Living with Jay these past six months—waking up beside him, sharing meals, trading inside jokes, building a home together—has surpassed every hope I had. We’ve had our hiccups, for sure, but I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.
Since he moved in, we haven’t stopped touching each other. It’s not even just about sex. Holding hands while walking along the Riverwalk, cuddling on the couch watching a movie, falling asleep wrapped around each other, or just brushing against each other in the kitchen—we were both so touch-starved that we didn’t even realize how much we needed this. Physical affection is definitely our love language.
On weekends, we’ve been working on small projects around the apartment or exploring the Oregon and Washington coasts, hiking local trails, and checking out every good brewery within twenty miles.
Now that summer’s here, we go to the farmers’ market every Sunday to stock up on fresh produce and find fun local treasures.
Our evenings have become a ritual. Jay always ends up in his favorite spot on the couch, curled up with his head on my chest and his body tucked between my legs. We’ve been revisiting our favorite movies with the director’s commentary on. Between all thepausing, rewinding, and our film-geek debates, it can take us five hours to get through a single movie.
That being said, nothing’s perfect. I’ve never lived with a partner before, so sharing space comes with a steep learning curve. The globs of toothpaste in the sink are a bit of a problem, and wet towels on the floor an ongoing argument.
With my background in porn, I thought I was prepared for anything when it comes to sex. I was wrong. In the industry, guys were always prepped and ready to go. Even my one boyfriend must’ve planned around date nights. But when you live together, you quickly learn that sometimes certain parts of the body are simply off-limits.
It’s Saturday night, which means dinner and a movie. Neither of us cooked much before moving in together, but we’re learning through YouTube tutorials, a cooking class, and lots of trial and error.
We’ve burned more than a few dinners, but we always end up laughing, usually while eating cereal. Somehow, everything we do together is fun. Tonight, it’s Jay’s turn to choose the recipe.
“What’s on the menu?” I ask as he pulls ingredients out of the fridge.
“It’s my favorite dish my mom makes,” he replies, lining things up on the counter. “She’s always called it chicken dinner, but I found out the real name is Chicken Divan.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“It’s really not. It’s total comfort food.”
“What can I do?”
“Start the rice in the Instant Pot,” he says, handing me the measuring cup.
We’ve finally mastered that thing after a few sticky disasters. Now it’s one of our favorite appliances.
As I get the rice going, I wander over and place my hands on his hips, peeking over his shoulder.
“Whatever you’ve got in that sauce smells amazing.”
He gives a little shrug. “It’s curry and dried mustard mixed into cream of chicken soup, coconut milk, and mayo. Weird combo, but trust me, it’s amazing.”
We steam some broccoli, layer it with shredded rotisserie chicken in a shallow baking dish, smother it with the sauce, and top it with cheese and stuffing mix for crunch.
It’s piled high, but Jay assures me it’s fine. He slides it into the oven while I grab a couple of beers from the fridge, our current favorite IPA from a local brewery.
Settling onto the stools at the kitchen island, we sip our drinks while waiting for dinner. We’re two beers in and twenty minutes into an in-depth discussion about the décor for the rental apartment next door when I catch a whiff of something burning.
I flick my eyes toward the oven and see smoke seeping from the edges of the door, the rancid smell quickly filling the room. We both scramble off our stools.
“Shit, not again,” I cough, grabbing hot pads and flinging the oven door open to find the bubbling sauce spilling over the edges of the pan, splattering onto the heating element with a sizzle.
“Are we eating cereal again?” Jay asks with a groan.
“No, I think we’re okay,” I reply, laughing.
Despite the mishap, the dish isn’t ruined. After opening some windows to clear out the smoke, we fill our plates and sit down at the table to dig in.
“Oh my God, this is delicious,” I exclaim between bites. “This is definitely going into our regular rotation. You did good, baby.”
“Thanks. It’s much better than the pork chops we tried to bake last week. Way too dry.”
“But we’re getting better. Next week, hopefully, we’ll manage not to catch the kitchen on fire,” I say, flashing him a wink.
