“Yeah, I just… I should go.”
“Right,” Curtis said, looking pained. “I’ll message you, though? Is that cool?”
“Sure.”
But as they barrelled out of the bar, Sal vowed to never, ever, never, ever speak to Curtis Ingram again.
2
Ten and a half weeks later
“Dude,” Ammy called from the living room. “Shit or get off the pot.”
Sal, who’d hoped Ammy wouldn’t notice them hovering in the doorway, swore under their breath. “I don’t know if I want to go on this stupid fucking date! How can I do something if I don’t know if I want to do it?”
“Yeah, I have no idea what you’re yapping about, but you’re letting all the aircon out, so fucking decide already.”
Still swearing, Sal closed their eyes and walked out of the apartment. The door snapped behind them, and they resisted the urge to unlock it and go right back inside, take off all their clothes, crawl into bed and stay there for a billion years.
“You’re such a puss-boy,” they muttered. “Justgo.”
They headed for the stairs on legs that felt like ninety percent Vaseline. Curtis had booked them a table at some twat bar in the CBD. He’d wanted to go out for dinner, but Sal had bartered him down to drinks. They shouldn’t have been bartering at all, but after weeks of texting the guy every day, they were readyto admit that no, they weren’t magically going to get over this stupid thing with Curtis, andmaybethey should meet up.
Sal’s ideal situation would have been sex—preferably in some dodgy motel on the other side of the city—but Curtis wasn’t having it.
Date or nothing, babe,he’d message whenever Sal was tipsy and ready to throw morality to the wind.I know you want back on this, so hurry up and do the smart thing.
He always accompanied said messages with a picture of his fist wrapped around his ridiculously hard cock. Sal had to throw their phone across the room to keep from agreeing to marry the asshole. They remembered what had happened in that mirrored box all too well. Dreamt about it. Wanked about it. Found themself Googling ‘Curtis Ingram’ with embarrassing frequency, and getting mad at the lack of photos and YouTube footage—the guy had played professional sport for years, and some people had masturbation routines to curate…
“Send a letter to the Football association,” Ammy said whenever Sal complained about the lack of digital footprint. “Or ask your brother to put a spy-cam in the locker room.”
Byron. Sal couldn’t let themself think about Byron. He'd hit the roof if he knew his baby sister was going on a date with one of the Sharks.
“Footy players are all dogs,” he’d said, theone timeSal had asked if his mate, Saxon was single. “Stay away from the lot of them.”
“You’re a footy player!”
“That’s how I know. Seriously, do you want them to pass around your nudes and talk about your stuff?”
By ‘stuff’ he’d meant Sal’s gender identity, which had still been up in the air at the time, but even if they were still calling themself a girl, Sal didn’t think Byron would approve of them having drinks with Curtis.
They headed to High Street and stood at the tram stop. A guy walked past, staring directly at their cans. Sal folded an arm over their tits and shrank into the glass shelter. After a dozen outfit changes, they’d settled on plaid shorts and a black tank top. Not too masc, but masc enough to leave the house. Or so they’d thought.
“What ya even doing, Sal?”
It was their destiny to be different. Not on purpose. Innately. To be the first openly pansexual person at their snotty school. To be the first femme in their family to get a tattoo. To realise the little sting they felt whenever someone called them a girl could be solved—if they had the nerve to say, ‘I don’t want you to say that anymore.’
Only tonight, Sal had stood in front of the mirror in a dress and heels and felt dysphoria kick like a mule. That had been bad, but what was worse was that they didn’t immediately take off the dress. Instead, they’d stood there, debating whether it was worth it to look pretty for Curtis.
Fucking Curtis.
Logically, Sal knew their panic wasn’t his fault, but itfeltlike his fault. He was just so fucking butch. It was terrifying to think he’d look at them and see some freak of nature he didn’t want to hook up with. At the same time, Sal knew they’d prefer he feel that way. It would be easier than managing all this stress. Yet it was impossible to stay away from Curtis; impossible to ignore him when he sent some reel or sexy photo.
When are you gonna give me a shot?he’d texted yesterday. I can’t stop thinking about you. I see you in my coffee. It’s driving me nuts.
It was driving Sal nuts too, and, exhausted from work and thoroughly in the mood to be complimented, they’d agreed to a date the very next day. And it was too late to back out now. The tram had arrived, and the bar Curtis had picked was three stops away. They found him waiting outside, one foot on the wall behind him, scrolling his phone. He was wearing a dark green sweater, pushed up to show his forearms, and looked so hetero-handsome it should have been illegal.
He grinned when he spotted them, pushing off the wall with the kind of manly, effortless grace Sal always envied. They weren’t clumsy, exactly, but no one had ever called them graceful. ‘Bombastic’ was the word their first dance teacher had used.
