Comedic Timing

Chapter IX

IX

It’s been three days since we kissed, and naturally I can’t stop thinking about David. We’ve texted, but we haven’t seen each other. I’m exhausting my sounding boards: Jhanaki and I processed my last conversation with David from all possible angles. I took Chloe out for happy hour drinks, where I ordered a Diet Coke, my stomach still turning at the thought of alcohol.

“What is the definition of ‘taking it slow’? I wonder if he knows what he wants,” Chloe questioned. “Or is he stalling?” I bit my straw instead of telling Chloe what I was thinking: that, truthfully, I don’t know exactly what I want and am grateful I have some latitude to figure it out with him.

On my way back to Brooklyn after a brutal day at work, I shoot Jordan a text— FaceTime tonight? When I get home, I delay our conversation by taking a long shower. I know he’s going to chide me for keeping him in the dark and that I deserve it. I scrub my scalp twice, working the pads of my fingers through my hair and allowing the steam to make me woozy. Letting hot water pour over my body has always been my pregame ritual before any nerve-wracking event.

I throw the duvet over me and sink into the pillows as I wait for Jordan to pick up. When he does, we greet each other with goofy faces, then burst into laughter. It’s been weeks since we last spoke. It’s mostly my fault.

“You’ve been busy.” He tries to sound light, but I can tell he’s veiling hurt at not having heard from me in so long.

“Yeah, it’s true. I miss you.” I want to be casual, but I feel the story bursting at the seams. I’m equally eager to confess what I haven’t told him and nervous about what it might mean to bring my relationship with David to light within the context of my old life, my Chicago life.

“Well, what’s up?”

“It’s about David,” I say, biting my lip, preventing myself from smiling.

“What’s that cheeky smile?” Jordan asks. “What did you do?”

I divulge the details of the past few weeks—the cuddling, Halloween night, the showing up at my door with coffee. I get through everything without questions—just Jordan’s empathetic gasps and exclamations of disbelief. When I reach the part about the kiss, he yelps and shakes his phone.

“I knew it!” he howls. “I called it!”

We laugh and swoon together.

“So what, are you gonna be like—‘actually, let’s just date’? Or are you going to go with the flow? His flow?”

“I don’t know,” I confess. “There’s a part of me that feels almost... shy? About asking what he means by ‘take it slow.’ As if I’m just supposed to know what that means. And if I admit that I don’t, it could ruin it.”

Jordan clicks his tongue. “Asking for clarity won’t ruin anything. And if it does, then he’s not the one.”

“Maybe I’m accepting the ambiguity, as much as it scares me, because I don’t know what I want,” I admit.

Jordan considers this hypothesis. “That would make sense. You did just get out of a relationship. But eventually you guys have to figure out what you are to each other. What is the point of all of this talking if not?”

I groan. I know Jordan is right. And as much as I want to process this with David—to talk it out like my essay or his film—I feel nervous at the thought of dissecting something so real, so personal.

“So, when’re you seeing him again?” Jordan asks, setting his phone down to brush his teeth.

“Tomorrow.”

“Let me know how it goes. And follow your heart,” he croaks, toothpaste foaming in his mouth.

“Terrible advice. That’s never worked for anyone.”

David opens his front door.

For the past week, I’ve found myself thinking about him constantly—wondering what he’d say about my cooking, whether he’d approve of my choice of shallots over white onions. When I decided to bike home instead of taking the train, I imagined us cycling together to the farmer’s market. While cringing at a street performer, I thought about his likely reaction—his belief that true artistry means putting yourself out there.

These little fantasies started to scare me over the past few days. When did I let myself go all-in on this, and am I losing my sense of self to my feelings for him? Without even fully processing what it means that, all of a sudden, I’m attracted to a man ? When I’d finally gotten to a place where I no longer felt like I wasn’t “queer enough”? Am I absorbing his lens and applying it to my life, erasing my own perspective?

I am timid standing in front of him, unsure of what to do with my body.

“Sorry, one minute.” He waves both hands at me in yellow dish gloves as he approaches and leans down to peck my cheek.

Breathless, I walk past him into the living room and sit on his couch. He’s cleaning the kitchen and talking to me about his week—a meeting with a clueless client whose demands made no technical sense, an argument with Rana about the dishes in the sink that he’s doing now, a sleepless night helping a friend shoot a short. He seems normal. How can he be so normal after what happened this weekend?

I notice he cut his hair. I’d made a comment, the day before the Halloween party, about how long it had gotten. Now, his dark curls sit neatly on top of his head, cropped short, tapering down at the sides.

“What about you?” he asks. “How’s your week been?”

“Fine,” I say, my eyes on the little table where we had our first dinner. “I sent those pitches out finally.”

“What!” he says, dropping a pan in the sink. “Naina, that’s huge! I’m so proud of you!”

I feel stupidly giddy. I’d been motivated to pitch my essay because David had been so encouraging. But he already approved of me—me sending a few emails doesn’t change anything. What else did I possibly have to prove?

“Thanks,” I say. “But I guess that means I technically have nothing to work on tonight. I can read your latest draft if you want.”

“We should celebrate,” he says, slipping the gloves off and opening the fridge with gusto. “Okay, so there’s no champagne, but we do have the champagne of beers. Want one?”

He hands me a cold Miller High Life. “I’m not drinking this week.” I pass it back to him. “I’m still, uh... recovering .”

He chuckles and sits on the couch beside me, wiping his palms down the front of his pants, then reaching up to cup my chin. “I’ve never seen you that drunk before. It was bad, huh?”

I laugh at myself, covering my eyes with my hands.

“What got into you? Why’d you drink so much?”

“I guess I was nervous. I mean, I usually am before parties, but... I guess I was nervous to see you.”

He smirks. “Me? For what? We see each other all the time and you’re never nervous.”

I chew on my lip.

He raises his eyebrows. “Wait, do I make you nervous?”

“Maybe,” I tease.

“Sometimes you make me nervous,” he says, taking my bid and leaning his forehead toward mine. “When you give me those eyes.”

“What eyes?”

“You know,” he replies, making puppy dog eyes at me. “ Those eyes.”

I reach out, my fingertips finding their way to the side of his face, and he leans his cheek into my hand. Blood rushes to my head. I am nervous, yes, but despite it, I shift my knees and lean in to kiss him.

I am hungry to return to the exact moment of our first kiss, but as soon as our tongues brush against each other, I know this is different, needier, less constrained. He slowly pushes me down on the couch, cradling my head, until we’re both lying down and he is beside me. I feel his ring pressed up against my face, cold and metallic, and I follow the urge to put his fingers in my mouth. He’s surprised when I do, which only encourages me more. I glide my tongue between his fingers.

A door upstairs opens, then shuts. We freeze.

“Should we go to my room?” he whispers to me. I smile and nod. He plants a soft kiss on my mouth.

He holds my hand and leads me up the stairs. I’ve been in his room multiple times, but never like this—never for this.

I stand with my back pressed against the wall while he shuts the door, presenting myself as ready for whatever will happen next. In two swift strides, he’s in front of me, an arm wrapping around my waist. “Come here,” he grumbles, pulling me onto the bed with more force than I expect but not more than I need. I am greedy for his attention and satisfied that I’m getting what I want. I lie on top of him, my hair framing his face and my legs straddling his right thigh. He holds my hips with both hands and gently rocks me back and forth, the ridge in my jeans announcing itself loudly. “How’s that feel?” he whispers in my ear, and the sensation of his breath is almost enough to make me crest. I’m straining to focus, to make it last, and all I can utter in response is “It feels so good.” I am in disbelief at being with David in this way, at how my body feels on top of his. I moan into his mouth without worrying about who might hear.

I stop kissing him to smell his neck—unabashedly, indulgently. I tug the skin on his throat with my teeth. I’d questioned if I’d know what to do when it came to this, but now that we’re here, it feels obvious. Humans are humans. Touch is touch. I know how to kiss. I know how to touch.

“You smell incredible,” I say, the skin of his neck still between my lips.

“You do too,” he whispers back. “You always do.” He turns to kiss my jaw. “I am so turned on by the way you smell. I want every part of you in my mouth.”

I gasp, kissing him back. He flips me over onto my back and holds himself over me.

He runs his fingers down my sternum. I take his hand and urge him to touch my chest, more , harder , and he spreads his palm around my breast, gently squeezing and brushing his thumb over the fabric covering my nipple, calling attention to the throbbing in between my thighs. He pulls my top off over my head, and I tug at his T-shirt, slipping it off to reveal his bare chest, covered in dark hair. We take each other in, hands all over each other’s bodies, entirely consumed by the moment. I undo his fly, releasing the strain of his erection, but before I can go further, he’s growling, tonguing my breast through the cotton of my bra and then skillfully unhooking it. A nervousness creeps into my body—less apprehension, more uncertainty—and he licks my neck. None of this is new to me, but it’s new with David, new with him. He stops for a moment to gaze at me, and I witness an expression I’ve never seen from him before. Hunger.

I love seeing him like this. I watch him watch me while I unbutton my jeans and wriggle my way out of them, kicking them off the bed.

Immediately, his hand is in between my thighs, and we sigh in unison, both delighted by how wet I am. He pushes my underwear to the side, inspecting. I writhe against his fingers, desperate.

He moves his head down my torso, pushing my legs apart, tickling my skin with his hair. I’m aching to have his mouth on me, feeling like we could never be close enough. He kisses the inner part of my thighs, savoring every part of me.

I lift myself up onto my elbows, looking down at him. “Touch me,” I beg. “Please.”

Not breaking eye contact, he gently strokes my clit with his index finger, causing me to buck my hips. I want more. He kisses my entrance lightly, tormenting me, watching me squirm against him, until finally, he licks.

“I’ve wanted to taste you since I walked in here and found you on my bed. The first time we met.”

My mind scans back through the times I’ve been in this room, but I can’t latch on to thoughts, just the sensation of his tongue, dragging, probing, seeking.

“My very belated birthday present,” he says as if addressing my whole being, answering all of my questions, through this conversation between my legs.

I melt into the softness of his mouth on me. He slides a finger inside of me, then two.

I grip his head in between my thighs. “Sorry,” I gasp, and he comes back up to kiss me, his mouth glistening and swollen. “What’re you sorry for?” He smiles, pleased with himself. He brushes his fingers against my lips, enraptured.

“I’m going to take forever to come,” I admit, pressing my palms against my eyes. He gently pulls my hands off my face.

“Is that a challenge?” he asks.

We are lying on our sides now, facing each other. He takes his pants off, then his briefs, keeping his eyes on me. I am locked in, hoping my gaze will communicate what I want it to: Yes, yes. More, more.

He strokes himself with his right hand, and I’m watching him, rapt. I’ve never been this close to a dick before. I like how his looks. He returns my gaze, steady and intent. “Tell me what you want, Naina.”

“I want you. I just don’t know how I want you,” I answer. I kiss him, more sloppily than before, spit reaching my chin. He whispers into my ear, “You can have me however you want.”

I reach for his dick, surprised by the weight of it in my palm. How velvety he feels. His head rolls back as I run my thumb along the vein. He groans, then puts his hand on top of mine. “Like this.” He shows me.

“Will you fuck me?” I ask, fighting off my nerves and forcing myself to stay out of my head.

He traces a finger down my side, the most delicate gesture since we stepped into his room. “We can try, and I’ll stop if you don’t like it. How does that sound?”

I’m touched and relieved and turned on all at once, a decidedly new combination of feelings for me. I kiss him. He opens his nightstand drawer and pulls a condom out, tearing it open and rolling it on. I watch him, nearly clinical in my observation.

I lie back, and he braces himself over me. “You’re in charge, okay?” he says, cupping my jaw and making direct eye contact. “Okay,” I whisper in response as I guide his dick to my entrance. He pushes himself inside of me, slowly, watching my face for a reaction. I nod for him to keep going. He does, hesitantly, and his breathing goes shallow. He’s trying not to lose himself. I feel full in the most pleasurable way, but as he begins to thrust harder, I wince.

“Can you stop?” I whimper. He does, pulling himself out abruptly.

“I’m... sorry,” I say. “This is just very intense.” It is an emotional whirlwind, to have him inside of me. I don’t want to think about what it means for me to be having sex with a man. I want to lose myself to the genuine pleasure of the experience, not to unnecessary mental gymnastics.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, squeezing my hand. “It is for me too. Why don’t I hold you for a bit?” he asks.

“Please,” I whisper.

He spoons me—something we’ve done before, but never like this—and he sighs into my neck. I kiss the inner part of his arm as many times as I possibly can.

We breathe together for a handful of minutes. I’m having a private moment of disbelief lying next to him: pleased with myself, surprised, and shocked all at once. I replay the events so they feel real, reminding myself that actually just happened .

I take his hand and place it between my thighs. He starts to move his fingers in a gentle circle. I reach back to hold his face into my neck, unable to be completely satisfied, feeling like we can never be close enough.

“I want to try again,” I say.

“Get another condom,” he tells me.

I hand it to him, but he passes it back to me.

“You do it. You show me how you want it.”

I rip the foil packet, heady with a sense of control, and slide it over him.

This time he slides himself inside of me while I straddle him. It’s easier to relax now. I breathe deeply, feeling a surge of pleasure with each exhale. My shoulders fall to his chest while he lifts my hips up and down. He groans my name into my neck over and over again, still circling his fingers on my clit, asking me if it feels good, if I’m getting what I want.

“I need this,” I say, close to a sob, desire radiating through me as he thrusts fervently. He greedily squeezes my hips and growls. My body trembles, desperate to reach orgasm. As I come, I dissolve into the rush, and everything disappears. David follows, his moans climbing into an entranced rhythm.

When we are finished, he maneuvers his body so it’s enclosed around mine, his dick still inside of me.

“Did you like it?” he asks through heavy breaths.

“Could you not tell?” I whisper back, my mind fully turned to mush.

He squeezes me against him. “I want you to tell me.”

“I liked fucking you so much,” I say, resting my head in the crook of his neck, feeling him smile in response.

“Your face fits perfectly in there,” he says, pressing his cheek against my head.

“I’ll just live here now,” I say. “In the crook.”

He laughs. “Whenever I need you close, I’ll just tell you to come home.”

I wake up before David, shocked into consciousness by the bliss of having his naked body enveloping mine.

He is not a discreet sleeper. He snores. His breathing is more like a soft whistling. The air from his nose tickles the skin behind my ear. Having his limbs wrapped around mine causes me to indulge in flashbacks of the sex we had. All the different kinds—moving from exploratory to depraved, gentle to impassioned, relaxed to borderline athletic. He picked me up, he caressed me, he told me how beautiful my body is and the mess he wanted to make of it.

He is no longer just my friend.

His pattern of breathing changes. He stirs, moving his face in my hair. My butt is pressed up against him. We’re all soft and sticky. I loosen myself from his grip and turn into him, tucking my leg between his thighs.

“David,” I say, holding his face, tracing his lips with my thumb, “are you awake?”

He grumbles. “No.”

“I have to go to work.”

“What time is it?”

“I think seven. Your watch beeped.”

“My alarm goes off at seven thirty. Don’t go yet.” He squeezes me against him, cupping my butt in his hand.

“I need to shower. And eat.”

“Shower with me. We’ll get breakfast.”

“My laptop is at home,” I groan.

David finally opens his eyes, planting a kiss on my nose. “What if you called in sick?”

“Call in sick just so we can sleep in?”

“Call in sick so we can sleep in, get breakfast, go for a walk. Then have sex again. So much of it. If you want,” he says. The fluttering in my stomach shifts to the space in between my legs, now sore but still insatiable.

The thought of having David all to myself for an entire day feels like something out of a dream. Here is a person who I want like this, who wants me back like this.

“Look.” He traces the line of my jaw. “If this sways your decision: I’m going out of town in a couple of days, for that backpacking trip in Utah. Two weeks without seeing each other and little to no cell service. Maybe we deserve some extra time together.”

I wince inwardly. I vaguely recall him mentioning these plans during one of our late-night writing sessions, a reunion of sorts with one of his high school buddies. But being reminded of them now, they seem somehow unfair. How can David be gone so soon after this drastic shift in our relationship? I will miss him. I will want him to come back so we can pick up where we leave off.

“Where’s my phone?” I say, pulling his arm off me. “I’ll email Alice.”