“Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to. Hole is hole.”
I kicked myself. My frankness had gone too far. The only thing getting blown now was this situation. Up. Blown up.
Kessian stared at me for a solid five seconds (I started counting) before, to my surprise, erupting into laughter.
“Well, that’s— The first I’ve heard that one. I like it. Very inclusive.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s about a thousand percent sexier than the things most people tell me.”
“Really?”
“Oh, you know. ‘Have you had the surgery?’ Or, ‘I’m bi so you’re the best of both worlds!’ Or my personal favorite, ‘You have titties? Show me.’ You know, treating me like I’m half a man, an exotic fetish or a circus freak. Now, ‘Hole is hole’? Refreshing. Revolutionary. A promising start.”
“I haven’t fucked you yet. It could be tragic.”
“Spoken like someone who’s aware of his faults and listens well to instructions.”
It was rare to find someone who put me so at ease, made banter feel easy, turned the curse of my bluntness into a blessing.
Playing along, I said, “What are my instructions, Your Highness?”
“Hmm.” Kessian tapped his lower lip. He took my chin in his hands, examining me with eyes hungry as the ocean. “Every king needs a throne, and your face looks pretty enough to sit on.”
Heat swelled low in my belly. “My place or yours?”
“Mine isn’t far. C’mon, I’ll drive.”
Mine was in the car park, but then I’d have to introduce him to Lunaris, which always invited awkward questions. I followed him.
Normally, a drive of any length between agreeing to hook up and the sex itself would be an agony of social awkwardness, but Kessian’s old Volvo had a medley of dashboard decorations for conversation starters, and Kessian himself could hold a conversation on his own.
He pointed to George Carvermory’s ramshackle cottage with the bathtub in the garden and nattered about how the man drank a bit too much but played a mean game of backgammon. He regaled me with a misadventure he’d had in the play park when he’d realized his arse had gotten too fat for the children’s swings and nearly had to call someone to cut him out of it. He rambled about how good the battered sausage was at the local chippy, Hot Piece of Bass, and joked we could share a conciliatory one ifmysausage didn’t go down so well.
I listened along and did not mention that all these places were familiar to me, because through Kessian’s eyes they were all new. I used to see George Carvermory at Mass every Sunday. I’d chipped a tooth on that seesaw next to the swings. I’d eaten fish and chips from Hot Piece of Bass with my family every Friday.
But as we got closer to his home, a stone of dread calcified in my heart.
His was a park home near enough the strid I could hear its water whispering in the trees beyond. If you listened for long enough, the “babble” of a brook lived up to the name, sounding like many voices all clamoring to be heard from the deep. It raised the hair on the back of my neck, memories flooding through me just as its icy water once had.
“You all right?” Kessian asked.
His fingers knotted with mine—a warming counterpoint to the cold memory.
I said, “Is this one your house?”
Usually, if you’d seen one park home, you’d seen them all. Not so with Kessian’s.
His had a garden of wildflowers, a sun catcher in every window, and every door painted a different hue. He led me through one the color of baked cherries into a bedroom with so many rich, dark textiles I felt cocooned in his personality.
He turned and untangled our fingers to knot his in my hair instead. The subtle scrape of his nails against my scalp was luxurious, the citrus taste of his kiss exquisite.
His other hand guided mine to his belt. I had to stop kissing to focus on wrenching open the clasp, and his mouth found the precise spot between jaw and ear that sent a cascade of shivers down my back. The heat, which had cooled on our walk, stoked anew.
I’d never been with a trans man, which perhaps should have been something I’d said initially, but my inexperience hadn’t occurred to me as an obstacle.
I said, “What are the rules?”
