When Everything Is Blue

by Laura Lascarso

  “The first time I saw you,” he says as he nuzzles his nose against mine.

  “Yeah?” I curl my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and lean down to kiss just below his ear, breathing in his beach-salt skin, tangy with sweat. I take deep breaths, letting his scent wash over me, thrilled and amazed that this is happening and I’m allowed to do this. I’m making out with my boyfriend. The rest of the world could be crumbling outside our window, but in this room at this moment, life is fucking fantastic.

  “I thought you were super cute,” he says. His voice is thick and husky, both of us speaking in half sentences, drowsy with the desire. “I liked your pretty eyes. And your smile. And the funny way you talked. All the weird things you said.”

  “Like Doom Blade is the answer to a Tarmogoyf?”

  Chris chuckles. “You were so sweet and geeky with your Magic cards. You taught me a whole new language.”

  “Yeah, it’s called Dweeb.”

  “I like dweebs. You follow your own beat and do your own thing. That’s sexy.”

  I smile, and he kisses the corner of my mouth, grips my hips, and draws them forward until our groins bump together. “You’re sexy,” I tell him. I want him all the time.

  “What did you think of me when we first met?” he asks, glancing up at me, his eyes hooded with desire.

  “I thought you were scary.” I hook my thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, my hands cupping his muscular ass. When Chris is fired up, he blazes brighter than the sun. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of his anger, that’s for sure. “And then I wanted to be just like you. You were good at everything—surfing, basketball, making friends, cracking jokes.” This is weird to think, but I probably developed my sense of humor based on what Chris thought was funny. There is no greater pleasure for me than in making him laugh.

  “Even back then, before it was anything, I wanted to be around you all the time,” he says dreamily as I kiss his neck.

  “Me too.”

  “I missed you this summer. Did you miss me?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. Yes and yes and yes….

  “Then why didn’t you call me?” He sounds hurt by it.

  “I was trying to get over you.”

  “But you couldn’t.”

  I shake my head. Lord, how I tried. He grips the nape of my neck with one hand and draws my mouth to his, kissing me softly at first, deepening as our tongues find each other, a slow and sensual dance. I let him lead. Wherever Chris goes, I’ll follow.

  My hands crawl up under his shirt, and he pulls it over his shoulders in one deft move. He tugs at mine, and I lift my arms for him to disrobe me.

  “This isn’t fair,” I tell him as my fingers travel over the grooves in his abs, making their way down to his hipbones, all those hard lines on smooth skin. I sit down on the edge of his bed, eye level with his dips, kissing one exquisitely sculpted groove and then the other.

  “All yours,” he says, thrusting his pelvis forward and turning me on even more. I go to reach for the button on his pants, and he pushes my shoulders until I’m flat on my back on his bed, climbs on top of me, and splays both hands across my chest to hold me down. As if I would go anywhere. “Is it weird I want to lick all of this?” he asks.

  “I’m not edible,” I remind him, using my arms to shield my chest from the intensity of his gaze.

  He pulls my hands away and anchors them to the bed. “Don’t be shy,” he whispers into my ear. “Not with me.” He kisses my throat, drags his lips across my chest to suck on one nipple and then the other, flicking the tip of it with his tongue. I squirm and he holds my wrists more firmly. He draws his nose down the center of my chest to my happy trail, stopping just at the waistband of my briefs, tugging a little at the elastic with his teeth. I shiver because it tickles and gets me all twisted up inside, wanting more and more and more.

  “You like that?” he asks.

  “I like everything.”

  Chris sits up so he’s straddling my thighs, gyrates a little, revving me up. He turns me on with the slightest touch. I love his body—its texture, shape, and smell, the way he moves with confidence in who he is and what he wants.

  He grips my upper arms with both hands, tells me to flex, then squeezes my biceps.

  “Are we going to arm wrestle?” I tease.

  “I’m doing all the things I could never do before,” he says so matter-of-factly. “Now, sit up.” I oblige, taking the opportunity to scale my hands down his smooth back, squeezing the tight bands of muscle at its base, kissing his neck and shoulders, every little freckle that’s tormented me over the years.

  “Your skin’s so nice,” I murmur, warm like honey and tastes like spice. “You taste so good.”

  Chris juts his hips forward so his hard-on strains against my own. I’d like to go down on him, but he seems to want to keep our touching above the belt, so we make out like that for a while, him on top of me, me on top of him, scissored side by side. Chris likes to get a little rough, grappling me into submission. He still has the ability to pin me every time, but here’s the secret: I let him. Chris’s door doesn’t have a lock, so even though it’s closed, there’s a slight danger of getting caught, which makes it that much sexier and forbidden.

  After what seems like hours, my nerves are raw, my lips are swollen and tender, and my stomach has another hickey because it seems Chris really does want to devour me. I’m a little afraid to turn him loose on the boys.

  “So… you really want to do it?” he asks, picking up from our earlier conversation. I wonder if he’s been thinking about it this whole time. He’s leaned on one elbow, staring at my chest while tracing one of my nipples in slow circles. It tickles a little, but I don’t stop him. His golden hair is a mess of waves, his lips are plump, his skin ruddy and glowing. His confidence is dimmed only a little as he waits for me to respond.

  “Only if you do.” Having this conversation with anyone else would be completely mortifying, which makes me wonder how other couples get through their first time, perhaps by not talking about it.

  “How?” Chris asks, placing a light kiss on the center of my chest.

  “I think it involves our….” I nod to the downstairs department.

  He pinches my nipple so hard that I cry out. “I know that, T. I mean, who does what?”

  “I don’t know. I figured I’d let you decide.”

  Chris is quiet at that. Strangely quiet. He looks like he’s been called on in class and is trying to come up with the right answer. He licks his lips, and I watch the slow, careful path of his tongue, wishing to lean up and intercept it with my own, but he’s deep in thought and it doesn’t seem right to disturb him.

  “What is it?” I ask, worried I’ve freaked him out again.

  “Nothing. I’m just really turned on at the thought of it.” He presses his boner against my thigh to let me know how aroused he is. My heart races at the prospect.

  “You think we’re too young?” he asks.

  “For butt sex?” Chris nods. “I don’t know. Maybe if we were talking about hooking up with strangers, but we’ve known each other forever.”

  “I think about it all the time.” He rests his chin on my shoulder with his mouth turned toward my ear like it’s a secret. He draws one finger along the inside of my arm, and I shiver down to my toes. I want to know all his secrets.

  “Me too,” I confess.

  “I want to touch you,” he says in a husky voice.

  “You can.”

  He reaches for the button on my pants and unfastens it, plunges his hand inside, and grabs hold of my cock. I can sustain an erection for a pretty long time, one of my many marvels. In any case, this is some sort of record. My breath goes ragged as he strokes me up and down. I love the way he touches me. Possessively. Passionately. Like I belong to him. I moan and curl inward, gripping his back with one hand and the fabric of his comforter with the other. The wave builds toward its apex and my body is full of it, a thimble in a fire hydr
ant. I didn’t think it possible, but this make-out session just got better. “Chris—”

  “Christiano.” Paloma cuts me off, her singsong voice coming from down the hallway.

  “Shit,” Chris mutters, and we both jump off the bed like our pants are on fire and grab our shirts off the ground. I button up my pants faster than you can say hand-eye-coordination. We’re in the process of pulling on our shirts when Paloma opens the door, glances from me to him to me to him, down to Chris’s raging boner straining against his shorts, and then over at mine.

  “Biscuits are ready,” she says and quietly backs away, shutting the door behind her.

  “Shit,” Chris whispers and starts to panic, pacing his room.

  I grab his shoulders and give them a little shake. “Relax, Chris. Paloma’s cool. She won’t care.”

  “What?”

  “Go downstairs, tell her we’re together, and bring us back some food.” I settle down in front of his television and adjust myself so my junk knows good times are over for now.

  “Should I?” he asks, his mind likely working over all the possible outcomes.

  “Yeah.”

  “Come with me.” He nudges me with his foot. I remember the Dr. Giggles incident, when he made me come down with him to tell his parents what happened with the shower. He knew they wouldn’t get too mad if I was there with him.

  “Okay.” I hop up while Chris rakes a comb through his hair like he’s getting ready for a date, then freshens his pits with body spray.

  “You look fine.” And smell even better.

  “I don’t want to look sloppy.”

  “Like you just got done making out with your boyfriend.” He gives me a look. “You don’t.” Except he totally does—all wild-eyed and flush-faced. I bet if I pressed my palm to his chest, I’d feel his heart still racing. I did that to him, I think with satisfaction.

  It takes another five minutes for him to work up the nerve to go downstairs. When we do, Paloma is in the kitchen putting away dishes from the dishwasher. Chris and I sit down at the counter, and she retrieves the biscuits and sets them down in front of us without a word. Before Chris can grab for his, I push away the plate and give him a pointed look. He glares at me. He hates being separated from food.

  “Paloma,” he calls, because she’s trying to pretend nothing’s out of the ordinary.

  “Yes?” she asks without turning.

  “Theo’s my boyfriend.”

  She sets the dish gently on the counter and crosses the kitchen to perch delicately on the stool across from us. “Theo’s your… boyfriend?” She tilts her head, like maybe she didn’t understand him and is giving him the chance to correct her English.

  “Sí, mi novio. I’m gay, but Mom and Jay don’t know yet.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth makes a little O shape, and she says it again in a different key. “Oh.”

  “It’s cool, though. I’m going to tell them.”

  “Yes,” she says with a nod. “Yes, you should, Cristiano. Soon.”

  “Very soon,” he says.

  “Okay, then I won’t say anything about….” She glances between us, then smiles at Chris affectionately, the same smile he got earlier when he asked for his flaky biscuits.

  He nods. “Gracias, Paloma.”

  “And you?” She looks at me. “Are you the gay too?”

  I nod, suppressing a smile at the translation.

  “Well.” She points at the biscuits. “Tienes hambre?”

  “Sí, muy, muy,” Chris says, a grin breaking over his face. His Spanish, while not always grammatically correct, is adorable.

  She slides them over, and we each eat our biscuits—already buttered—while Paloma finishes putting away the dishes. As we’re standing to go back upstairs, Paloma taps me on the shoulder. “Be good to him,” she says to me in Spanish.

  “Prometo.”

  “And change your shirt. That one’s Christiano’s. I know because I washed it yesterday.”

  I glance down to discover she’s right.

  The Part Where I Punk Out, Yet Again

  AFTER SCHOOL the next day, I catch a ride with Ryanne to her cousin’s house. On the way there, we talk about school—classes and workload, when we’ll be taking the SAT’s, and where we’ll apply. Ryanne is in a similar situation to mine in that she has a couple of siblings, and her parents can’t afford to help much. The conversation is pretty tame, and I figure I might as well get the elephant out of the room. Even though I’m guessing Ryanne doesn’t give a shit about my sexuality, I need to state it just to, as Lt. Knox says, clear the air.

  “Hey, you know about that picture, right? What’s in Wooten’s mouth?”

  She glances over at me. “I heard something about it.”

  “So, I’m gay.”

  She nods. “Yeah, I kind of figured that already.”

  “Before the picture?”

  She nods again.

  “Is it because of my smile?”

  She gives me a funny look. “No, I figured Chris was too.”

  I don’t confirm it, because I’m not going to out him, even to Ryanne. “Why would you think that?” I ask like it’s the craziest thing ever.

  “Something about that day in Sebastian. The way he was when you went under. And after. Like he didn’t want to leave your side, and you were just sleeping on the beach. I know he’s your best friend, but it was something deeper.”

  I marvel at that. “Isn’t it funny how you can be so close to something, you don’t even see it?”

  She smiles. “Yeah.”

  Then I get to thinking about Chris and how, if he’s my boyfriend, then I really don’t have any friends left. My sister’s cool but not always that easy to talk to. There’s something about Ryanne I really click with. Kismet.

  “I don’t have a lot of friends,” I tell her.

  “I’m your friend.”

  I smile at that. It’s kind of exactly what I wanted to hear. “Cool.”

  She glances at me over the tops of her sunglasses. “I don’t know if you remember, but you asked me to go with you to Plan Z.”

  It’s kind of awesome she remembers that and still wants to go with me as a friend. “Yeah, I want you to. I think I’m going to enter.”

  “As a contestant?”

  “Yeah. I try not to think about it too much. If I do, I might punk out.”

  “You nervous?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About the tricks or something else?”

  “I don’t know, but since coming out, I feel like I have this responsibility or something. Like I’m less a person and more a figurehead. This is what a gay kid looks like eating his lunch or walking down the hallway, smiling at his teachers. Or this is how a gay kid pulls off a kickflip. It’s kind of weird. Maybe I’m a narcissist and no one really gives a shit. Just, the thought of being in front of all those people is already pretty terrifying, and if I screw up, then what if the bros are like, ‘yeah, he sucks because he’s gay’? Seems like the stakes are higher or something.”

  She tilts her head thoughtfully, and I worry I’ve overshared. That was a lot to unload all at once, more than I even realized I was holding on to.

  “I can see why you’d be freaked out,” she says. “But what if you’re this really talented skater, who happens to be gay and has the courage to compete against some real ballers? I mean, those punks judging you either don’t have the balls or the skills to do that.”

  I nod. “That’s a good way of looking at it.”

  “Haters gonna hate, Theo. If people have a problem with you being gay, fuck them. That’s their problem, not yours.”

  “Punk rock,” I tell her and give her fist a bump where it rests on the steering wheel. She smiles. Ryanne has a good attitude, and she’s so laid back about everything. I should ask her advice more often. “Hey, how’s your sister?”

  “She’s a mess….” Ryanne tells me how they’ve checked her into rehab—I’d heard as much—and she’s not handling it well.
She doesn’t want to see them, and when she does, she’s hateful and bitter. “It’s like she doesn’t want to get better. And my parents are spending all this money. It’s really frustrating.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, and meanwhile I’m working my ass off to save up for school and get good grades. I know it’s selfish, but I’m sick of her getting all their attention and resources.”

  “Squeaky wheels, man.”

  “And she hates me, Theo. I mean, hates me. She thinks I’m this goody-goody suck-up. Trust me, I’m not, but that’s how she sees it.”

  I think about my own sister and how we don’t always see eye to eye, but I know she has my back. I hope it stays that way. I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side.

  “It probably has more to do with how she feels about herself,” I tell Ryanne. “It’s hard being the screwup of the family. Hopefully she’ll get better and get over it.”

  Ryanne vents a little more about it, and I try to offer help where I can, wishing I could do more to help her out, but maybe listening is enough for now. She pulls into a subdivision that used to house military families during World War II. It’s modest by West Palm comparison, but it’s tidy and well-kept. It looks like the kind of neighborhood where the men spend their weekends mowing the lawn because taking care of your yard is a source of pride and not an inconvenience.

  Ryanne pulls up to a small, boxy house the color of a Creamsicle. She goes up to knock on the door while I check out the Accord parked in the driveway. Looks even better in person, all sleek and shiny. The rims are customized too, which is a nice bonus.

  Ryanne introduces me to her cousin, Rob. I ask him some questions—How does it run? How long have you had it? Anything wrong? Rob says it belonged to an elderly neighbor who hardly ever drove it, and he bought it off her when she got too old to drive. Mechanically it’s solid, he says, and I can see for myself how it looks. He shows me the stereo system and a couple of subwoofers in the trunk, which is a nice little add-on. I ask him if I can take it for a test drive, and he agrees. I climb in, and the seat’s already kicked back to fit my long legs. Ryanne was right about the headroom. It’s pretty spacious. I adjust the mirrors, even though they’re mostly good, then get a little nervous because this is the first time I’ve ever driven alone and what if I, like, hit a mailbox or something? I pull out, taking it extra slow. Rob asks Ryanne if I have my license, and I pretend I didn’t hear him.