“Micky? Yeah, he found an anime buddy to nerd out with. Plus, we still have”—Nate pulls out his phone and checks the screen, where I can see a timer counting down—“seventeen minutes before I promised we’d leave.”
“Seventeen minutes,” I repeat, unable to help glancing over at the shed. When I look back at him, Nate’s come a step closer. I almost move away, worried that he’s going to reach out and touch me, but his arms stay at his sides, so I keep my feet where they are.
“Just enough time,” he says, and then waits for me to make a decision.
“Listen, I don’t really…” …do this, I finish silently. I very rarely hook up or date.
I don’t like it when people touch me without warning, or sometimes at all, which isn’t exactly a quality people enjoy in a partner. These days, too much skin-to-skin contact makes me feel sick—I break out in a cold sweat, my stomach heaves, and I get dizzy. It’s not all the time and not with every person, but it’s still something I have to explain to any would-be partners. Which is why I haven’t had all that many. No guy or girl is going to want to date someone long-term that they can’teventouch. Someone that might cringe away from them when they try to hold their hand.
“We don’t have to,” Nate says easily, “but I want to, if you do.”
It hardly seems possible that it would be that easy. Putting it off for another second, I check my phone. Max’s location is still pinging at our apartment. My chest loosens at the sight, and I breathe a little easier. Maybe I can do this, after all. Max is safe at home, and maybe tonight it won’t bother me to have someone’s hands on me.
Maybe tonight I can have seventeen minutes with Nate.
“Okay,” I tell him, before I can change my mind. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” He smiles, stepping closer still.
“Wait,” I say sharply, the skin on my arms tingling as though he’s already touched me. “I…could you not put your hands all over me, please? Maybe just…”
I trail off, realizing the futility of trying to ask someone to blow me but to do it without actually touching me. This isn’t going to work. I open my mouth to tell him I changed my mind and need to leave, but he speaks up before I have the chance.
“How about you put my hands where you want them,” he offers without missing a beat. He’s close enough now that I can smell him.
“Okay. Thanks.” Relieved, and now embarrassed, I glance once more at the shed.
Awkwardly, I take a step toward the corner of the yard. I so rarely do this, the steps are eluding me. Do I just walk back into the shadows and take my pants off? This right here is why hooking up isn’t worth it—I feel like a fucking idiot.
Nate, who exudes capability and easy confidence, holds his hand out as though he’s going to touch my back. Hedoesn’t, though; instead, hovering it there, centimeters from making contact. I feel the touch anyway, burning through my shirt like a brand. Silently, we walk over to the shed and around the corner.
Feeling ridiculous and annoyed at myself, I reach for him and pull him in by his hips as my back thumps softly against the hard wall of the shed. It’s dark and private, and so much easier to be brave back here. Willing my stomach to stay settled, I brush tentative fingers across his cheek and down his neck.
Nate, equally as hesitant, touches the side of my hip, above my clothes.
“Can I?” he asks. I nod, before realizing he probably can’t see me in the dark.
“Yes.”
Still moving carefully, perhaps not feeling quite as confident as he was in the well-lit yard, he unhooks my belt. When he opens the button on my jeans, his knuckles brush against my stomach and I wait for the inevitable disgust and recoil that seems to happen every time someone touches me these days. It never comes.
Nate, who’s little more than a shadowy form, tucks his hands into the pockets of my jeans and waits. He hasn’t tried to kiss me, and I wonder about that for only a second before giving myself a firm mental shake. We’re just hooking up. No need to make this more than it is.
“Can I?” he asks again.
“If you’re sure. You don’t have to do this,” I whisper.
In answer, he tugs my pants to my ankles, following them down until he’s on his knees in front of me. When he reaches up to do the same with my boxers, I feel a moment of unreality wash over me. We’re in a backyard, for fuck’s sake, whereanyone could walk outside and see us. A straight man is about to give me a blowjob. This is insane.
Nate’s breath is warm on my thigh as my boxers join my pants around my ankles. When I look down, I can just make out the slope of his shoulders and the pale glow of his skin. It’s dark and secluded back here, which I suppose I should be grateful for since we’re currently breaking public indecency laws. Mostly, though, I’m just sad I can no longer see his face.
“Marcos,” he says softly, my name seeming to float bodiless out of the night. The way he says it, voice low and breath warm against my stomach, thrums through me like a jolt of electricity. “Where can I…”
Christ. He’s waiting for me to tell him where he can put his damn hands. Luckily—given the fact that I touched his face without any adverse reactions—I think I’m having a good night. I touch my fingers to the tops of his shoulders.
“Give me your hands,” I request, and then bring them to my hips after he complies. He inhales a single sharp breath and spreads his fingers out.
“Okay,” he says, and shuffles a little bit closer.
