“Well, you’d learn if you like being touched by a man?” Giles offers.
How can I tell him that I’m pretty certain I already know the answer to that. If the man in question is him, then yes, I think I’d very much like to be touched by him.
“I guess,” I say, and it sounds like a lie.
“Let’s go to my bedroom,” he says and he releases one of my hands but squeezes the other tighter. He then leads me out of his kitchen and down a short corridor to his bedroom.
*****
While I’ve spent many an hour thinking about what Giles looks like naked and imagining what kind of sounds he makes when he comes, what he looks like sleeping, I’d not given much thought to what his bedroom would look like.
As soon as I stepped into his flat, I recognised Giles everywhere. Neat, orderly and a minimalist monochrome design, it screamed success and composure. But his bedroom is not the same. Yes, it’s still tidy and it’s organised and it’s certainly not crowded or overbearing but there’s more colour, there’s more character, and there’s a huge tartan blanket spread over the foot of his bed.
“So you really are Scottish?” I point to it.
“Yes, I really am,” he says with a new softness in his voice. “Dad was from the Highlands and Mum from Edinburgh. Dad took me up to thevillage he was from a few times before he died, but weirdly, I’ve still never been to Edinburgh.”
“And I thought it was just because you look good in tartan suits.”
“That’s just a happy coincidence.” He smiles as he sits on the bed, leaving me to look around his room. I step closer to a high chest of drawers and pick up a silver photo frame.
“Are these your parents?” I ask.
“Yes, my mum’s pregnant with me in that photo,” he tells me, still soft but now also a little proud.
“She’s beautiful,” I tell him.
“Yes, she was.”
“And you look like your dad,” I point out. Even though the photo is black and white and his father doesn’t have Giles’ moustache, I can see the same high brow, the same short nose and commanding jaw line.
“Who is a little less beautiful,” he adds.
“Not at all. He’s a handsome man, just like you,” I say and put the frame down. “For the record, I’ve always been able to say when a man is handsome or not. But I’ve never questioned that as being a sign I was queer.”
“I don’t think it is,” Giles says. “But I guess others would say it could be.”
I move to sit next to him, suddenly a lot more nervous than I was when I arrived at his place. All morning I’d been buzzing with energy, with focus. It was like my ADHD meds had gone on overdrive and I’d had much more than the fitful five hours of sleep I’d had tossing and turning in my bed last night. I felt alive and ready and eager. I wanted to get all the answers I felt I was missing. I wanted to find out if what I felt for Giles was a fluke. I wanted to fuck. I wanted to do it all.
But now… Now that we’ve kissed and I know I like that. Now that Giles has emphasised again and again that I don’t have to do anything I’m uncomfortable with. Now that he’s suggested we make today about my pleasure… I am a bundle of nerves.
“Did you… Did you like our kiss?” he asks, turning his head towards me but not all the way.
“Yes, very much.”
“Well, that’s a good start.”
“Are you going to give me marks out of ten? Gold star stickers when I do well?” I nudge his shoulder with mine.
“Would you like that?”
“I mean, it worked now and then in school for me… Stickers are a huge dopamine hit. Until it didn’t.”
“How about orgasms?
“Teachers weren’t exactly dishing those out at my school.
He nudges me back. “You know what I mean. Would you find them a better reward?”
