He watches me, the teasing slipping into something softer.
He finishes painting the last nail, then blows on it gently like he’s sealing magic into it. The soft pink shines under the light—calming, sweet, and delicate. I glance down at my hands, then back up at him, my thoughts still tangled in the memory of Alex.
I hesitate, then sign slowly:
“How was your first time?”
“First time what?” He asks with a raised brow. “ Kissing? Blowjob? Bottoming? Topping? Using glitter body gel in public? You gotta be specific, sweetheart.”
I roll my eyes and sign, “You don’t even top.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he groans dramatically, “Say it louder for the people in the back, why don’t you?”
Despite the sarcasm, there’s a playful glint in his eye. I smile and watch as he starts cleaning up the polish bottles.
“You know how my first time went anyway,” he says after a beat. “Ninth grade. That house party. That stupid jock.”
I bit my lip, giving him a nod.
“You didn’t like it.” I sign.
Tyler runs a hand through his hair and exhales.
“Of course I didn’t. It was awful. Painful. The guy had no clue what he was doing, just… shoved in like it was some game.”
“I’m sorry,” I sign, hesitantly feeling guilty.
I knew he hated it; he told me after we came back from the house party that very night years ago, there had been tears in his eyes that he was trying not to let out. He thought doing it with a senior wouldn’t hurt and would be perfect.
“You don’t have to apologize, Lucas.” He says with a soft smile. “I wanted it. I said yes. I was just… stupid about who I gave it to. That’s on me.”
I study him, my chest tightening.
“But it got better, right?” I sign. “I mean… is it good now? For you?”
He shrugs, eyes drifting to the nail polish bottles, avoiding mine.
“It’s… okay.”
Okay?
That surprises me. Everything Alex did to me, every touch, every whisper, every maddeningly slow stroke of his fingers—was not just okay. It was surreal. It was terrifying and beautiful and made me feel like I was unraveling and being put back together at the same time.
“Just okay?” I sign, blinking.
He sighs and leans back in his chair,
“Yeah. I mean… I like being a bottom. I do. I enjoy it.” He pauses, eyes flicking up to mine. And for a second, all the playfulness drains from his face, leaving something raw behind.
“But I’ve never felt loved doing it.”
I watch him quietly, the air between us thickening with something unsaid.
“Most guys I’ve been with…” he shrugs, fingers twisting in his lap, “they’re sweet at first. They say the right things, touch you like you matter—for a night, maybe two. But after that, it’s like… I was never really there. Just a stand-in for whatever fantasy they were chasing.”
He lets out a soft, hollow laugh.
“And I thought I was okay with that. I thought that if I kept it light and fun, it wouldn’t get to me. But it does. It gets heavy after a while. Like I’m giving pieces of myself away to people who never even looked at me.”
