Savage
“What’s wrong?”
The question comes out of nowhere, and I’m jolted from my initial descent into sleep.
Micah is on his side, facing me with only a few inches separating us on the bed. It’s dark in here, but not so dark that I can’t make out the shadow of his features. I see concern there. Real concern. It’s an expression I’ve gotten very accustomed to seeing on my brother’s face when he’s around me.
“Why?”
Micah sighs a little. “I think something’s wrong. There’s something you’ve been worrying about all night, even though I’m pretty sure I just made you see god in the world’s ugliest rental bathroom. You don’t have to tell me, obviously. But I’d like you to. Maybe I can help.”
I frown. Is there something wrong? It’s hard to tease apart real problems from abstract ones from the overwhelming blanket of existential dread that can be heavier and lighter depending on the day but is always present.
I’m probably not the best person to ask if something’s wrong. The answer is always going to be yes, but what’s wrong is almost always not important and just a broken fragment of my brain sticking into the gears of all the other parts.
“I don’t know.”
I say the words slowly, like they’re unfamiliar in my mouth, even though it seems like a sentence I say fucking constantly.
Now Micah’s the one frowning, but his expression quickly turns to thoughtful.
“Was it Tobias? I know that was hard to see. And I know you and Eamon have this whole rivalry going on.”
I don’t know why I say what I say next. It’s possible that his question hits a little too close to the truth and I’m deflecting. It’s also possible that this has really been on my mind, and I just haven’t realized it.
Either way, instead of answering him like a normal person, the words I blurt out are, “Do you wish I was a girl?”
Micah’s eyes go wide. Too wide. He already has those giant Bambi eyes, now I’m worried his eyeballs are going to just roll right out of his skull.
Then he laughs a little, but it’s an uncomfortable sound.
“What? I don’t understand. What do you mean?” He hesitates, his face scrunching up in a way that’s distractingly adorable before realization begins to dawn. “Oh shit, do you mean because of the ‘good girl’ dirty talk stuff?”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just nod.
There’s an uncomfortably long pause while Micah considers his words. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, though. Instead, he looks like he’s taking in every inch of me with searing accuracy.
Finally, he speaks. But it gives me more questions than answers.
“I’m gay, Tadhg. Sexuality is a spectrum, but I’m like… Kinsey-six gay. I don’t wish you were a girl. You’re perfect. That’s not what it’s about for me. I’m sorry, we should really have talked about this sooner. I was letting it slide because you seemed so into it, but…” He pauses, and I swear he’s doing it for dramatic effect because my heart is alreadythump-thumpingtoo hard in my chest. “Do you wish you were a girl? Or does it make you feel something about it?”
I pick through my consciousness to find whatever parts of my brain are lighting up in response to his question. It’s hard. I’ve spent my entire life avoiding self-awareness, because it was dangerous. Secretly wanting to be a girl—or already being a girl? I don’t know how people describe it—seems like exactly the kind of thing I would be dumb enough to keep secret even from myself.
It doesn’t click, though. When Micah’s saying those things to me as he touches me, it sets every nerve ending I have on fire. It makes my individual cells trip over themselves to be good for him. It makes me desperate and needy and basically dissolve into a wanton, slutty puddle on the floor for him.
When I think about it outside of that context, it leaves me cold. Like no part of my brain is interested.
So, I guess I don’t know a lot about myself, but that much seems clear?
“No,” I finally say, the word sitting heavy on my tongue. “I don’t—That’s just for you. I don’t know why, though.”
Micah nods, as if what I said made perfect sense. “Okay. It’s okay either way, you know. You can always tell me how you feel.”
The thought of that seems so unabatingly vast that I can’t look directly at it. I shrug and avoid Micah’s gaze.
He just shuffles closer, until he’s inhaling the smell of me from the crook of my neck and then running the flat of his tongue over my stubble and the hinge of my jaw.
“I’m attracted to everything about you, doll,” he says, his voice low and husky now. “It’s like you were made just for me. And all thismalenessis a part of that. This muscle.” He squeezes my bicep, and I fail to resist the urge to flex for him. “But I’ve always loved having a big, strong man begging on his knees. It turns me on. I would say”—he moves down lower, sucking my nipple into his mouth and pinching it between his teeth hard enough to make my cock twitch before he finally lets it go—“that it’s not about you being a‘girl’for me. It’s about you being a slut for me. And because you are always such a perfect slut, with your perfect pussy and your perfect tits, that makes you my good girl.”
