I’ve only kissed one. Shirley Ferguson. She had hair the color of cinnamon and was always smiling, even when people made fun of her dresses. They were homemade so the hem was sometimes a little off. In the fifth grade, she sat next to me in geography and smiled at me after I found North and South Rhodesia on the map. I thought she was pretty, like a meadow pretty, so we would both sit by the playground together during recess.
Then one day, when the teacher wasn’t looking, we went to sit behind the hill that rose between the school and the houses across the street. No one could see us. Her dress looked like it was made from curtains and the hem was coming undone around her knees. I stared at it while she lay her head on my shoulder. Then she tilted her head back, and I kissed her full on the lips and counted to eight in my head.
Her lips were warm and chapped. She looked at me after and said, “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” I promised her.
And I didn’t. And I didn’t talk to her again until high school, when I accidentally brushed against her shoulder in the hall one day and I said sorry, and she didn’t hear me at all.
I wonder if he would have heard me. Had we known each other then, in school, I think I would have been as invisible as air to him. He would’ve been too cool for everyone, anyone, riding off alone into a sunset. I would’ve absolved him of any empty glances my way, any disinterested shoulder bumps as we passed, any hard glares if I’d accidentally touched his bike as long as he’d let me watch him in secret, undisturbed. He would never have noticed me. There would’ve been girls pining and guys standing back in silent awe. All that distant respect, that discretion, would have shielded me.
Like the shrub.
Whydidhe notice me? How? I want to know, but it’s like if I do, then that will be the stumble and I’ll drop whatever is between us and it’ll shatter. I’ll be the one to blame, and I can’t let that be me. I want to hold on to this for as long as I can, as long as he’ll let me.
My arm slips around his abdomen, and I feel the expansion and contraction of his deep breaths. I try to be lulled by the rhythm and fall back asleep, but I start thinking about how many other guys he’s blown besides me. Or that have blown him. From the way he does it, there’d have to be a few. And it’s not envy I feel or even discomfort. It’s like I want to know all the people that have gotten to touch him. Look in their eyes, shake their hands, and know their secrets. I’ll feel as if I’m part of a chosen few. The Elite.
He stirs in my arms and turns slightly. I kiss the side of his head. He murmurs something in his sleep. I can’t make out what it is, but it sounds like something about a barn. I lay my head against his and wish I could talk to him that way. The words wouldn’t have to be spoken, no sound, just thoughts. There’s so much I could tell him that way, so much I could say, and I’d hope he’d say it back.
Here, he could. In this private place, this almost-paradise. I’d listen and I’d believe like he’s some kind of prophet.
I hold him tight against me. Things will be different now, between us. I’ve taken him into me and he’s taken me into him.
It has to mean something.
And if anything, just to hope for more.
When I next open my eyes, my arms are empty and so is his side of the bed.
I hear water running and cutting off. I reach over for my glasses. He appears a couple seconds later, towel wrapped around him and his chest glistening wet. My dick notices instantly.
He smirks down at me in the bed. “There’s no hot water out here. Just so you know.”
“I figured.”
“You hungry?”
“Yeah.”
I’m pitching a tent, and he sees it. He pulls the sheet off me, and in one smooth motion, takes me in his mouth. I yelp and almost come from the wet suction combined with sheer surprise.
But it’s only for a few seconds, then he pulls off me and wipes his lips with a grin. “Something to look forward to.”
And I will.
It’s a nice day, so we walk to a diner just off the main road by the lake. I’m buzzing all the way there and all the way back, anticipating, and it’s probably worse than booze. All the ways I want him. All the ways he’s lodged himself in my mind, set up camp. He could trash the place, and I still wouldn’t kick him out.
When we get back he makes a beeline for the dock. I follow him over and watch him remove his shirt and shoes, roll up his pants and sit on the edge, feet in the water. I stand back for a moment as he lights a cigarette, then I remove my shirt and shoes, roll up my blue jeans and sit next to him, putting my feet in the water. It’s not warm, but it’s not cold. It looks brown and dirty from a distance, but when it drips from my toes, it’s clear.
I don’t know what anyone would think of us, if they just so happened to canoe on by. Would anyone question us as to what we’re doing out here, alone? Would it look like we’ve kissed and spent last night naked in each other’s arms? Would they make faces and cover their children’s eyes? It couldn’t be that we’re just a couple of fellas hanging out. Two fellas, best pals, and bosom buddies just hanging out wouldn’t sit by the water like this. They wouldn’t sit this close.
And so I scoot just a bit closer.
He exhales through his nostrils and there’s a smile in his eyes. “Quiet out here, huh?”
“Sure is.”
“I can see why the squares like it so much.”
