the first time, too, but this time it seems even more evident that there is some sort of tension between us. His presence is inexplicably electrifying.
But as we dive into our work, developing the characters, conflict, and the beginning of a plot for a new story, our awareness of the outside world diminishes, and we settle down. My movements grow more relaxed and careless. I rest an arm on the backrest of his chair, our thighs rub together a few times, and so do our arms. However, we go on without acknowledging these small accidents, even though Luis’s cheeks continue to serve as a barometer of self-consciousness as they alternate between shades of red.
“What you need to keep in mind about this part of your story,” I explain, highlighting something I’ve just typed, “is that, from now on, it should be impossible for the guys to go back to their old life.”
Luis scratches his head. “You think they should fall in love at first sight?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Pfft. Love at first sight. “Not necessarily. But there should at least be enough attraction for them not to forget about each other too soon.”
Luis vacantly rubs one of his eyebrows. I check the time in the corner of the screen. To my surprise, almost two hours have passed. Feeling that he has grown tired, I try to help him out. “Think of the hottest guy you’ve ever met.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “What were you like after meeting him?”
Nervously tugging at the collar of his hoodie, Luis clears his throat. “I think—I mean, I thought about him a lot.”
I nod encouragingly. “What else? What about when he was around? How did that feel?”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “There was definitely tension. The air felt…charged with it.”
“You wanted him.”
He nods. I catch him staring at my lips, his eyes glazed over. When he catches himself, his gaze pops back up to meet mine.
“That’s what you need to draw on. What that felt like.”
“Mhm,” he mumbles.
“Write about that. Let the heroes wonder about each other.” I stretch my pointer finger out and rest it on Luis’s forearm. He stares at my hand like I’ve got extra fingers. “Make them curious,” I go on, my voice simmering down to a raspy whisper. “Let them think stuff like, ‘What would it be like to touch him? How would his naked body feel, warm and hard against my own?’”
Luis gulps again, his nose and cheeks the naughty pink shade of a sun kiss. “You’re better at romance than I thought,” he says.
I cough up a skeptical laugh. “This isn’t romance, Luis. It’s lust. And that’s a language I speak.”
He looks back down at my finger, this one unmoving connection between our bodies. “What else should they do?” he asks, whispering now as well, like we’re sharing secrets.
“You tell me, Luis. You’re the romance writer.” His name feels ripe and heavy on my tongue. I love saying it.
“I think—” He clears another lump away from his throat. “Sometimes, they have sex early on in the novel.” He smuggles the word sex out like a stolen jewel.
“Is that so?”
Luis frowns at my teasing tone, a hint of a pout blooming on his face. I can’t help grinning. I bet he has no idea how seductive his face is.
He goes on: “Of course, it’s still very early, so there are no feelings yet. They’re just…”
“Fucking.”
He presses his lips together, a discernible glint of arousal shining in his eyes. I get the feeling he hasn’t had many men speak to him so candidly. So…crudely.
Luis nods.
“Yeah, I suppose a little fucking wouldn’t hurt,” I say in a gravelly voice. My eyes bore into Luis’s doe-like ones. He’s hanging onto every word that leaves my mouth. “It could be fun even.” Barely perceptibly, I rub my finger over the sleeve of his hoodie. Left, right. Left, right. “For the readers, of course.”
“For the characters, too.” Luis slurs his words like he’s drunk, as his eyes dart from my eyes to my lips. His lower lip quivers gently.
My stomach, my thighs, my groin, they tingle so hard it makes me snicker. “Of course, for the characters, too.” I continue rubbing my finger against him, applying more pressure so that I’m sure he feels it through the thick fabric of his hoodie. Left, right. “Everyone enjoys a good…” Spreading my legs open, I press my thigh to his. “…hard…” Left, right. “…fucking.” The air sizzles around us. Our heads inch closer together, as if pulled together by an unseen force stronger than gravity.
Like a famished predator on the tracks of its prey, I don’t take my eyes away from Luis’s face.
My cock is hard already, throbbing against my thigh. Is Luis as hard as me?
Lips inches away from each other, I feel him let out an impatient, exasperated sigh. Almost a moan. He wants it so badly.
Before I claim his lips into a kiss, I move my hand, reach out to touch his thigh. But then, a second before I have him in my palm—
Meooow!
A jolt goes through Luis, and he snaps back, away from me. Eyes closed in frustration, I rub the bridge of my nose to keep from cursing. Damn it, Hector.
“What was that?” Luis asks.
Another meow comes from the dark night, even louder than the previous. I’m relieved he’s back because he’s been wandering for the past two days. But, man, he couldn’t have chosen a worse time.
I stomp to the glass door and slide it open. In struts my housemate, nose in the air, tail as straight as a proudly raised flag. He pauses w
hen he spots Luis and takes him in warily. Luis gapes at him with bated breath.
I figure I should warn him about Hector’s antisocial behavior before he takes it personally. “He’s not terribly friendly with-” But before I can finish my thought, the cat hops into Luis’s lap, stretching all over the area I was about to explore if he hadn’t interrupted us. He purrs and meows and looks absolutely delighted to see Luis. “That’s…unusual,” I say.
Luis scratches Hector’s little head, and the cat thoroughly enjoys every second of it.
“Normally, he goes straight for the food bowl when he gets home.” I’m still amazed by Hector’s friendliness. He treats Luis like a life-long friend.
“I love cats,” Luis says. “I didn’t know you had one. How didn’t I see him the last time?”
“He’s more of a visitor than a proper house cat. I’m starting to think he’s using me for my food.”
Luis chuckles. “Is that true, Sir?” Hector meows happily, overcome by total bliss. It’s weird to think this is the same cat that only two days ago darted out into the yard with an ear-piercing screech because the pizza boy stepped a little too far into the house.
“He seems to really like you,” I say.
“Well, the feeling’s mutual. What’s his name?”
“Hector.”
Luis is now in the process of tickling Hector’s chin. His hands travel all over the cat, tousling his fur. Had I had better luck, they would have been all over me now instead. Is Luis just as painfully aware as me of how close we were to take a step that would have completely changed everything?
“Hector,” he says. “That’s a nice name. Why’d you choose it?”
I scratch the back of my neck, feeling a little awkward. This isn’t something I’ve told anyone before, as it seems soft and overly sentimental, but Luis, as a passionate aspiring writer and overall softie, might get it. “Hector’s my first fan’s name,” I confess. Luis’s eyes widen. “Well, the first person who ever wrote me fan mail, anyway.”
“Wow. You mean, like, a letter?”
I chuckle. “No, man, we’re in the twenty-first century. He wrote to me on Instagram.”
Luis tilts his head. “That must have been amazing.”
I let myself bask in the memory of that feeling—knowing a stranger had not only read my book but also liked it enough to find me online and tell me just how much they enjoyed it. “It was. If you ask me, nothing beats feeling like your work touched someone.”
A wistful expression settles on Luis’s face. “Hopefully, one day, I’ll know what that’s like.”
“You will,” I say with nothing but hope that my words will come true. My sexual frustration has gradually dissipated. Luis seems like a really good guy, and I genuinely hope he makes it. If I can contribute to that in even the smallest way, I will.
As if reading my mind, he directs a grateful smile in my direction. Hector pushes his head into Luis’s hand, asking for more focused scratches.
Working together today, Luis has shown me that he’s got a sharp mind and a fairly good understanding of his favorite genre. More importantly, I think he’s got an innate talent that can turn into impressive skill with a little bit of guidance. And maybe I can help with that. The more things I explain to Luis, the more I realize how much I’ve learned in the past few years.
So, maybe, I think, sneaking a look at him as he presses his nose to the cat’s, it’s a good thing that Hector stopped us when he did. That could have messed everything up.
What worries me a little is how, whenever I ask stuff like, “What would your character feel right now?” and “How would his feelings influence his actions?”, Luis draws a blank. Ironically enough for a romance fanatic, what he lacks most is a profound grasp of emotions. But this can be solved by an acuter sense of observation, which can also be trained. He needs to learn how to wake up to his own experience of life.
“Luis, have you ever been in love?” I use the word “love” loosely, with skepticism and irony, but it’s clear to me I need to speak the young man’s language.
When Luis’s eyes shoot up at me, his face stretched out by surprise, it strikes me that this is quite a weird question to ask after the hair-raising moment we’ve just shared. “I’m only asking,” I rush to clarify before he gets any ideas, “because it’s relevant. Efficiently tapping into your own experience to write believable fiction is one of the most important skills you can develop.”
He gawks at me like I’ve just recited the first fifty digits of pi off the top of my head, absent-mindedly caressing Hector’s fur, who has now fallen asleep, curled up like a pretzel in the man’s lap. “No,” he finally says, avoiding my gaze, sounding like he’s choking on an embarrassing confession. “I’ve never been in love.”
To say I’m surprised would be an understatement, but I don’t let it show. I have to admit it contradicts my idea of romance readers as total air-heads, caught in a never-ending cycle of falling in love with every single person they run into.
“Hm, that’s unfortunate,” I say. “I mean, you’re very young, so it’s not that unusual, but it would have helped inspire you. Have you at least had any nice relationships so far?”
Luis chews on his lip, then shakes his head. No.
“Really? Only assholes, huh?”
“No, it’s not that…” His voice trails off, indicating there’s something he’s not telling me. Then he mumbles something too quickly for me to make out.
“Sorry, what?”
Luis slouches. “I haven’t had any kind of relationship. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
The silence deepens. For a few seconds, we’re both at a loss for words. “Wait, for real?”
“It’s not that unusual, okay?” he says, suddenly growing defensive. “I’m waiting for the real deal.”
But it is a little unusual. For someone so in love with romance, he’s been keeping himself away from it more than anyone else. “Sorry, I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. You’re a very attractive guy. I’d expect you to have guys lined up.”
Luis directs his attention again to the cat, thrown off by my compliment.
Then, out of nowhere, a thought crosses my mind. There’s obviously something very innocent, pristine about Luis, and I’ve been struggling to figure out where it’s coming from. Could it be that…
“When you say you’ve been saving yourself, does that mean…” I just can’t finish my thought. It’s too awkward.
Luis rushes to check his phone. “Ooh, it’s pretty late. I think it’s maybe enough for today, what do you think?” He speaks fast, words tumbling out anxiously. “I’d better let you sleep, huh?”
After Luis packs up his belongings and kisses Hector on the head, he rushes down the hallway and out the front door before I can make sense of what’s happening.
On my own again, I shudder over a distressing question: Was I almost Luis’s first, tonight?
Man, I really dodged a bullet.
I’ve never been anyone’s first, and that’s for a good reason. When you’re as emotionally unavailable as me, taking anyone’s virginity, especially when it’s someone as naively romantic as Luis, is a recipe for hurt feelings.
Before bed, I treat Hector to a can of his favorite wet food.
“You saved me, brother,” I tell him at the end of the day, when he prances into the bedroom like the hero he is. “You must have known the kind of trouble I was about to get myself into.”
Hector meows when he jumps into bed, thoroughly content.
“I promise not to let things get out of hand like that again.” I turn off the lights and feel the tomcat curl up at my feet. He doesn’t seem to care much about my personal life.
Today’s truth is that there’s no way I’m laying my hands on Luis now.
10
Luis
I usually love my dreams. Most of the time, they’re sweet and pleasant. At other times, they’re at least informative, letting me know what’s troubling my subco
nscious—like that one time I had a week-long recurring nightmare of Peter punching me, because I worried he was still mad at me for accidentally downloading viruses onto his computer. Dreams are cool, and when they’re not, they’re still at least helpful.
But when I wake up this morning, I wish I’d have had a dreamless sleep.
Grimacing already at what I’ll find under the sheets, I pull them away to examine my damp crotch. Ugh.
It’s all because of Adam and that weird moment yesterday when, for a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. After hours of overthinking and a night’s sleep, I’m no longer convinced I didn’t simply misread the situation, influenced by my unruly hormones.
As I get ready for the day and do a load of laundry, I try to shut the dream out of my mind, but it’s slippery and insidious, and it inevitably creeps back in. Because in my dream, Adam’s cat didn’t meow when he did. Hector didn’t show up at all. In my dream, Adam kissed me. He touched me in places I’ve never been touched before. He showed me to his bedroom and removed my clothes, and I did the same to him, exposing the body of a true Adonis, one my hands were free to explore to my heart’s desire. We then proceeded to have mind-numbing, neighbor-aggravating, porn-worthy sex.
I press my fingers into my eyelids as if I could poke the images out of my head.
Eric waltzes in, humming to himself. He finds me standing still, head bent and hands clasped. “Are you praying?”
“No, but I might start soon.”
Yawning, he slips a pod into the coffee machine. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitate. It’s embarrassing to admit the impact Adam has had on me since I met him, but I need someone to vent to. So I tell Eric everything, as well as I can put it into words, but I leave out the part about Grandma’s vision.
Eric doesn’t have to think about his verdict very hard. “I say go for it.”