Erin
*********
You don’t get it. This thing between you. And you never will.
That used to bother you, bother you in the way a splinter dug way down deep
in the heel of your palm would. The one that you pick at and fuss with and pull
the skin away from but it never actually dislodges. Eventually your body eats
it from the inside out, and you’ve never really understood that either. But
if he has taught you anything, it’s that all things worth understanding will
never be understood.
**
“Just go with it,” his lips on your neck are warm and slick and his breath in
your ear makes you shudder though you try to hide it.
You pull away, meet his eyes, “Just go with it? Fucking go with it? I…this isn’t…you’re
not…fucking hell.”
You get up and leave. You walk to your car too quickly. You make sure not to
look up at the lit window as you open the door. You start the engine and throw
your truck in reverse. All the way home you stare though the rain-streaked window
and ignore the heat in your gut that won’t allow you to dismiss this.
**
There are things in life you learn to deal with, are made to deal with. Like
the bizarre lust you find festering in the deepest parts of you for a man that
you barely know. A man. He is a man. And you are a man. And it’s all wrong or
it feels that way. And isn’t that just as hypocritical as any one person has
ever been?
**
“Don’t show up here drunk, I fucking hate that.” It’s true, you are. And it’s
true, he does. But you were out with this woman, this performer you met. She
has macchiato colored skin that also tasted like shades of Starbucks. She carried
a glittery little purse and wore shiny bright gloss on her full lips that you
envisioned, multiple times, wrapped around your cock. And still, when you kissed
her goodnight all you thought about was him.
And if that isn’t telling you something you don’t know what is.
You sleep on his couch, which isn’t remotely comfortable. You murmur his name
in your sleep and he hears you from where he lies awake in his room with the
door open (just in case he might overhear such things). Thank God you’re asleep
and you don’t know of the betrayal. Your mouth always has gotten you into trouble.
**
There are things, you have learned, that bend but don’t break you. They tear
up your insides and rearrange the vitals parts of you. They make you ache in
ways you didn’t know existed. They make you shed tears you’d swear you didn’t
own. They bring you to your knees, but one day you’ll stand again.
You had a love like this once, a long time ago. You were young, so young, and
didn’t recognize it for what it was. He was older, his name was Jake. His mother
made him watch after you, you the little brat next door. You wish she were still
alive, you’d thank her. But your mother said in a letter a few years ago that
she’d died. Jake had flown in from Hong Kong, where he lives with his Asian
wife now, to take care of things.
You liked the way the soft recycled paper your mother had written the letter
on felt in your hands as you thought about the way that Jake touched you in
the basement that summer.
You wondered if Jake’s wife knew he was gay.
**
“I see the way you look at me,” he giggles, he always does when he’s high.
“Oh and how’s that,” you give him a patented eyebrow raise. You make a mental
note to stop that. It’s something that belongs to Brian now, and you’d just
assume let it go.
“Like…,” he giggles again, takes a hit off the joint, moves like he might want
to shotgun you and you might let him. He stops short of your face though, puffs
the smoke into your eyes. You blink and blink and give him a look that warns
him against such things. He finally continues, “Like you want to eat me alive.”
So there it is.
**
The thing about sexuality is that no one fills you in. When you’re watching
the reproduction films in the fourth grade (when they send the boys and girls
into separate rooms and afterwards they all whisper the things their gender-specific
video covered liked menstrual cycles and ejaculation) the antiquated half-assed
attempts at education do not include any information on heterosexuality versus
homosexuality or the really fucked up space in between. And it’s that fucked
up space where you seem to find yourself decade after decade.
**
“I…I have to go,” you start to stand but the level of intoxication you’ve reached
makes that challenging.
He stares up at you with wide, blue eyes, waiting for your next move. You’re
not sure how but you end up on the floor next to him. You have a leg crossing
over both of his and a hand on his stomach. His eyes go wide for a moment, maybe
two, but he doesn’t miss a beat.
He cards a warm hand through the hair at the base of your neck, pulls you down
until your lips nearly meet. “I don’t just want to fuck,” he breathes it over
your face and you nod though you’re not sure why.
“I mean it, I like you,” and he kisses you. And you laugh, because like
doesn’t really cover it.
You haven’t felt quite this way in…well in twenty years nearly. Like you want
to scream and moan and claw and bite and do everything but live through the
moment and yet it’s all you want to do in the world. Live in this moment.
**
There was Jake, you were fourteen that summer. He was eighteen, getting ready
to head off to college. You both liked soccer and Men At Work.
You used to lie side-by-side on the basement floor smoking cigarettes he stole
from his mother. You listened to Down Under a few thousand times that
summer while you talked about running away to Australia. It wasn’t that he loved
you, you don’t think, but he loved to touch you.
**
He loves to touch you too. Can’t get his fucking hands off of you. He flips
you over and straddles your hips and smiles down at you like you’re the sexiest
thing that’s ever been underneath him. You entertain the thought, doubt it’s
true, but pray it is.
“So you want this,” his voice is deep and heady. You’ve never heard it that
way before. You get hard underneath him and as you wonder if he’s noticed he
puts an open hand over the crotch of your pants and pushes down.
“That for me,” his voice is even huskier now.
You nod, you’re not sure what else to do. It’s the truth. It is most certainly
for him.
It’s for his blond hair that feels like this soft silky dress your mother used
to wear to church when you were little. It’s for his white skin that you know
will be bruised tomorrow. It’s for his unfettered determination to get you in
this exact position. It’s because he didn’t give up on you all these years while
you were preaching about being straight.
You’re not straight. You never will be. You might not be gay. Though you’re
not sure anymore. Because if this is what being with a man is like, you don’t
know if you can ever go back. So you’re a little bent, but you’re not broken.
**
He asks you months later about your sexuality, though he does it in this strange
round about way he has with topics he knows are touchy. You shrug and have another
beer. He doesn’t press the issue. When you fuck him that night you take your
time. You touch every part of him you know gets a reaction. You make him wait
longer than he wants to and when he comes he thanks you.
You thank him back and you know he doesn’t understand for what. But, just like
he’s always said, all things worth understanding will never be understood.
End
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