I’ve never told anyone that I think about things like this. Things I want. Things I need. Things that make me feel like I’m drowning in shame. Things that make mewantto feel shame. I’ve always held it close to my chest and thought about it late at night when I’m alone in the dark. I’ve always thought these things were just for me. Things to think and want and feel on my own. In fact, I’ve gone out of my way to keep it that way.
Since this uptight asshole planted the seed, my world’s been turned upside down. Possibilities and scenarios I’ve spent an awful lot of time trying to hold at bay have flooded my consciousness. My subconsciousness too. I’ve been sleepless and restless, woken by fever dreams and unable to get comfortable or stay still. It feels like something has woken inside me, something that’s always been there but has lain dormant until now.
Now that it’s awake…it wants.
I could barely think straight at work today. My manager, Dan, stopped by my cubicle after the morning meeting to check if I felt okay. I told him I had a headache, which was, if not the whole truth, at least truth adjacent.
“…ah, we had some good times, Jeff and I…”
As Stuart prattles on, I drop my gaze from his mouth to his forearms. Flexed muscle is wrapped tightly in tan skin. Even though I’ve been begging myself to stop doing this, I follow the haphazard line of the vein running down his arm to hand. He reaches out and lifts his glass to his mouth. His knuckles are deeply lined, his nail beds are soft pink, and his nails are neatly trimmed. His hand envelops the glass, circling it with almost comical ease.
I do the same thing I’ve been doing all week. I watch and watch until Stuart does something that requires him to stretch his palm out.
Then I imagine that palm making contact with my flesh.
The second it happens, I suck a ragged breath in, and my mouth goes so dry that my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
In a desperate attempt to shake it off, I tune back into the predictable whirr of his voice.
“…you know, your dad was the first person I ever told I was gay…that’s how close we were.”
He looks at me in a way that makes me feel like he might be able to see through me, like he has the unlikely ability to read my mind. It’s such an unsettling thought I decide to ask him a question to throw him off the scent.
“Oh yeah? How did he take it?”
“Bear in mind, it was very different in our day. A lot less accepting. There wasn’t a single openly gay kid in our whole school. Hell, the only gay person I even knew was my mom’s uncle, and no one really talked about that, but Jeff was great about it. I’ve never forgotten it. I was so scared to tell him I almost felt sick when I thought about it for too long. I looked up to your dad. I don’t mind telling you that. I really did.” Stuart gets a glazed look in his eyes. “He couldn’t have reacted better. He just put his arm around me and told me he had my back.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to hand it to Jeff. He’s not a homophobe. A crap dad, yes, but a homophobe, no. He was totally cool when I told him I’m bi.”
Stuart shifts in his seat and looks at me like he’s trying to mind-read me again. “Are you bi? I didn’t know that.”
“Well, bi, pan, something like that. I just want to bone everyone, basically.”
He looks like he’s getting amped to give me a long lecture about how cool he is with me being bi. I’m not sure I can handle that right now, so I ask the next question, even though I have a weird, churning feeling in my belly when I think about it.
“So, did you, like, have a crush on my dad or what?”
His mouth drops open for a millisecond, and then he says, “Oh no. No. It was never like that between me and Jeff.”
I chuckle, watching him squirm in his seat. I’m not used to seeing him flustered, but I’m here for it in a big way. “Why not?”
“He’s not, uh, Jeff’s, uh, not my type.”
I’m living for this conversation and want to ride this wave to the shore. I want to see how uncomfortable I can possibly make him. “So you’re saying you happen to be the single, solitary gay dude who managed to get through the whole of high school without developing an epic crush on his straight best friend?”
I raise a dubious eyebrow until he concedes, “I did have a crush on this guy called Tommy Polanski. And yeah, he was straight, so I guess I didn’t escape completely.”
Hmm, interesting.
I hear the clear inner murmuring of common sense suggesting I nip this line of questioning in the bud.
I choose to ignore it.
“So what did Tommy have that my dad didn’t?”
“Um.” His voice cracks and comes out sounding so hoarse I’m pretty sure the sound he just made could be comfortably classed as a croak.
Oh my God. Stuart Wiseman just croaked.
