I didn’t say anything, but I knew it was written on my face.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”
Oliver and Charlotte turned in shortly after, and Hayes and I resumed our high school make-out session, which led, as high school make-out sessions are wont to do, to the inevitable blow job. There was something about it that was terribly amusing to me. Because I could not remember the last time I’d snuck through someone’s backyard on a balmy summer night to suck a dick in the dark. It felt almost nostalgic and it made me laugh.
“What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?” he asked, his hand on the top of my head.
“I’m too old for this.”
“No, really, I can assure you, you’re not.”
I laughed harder. “It’s not the dick sucking, it’s the sneaking around. It feels so nineties.”
“Fuck.” He tipped his head back, staring up at the stars. “I was born in the nineties.”
“Shhh. Okay, stop thinking,” I said, lowering my head, taking him again in my mouth.
“You were sucking dicks in the nineties?”
“No,” I lied.
“Yes, you were,” he laughed.
“Hayes, do you want this blow job or not?”
“I want it, I want it. Just give me a second to laugh. Please. I’m just processing this.”
I sat up then. “I’m going back up to the house.”
He reached out for my arms. “No, you’re not.”
For a second we sat like that, neither of us laughing, speaking.
“This is crazy,” I said eventually. “This is completely crazy. What the hell are we doing?”
He sat up then and kissed my forehead before leaning into my ear, the smell of Scotch on his breath. “I like you, so fucking much. I don’t give a damn what you were doing in the nineties. Or anytime, really… Please don’t go up to the house. Please.”
For a moment I did not move. I sat, letting him breathe into me, wanting him and knowing that we were both now in deeper than either of us had intended.
“Lie down,” I said.
He did. And he remained quiet while I finished what I’d begun. And it was just us and the sound of him moaning and crickets and the ocean and summer and his dick in my mouth. And it was perfect.
He came. And then held me afterward, a wide grin plastered across his face.
“Are you happy?” I asked, borrowing his line.
“Very.”
“Good. You wouldn’t happen to have a stick of postcoital gum on you, would you?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “No, sorry. Have some Scotch.”
“You. You’re supposed to be responsible for the condoms and the gum.”
“What do you bring?”
“I bring my mouth.”
