Maybe this is what they mean when they say that acceptance is the first step…or whatever.
My teammate opens one eye, and given his naturally surly demeanor, I can’t quite tell if the look on his face is just his usual “I just look constipated” schtick or if he’s as confused as I feel.
“You are not gay?” Mikhail says, and I tilt my head.
“Are you telling me I’m not gay or asking me?”
“Asking. I always assumed. You’ve got what my husband would call “the vibe”. But you’re telling me you’re confused, yes?”
I squint, the cogs in my brain grinding against each other as I try to piece together what he’s telling me. Kovalenko, an out, queer man, already thought I was gay. Elliot thought I was queer, too, or he wouldn’t have kissed me that first night. Images flash through my mind like a film reel of every interaction I’ve ever had with another man where they thought I’d been coming on to them. But, I mean…surely that happens to everyone, right? I’m a nice guy, I’m cute, it’s inevitable that every queer man I’ve interacted with has thought I was flirting with them at one point or another.
Hadn’t I been flirting, though? Hadn’t I initiated nearly every touch with my high school best friend who once accused me of being a tease? Hadn’t I kissed Elliot back on my front stoop?
Have I been queer this whole damn time and everyone knew except for me? The realization washes over me in waves, and I feel suddenly unsteady. I drop my elbows to my knees and my face into my hands.
“Oh god, I’m like those women who didn’t know they were pregnant until they found a baby in the toilet aren’t I?” I groan into my palms.
“I do not know what this means. But it is not all that uncommon for it to take time to discover yourself. For me, I didn’t know until I was an adult. I grew up in Russia, I didn’t…I didn’t know two men could…it took me a long time to know who I was. But you are American, yes? You have had sex with women?” Mikhail asks, and I nod against my hands. “And you have enjoyed it? Enjoyed them, enjoyed their bodies?”
There goes that spinning film reel in my mind once again, this time showing me highlights of the women I’ve had in my bed over the years. The instances are few and far between—hockey season is long as hell—but nothing sticks out to me as awkward or unenjoyable, save for a couple of firsts when I was untried and nervous as hell. I have enjoyed the company and the bodies of the women I was with. I love their softness, their curves, their tits, the way they always smell like fruity, floral shampoo and sometimes wear flavored lip balms. I love going down on them, feeling them fall apart under my touch, so…
“Yeah. I definitely enjoyed the sex I’ve had with women. Enthusiastically so.”
“Alright then, not gay. For me, it was not like that. Fucking for me wasn’t enjoyable, no sexier than cracking my knuckles or scratching an itch until I met Daniel. But your dreams, they do it for you?”
I bite my lip, thinking about my recent sexy dreams and all the jizz-stained pajama pants I’ve thrown out this month.
“That would be a yes, too.”
“And this man in your dreams. Do you think about him? His body, his touch? Do you want to touch him, too?”
Jesus fucking christ. I didn’t have Mikhail Kovalenko straight-faced dirty talking me into the most confusing boner I’ve had in my life, but my dick is thickening in my pants at just the mere mention of the man in my dreams.
“Yes, I do. In the dreams…I don’t just want to be touched. I want to touch, to explore. I’m turned on by all of it. Everything about the dream guy turns me on. Not just the general sexiness or the fact that I’m humping my bed in my sleep.”
Mikhail’s nose scrunches, his lips pursing like I’ve disgusted him, but he moves on quickly.
“Okay, so then bi. Or pansexual, maybe somewhere in between on the spectrum. I do not see the problem. Unless your football player does not have sexy dreams about you, too?”
I feel my eyes go wide, my cheeks reddening as I realize that Mikhail has put the (admittedly, very easy) puzzle pieces together. The broody Russian just shrugs.
“Kovalenko sees everything. The kicker, he likes you, no?”
I fight the urge to blush and kick my feet like a school girl with a crush. I can’t say for certain if Elliotlikes me, likes me or not. But I can say that Ilike him, like him.
“I mean…he kissed me once. The first night that we met.”
“So what is problem?”
“What is problem?” I repeat, putting on my best, thickest Russian accent. Unlike Mikahil’s take-no-shit and give-no-fucks tone, I sound like my Mom’s grandpa Lenin when he’d get drunk and yell racist obscenities at the hedges in the backyard. Mikhail gives me a bored look, and I shrug.
“The problem is I don’t hook up during hockey season. Everyone knows that. My lips, hands, and dick are off limits until we’re done for the year.”
“But you just said that football boy kissed you. That was during the season, da?”
“Da.”
“And did we lose after?”
