THIS made his heart hurt. He was back to thatYahtzecup full of emotions banging against each other like dice. He simultaneously wanted to protect Adam and plunder him; to cherish him and to de-cherry him.
THIS made his knees buckle under the weight of—what? The “L” word?
THIS was magical…until they got to the room.
Then things got awkward. Maybe it was the fact that they were in their skivvies. Or maybe it was the sex noises from the room next door. Or the commotion from the parking lot/meat market below their window, which was loud and sordid, with sex workers competing for customers.
It could have just been the bed, which loomed large, an accusatory presence occupying almost half the room’s real estate, reminding them they had unfinished business.
Their skivvies seemed suddenly sparse, as if they had just eaten from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and were shamed by their near nakedness.
It didn’t help that one of them was named Adam.
The only snakes in the room were the ones between their legs. Matt’s, at least, was not happy with the sudden turn of events. A minute earlier it had been tracking towards “coitus.” Now, the operative word seemed to be “interruptus.”
Matt wished they were back in the hall, holding hands. Or back on the dance floor, their hearts conjoined by a kiss.
“Did you order champagne?” Adam asked. He motioned towards the dresser, where a bottle sat chilling in an ice bucket. Two Solo cups were stacked beside it. A handwritten note was propped against the bucket.
Matt laughed and shook his head. He didn’t need to read the note to know who had gifted the bottle.
He popped the bottle’s plastic cork, poured champagne into each Solo cup, and handed one to Adam. Matt read the note aloud:
“Happy New Years! – Love, Bella.”
Matt clinked his cup against Adam’s. The sound was underwhelming. “Cheers!”
Adam stood frozen. “Did you fuck him?” His voice was a soft whisper, edged with jealousy.
A chasm yawned between them. No flea could make that jump. Matt felt it widening with each passing moment. Twenty-one weeks earlier, they had both begun the semester at MCU as closeted gays. Both had been spotted by the GM and assigned sponsors.
Then Colton Langley had happened, and Adam’s life went to SHIT. And then expulsion. And then the razor blade.
Matt’s life had continued. He had joined the GM and been shown a whole new world where sex was neither tawdry nor transactionally tied to the serial monogamy of “relationships.”
Adam’s life—once the doctors had resuscitated him—had stalled, maybe even regressed. He had returned to his childhood homein Ponca City.
How could Matt begin to explain to Adam the magic of “handshakes” when he, himself, would not have believed it if their roles had been reversed?
Matt took their cups of champagne and set them on the dresser. He placed his forefinger on Adam’s left pec and traced the initials he had written there earlier: “MG.”
“You’re the only guy I’ve ever marked with my initials,” Matt said. He ran his fingers through Adam’s thick mane, used his other hand to tilt Adam’s jaw towards him. Bussed Adam’s lips.
Adam moaned softly, melted into Matt’s embrace.
Matt felt Adam’s erection kissing his own.
“I want you inside me,” Adam panted.
Matt took him by the hand and led him to the bed, kissed him tenderly, and eased him down.
Adam was on his back, knees bent, legs slightly spread. The front of his Jockeys was freckled with pre-cum.
Matt leaned into him, kissed him hungrily, his bulge bumping Adam’s ass cheeks.
Adam hooked his ankles around Matt’s waist, pulled Matt’s tongue into his own wet mouth, mewling as it probed deeper.
Then Adam broke off the kiss, searched Matt’s eyes.
