“That was some good gelato,” he quips with a smile that crinkles his eyes.
After Luke’s intensity and domineering nature, this is all so normal and real. And good. It feels really good.
I have a brief thought about what making out with two guys on the same day means. The reproach I envision from my father tries to worm its way into my head, trailing shame in its wake like a dirty oil-slicked puddle on the side of the road.
I firmly push it from the corners of my mind, saying to myself,you have no power over me.In my heart, I know I’m doing nothing wrong as both interests, for lack of a better title, are in their infancy. It feels good to claim my sexuality and my body as my own, separate from my past and the societal paradigms forced upon me.
But I also know that as happy as I am to reconnect with McHottie, and as much as I’ve enjoyed appreciating each other’s bodies, I’m not ready to take things any further tonight. I need time to process, not for my dad or for society, but for me.
As we break apart and return to a sitting position, it feels amazing to be back under his arm. No pressure, no huffing for ‘teasing’, just two adults who enjoyed a good old-fashioned make-out session.
I pick up my drink now that I have a free hand. Even with the melting ice, it’s one of the best cocktails I’ve ever had. The movie long over, I stand and straighten my clothes.
Making out was great, but I don’t want to overstay. My eye is drawn to his crotch as he adjusts himself, not quite hiding the bulge in the front of his jeans. Before I can get second thoughts about not hopping on his disco stick, I start my goodbye.
“Thanks for sharing dinner with me. It was nice not to eat alone,” I tell him sincerely.
“You should never be alone,” he replies in his slow, musical way of speaking. I could drown in his voice. “It’s still early. One more movie. I’ll fire up the popcorn maker and fix you another drink. Besides, it’s not like you have to drive home.”
Twist my arm. I pretend to mull it over. “Well, it is a pretty good offer. I mean, you do have popcorn. And bourbon.”
His face lights up, and I feel ten feet tall that I made him look that way. He walks over to the popcorn machine, and I follow him, watching curiously as he gets the kernels ready, followed by both ghee and coconut oil.
“Trust me, I’ve got this recipe down.”
He looks at me earnestly, and I get the strange feeling that he’s talking about more than the popcorn. Like heneedsme to trust him, and it is absolutely imperative to him to have it. Before I can overthink it, I step into him and reach up, cupping his face.
“Ok, I’ll trust you.”
I barely know him. We just met. But I feel something deep in my soul that wants to meet him halfway, wants to satisfy his craving for my trust. The deep feeling flutters and I think,is this it? If I open my heart, will this be love?
He leans down, bringing our foreheads together, noses touching tip to tip. We breathe each other in for a few heartbeats, basking in the breaking dawn of something new. Something beautiful and precious until we are startled apart, laughing, by the popping of the first kernels.
I lean against the bar and watch him make two more cocktails while the popcorn pops away. This time, he makes Manhattans while I check out his impressive bourbon collection. He grabs a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle and starts to put it into the drinks.
“Seriously, you’re going to use that as a mixer?” I squeal, interrupting him.
“Why not? It’s to enjoy, not sit on a shelf.”
“Oh dude, this is some serious sacrilege. I’ll take a taste of the Pappy and then we can use an everyday sipper as the mixer.”
He smiles and rolls his eyes good-naturedly, fetching a Glencairn and pouring a generous measure of Pappy. I can’t believe he was going to use it as a mixer. Sacrilege, truly.
I take the Glencairn and do the Kentucky Chew to appreciate the unicorn bourbon that I’m certain I’ll never get to have again. It’s smooth and delicious, with notes of vanilla, cherry, oak, and, of all things, candy corn. The finish brings notes of oak and raspberry.
Huh. Now I see what the fuss is about. Still not sure I would pay market price for it, but glad to have had a taste. I feel his intense stare and turn to look at him.
He reaches out and traces from my temple down to my jawline with a tentative finger, saying, “I want to sample you like you sampled that bourbon. I want to breathe your bouquet and savor your taste on my tongue.”
My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline, the fine bourbon drying to dust in my mouth. I don’t know what else he could have said that could have shocked me more. A small breathy reply slips past my lips, “Oh.”
Our eyes lock in a smoldering stare. My imagination runs wildly with abandon, as I can picture all too clearly those amber eyes and black wavy hair peeking up at me while his mouth is blissfully engaged elsewhere.
“Shit, the popcorn!” He turns and begins finishing up the popcorn right as it starts burning.
I giggle at hearing his usual formal speech break into the vernacular. I’m thankful he saved the snack because I need something in my belly to soak up all the booze he’s plied me with. It is also a welcome distraction after so much tension.
I pick up our drinks and set them on the end tables on either side of our fancy recliner seats. We sit back down, the bowl of popcorn a safe barrier between us. He starts up my favorite movie of all time, Dracula, and as I snuggle down into the blanket, I must admit, this feels like fate.
