Straight

by Seth King

  I close my eyes, try to calm my body, and then I feel the tip of it against me – but it feels amazing, not painful. I try to relax, and I feel it slowly sliding in – then the burn comes. I wince and yelp a little, and then, bam – it’s in, secure and stationary. I feel so full, and it’s pressing against a spot I never even knew I had. I moan a little.

  “Male G spot stimulator,” he explains, wiping his hands and standing up. “Straight guys will never even know the beauty of this little miracle inside themselves. Every time you take a step, it’ll press on your prostate. Now let’s go. And don’t worry, it’s in there pretty good, you can’t see it.”

  Just to test things, I step forward – and then moan again. He’s right: it feels like someone’s pressing against that “G spot” thing deep inside me. How I’m going to stand this for any amount of time without losing it, I have no idea.

  He grabs his phone.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “To see one of my gay friends, Rizzo – he’s a barista. Come on.”

  I follow him down the stairs, stepping so carefully I don’t make a sound. As we walk down my street, I feel myself sort of stretch a little, and it becomes more comfortable. Thankfully the coffee shop is the one closest to my house, I am completely silent during the introduction, just trying not to let my eyes roll back into my head. I’m sure I probably seem like a psycho to his friend, but I’m too distracted to care. Finally, Ty decides he’s ready after about ten minutes of chatter.

  “Thank God,” I whisper as we hit the square again.

  “What? Rizzo’s nice. I had to hear about his new Tinder boyfriend.”

  “That has nothing to do with my current butt situation.”

  Ty smiles, looking more than pleased with himself. “Last time you’ll meet up with your ex, that’s for sure.”

  “Whatever. Yeah, he was nice, though. Seems like all of your friends I’ve met so far have worked at Starbucks, actually…”

  “Yeah, and? A lot of my friends are scared to even put themselves out there in any other way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighs, his dominant mood starting to fade. “Here’s the thing. Some of the more femme guys I know – they can’t even really work in a place like Savannah. It’s a really weird place in that it’s a little dot of blue in a big sea of red. We have an arts school and a few gay bars, sure, but we’re surrounded by-”

  “Rural Georgia,” I cut in.

  “Exactly. So you think Miss Famous is going to thrive in an office environment in Georgia? Hell no. She’d be shunned. So the ones who can afford to leave, they get out. The ones who can’t, they try to stay here and get by, but they usually just end up being bartenders or artists or something. They’re subjugated and kept on the bottom. Not many other businesses are hospitable to them.”

  I have to admit he’s right. I’d never even thought about it like that – that someone’s identity could be so wrapped up in their life trajectory, it could determine something like that. But it reminds me of when my cousin married a black man, and he’d refused to go into Cracker Barrel with us once during a road trip deep into South Carolina. At the time I thought he was being crazy, but after some begging he finally came inside with us. Several older white people ended up staring at us all throughout dinner, making things totally uncomfortable. After that I started to understand why he’d wanted to stay in the car. I’d never tried to put myself in his shoes, and imagine the world from inside his eyes. And it was harder for him than I ever imagined.

  We cross the street. Because I am me, the unluckiest person alive, we pass Thad in the last square before my house. Ty doesn’t know Thad, but Thad knows Ty – everyone knows about Ty. He’s like a local celebrity, the gothic Justin Bieber, our own local rock star. I pretend I don’t see Thad, but in my peripheral vision I notice him give me a weird – but not unpleasant – look and then glance past, rolling his eyes a little. I wonder if he suspects that I’ve got a dildo up my ass…

  “What are you giggling at?” Ty asks.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Whatever. How does it feel?”

  “The fresh autumn air? Fabulous.”

  “Don’t get smart with me. I meant the toy. And by the way, you just said ‘fabulous.’ Maybe your gay lessons are paying off.”

  I stop, finally enjoying that full feeling down there. But I want to feel more of it. I want to show him how much I like him.

  And, I suddenly decide, I want to solidify our bond even more.

  “What’s that look on your face for?” he asks.

  “Nothing. Hey, I know you have class today, but can you come over tonight? For a special surprise?”

  “Um…sure.”

  The walk home is a blur. He pushes me up against my bed and slowly pulls out the plug, and suddenly I feel empty, like I need him to fill me up again. But that will be taken care of very soon.

  Once he’s gone, I settle at my computer. I can’t deny that the time has come for me to have sex with him, but I have no idea where to begin. So I take a quick breath and type one question into the chat room’s text box: So. How does a guy have anal sex for the very first time?

  13

  The answers come fast and furious.

  Oh, I’m so glad you asked, one guy says. I was waiting, actually. So here’s the thing: it’s hard the first time if you’re not ready. The back door is a muscle, and it needs to be stretched.

  I hold my breath and begin typing. Okay, thanks. What does the first time feel like, anyway?

  Hmm. Sort of like taking a poo, but in reverse, and in the best way possible. It’s incredibly satisfying. Just…ugh, you just have to experience it, otherwise none of this will make sense. But you need to know some stuff first.

  Okay, keep going, I say.

  First you’re going to have to get a toy. I’ll send you a link to my favorite. Trying sex without preparing first is like trying to shove a tear through a keyhole – you need to loosen up.

  He sends me a link to a sex toy that looks like a clear banana. I order it from Amazon’s one-hour delivery service and feel something jolt through me.

  Next, you’re gonna want to…clean yourself up, he says. You usually need to wash things out beforehand, so you don’t have to worry.

  He sends a link to that, too, which I order in time to bundle with the other delivery.

  Basically, you have to fuck yourself, he says. Then he’ll be able to get in there. Just relax, lie back, and don’t think about it. Girls do it with their men all the time, and it’s not taboo at all with them.

  What if I don’t like it?

  Hmm. That happens, but rarely. Personally I think it’s the best feeling in the world. It brings you together with your partner like nothing else can. But watch out for the change in dynamics it can bring.

  Huh? I ask.

  Sex can switch the roles. It can make you lose your standing in the relationship. Getting banged releases internal butterflies and hearts and flowers like crazy, and it can make you feel helpless and needy and dependent. Be careful not to let that happen.

  Gotcha, I say. And…thanks for all this. I think I can do it.

  I think you can, too. Just take a breath, close your eyes, and relax.

  The sex toy comes from Amazon before five. I take the dildo into the bathroom, and it’s bigger than I expected – so I have to rub a bar of soap on there before I put it at my entrance. Then the hard part comes. It takes me several tries to get it in there, but once I do, I’ve orgasmed in barely a minute. Whoa. Maybe I really will love this…

  The cleaning isn’t as bad as I thought, either. When I meet Ty on my porch that evening with a drink already made, he looks suspicious.

  “Hey. What’s this?”

  “It’s just something for tonight.”

  “Okay. What’s tonight?”

  I smile. “I want to have sex with you – but this time, I want to be on the bottom.”

  His lips part. “You’re kidding.
Our sex lessons aren’t done, and you’ve barely even learned how to be on top, and-”

  “Well I taught myself online.” I leer at him, his blonde hair gleaming in the autumn light. “I like you, and I want you in me, Ty.”

  Those blue eyes catch fire. “Wow. That was the hottest thing I’ve heard in a while.” He steps forward, his eyes darkening. “And in that case, I can’t wait to be inside you.”

  In a flash, we’re upstairs. When we’re naked on my bed, I lay myself out and stare up at him.

  “You’re sure?” he asks, his face glowing from within. “This is a big step.”

  “I trust you,” I whisper. “And I’m so excited for this.”

  Ty kisses me on the forehead and gets going. First we just kiss and touch and revel in the contact. Our bodies start moving perfectly together, and even our sweat seems to be mixing together and creating its own heady potion. And then I’m gritting my teeth and leaning my head back and holding my breath…

  He enters me slowly, inch by precious inch, and it hurts very badly at first. It’s strange and alien, because it’s an exit being used as an entrance – but I love feeling so full of him, too. When the initial shock subsides, I start getting acclimated. It feels dirty and odd and explosive, and it’s triggering something animal in me, some caveman instinct I’ve never known before. Soon I lose all control of my mouth, and I’m making sounds I never knew I could make. His name becomes my mantra – I want him, him, him, only ever him. Every time our eyes make contact my heart skips and shudders. He lifts me up by the waist and starts pounding harder, and I am transported, flown into outer space. I feel so owned by him, so under his control, that it’s hard not to orgasm every second.

  And oh, his movement, his power, the way he’s taking control and dominating me – I never expected this, and the commenter was so right about how it’s making me like him even more. So I lean my head back and give myself up to the music we are making together. Every thrust becomes a kiss, every grunt becomes a song. Every time he leans forward and licks my mouth is a supernova. I hear violins and angels when he looks into my eyes, brown on blue. I want him to invade me and possess every cell of me without my permission, like he’s an entitled white guy and I’m a foreign land full of innocent natives. This kid exploded my life, but the weird thing is, he made me love it – he is my dynamite boy, and I am his. We are only each other’s, if only for now.

  A montage of Henry and Ty flashes in front of me as he takes me away, and I see two boys on a bus, two boys in a candy store, two boys under Savannah oaks, two boys in a world that doesn’t always know what to do with two guys who are together in that way. But we did it – we came together.

  He falls forward. The final explosion comes, and I cry out into his neck. I will never be able to come back from this, and I don’t even want to anymore.

  ~

  As autumn decorations slowly give way to holiday ones, Ty starts to become my partner and my best friend and everything else, too. He’s just the only thing. I stop worrying so much about being spotted, and soon I go everywhere with him. We happen to share a cheesy love for all things Christmas, so the season looks to be especially magical this year. As the days get shorter I start sharing my evening Netflix time with him, and we start cycling through both of our favorite shows. He shows me Will & Grace, and I get him into my History Channel military documentaries. The gay lessons ramp up, too: I stop by Chuck’s Bar, the smaller gay bar on the river, and once I even drop into a gay engagement party. It’s way more fun than any straight party I’ve been to, and I don’t just mean that because half the people are high off their rockers. His friends don’t really ask for specifics about me, but they’re welcoming anyway, and I feel more and more comfortable drinking and talking with them (or kiki-ing, as Ty would call it – that’s another vocab word I’ve learned).

  For a week we go on a tour of Savannah’s restaurants, mostly because I can’t get enough of seeing him in fancy outfits, sitting under expensive lighting fixtures. He was made to be seen in beautiful surroundings. Every time we meet up I find myself looking forward to his outfits: sometimes he’s dressed like a punk, sometimes like an old-fashioned movie star, sometimes with a little street-style flair. Everything he buys from vintage stores and Goodwill, he personalizes with his bedazzling gun or his paintbrushes, so each one of his public appearances is like an art installation. The hurricane recovery mostly draws to a close, minus a few piles of rubble in an empty lot here or there, and when my apartment is ready again, the lease is up anyway – so I stay. And soon he is sleeping with me there almost every night.

  Not that everything is perfect, though. One night we get rip-roaring stoned and go to Paula Deen’s, which is actually a crowded buffet. We pile our plates high and sit in the corner, giggling and eating and whispering. It is the most fun I’ve had since I was a kid. But when a restaurant employee asks us to please quiet down and then sighs to herself about “all these loud couples who come in and get drunk on date night,” I blurt out that we’re not a couple. I don’t even know where it comes from, I just know it bursts out of me. Ty’s mood doesn’t recover for the rest of the night. After dinner we walk to the river and just stare into the black current rushing by, wondering where all of that water could possibly end up. Is one ocean big enough?

  I ask him about this, and I think he knows what I’m really thinking. “I don’t know where it’s going,” he says soon. “And I don’t know where we’re going, either. But wherever you go, I will follow.”

  And I can see in his eyes that he’s telling the truth.

  ~

  The next evening I have to drop by Thad’s birthday gathering, and Ty – maybe knowing it’s better to just stay away until we can fully figure out how to handle that whole thing – says he’s backlogged with studying and housework. (Which I understand, because lately I haven’t given two shits about anything in my life but him.) Our goodbye peck on the cheek turns out into a full-on make out session in the parlor, though, and I arrive at the event a full half an hour late.

  From the first second, the sailing isn’t very smooth. All of my friends are curious and a little pissed about where I’ve been, but I try to explain that it’s just been a killer of a semester I’ve signed myself up for. I doubt anyone believes me. Just as I halfway expected, Caro is there, lurking on Thad’s back patio with a few of her girlfriends. Our social circles were always intertwined, and besides, she befriended all my friends in her attempts to trap me into marriage – I guess she wanted some allies on her side. I’m nice to her, though, and in between checking on Ty I get into a pretty deep conversation with her about her job. She works for her dad’s company, and she claims his problems with her mom have put a strain on their work relationship. It just sounds like another ploy to get sympathy from me, but I don’t say anything.

  Once, she catches me texting Ty, but I hide my screen. Something like annoyance flickers into her eyes. “So, who’s the lucky girl? Are we ready for this conversation? The one about how you’re obviously moving on?”

  She isn’t a girl, I want to say. It makes me smile. “Nah, it’s my mom,” I lie, and she laughs it off.

  “Whatever. Anyway, you should’ve heard my dad’s bitchy assistant, she was, like…”

  Caro rests her hand on mine as we speak, and soon I am reminded of just how natural we always were together. (I’ve also been thinking about vagina occasionally, missing how it feels and tastes during fleeting moments, but that’s another story. It’s probably just normal “grass is greener on the other side” stuff, anyway.) Caro was my best friend, after all, and I mean that in every sense – we ate together, we slept together, we read books together. She knows what I love, what I hate, what scares me. We just drifted apart as the honeymoon phase slowly turned into real life again. And Ty is becoming a huge part of my life, sure, but he can’t be everything. He can’t take up all the space that was opened up when I jettisoned everyone else from my old life.

  I try to ignore it, but I s
tart sliding into a funk. I wonder – what is love, anyway? What if the spark fizzles with Ty, too, like it did with Caro? When I fully bust out our relationship to the public, there’s a high likelihood that Caro, or any other girl, would never want to touch me again. I’d be tainted. Nobody in this circle would want to date a “gay guy,” as they would surely call a bisexual. What if I’m throwing away a future with a lifelong companion for five minutes of passion with someone I met a matter of weeks ago? My mom told me herself one time, after a glass of wine – love doesn’t necessarily make a marriage. She’d found several men she could’ve married, but my dad was the only one she actually liked being around and could tolerate in large doses. So maybe passion doesn’t matter. What if I had a true shot at normalcy and happiness and acceptance, and I’m squandering it? What am I doing?

  As I look at Caro, I feel so bad for her. All she wants is to find a home in me, just like I’m finding a home in Ty. Should I tell her? Should I spill the beans, or would that shatter her?

  The birthday cake cuts my deliberation short. I look around as Thad blows out a clump of candles, and every single person here is white, straight (or claims to be straight, at least), and upper middle class. Ty would be completely unwelcome here – a few people would awkwardly shake his hand and then he’d be banished to the corner. What would they think about me if they knew the truth?

  It makes me think of Ty’s friends, and the way they just accepted me each time like I was a part of the family. At those gatherings you can find people of all races, all genders; people of able body and people in wheelchairs, too. None of them seemed to see the boundaries between humanity that others did. Everyone went into the same pot. Here, though, you were out of place if you weren’t a white dude in Vineyard Vines.

  Caro has three whiskey drinks – I always appreciated that she drank masculine cocktails – and during a story about her mom’s latest shopping trip to Atlanta, I turn around a little too quickly. Our faces collide, and we accidentally kiss on the lips.