I hesitated; we had seen each other the past two nights and the lack of sleep was undoing me. But his asking was all it took.
What time do you think?
I waited, but no reply. Had he sensed my hesitation?
I sat back down to work, unable to focus. An hour passed. Finally, the phone buzzed. I grabbed it.
Sorry got distracted. 10?
I brushed my teeth and ran some water through my hair. I looked at myself: the dark slashes of my heavy brows, the tilt of my crooked nose. What did Tyler see when he looked at me? I thought perhaps I caught it for a moment—the lines of my face interesting, handsome even—then the light wavered in the silvered surface of the mirror and it was gone. I wandered my apartment, unsure how to pass the time. I poured a whiskey to settle my nerves. I thought about Tyler every moment we were apart, a rumble beneath whatever else I was doing. And when we were together, I felt rattled by disbelief. I almost couldn’t bear to be beside him; the fact of his presence was too much. I thought this unease would dull against its own rubbing but it hadn’t yet. I poured another drink. Ten o’clock came and went. Then eleven. I turned on the TV, a movie about something or other. I kept my phone in view on the coffee table. If Tyler didn’t reach out by twelve, I would go to bed. When midnight arrived, some degree of relief softened the edges of disappointment: I was released from the turmoil of waiting.
I was submerged in a cavernous sleep when a pounding at the front door woke me. I checked the bedside clock. After two. When I opened the door, Tyler spilled into my apartment, liquid. His glossy face shone, hair sweaty and damp. He mumbled a greeting and laughed, boozy breath soaking the air. He pulled at his jacket but was tangled in it somehow. I recognized the jacket, with its racing stripes. It was Addison’s. It was enormous on Tyler. He yanked an arm out and wriggled free. The jacket fell in a pile to the floor.
“You know the door to your building doesn’t lock,” he said, laughing.
“I know.” I kept meaning to get on the landlord about it. “It’s really late.”
“Did I wake you up?”
I led him to the couch. He dropped into the cushions with a spongy thud. I sat beside him.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m great. Fantastic.” His pupils sank beneath heavy lids.
“I should get you some water.”
I started to stand but Tyler seized my arm. “You don’t have to be so serious all the time. Serious Professor Lausson.” He laughed and leaned into me, mouth open, licking at my face.
I pulled back. “Seems like you had a big night.”
“It was fine—it’s hot in here.” He struggled out of his shirt and tossed it over the couch, slumping back. “I don’t know. Sawyer kids are pretty annoying, but I guess I had fun.” He made no mention of being four hours late and shut his eyes. I thought he had passed out, but then he sat straight up, grabbing the bottle of whiskey I’d left on the coffee table. “Can I have some of this?”
“Are you sure you don’t want some water?”
“Just a sip. Have a drink with me, Professor Lausson.”
“Come on, Tyler. Don’t call me that.”
He picked up the empty glass and poured. The contents splashed over the side, pooling on the table. He pushed the glass toward me and knocked the bottle against it. “Cheers. Mark.” He jerked the bottle to his mouth and took a deep swig. He closed his eyes, leaning back into the couch and then suddenly jumped to his feet. He wobbled and careened above me.
“I think I need to go to bed.”
I pried the bottle from him and set it aside, following him as he wove his way into the other room. At the foot of the bed, he flung himself forward, facedown, feet dangling from the mattress edge. I waited but he didn’t move. He moaned softly, his breathing slowed.
I untied his laces and loosened each sneaker, slipping them free. They looked brand-new: bright fluorescent white, impeccably clean. I remember when I put this together, when I was a TA for undergrad classes at NYU—the way rich kids dressed like slobs, and poor kids maintained the cleanest, most meticulous appearance.
“Tyler?” No response. He was out. I turned him over and held still, not wanting to wake him. I timed my breathing to his own. Carefully, slowly, I unbuttoned his jeans. I bent over him and placed a hand under the small of his back, arcing him so I could slide the jeans over the mounds of his ass and off. I folded them neatly and laid them on the chair. I peeled off one sock and then the other, tucking them into his shoes. I placed them against the wall.
I turned back to the bed. For months now, every time we’d been near, I had strangled my compulsion to stare. Even when I fucked Tyler on his back, his legs laced over my shoulders as I hovered above, I couldn’t look directly at him. Now, safe from his scrutiny, I took all of him in. Prone, at a funny angle, he looked even younger. His mouth hung open, red tongue visible with each inhale. His calves and thighs were thick on his thin legs, built up from years of soccer. He had on the same black underwear he always wore, something synthetic that glistened.
My hand moved across the space between us, appearing in the low light of the room as if it were not attached to me. Like it might be someone else’s hand. This hand floated down toward Tyler and tugged at the elastic of his briefs, the slightest pull. Just enough to reveal the line of dark hair. I watched the fingers of this hand move down, drawing small loops along the inside of his thigh, then up, across the front of the briefs and their soft flesh, and down againthe other leg. My dick hardened and I pulled it out, stroking it slowly, up and down as my eyes followed this other hand tracing this body, unaware.
I cleaned myself up in the bathroom and climbed into bed. I pulled the blanket around us, slowly and carefully. But he stirred and rolled against me, face mashed into my arm.
“Mark?”
I froze, his breath steaming my skin. “What is it?”
