“Maybe we should shelve talking about exes,” he says, after blinking at the horizon a few times. “I mean, they should probably go in the fridge with my alcoholism, your divorce, and your age.”
“And your backpacking pal,” I say with a nod.
He dips his chin and gives me a different kind of smile, a little rueful and maybe even a little provocative. It’s a look that says,Catch up,Jenna.
“Oh,” I say as I do catch up. “Your backpacking pal was your ex. Sorry, I just assumed it was a mate of yours, like another bloke.”
His chin falls lower, practically resting on his chest, but his eyes hold mine, serious and steady.
“Oh,” I say again.
Chapter Eight
Marty
Istudy her face to gauge her reaction. She doesn’t seem shocked, appalled, or even that confused. She freezes for a few seconds as her lips press together. Then her eyes soften, and she tilts her head to the side as if she’s just noticed something new about my face.
“So you’re...” I realise she’s asking me to label it.
“Bisexual,” I say. “To be honest, I’ve only had one proper boyfriend and before him, I thought I was straight, so I’ve never really had to label it or talk about it much with a...”
“Hot older divorced woman?” She finishes for me with a wink that is just as comforting as what she says next. “Cool.”
“Cool? That’s it?”
“Sure,” she says, still with that thoughtful look on her face.
“And you’re...”
“Pretty straight, sadly. Now and again, I think I’m possibly bi-curious, because, I mean, have you seen women? They’re beautiful. But when I...” She stops talking abruptly.
“When you what, Jenna?” I lean a little closer.
She gives me a level look. “I don’t want what I’m going to say next to cheapen this conversation. You just shared something vulnerable with me and I want to be respectful of that.”
“Permission to speak freely,” I say.
“Okay.” She clears her throat again. It’s an adorable short huff of a noise. “Well, I’ve only ever slept with men. And when I... when I touch myself, I mostlyonly think about men. And I’m not saying that’s an all-knowing, science-backed indicator of sexuality, because it’s not, and besides, a growing body of research suggests sexuality is inherently fluid, but I feel pretty confident that right now I’m heterosexual. It feels right, and from what I know about people who do label their sexual identities, that’s enough.”
Despite her great eloquence and insight, my brain fails me by getting and staying snagged on the way she said, “touch myself”. So much so I have trouble responding, or even breathing for that matter. My dick is coming along for the ride too, pushing up against the fly of my jeans. It’s a brilliantly familiar and yet foreign feeling, all at once.
Welcome back, buddy.
“Sorry, I probably waffled on a bit then,” she says interrupting the silence that stretches out because I’m still unable to form a coherent sentence in my head. “I can go on a bit about these things.”
“No, no, don’t apologise,” I say. “You clearly know what you’re talking about. I’m just a bit stunned that you sort of seem to know more about being queer than me, and well, I am queer.”
She laughs softly and re-crosses her legs. I glance again at the gold chain on her ankle and it does nothing to redistribute the blood flow in my body.
“It’s my job, actually,” she says. “Or it was. I’m a journalist and I used to research and write about things like sexuality.”
My eyebrows lift. “But you don’t anymore?”
Her mouth pulls down. “No, but that's sort of related to my divorce so we veto.”
“Gotcha,” I say, and we each take a sip of our drinks. I can’t help but feel it’s a shame I can’t ask her more questions about her work. It sounds interesting.
“Well, my brother will be disappointed his gaydar isn’t working properly,” she says.
