“At least.”
“I’m flattered. Maybe I can auction those off? eBay?”
“Do it for charity,” I said, forcing his shirt up farther, admiring the breadth of his chest, the russet color of his nipples. “Look, you have a Saint-Tropez tan.”
“A what?”
“There’s this old suntan oil, Bain de Soleil. They had these great commercials in the eighties and…” I laughed suddenly. “And you were not yet born.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Pity.” I managed to remove the rest of his shirt. His skin: soflawless, soft, like a baby’s. “You are so ridiculously beautiful,” I said, and almost immediately regretted it. I didn’t want him to know that I was falling. If indeed that’s what this was. I could indulge him with sexy, witty banter, but hesitated to go beyond that. It was like prep school all over again. He who guards his feelings wins.
“I feel the same about you,” he said. “I like everything about you.”
I was quiet then, tracing my fingers over his face: his chin, his jaw, his mouth. Saying more, I thought, could affect the order of things. The arrangement.
I kissed him, letting my hand traverse his firm stomach and land somewhere just north of his swim trunks. My fingers slipped in between the elastic waist and his skin, and he flinched. And in that instant I was reminded that he was twenty.
There is this moment that every woman knows, when she reaches into her date’s pants for the first time and is not sure what’s going to come out. And she says a little prayer to the penis gods and hopes that she will be pleasantly surprised. And for me, it hadn’t happened in a long time. But I was amazed to see the same anxiety was there. As in grad school, as in college, as in one memorable summer in Saint-Raphaël. That second of holding my breath and extending my hand… and the way that Hayes filled up my palm was a very good thing.
“Hiiii,” he said, and I laughed.
“Hi, yourself.” I took my time, freeing it from his trunks, admiring the way it lined up straight, thick, landing just above his belly button. “Mr. Campbell. This is a really nice dick.”
“You’re making me blush,” he laughed, tipping his head back. His jawline from this angle was well-defined, exquisite, like art. His beauty, like a gift that kept revealing itself.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just thought you should know.”
He was quiet when I took him in my mouth. His hands playing in my hair, gentle. His body tense beneath me. I could still smell the sunscreen on his torso, taste the salt on his skin. This sweet boy.
It did not seem so long ago that the girls and I had flown to Las Vegas. When I could not pick him out of a meet-and-greet lineup. When he was just a pogo stick on a stage amidst a sea of girls losing their minds. And now here we were.
“I don’t know your middle name,” I said, pausing.
“Sorry?” His breathing was fast.
“I just realized I don’t know your middle name.”
Hayes screwed up his face, puzzled. “Is that a requirement of yours or something?”
“If you’re going to come in my mouth, yes.”
“Really?” he laughed. “Seriously? Philip.”
“Philip,” I repeated. It was so charmingly English. “Of course it is.”
“So is that it? Do I pass?”
“With flying colors.”
It happened relatively quickly, which I suppose was a good thing. To wield that kind of power. His breath coming in short, shallow spurts, his hands gripping my skull, his moans deep and sporadic; to realize that I’d done that. Especially havingnotdone it in so long. And to someone whose idiosyncrasies I did not yet know. Like riding a bike.
He shuddered beneath me, his warmth filling the back of my throat. Familiar.
After, when his breathing had returned to normal and I was curled up beside him, my head buried in his neck, he said: “Tell me something, if I’d told you my middle name in Las Vegas, would this have happened then?”
I laughed at that. “What do you think?”
