Shotgun

by Marie Sexton

  “Blow.”

  I held onto his waist. I closed my eyes. And I obeyed. I passed the smoke from my lips to his, lost in my memory, unwilling and unable to fight the surge of longing and arousal flooding through me. The smoke ran out, and still he stayed there, looking up into my eyes. I dared not take another hit like that, but I didn’t want this to end. I wanted to kiss him the way I wanted to breathe.

  He smiled at me, brushed his lips against mine, flicked his tongue against my lips, and my breath caught in my throat. Did I dare let this happen?

  “Clothes stay on?” I asked, my chest tight.

  His grin grew. “If that’s how you like it.”

  And then he kissed me.

  Fifteen years fell away. A lifetime of doubt and misgivings and denial disintegrated to ash in a single, blinding flare of passion. He was perfect. He was everything I’d ever wanted, finally flesh and blood, here in my arms, kissing me as if we’d never have another chance. Kissing me as if he’d spent the last fifteen years wanting to do it. I pulled him against me, deepening our kiss, already hoping it could last forever. But we were in the kitchen, with the countertop hard against my back.

  “Wait,” I gasped, pulling away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The marijuana was hitting me already, making my head spin. Time moved both too fast and too slow. I fought the urge to giggle. “How about the couch?”

  He laughed. “Good idea.”

  My hand shook as I led him into the living room. He went willingly onto his back, pulling me down on top of him as eagerly as he’d once pulled me into the back seat of my GTO. We stopped there, nose to nose, his arms around my neck, my hips between his thighs. The intimacy of the position sent blood rushing toward my groin, and I could tell the same thing was happening to him.

  He arched his back, his eyes half-lidded with desire. “Don’t stop now,” he drawled.

  I couldn’t have, even if I wanted to. Not with him there, so warm and willing beneath me. Not with the tang of marijuana lingering in the air and the past thundering through my mind. Clothes could stay on, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t make out like the teenagers we’d once been. And that was exactly what we did. There on my couch, still fully clothed, we kissed and touched each other for what felt like a glorious eternity. We explored each other’s bodies, tasted each other’s flesh, fed each other’s desires like we had when we were kids. He was lithe and energetic and felt like heaven in my hands. He responded to my touch in a way that made me long to do more. Sometimes I faltered, worrying my lack of experience showed, but he never wavered. The sounds he made and the feel of his hands in my hair spurred me on. We kissed until we were both breathless and weak. Until the desperation and urgency of our thrusting hips began to push all reason from my mind. Until the need to climax became so strong, I nearly lost control.

  “Jesus,” I muttered, breaking our kiss. “We need to stop.” Otherwise, I’d end up coming in my jeans like I had when we were seventeen.

  He smiled up at me, a wicked invitation in his eyes. He slid his hand between us to cup my aching cock. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I said, even though I wasn’t. I wanted to kiss him forever.

  “We could go in the bedroom instead.”

  Funny how his Southern drawl became more pronounced at times like this. And funny how it made me want to forget all reason. “No.” It was all I could do to tear myself away. I sat up, pushing the hair out of my face, licking lips that were way too dry. “I could actually use one of those Big Gulps right about now.”

  He laughed. “Now that you mention it….”

  He followed me into the kitchen, both of us awkwardly trying to adjust our jeans over cocks that hadn’t quite gotten the message yet. I found a Sprite in the fridge for myself. He opted for one of Naomi’s sparkling waters. We drank in silence. It wasn’t until the liquid hit my throat that I realized how thirsty I’d been. He finished his drink just as quickly.

  For a moment, we stood there, him watching me, me studiously avoiding eye contact. I had no idea what to do now. Kissing him had felt momentous, but as much as I may have wanted to do more, I couldn’t.

  He stepped closer, moving into my personal space, forcing me to meet his eyes. He settled against me, his arms around my waist, as if wanting to be close without wakening the arousal we’d just managed to quench.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “The way you touch me….”

  A blush began creeping up my neck. “Did I do it wrong?”

  “No.” He shook his head emphatically. “It’s just….” He hesitated. “There have been others, right? After me?”

  But he knew. I could tell by the tone of his voice, he already suspected the answer. “Sort of.”

  “‘Sort of’?” he prodded.

  “Not really.”

  “Nobody?”

  “There was a guy my senior year of high school. Elena’s cousin. We fooled around a bit, but….” But it had never felt as good as my night with Lamar, and when Dave began to talk of coming out, of trying to have a real relationship after high school, I’d balked. “And once, when I was twenty-five or so, I went to a club in Denver.” I laughed at the memory. “I was so nervous, I could barely even drink my beer. I got in this line. I thought it was for the bathroom.” Although in hindsight, I should have known. The line had moved way too slow to be for a urinal. “It was finally my turn, and I went through the door. And there was this man there wearing a collar and leash, and nothing else. And another man standing behind him, holding the leash—”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Yeah, that’s about what I said. And I turned to go, but the guy holding the leash said, ‘Don’t leave yet, pretty boy.’”

  “And?”

  I shook my head, wishing I could convey how overwhelmed I’d felt, being stuck in the closet—both figuratively and literally—and horny as hell to boot, and then to be presented with such an erotic and simple opportunity. “He gave me a blow job.”

  Lamar laughed, not quite pulling away but stepping back enough to get a better look at my face. “Wow. I thought that kind of thing only happened in stories.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “And how was it?”

  “It was amazing.” And it had been. Not just the purely sexual pleasure of having my cock sucked, but knowing it was a man doing it. The feel of his stubbled chin against my scrotum had sent me over the edge. I’d come in an embarrassingly short time.

  “So, that’s it?” Lamar asked, clearly astounded.

  “That’s it.”

  “You’ve never….”

  “What?”

  This time, it was him who blushed. “You’ve never actually had sex with another man?”

  “You mean specifically anal?”

  He nodded.

  I kind of hated to admit it, but what was the point in lying? “No.”

  “Wow,” he said again. He wasn’t laughing, though, or disdainful, or mocking in any way. He simply seemed stunned.

  “Honestly,” I said, “that’s never appealed to me nearly as much as the rest.”

  He blinked, processing my answer, and then his gaze turned mischievous again. He moved closer. “Like what?” he asked, sounding like a drawling Texan again. “What appeals to you most?”

  It was such a blatant invitation, and I found myself thinking again of that leashed man in a dark closet, sucking me as the bass boomed through the walls. I imagined how good it would feel if it were Lamar. He’d done it for me before, of course. He’d been the first. But now, the thought of having that pleasure with him made my knees weak. Just the thought of kissing him again took my breath away.

  I put my hand against his cheek. I brushed my thumb over his soft lips, imagining. I felt a stir in my groin as my cock reawoke to the possibilities.

  Lamar’s lids lowered flirtatiously over his understanding blue eyes. “I’d do that for you right
now, if you like. I wouldn’t mind a bit.”

  I bit back a moan, wanting nothing more than to say yes, but this wasn’t a dark bar in a city where nobody knew me. This was my kitchen, and although Naomi had said seven, there was always the possibility of her walking through the door earlier than expected. Even our make-out session on the couch felt reckless and foolish now that it was over.

  Still, I didn’t let him go. I relished the feel of his lips against my thumb. I wished more than anything that I could take him up on his offer, but it would have been one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

  “We have to finish the Imperial Walker if we ever want to get to the Death Star.”

  He smiled, conceding the moment to me. “If that’s what you want.”

  It wasn’t what I wanted. Not really. But it’d have to be enough.

  UNCLE MARIO’S party started around one on Sunday and was fairly typical for my family, which is to say, it was big, loud, and borderline chaotic.

  My mother’s parents had moved to Colorado from Mexico before she was born. They’d encouraged her and her four siblings to speak English growing up, so for better or worse—probably worse—my family had long since lost the majority of their bilingual abilities. Three of my grandparents’ five children, including my mother, married white spouses. In my generation, the mixed marriages had continued. Once my aunts, uncles, cousins, their spouses, and their kids were all taken into account, roughly a third of us were of purely Mexican decent, a third Caucasian, and a third like me, who were somewhere in between. Regardless of heritage—and God have mercy on anyone who started the “Hispanic” versus “Latino” debate with my outspoken family—we were an enormously varied, boisterous bunch. Elena’s family also traced most of their roots back to Mexico, but she had to go back several generations to find anybody born south of the border. The primary difference between her family and mine was religion. Her family was devoutly Catholic. Mine was devoutly We Have Better Ways to Spend Our Sundays.

  Like celebrating Uncle Mario’s birthday.

  A group of tweens filled the front room, all engaged in their own handheld electronics. Their scattered exclamations seemed to mostly coincide, which led me to believe that wherever they were online, they were there together. It was a social dynamic that eluded me but which Naomi settled into comfortably, smartphone in hand.

  I found a large group of adults—mostly men, but with a few women scattered amongst them—in the family room, gathered around the TV, which would be tuned to football all day, no matter what. This was where my father was parked and would be until my mom decided it was time to go. When I entered, he was waiting for the Broncos game to begin and arguing loudly with my cousin Junior about the team’s chances against the Raiders. In the kitchen, my mother, a couple of aunts, and several cousins were in a lively discussion over the best recipe for guacamole. The ongoing debate seemed to be whether the avocados should be mashed or diced, although Frank’s wife, who’d moved to Coda from Maryland, always insisted on adding balsamic vinegar. I wasn’t sure if it was an East Coast thing, or if she was just weird. Either way, the one thing every other woman in the family agreed on was that vinegar of any kind in guacamole was a blasphemy too profound for words.

  A volleyball net divided the spacious backyard in half, and if tradition held, a nonstop pickup game would ensue, with the occasional teenager deciding to toss a badminton birdie and a couple of rackets into the mix for the hell of it. The younger kids played on an ancient swing set in the corner of the yard. I’d played on the same contraption as a child. It rocked and creaked every time a swing went more than a foot off the ground. I was glad Naomi was past the swing set age, because standing there waiting for the thing to tip over had nearly caused me a heart attack more times than I could count.

  The remainder of the adults gathered on the patio, where several tables had been set up. Most of my relatives were still drinking soda rather than alcohol, but that was more due to the early hour than temperance. I was sure there was at least one keg cooling somewhere. I stopped to wish my Uncle Mario a happy birthday, then headed for Dimitri and Elena, sitting at a table in the sunlight. Everybody still thought of her as family, even though we’d been living apart for nearly ten years now. Sometimes I thought she fit in better than I did.

  “You’re late,” she said, as I took the empty seat across from Dimitri.

  “No. You’re early.”

  “Where’s Naomi?”

  “Parked on the couch with her smartphone.”

  “She should be out here getting some sunlight and exercise.”

  I agreed with her, but it wasn’t worth the fight. Besides, if the past was any indication, Naomi would wander out later in the afternoon in search of sustenance. Better to let it happen in its own time than to make an issue out of it. Whether that was good parenting or pure laziness, I didn’t know, but it kept me sane.

  “Have you talked to Dad?” Dimitri asked me.

  “Why? Do I need to?”

  “He’s talking retirement again.”

  “He always does.”

  “I think he’s serious this time. You see how much less time he’s been spending at the garage these last few months. His heart isn’t in it anymore. He and Mom are talking about all the places they’re planning to visit next year, since he won’t be working. She’s shopping for an RV, for fuck sake.” He leaned forward across the patio table, as if to underline how serious he was. “He’s talking about hanging up his hat as early as the first of the year.”

  My dad had mentioned retirement a dozen times over the past two or three years. D and I tried not to push. It was his garage, after all. But he was old-fashioned. He clung to outdated methods and ideologies. “That’s not how it was done in my day!” was a common refrain when he was around. Even something as simple as adding free Wi-Fi for our waiting customers was enough to make him hyperventilate. “You can do whatever damn thing you want once I’m retired,” he’d told us on more occasions than I could count.

  “You really think he’ll do it this time?” I asked.

  “I do.” Dimitri grinned at me. “And then it’s you and me, bro. Are you ready for that?”

  I couldn’t help but smile back. “I’ve always been ready for that.”

  Elena, Dimitri, and I sat in silence for a minute, lost in thought as we watched the kids attempt to play volleyball. I was pretty sure they hadn’t achieved an actual “volley” yet, but they were having fun.

  Eventually, when I tired of roasting in the mountain sun, I wandered into the living room, where my father sat watching football with several of my cousins. I wedged myself onto one of the couches between Julio, who I’d always liked, and Mason, one of my first cousins once removed, who was still in high school.

  “Did D talk to you?” my dad asked without looking away from the game, where the Raiders were getting creamed by the home team.

  “He did.”

  And that was it. That was the big talk. Nothing else was said. It actually qualified as good communication for my father.

  It wasn’t until halftime that anybody spoke about something other than football. Not my dad this time, but my cousin Junior, who talked a lot of shit but rarely had the balls to back it up when the chips were down.

  “Hey, Dominic,” he said, leaning forward with a gleeful smile that made my stomach fall. Nothing that made Junior so happy could be good. “We saw you leaving that fag house.”

  My heart burst into action, not beating fast, but somehow seeming to beat way too hard and too loud. “What?”

  “I was over at Travis’s house. He lives across the street from them, you know.”

  I hadn’t known his best friend, Travis, lived so close to Zach and Angelo. If I had, I would have been more careful. I still would have picked Lamar up, but I certainly wouldn’t have let him kiss me on the porch.

  Had Junior and Travis seen the kiss?

  My gut said no. If Junior had seen anything so incriminating, he wouldn’t have been abl
e to keep it to himself. He’d have made a great game out of mocking me. He certainly wouldn’t do me the courtesy of actually asking me about it.

  “I was picking up a customer,” I said as casually as I could.

  “I hope that’s all it was,” Junior said. “I hope you’re not hanging out with those fudge-packers.”

  “His car was ready to be picked up from the shop. That’s all.”

  “Then why weren’t you in the courtesy shuttle?”

  “What’s it to you?” Julio said to my surprise. “You think Dom’s gonna get gay cooties just walking up to their front door?”

  “Maybe.”

  Julio shook his head with disgust. “You’re an idiot.”

  A muscle twitched under Junior’s right eye, but he wasn’t brave enough to risk a physical confrontation with Julio. “What, you got a soft spot for the gay boys, Julio?”

  “I’m just not a homophobic prick like you. What the fuck’s your problem, anyway? What’d the queers ever do to you?”

  Junior’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you kidding?” he said, glancing around the room as if it was a joke. I didn’t dare look to see who else was laughing. “Besides being a bunch of perverts?”

  “Being gay doesn’t make them perverts.”

  “Well, it ain’t exactly normal, is it?”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” another cousin, Bernard, added from the opposite side of the room, “the more fags, the better.”

  “What?” Junior asked, turning on him.

  Bernard shrugged good-naturedly. “Means more chicks for us, right?”

  His sister, sitting next to him, elbowed him hard in the chest. “You’re such a pig.”

  “What? I’m the open-minded one here!”

  “Yeah, you’ll stand up for the gays, but us women are still ‘chicks.’”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I like those guys,” Julio said as if the discussion was over. He relaxed back into his seat as if to prove he wasn’t being confrontational, even though he clearly was. “You ever been in their shop?” he asked Junior. “They’re cool, man.”

  “So are the other two,” Frank said, joining the conversation for the first time. “Jared Thomas and that cop he lives with.”