“Are you okay with me topping?” I’m unable to keep the quiver out of my voice.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and nods. “Yes.”
We make our way back to my hotel room, and he’s sweet to me. This guy, whose name I realize I don't have, is about my height, but a little broader, a little hairier. He's also a little softer in the middle, and I palm his belly as I kiss him. It’s nice.
His eyes land on my shaking hands, but he says nothing, confidently taking off my clothes, getting on his knees, and taking me into his mouth. I never got around to mouth stuff, only hands. The warm, wet suction nearly makes me come on the spot.
His confidence disappears when I spread him out on the bed and press a lubed-up finger, then two into him. He looks a little lost in the eyes, so I pull back. Shaking his head, he grabs my hands, stilling my retreat. “I’m good,” he says, panting. “I’m ready. Please fuck me.”
There’s something in the set of his jaw that makes me continue. I slowly push into him, careful not to hurt him. He tears up, but his smile is wide enough to turn his eyes into crescent moons, and we both come quickly.
“Do you want to stay?” I ask. “You can if you want to.”
He hugs himself. “I have to go home before my parents notice I'm gone.”
Anxiety plumbs the depths of my stomach. “Should I have asked how old you are?”
He laughs and leans over to kiss my cheek. “I'm nineteen. You’re good. And thank you for being nice to me. I’ve never done that before.”
My eyes about bug out of my head. “I wish you’d’ve said something.”
He shakes his head. “I’d have lost my nerve if I did. But you were gentle like I knew you’d be. Thank you.”
I look down at the ground, stubbing my toe. “I'm glad I didn't hurt you.”
“I’ve, uh, practiced with dildos and stuff. But I didn't know if I would like it with someone else, with a man, and I did. So, yeah, I might actually be gay.”
It feels strange to help someone who’s on the same path as I am. And I'm a little proud of myself. But it also feels sorta empty, and the numb ache that's been there forever deepens.
We say goodbye, and I decide to leave Nashville in the morning.
Unable to sleep, I head out before five a.m. and get to Atlanta in time for the morning rush hour. I've never seen so many lanes on a single highway or so many cars all at once. I head downtown and it’s eleven before I find a place to park that isn’t forty dollars.
Walking in downtown Atlanta is an experience. I feel out of place and decidedly out of fashion. Laughing to myself, I remember my shop teacher, Miss Leslie, who was somewhat of an itinerant philosopher.
“Miss Leslie, my hand is cramping with this hand sander. Can't I use the electric one?”
“Knox, sometimes you just have to sit with your discomfort for a little bit to get the good results.”
I think of her words as I walk down one of the many Peachtree Avenues, surrounded by people, so many of whom are visibly and culturally different from me. I sit in that discomfort, and just as she said, I learn a few things. Like the fact that all mothers must share that same frustrated-and-amused smile when their child splashes through a puddle in their nice shoes. And based on some of the expressions I see, I’m not the only one out here feeling adrift.
Go west,says my restless heart as I turn back toward my car.
I’d planned on another night in Atlanta and a couple of days in Florida, but I get in my car and point it toward New Orleans, driven by thisneedto stay on the move. It’s just past midnight by the time I get to the French Quarter, and Atlanta already feels like a distant memory.
I should be exhausted, but the three bottles of Five-Hour Energy and the vibe of this city have me wide awake. The parking isn’t so bad, and I wonder if anyone would care if I slept in my car. I walk around the Quarter, eyes bugging out. People are drinking on the sidewalks, women in little more than brassieres and panties are enticing clientele into their dancing establishments, jazz as familiar as anything pours out of open windows, and the smell of good food, alcohol, and piss saturate the air.
I pass an alley where a man is down on his knees for another man. It’s filthy and beautiful, and I can’t take my eyes off them until they turn and look at me.
“Join us, baby face.”
I lower my head, shove my hands in my pockets, and make my way down the street, overhearing shouts of last call. I pass a bar with a woman holding a handmade sign:$4 Hurricanes.The woman is dressed like a pinup girl and has black hair with short bangs and full red lips.
I don’t mind saying that she scares me a little.
“You thirsty, darlin’?” she asks, looking at the faded X on the back of my hand. “If you got cash, I don’t need an ID.”
I figure I can’t pass up a past-curfew, underage Hurricane in the French Quarter. Pretty sure that’s in a bylaw somewhere. I walk inside and the place is small, dark, and cluttered, most of the chairs and tables already stacked and pushed to the side. The woman follows me in and situates herself back behind the bar.
