I pull at the denim vest. “This is style?” He swats my hand and I shrug. “It makes the days go by more quickly.”
Though I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not yet. Being on the boat was boring and the days did tend to drag. But at least I got to hang out with Jamie and Cara all day. Sure, Trevor was a dick sometimes.
That’s all. End of sentence.
And of course, the admiral hated me from the moment he joined the boat crew. His scowl grew scowlier with every joke. Honestly, I feel like he would have done better in Fort Caroline, the authoritarian settlement that hunted Jamie and me down the coast of Florida and almost succeeded in killing him. What’s not for the admiral to love there? Structure, patriarchal rules, white supremacy. It’s just like the navy!
“Obviously I know the answer, but speaking of things going fast...” He gives me a side-eye.
“No.” I cut him off.
He groans and shakes his head. “I really wish I could be your age again.”
“Right, because fifty years ago was so great to our kind.”
“Excuse me, I am forty, you skinny bitch. And I mean rightnow. Because now we’re all more or less on a level playing field.” He elbows me. “And you’re both wasting the precious time you have left.”
“Here we go.”
“No. For all we know, one of you could get appendicitis and die tomorrow. And you’re not even talking to each other about what you want. Or why you’re mad at each other—which clearly isn’t because of the sex stuff.”
This is all because I made the mistake of going to Rocky Horror for sex advice a little over a month ago when I found out he was a counselor in the before times. As one of the few queer men in our neck of the Keys, Rocky Horror was the clear answer.
Unfortunately, his advice was, and apparently still is, absolutely batshit: “Talk about it!”
Talkabout it? How am I supposed totalkabout sex with Jamie when we’re only talking “plenty”? Maybe that’s our issue. We couldn’t have makeup sex after our fight, so we just fell into this awkward lull we’re in now.
Still, even before the fight I didn’t know how to talk about sex without making it weird. Who’s doing what part, and do we still use condoms even though I’m a virgin and I think Jamie’s a virgin, too? I mean, we’ve done other things and haven’t used them, but are we supposed to use them for sex-sex even if we’re monogamous and virgins and don’t have the ability to become pregnant—and, side note, where does one find lube in the apocalypse?
At first we were waiting because Jamie was still healing from being shot by a bunch of authoritarian lunatics from Georgia. But then it became more about making sure the time was right and that we were both comfortable and safe—like, apocalyptically safe, because see above re: condoms. But then the longer it went on the more difficult it felt to bring it up. Then came the other worries.
What if he doesn’t like it?
Or what if he doesn’t even really like all the other stuff we’ve done but he’s just horny and then doingthismakes him realize he doesn’t like any of it and by definition also doesn’t like... me?
Before you get on me for the biphobia in that worry, I already know! Rocky Horror told me when I brought it up to him. But I can’t help it. It’s called being insecure, which I very much am but also very much want to work through.
“You look like you’re going to throw up,” Rocky Horror says, patting my shoulder.
“Must be the appendicitis.”
He sighs. “There’s no rush. Really, Andrew. You both love each other, and it will happen when it happens. But before it does you do need to talk to each other about it. So you should do it—talk, I mean. Andsoon. I’m not only talking about the sex stuff. You can lie to yourself, and me, all you want. But you and Jamie both know you’re being dummies and you need to talk your shit out.” It sounds like there’s a warning in his voice, and his gaze moves over my shoulder. “And if you need help on that front...” He pats my knee and stands, grabbing the backpack between his feet.
I turn to see Daphne De Silva—bestselling romance novelist—returning to the playground.
Rocky Horror takes Daphne’s hand and kisses it. Then he reaches into the pack and takes out a plastic device with a long cord hanging from it, handing it over to her. While she’s distracted, I lock onto the Kid—no longer on the swing but sitting in the sand with Bobo—and count the twelve other kids.
A white woman in her midsixties, Daphne keeps her hip-length gray hair pulled up into a big messy bun and only wears sundresses, even if it’s raining. Which, come to think of it, may happen soon. I rub at the scars on my leg, the bone aching slightly.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the rectangular plastic box in her hands. Daphne counts the kids and sits down next to me.
“A cassette player!” She holds it up and I see a speaker and little window to put the cassette in. “The library still has a bunch of old books on tape. I figured we could play some of them for the kids so you don’t have to stay so late coming up with stories for bedtime.”
“Oh, yeah, great idea.”
With my excuse to “stay late at work” now in jeopardy, maybe Rocky Horror is right. Maybe it is time to talk to Jamie.
Jamison
