by Seth King
“So…what now?” he asks. You could cut the resulting silence with a knife.
“Um. You tell me. I’ve never…done this before.”
He stands a little taller. “Oh. Yeah. I wanted to ask you about that. So you’ve never hooked up with a guy. Have you ever had….the urge?”
I look away, my face red.
“Come on, you can tell me. Sexuality is different for everyone. I get it.”
“Honestly, the weird thing is that I haven’t. Hey, but wait – I just remembered that I did try one time, though.”
“Huh?”
“I remember once in middle school I found a gay porn magazine in the ditch behind Publix, and I brought it home and tried to jack off to it, just to be wild and weird and stuff. But I don’t think I even finished off. I threw it away.”
He laughs, and it reminds me of a tinkling chandelier. “Sounds like when I would try to make myself be attracted to one of my girlfriends. It was like eating a cracker and telling myself it was actually filet mignon. Didn’t really work.”
“I know.”
“So, you date girls, I guess?”
“Only. Ever.”
“Are you single now?”
I tell him a truncated version of my breakup story. Caroline and I split at the beginning of the summer, but before that we’d been fading for a while. It was still a catastrophe, though. And I always knew it would be, for many reasons: I’ve known her since we were kids, and also, she can be highly unstable. Overall, I guess we were experiencing typical twenty-something problems: she wanted to rush into wedded bliss to follow what her friends were doing, and I didn’t even know what wedded bliss meant. I wanted lazy mornings and late brunch that melted into afternoons watching the games with my friends at beer gardens; she wanted me to be her plus one to sorority alumni events where her friends would gently demand that I propose. It wasn’t very fun. So when she put her foot down and demanded a ring, I basically turned away and let her go. I wasn’t ready, and she had to accept that. But she wouldn’t.
I felt absolutely awful about the breakup, and from what I heard from her friends, she took it badly. But I couldn’t keep doing it anymore. Now we were sort of pseudo-friends – we’d bump into each other and play nice, both trying to act like we weren’t aware she cried about me at night sometimes. She still texted me on and off, trying to drop hints about how she wanted to make it work again. But I had to take my own road.
“Interesting,” he says when I finish. “And yesterday, I walk on the bus and hit on you like a crazy person, and you felt…what?”
“Wait, you hit on me? I thought you were just being nice, and then we clicked…”
He giggles. And is he really blushing, or am I imagining it? What if I’m making him lose interest by proving how much of a newbie I am?
“Trust me, I don’t see people like you and hit on them to be nice.”
“Oh.” I take a gulp. “Well…I guess I felt…confused, at first. Then I felt excited. Now I feel…both.”
“I understand,” he says, keeping his eyes away now. “Something about that bus ride just felt…electric. I’ve never been that forward with someone – something just took control of me. I still don’t know how I did it, actually.”
So he felt the magic, too. Somehow this makes me feel warm and toasty inside.
“Tell me,” he says. “What kind of kid were you in high school?”
“Well, I played football and Lacrosse, and I was on student government. I guess I didn’t have much of a life, actually. What about you?”
“Art, art, and more art. Not to mention Equality Club, Young Democrats, community service projects…I had too much of a life. I was a mini-adult.”
“I’m a Democrat, too. Or…I guess I am.”
“Aha. So what were your thoughts on gay guys?”
“I didn’t have many thoughts, to be honest. It was never an issue with my family, but it was never something I even thought about or noticed, either. I was just sort of…live and let live about the whole thing. But my friends, on the other hand…”
He tenses. “Yeah. You seem like one of the cool, popular guys. They wouldn’t be too ‘down’ with this image right now, would they?”
“Jury’s out on that one. Some of them wouldn’t care. Some of the others…I’m not sure. They’ve said some pretty terrible things before. But I don’t give a shit.”
“Gotcha.” He takes a breath and looks around. “Well, your place is beautiful, anyway!”
And it was. My father did very well when the concert business exploded in the aughts, and he bought my family a six-bedroom, three-level townhouse built in 1881 off one of the most desirable squares in Savannah. They give me no money, though, and I’m basically only allowed to stay in the house as a sitter, since they live in New York most of the year.
“Thanks,” I say, and then something catches hold of me. “By the way, has anyone ever told you that you look like Justin Bieber, but in like, the best way possible?”
He laughs and sweeps aside his hair. “Yeah. It’s cool. I get that a lot, actually. My dick’s not as big, though.”
“Dick?”
He does a double take. “You mean you haven’t – wait, of course you haven’t seen the leaked nudes. Here, I’ll show you. Can I test you?”
My eyes grow.
“Oh no, not like that,” he says. “With porn. Here, let’s see.”
I swallow and watch, my stomach diving off a platform. He takes out his phone, taps away, and brings up paparazzi photos of a naked Justin Bieber. Sure enough, it’s…big. And thick. I swallow, a sheen of sweat forming on my forehead.
“Hey,” he says more quietly. The air becomes even more charged, even more electric, as we stare at his cock together. “What do you feel when you…when you look at this? Maybe this will help us figure out your orientation.”
I adjust my shirt collar. “I don’t know. I’ve never looked at this stuff before. But…my heart is pounding, for one. More than anything I feel…nervous.”
He shifts a little, and I respond by shifting in the opposite direction – yin and yang. I am more aware of him, of his body, than I have ever been of anyone before.
“And…what about your dick?” he asks. “Any response there?”
For a moment I imagine asking him to check it out for himself. In my sudden fantasy, he drops to his knees, slowly pulls down my pants, and goes to town on me. What would that feel like? What would it be like to stare down through half-shut eyes and see a guy down there, between my legs, my manhood down his throat, balls resting against his stubbly chin?
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I’m not totally hard.”
“Let’s try something else, then.”
He pulls up a picture of two guys, very handsome guys, in a sixty-nine position. I blush and try to look away, but he puts it closer.
“Seriously. What do you feel? I’m just curious. I’ve never encountered anything like this before.”
“Um…nothing.”
He looks down at my crotch, which is obviously not enlarged at the moment. But what I don’t mention is that I’m trying to keep it from getting hard.
“Wow. You’re right. Maybe you’re only gay for me.”
Overwhelmed, I look away. “Hey, is it hot in here? Should I mess with the AC?”
“Nah, I’m good,” he says, taking his phone back and adjusting his jeans for some reason. “Here’s an idea. It’s October – let’s find a scary movie on Netflix.”
Scary movie…Netflix…I know what these words mean. He wants dick. And I can feel it, too – the air seems full of the innuendo he’s just laid out there. That’s fine, because that’s where a straight date would go at this point, too – but where would we even begin? “Okay, but…I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“I’m interested, but…I don’t know the first thing about gay sex, if it gets there.”
“Sex?” he laughs. “Trust me, I move fast, but not that
fast. I’m a good Southern lady, you know.”
I laugh, but I still don’t really know what to say. I’ve never heard a guy refer to himself as a girl before.
“Jesus, you’re tall,” he suddenly says, looking up at my head.
“Six-three, maybe a bit above.”
He blushes.
“And yes, you can go on and say the other thing, about my dick and my body size, that everyone says.”
His eyes go dark. “Nah. Wasn’t going to say a thing. But if I did, would it be true?”
My face is probably the color of my dad’s cherry-red Mercedes in the garage. “We’ll see.”
“I really hope we do see.” He looks down, studying me.
“What is it?”
“It’s just that…eventually we’ll also maybe have to figure out if you’re a bottom or a top. That decides everything, when you’re gay.”
“Bottom? Top?”
“How did you think gay sex works?”
“Oh. Well, I mean, I knew one had to be…the catcher…”
“Yes, and that whole dynamic is a huge part of gay culture. You have to date someone you’re compatible with. God, you’re so clueless, it’s adorable.”
I smile, as nobody had ever called me adorable before. Only hot and strong and sexy. “Speaking of that,” I say, “how are you single right now? Can I ask that?”
He frowns a little. “Being a guy who dates guys is…different.”
“Why?”
“Because only fifteen percent of people are gay. So there aren’t many gay guys out there, just by the numbers – and there are even less date-able ones.”
“Let’s take a shot,” I say out of nowhere. My head is spinning and my stomach is burning and I really just need something to calm myself before I faint. He nods, smiling, and I get a bottle of whiskey.
“Wait, what is that?”
“The Glenlivet. What’s wrong?”
He scrunches up his face. “That, my dude, is what we call ‘straight guy booze.’ We definitely don’t take shots of that at Club One.”
“Club One?”
“The gay bar.”
“Oh. Of course. Um…let me check my mom’s cabinet.”
I search around and finally find some Fireball from an old party, the whiskey that tastes like candy. We say “cheers” and take a swallow, and shockingly it tastes amazing – I always assumed it would be fruity and overly feminine, but it really does taste like candy.
“Wow,” I say. “I want another.”
Three shots later, the air in the room changes completely. I can hear his every breath, feel his every movement like he’s trained a fan on my skin, which in turn gives me a massive case of goose bumps. I look down at his arms, so different from a girl’s, and wonder what they would feel like against me. I stare at his lips, wet and pink, and wonder how they would feel on my skin…
It’s too much, so I suggest a change in venue. “My room? Netflix?”
“You read my mind.”
He follows me up the stairs and around the corner in to my room, in the circular part of the house’s porch tower. (We’re on a corner, even if it’s a townhouse.) It hasn’t been updated since I was in middle school, and a pale-green African savanna scene stretches up to the ceiling, fifteen feet above.
“Aw!” he says, stopping at the pictures on my dresser. “You were the cutest little kid I’ve ever seen! Your hair was so blonde and curly.”
“Thanks,” I blush. Once again it hits me: there is a guy in my room. I close the blinds by the bed for good measure. He turns to me, licks his lip in that confident way I admired before.
“So – movie? Yeah?”
I grab my laptop and sit on the bed. He does the same. Something tells me we won’t be enjoying a double feature tonight, though. We might not even make it through the opening credits, actually…
I open the laptop. Before I can even bring up the website, his leg is touching mine. I try to scoot away a little, but I can’t – I’m already on the corner of the bed.
“I’m kind of glad I met you,” he murmurs, his breath on my face. “I’m glad I took the bus.” He leans in and puts a hand on my leg, making me go numb. To have a male’s hand in my lap, firm and heavy, feels foreign and strange and more than a little amazing. Still, it’s terrifying.
I tense, then I smile. “I’m glad, too. You’re cool. And…”
“And what?”
“…Hot.”
He moves his hand closer. “Wow.”
“I know, I can’t believe I just said that, either. The thing is…”
“You have a certain view of the word ‘straight,’ and it involves fast cars and cold beer and slutty girls?” he asks.
“I mean…pretty much.”
“Well trust me, the definition is fluid. There isn’t a definition at all, actually. Here – I can show you, if you let me.” He moves even closer. “Can I kiss you?”
“I don’t know,” I breathe. “I’ve never even had a guy in my bed before. I don’t know how to do this...”
“But things can be taught,” he says, his voice low and his eyes lighting my insides on fire. “And I’m a good teacher.”
Whoa. That makes me decide to just get it over with. Taking one last breath and thanking God for cinnamon whiskey, I lean in and close my eyes so I won’t have to overanalyze this. His bottom lip meets my top one, and instantly I notice the stubble – it feels prickly and odd, but not entirely bad. His lips themselves are soft and delicious, though, and soon I open my mouth and involve my tongue. I can’t believe I’m doing this, French kissing a guy, but even more than that, I can’t believe how much I’m coming to love it.
“Fuck,” he exhales, pushing me back and sort of climbing up on my lap as we kiss. It’s so sudden, I can’t stop him. Then I realize I don’t even want to stop him. “Ugh, you’re so hot. This is so random, but I can’t control it anymore.”
I feel myself busting out of my pants, and I realize this is going too quickly. I press pause and squeeze his shoulder. “Ty?”
“Yeah?”
“Hold on. Let’s just…chill. Please.”
He leans back. “Sorry. Did I do too much?”
“No. I want more. I just don’t want to swamp myself in this. Let’s take it slow.”
“Gotcha,” he pants, laying out beside me. “Movie, it is.”
“No, not that. Can I just…look at your body? Can you take off your clothes?”
“And just…sit here?”
“For now. I need to get used to this.”
My heart pounds so violently, I can feel it in my chest and hear it in my ears. Slowly he slides off his shirt, then his pants. You could hear a kitten meowing a mile away right now – it’s that quiet. I look down at his boxer-briefs, and a large bulge is leaning against his leg.
“And the underwear,” I say, sounding choked. He does it, and soon I am looking at the naked body of Ty Stanton – and it’s even better than with clothes. Jesus. He’s not big or beefy by any means, but every inch of him is solid. His biceps are large, his chest is lean and supple, and his pecs are bigger than I expected, bulging out in two hairless mounds. One of his nipples is pierced, and his sleeve of tattoos snakes down his shoulder a bit and covers one of his pecs. The tattoos look artsy and thoughtful, though, not like the usual ones you see. And his penis…
His penis…
His penis.
I can’t look at it too long because it makes my eyes water, but it’s about seven inches long, thick, and his hair is nicely trimmed. It’s beautiful, really. I can’t believe I’m admitting that, but it’s beautiful. It is. His body is like a carnival, with all of the lights turned on at full brightness. This dude – and his cock – are beautiful.
The realization feels like sticking my head out of a sunroof on a clear summer’s day at full speed.
“Tell me about your tattoos,” I say, because if I don’t distract myself I will have a heart attack and die.
“Well…okay.” He loo
ks down and rests a finger on a beautiful portrait on Jackie Kennedy at the top of his arm, next to someone I assume is Grace Kelly. “This subject is obvious – I have a thing for tragic beauty queens,” he says as he points out a smaller portrait of Amy Winehouse.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I just like beautiful dead tragic women, I don’t know. ‘It all went to hell in the end’ is a much more appealing story to me than ‘and they lived happily ever after.’ A lot of the others are just script. See this one?” he asked, pointing to a dark-green line of cursive on his upper shoulder. “They can take everything, but they cannot take our spirit. I got it the week after my gay friend got outed by one of his teachers, and he jumped off a bridge and killed himself.”
“Oh. Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. It was a rough time. All my school friends got the same one, actually. Oh, and here’s my first dog, Emmie – God, she was the ugliest little thing in the world, with wiry fur and missing teeth, but I loved her like crazy.”
I am drawn to every single thing he says. He is a spotlight and I am an actor onstage. “Aw. How old were you when you got these?”
“I don’t know – maybe eighteen, seventeen. But I went to a magnet school for the arts – the only freaks there were the kids who didn’t have any tattoos.”
“Ha. Makes sense.”
For ten more minutes he gives me a tattoo tour, and soon I decide he is one of the most caring people I’ve ever met – almost all of them are tributes to friends and family members and pets. He is a big bubbling fountain of love, and nothing he ever says is caustic or hateful. He even has a sketch of Lady Gaga when she had yellow hair, since he said she inspired him to finally “come out” for good, to anyone who didn’t already know. I laugh to myself, and before long I realize I’m snuggled up to him and he’s still totally naked.
“Fuck,” I whisper, his dick only inches away from my leg.
“What?”
“This is just crazy. A few days ago I thought I was straight, and now there’s a hot naked dude in my bed. Ugh, and listen to me, I’m talking about ‘hot naked dudes’ now. And you know the best part? I kind of love it...”