The Book of David

by AnonYMous

  My eyes fluttered open. My breath was a ragged gasp. I wanted to lean forward, to kiss him again. For a moment we were frozen there—and then I realized what had just happened, and I felt my heart rate rocket like I’d just sprinted from one end zone to the other. I pulled away and jumped up out of the bed like I was being chased by a pack of rabid dogs.

  “Jon!” I yelled his name. “I’m not gay.”

  Jon popped up and slowly swung his long legs over the edge of the bed, his hands out like I was holding him at gunpoint. “Hey, man. It’s cool. It’s cool.” His voice was so calm. My heart was pounding. I could barely breathe. I glanced down at the front of my boxers and grabbed a pillow to hold it over myself. Dammit.

  I backed up against the wall and slid down to the floor. Tears filled my eyes, and I buried my face in the pillow. “I’m not gay,” I said over and over. Suddenly I was crying. “I can’t be gay. I’m not gay.”

  Jon was silent, but even with my head buried in the pillow, I could sense him near me. After a minute I ran a hand over my face, brushing the tears away. I was so embarrassed, I could barely move.

  When I dared to look up at Jon, he was staring straight at me, and the look on his face was so kind, and so warm, and so . . . him. When he caught my eyes, he spoke: “Nobody said you were gay.”

  I gave a short, bitter laugh. “Uh. We were just kissing in your bed. I think Tyler would say that’s pretty fucking gay.”

  “Yeah, but Tyler isn’t here, is he?” Jon’s voice was steady and soothing. He smiled and rolled his eyes. “And who made Tyler the grand high poo-bah of everything? Who says he gets to decide what’s gay and what isn’t?”

  I was quiet for a second. The bourbon and the crying made my head swim a little. I rubbed my eyes and looked back up at Jon. “It’s just . . . I can’t . . . I mean, if Tyler ever found out, I just . . .”

  “Who’s gonna tell him?”

  Jon slid off of the bed and sat next to me on the floor. His white boxer briefs glowed blue in the light from the window. I felt his shoulder touch mine. After a minute he bumped my knee with his.

  “Nobody’s saying you’re gay. Nobody’s saying I’m gay. We’re just two guys kissing.”

  I turned to face him. “It’s not that simple. I—”

  “Maybe not.” He cut me off. “But it could be.”

  We sat there for what seemed like a long time, my head racing to match my heartbeat:

  This is who you are. This is who you are. This is who you are.

  All at once, I realized why I was really scared—not of people finding out, or What It All Means; I mean, I am plenty scared of that, too. But in that moment, I got terrified Jon might get up and never try to kiss me again. All I knew for sure was that I couldn’t risk that.

  But how did I tell him I wanted to kiss him again? How did I tell him I wanted to take him up on his offer to just be two guys messing around?

  What were the right the words?

  Before I could find them, Jon sighed and stood up. He looked so freaking tall standing over me like that. I let my eyes drink in what I hadn’t dared to see before: how amazing he looked in his underwear. It was like he was a Greek god chiseled out of blue marble. I was afraid to move, afraid that if I said one more wrong word, he’d toss me my jeans and tell me to go home.

  Instead Jon reached down and offered his hand. I took it, and he pulled me up. He didn’t let go. Neither did I. That’s how I told him, with no words at all, our hands locked together between our chests, our noses so close I could feel his breath on my cheek.

  “I don’t wanna freak you out,” he whispered. “I just wanna kiss you.”

  There was something so honest and so open in his eyes at that moment, I made a decision. It wasn’t a decision to come out of the closet or be gay for the rest of my life, or anything like that. I just decided to trust him. I didn’t even have to think about it—like being on the field and just knowing, seeing the whole spread in front of me and not taking a moment’s hesitation before cocking my arm back for the pass. I knew exactly what my move was.

  I pulled him toward me and kissed him again. I put both hands up to his face, and as I did, I felt his arms slowly wrap around my waist and draw me tightly against him. I’d never been held like that before.

  Ever.

  He pulled me down onto the bed, and our legs and arms and lips were all tangled up. We were breathing at the same time, the same air. There was a pulse between us in a way that I had never felt with Monica, or any of the other girls I’d kissed. Sure, I’d gotten turned on when I’d made out with girls. It’s just that this was different from simply having a hard-on. That was just friction. This was like my brain and body and thoughts and heart all ran together with Jon’s and I lost myself completely in this moment. It was like I’d been dying of thirst and finally felt myself falling headlong into a pool of the coolest, sweetest water I’d ever tasted.

  At first I was scared to move my body at all. I kept my hands on his face and moving through his hair while he held me tightly against him. After a while he broke away from my lips and looked into my eyes, smiling.

  “Damn. You’re good at that.”

  I blushed. I didn’t know what to say. He kissed me again, lightly on the lips. I was out of breath and panting a little. My whole body felt lit up like a carnival ride at night. I could barely look at him. We were pressed together so tightly. I knew he could feel what was going on in my boxers as clearly as I could feel what was going on in his. Finally I forced myself to bring my eyes to his eyes.

  “Jesus,” I whispered.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’re trouble.”

  He smirked. “Right here in River City.”

  All I could do was stare into his eyes as I let my hands wander down to his shoulders and across his biceps. I ran my fingers over his pecs and pulled away from him a little as my hand trickled down his abs to the waistband of his boxer briefs.

  He grabbed my wrist. “Wait.”

  I looked back up at him and felt my cheeks go red. Did I do something wrong? “Sorry. I just—I mean, I was . . . ,” I stammered.

  He brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed it, then pressed his body into mine again.

  “It’s cool,” he said. “I just think . . .” His voice trailed off. “Maybe we should take it slow?”

  We made out for a while longer, until I felt my mouth getting a little raw from Jon’s stubble.

  I laughed. “My lips are getting chapped,” I said.

  He smiled. “Yeah. Mine too. Hazard of kissing guys, I guess.” He rolled over and opened the drawer of his nightstand. He applied some lip balm, then handed it to me and jumped out of bed.

  “Jesus, dude.” He pulled at the front of his underwear. “You got me all riled up.” He left the bedroom, and I heard him run down the stairs. A few seconds later he was back with a bottle of water. “I gotta get some shut-eye so I can sing tomorrow.”

  We took big gulps of the water, passing the bottle back and forth. Then I put it on the floor next to the bed. When I rolled back over, Jon was under the sheets, propped up on his elbow. He put his hand on my chest.

  “You okay?”

  An old panic returned when he said that. I reached up and grabbed his hand. “You can’t tell anybody.”

  He pulled a pillow over toward my side of the bed, slid an arm under my pillow, and wrapped the other one around me. “Tell anybody what?”

  “About . . . this,” I said.

  He yawned and settled in next to me, closing his eyes. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “And I’m not your boyfriend.”

  “Uh . . . you have a girlfriend. And I have . . . Amy.”

  “I just—”

  “Dude.” He interrupted me and squeezed me really tightly to get my attention.

  “Yeah?”

  “Nobody’s gonna hear about this from me. Got it?” He pecked me on the cheek. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

>   So.

  That’s what happened last night.

  This morning, when I woke up, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, showered and dressed. The light was pouring in the window. It was after eleven a.m. His T-shirt said FLYING BURRITO BROTHERS, and when my eyes opened, he smirked and said he had to leave, but that I should just pull the front door closed behind me.

  When he tried to stand up again, I grabbed his hand and pulled him back toward me. He came down on his knees next to the bed, laughing.

  “Dang. You’re strong.”

  I pulled his head close to mine and kissed him really long and hard. He leaned in to me, and I could taste his toothpaste and smell his deodorant, and I wanted to pull him back onto the bed. After we kissed for a minute, he put both hands on my shoulders and gently pushed me away.

  He stood up over the bed and ran a hand through his hair with a big sigh. Then he fixed me with that amazing smirk and those incredible eyes and shook his head. “Trouble,” he said.

  Then he was gone.

  I lay in his bed for a long time, thinking about what happened last night and just then. Finally I got up, got dressed, and drove home.

  Dad was on the couch watching the U of A game when I walked through the door. I sat there staring at the screen with him for a long time. We’ve always hunted and watched football together. Something about sitting there next to him felt right, but now it also felt horribly wrong, too. There was something unseen between us—this huge thing that I don’t even understand.

  I mean, I understand it intellectually. Hell, I’ve been flipping through books about “changes to your body” since I was in sixth grade, looking up the chapters on what it means to experience “same-sex attraction.” Even before I knew, I guess I knew.

  But now I know. I really know. I know from experience.

  And there’s no way I can go back to not knowing. I’ll always know this about myself, and I’ll never be able to tell my dad. How will I always be able to hide this from him?

  I sat there on the couch until halftime, and then I came up here to my room to write this all down. All I can think about is how my dad can never know and at the same time, about how much I want to kiss Jon again.

  My lips are still chapped, and every time I touch them, I feel excited and scared. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

  I have to go for a run.

  Sunday, September 23

  In church.

  Bored as hell.

  Tried to send Jon twenty different texts yesterday, but none of them sounded right, so I deleted them all. I thought maybe he’d text me after rehearsal, but he didn’t. I went for my run, and as I got out of the shower, Monica pulled up with Amy and said we were meeting Jon for food. I guess I got really excited, because Monica said, “There it is.”

  “There what is?” I asked her.

  “Your smile,” she said. Then she leaned in to kiss me, and I sort of pulled my head back as if I were saying, What are you doing? But then I caught what I had done right as she gave me this funny look. I turned my head quickly to the side and coughed. I played the whole thing off as though I had been about to cough in her face. Then I leaned in and kissed her.

  I tried to really kiss her the way I had kissed her before—the way I had kissed Jon yesterday morning before he left for rehearsal. It felt like putting on sunscreen after you’re already fried: too little, too late.

  But I think it just felt that way to me. Monica seemed to really be into it. Amy was not.

  “Jeez, you guys. Get a room.”

  Amy isn’t really known for her originality, but I was glad to have an excuse to get into the car.

  Jon was waiting for us on the deck outside at the restaurant, and he smiled as I slid into the chair next to his, but during dinner he barely talked to me. He mainly talked to Monica about the musical and Amy about meeting her family down at the River Market for lunch today. When I finally got up the nerve, I scooted my leg over under the table so my knee touched his, but just then he got up and said he had to use the restroom.

  When he came back, the girls decided to go to the restroom together, and I had the chance to ask him if he was okay.

  “Totally,” he said.

  “Cool. I guess—I thought maybe you’d call or something after rehearsal.”

  He just said, “Slowly,” but he winked and smiled at me when he said it. Then he squeezed my knee under the table.

  At that very moment the waiter showed up with our food (of course), and then the girls came back. I tried for the rest of the meal to figure out a way to arrange it so that Jon would take me home and Monica would take Amy home, but there was really no way to make that happen without it being weird. Jon took Amy home and gave me a fist bump as I got into Monica’s car.

  “Catch ya Monday” was all he said. I felt my stomach turn. Monday?

  “You okay?” Monica asked before she started the car. I didn’t know how to answer. So I just leaned across the seat and kissed her until she giggled and pushed me off.

  I kissed her some more when we got back to my place, but when I tried to slide my hand up her shirt, she batted me away and told me that she had to get home.

  “To do what?” I asked, secretly relieved.

  I honestly don’t remember what she said now. All I could think about was texting Jon. I was doing that as I passed my dad in the hallway.

  “Always glued to that damn phone, boy. Gotta get you out in the woods. Get you away from all that pansy-ass technology. Give you a good ol’-fashioned rifle.”

  Pansy ass?

  Every time I pass my dad in the hall now, I get scared that he can tell. It’s stupid, I know. Like what? He’s the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk? He can somehow smell the gay on me?

  Jon didn’t text me back last night. And nothing this morning.

  Jesus. I’m losing my fucking mind.

  In church.

  Monday, September 24

  English—First Period

  Tyler is back. He had surgery last Monday, and he’s already been to physical therapy twice. He says they’re being really aggressive with it so that he can get back in shape by spring. He’s still on crutches and wearing a big brace, but he actually smiled at me this morning and said he was going to come to practice and watch this afternoon for a little bit before he has to go to physical therapy.

  Jon came in late this morning, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to him yet. I texted him yesterday to see how things went with Amy on Saturday night, but he just texted:

  It was fine. =P

  Then . . . nothing.

  I am trying not to let it bother me. I am trying not to text him every ten minutes. I mean, I’m the one who made it clear that I didn’t want him to get all clingy and start thinking of me as his boyfriend or something.

  What is happening?

  What if I’m the clingy one?

  Tuesday, September 25

  Jesus. What a couple of days.

  So, yesterday afternoon, when Tyler came to practice to hang out for a few minutes before physical therapy, we were running tackles and doing burpees when I saw these guys sitting near him in the bleachers. I just assumed they were the PT team his dad has him set up with trying to get him back in shape.

  Then, after a while, I glanced over and Tyler was gone but these guys were still there. They were watching us run line drills and had stop watches out. One of them was talking to Coach on the sideline.

  After I got out of the shower and was headed out of the locker room, I passed Coach’s office and he stuck his head out the door after me.

  “You going to talk to ’em?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Those scouts.”

  “What scouts?” I asked.

  Coach smiled for what might be the second time in his entire life—at least that I’ve ever seen. “You’ll see,” he said. “Talk to ’em.”

  When I walked out the door, I saw both of the guys who were in the bleachers. Both of them were real
ly tan, and the tall, blond one stepped forward and introduced himself. They were scouts.

  “Dave Joseph, USC.”

  I shook his hand. “Hey.” These guys were from California?

  “You got a second?”

  I nodded. “You came here from California; guess I have a second.”

  “We were in Memphis visiting a couple guys.”

  “And you just happened over to Little Rock?” I asked.

  “We were here in May,” he said. “Spring eval looking at Tyler.”

  I remembered seeing Tyler talking to the guys in the bleachers at the start of practice. “Did you make him an offer?” I asked.

  “He was pretty dead set on sticking around here,” Dave said. “Besides, I read about his injury online. Then I saw some footage of you. You haven’t given anybody a verbal yet, have you?”

  I shook my head. “OU offered, but when she came back last week, I sort of didn’t get a chance to talk to her.”

  Dave frowned. “Alicia Stevenson? She’s been to see you twice?”

  “Three times. I talked to their coach last spring. I just figured . . .”

  Dave held up his hand. “Don’t tell me anything else. I don’t wanna know. This is technically ‘Quiet Period.’ She’s supposed to see you only once in person until November.”

  I nodded. I’d heard about this, but I didn’t think it counted unless it was the coach of the team.

  “Don’t be fooled by the long legs and the high heels, man. OU is great and all, but we’re talking PAC-12. State school versus private.”

  “Are we talking that?” I asked.

  He smiled. “This is my one chance face-to-face. You see me?” He waited until I looked him in the eye. “We want you. We need a QB with a passing game. You’re our guy. You do what you want, but have you been to Oklahoma City?”

  I nodded. “Once. As a kid. Drove through on the way to my mom’s cousin’s wedding.”

  He laughed. “It hasn’t gotten any better, trust me. Los Angeles is where you want to be.”