Chapter 7 Stain
Stain
It’s Friday night, and Emma will be over to my house any moment now. We’ve got the whole place to ourselves because my parents are still in Vegas until Sunday and Nash is nowhere to be found. He probably (hopefully) is out with Alessandra, and won’t be home until late.
I never did find out what he wanted when he called and texted me earlier today, because my phone ironically did die. Like, it didn’t run out of battery power. It just died. I’ll have to take it to the store tomorrow.
What I do know is that his stained underwear is still safely underneath my mattress.
The spy cam is still in his room. The shower videos are still up.
All seems normal. I’ll deal with everything—washing the underwear, removing the camera, taking down the videos—later. But right now I have to deal with Emma.
I take off my clothes and hurry to the bathroom so that I can have a quick shower. But I notice that the shower curtain, the yellow one that’s been Nash’s and my shower curtain for years, is gone. Like, there’s nothing in its place. Like, if I take a shower, water will splash everywhere.
What the hell? What did Nash do to it? Does this have something to do with his phone calls and texts to me earlier?
I don’t have time to think about it. I jump in, angle the shower head inward, and turn the water pressure on low. Some water gets on the bathroom floor anyway. But it’s not so bad. It’ll dry.
After a few minutes, I’m done. With a towel wrapped around my waist, I hurry into my brother’s room and grab one of the bottles of cologne on his nightstand. I don’t bother to smell it. All I know is that Emma likes the scent of men’s colognes, pretty much any kind.
After I spray my neck, I take a step back, and my right foot kind of squishes on the carpet. I notice the light brown fabric around where I am is damp. I move away from this damp area and hunch down to look. It’s like water was spilled here or something, and it’s in the process of drying.
But when I look closer, I see little white bubbles, like Nash was cleaning a stain here with soap or dishwashing liquid or something.
Oh, my God, I hope I didn’t accidentally cum on the floor and like he found it or something. That would be embarrassing and awful and just so wrong.
The doorbell rings.
I run downstairs and open the front door. When Emma sees me in nothing but the towel, she smiles.
“Wow, you’re ready to go,” she giggles.
I blush. “No. I was just taking a shower and ran down here. I’ll put on some clothes.”
She runs her fingers over my chest. “Why put on clothes? You’re just gonna be taking them off soon anyway.”
I force a smile.
She starts rubbing my abs. “Damn, Hunter.”
Oh, my God. Emma is so thirsty.
Am I really going to go through with this?
Am I really going to grit my teeth, close my eyes, and have sex with her?
In so many ways, this is so unfair to her.
It’s her first time. She’s losing something as important as her virginity.
And she’s giving it up to a gay dude. I mean, I love her. But not like that.
But on top of Emma’s feelings, what about mine? It’s also my first time. I’m losing my virginity too. Do I really want my first sexual experience to be with a girl? I mean, I feel no attraction to her at all.
I’ve tried to force myself to be into her, romantically, but of course it doesn’t work like that, especially if you’re as gay as I am.
They say that your sexuality falls along a spectrum, that most people aren’t totally straight or totally gay, that they’re somewhere in between, on a scale of 1 to 6, with 6 being super homosexual. But me, I’m definitely a 6. Hell . . . I’m probably an 11.
So how did I end up here, standing face to face with Emma, about to have sex with her? These acting skills I’ve gotten compliments about in Drama class: maybe I’ve always had them.
In elementary school, I knew that I was different.
But back then, I didn’t quite know how. In middle school, I realized I liked boys, and since then I’ve been trying to hide that fact to the best of my ability.
These days, I’m an expert at demonstrating my “straightness” to my family, to my friends, to everyone—at least the world’s stereotypical idea of “straightness.”
I mean, I know gender lines blur nowadays, and boys can do “girl” things and girls can do “boy” things and none of that necessarily says anything about your sexuality.
But I don’t live in a big, generally liberal city like Los Angeles or San Francisco or New York, where people tend to be more open to alternate ideas of what’s “masculine” and what’s “feminine.”
Here in Point Liberty, dudes are dudes and girls are girls, and when they don’t act like they’re “supposed” to act, well, it means trouble.
So, using my brother’s natural masculinity as an example, I’m very conscious about the way I walk, how I sit, my whole physical vibe. I dress in simple clothes, all in muted colors—no pink, no turquoise, nothing that would be a “red flag,” which means lots of black, blue, earth tones.
I listen to my guy friends talk, and I’ve become an expert at talking like them, at talking about girls around campus.
(“Amber is hot,” and “I’d bang Rebecca,” and, if I want to add some specificity to come across as more authentic, “Check out Tiffany’s ass.
”) It feels kind of gross to me, speaking like that, but I need to “keep up appearances,” so I just follow the guys.
My friends started getting girlfriends as freshmen and sophomores, and they started to look at me suspiciously the longer I remained unattached. No dates, no nothing, no anything to back up the straight identity I tried so hard to project.
So along came Emma, who asked me to the junior prom last year (yeah, she’s normally bold like that), and we eventually became boyfriend/girlfriend.
So far, we hold hands, give each other little kisses on the lips, sometimes make out, cuddle on the couch, nothing too crazy. I can do all of that and be pretty convincing. She seems to think that I’m comfortable with all that stuff (I’m not) and I like it (I don’t).
But getting naked and having actual sex? Like, my dick actually going inside her? This is next level, and I’m worried AF.
Emma plants her lips on mine and pushes against me until we’re both completely inside the house. Still kissing me, she uses the bottom of her foot to kick the front door closed.
“Hold on,” I say, as I lean away from her. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Let’s take it slow.”
The expression on her face changes. She was enthusiastic, hungry, but now she looks worried. I think she’s wondering if I’m backing out, if I’m rejecting her advances.
To ease Emma’s fears, I quickly say, “I’m so excited about making love to you . . .” (It sounds so cheesy to me, but I know how to handle her.) “. . . but I want to savor every moment. Slowly. It’s hotter that way.”
I put my hand on her cheek and brush it tenderly. She lets out an excited breath.
Jesus, that’s all it took to get her going. She really wants it, and she really wants it now.
I take her hand and pull her toward the couch until we’re sitting, facing each other.
Emma nods. “I agree. Slowly.”
“Yeah. Let’s just hang out for a bit, enjoy each other’s company tonight, and then we’ll ease into it.” I gently kiss her on the lips.
When I pull away, Emma releases another breath.
She pulls out her phone. “I’ll put on some music.”
She rotates the phone sideways, pops out the collapsible stand on the back of it, and sets it down on the glass coffee table, angled so that we both can see it.
She navigates to one of the playlists she’s created, one with a bunch of her favorite music videos.
She presses play, and a Shawn Mendes video starts.
It opens with a closeup of Shawn’s face, and the camera pulls back to show him wearing a white tank top. About halfway into the video, he lies down on a bed, and I can’t help but study his face, his toned arms, the seemingly perfect hair that lines his armpit.
I look up from the phone. Emma is staring at me, a look of deep concern on her face.
“What?” I ask, softly, sincerely.
Her eyes quickly glance downward and then immediately move back up to my face.
I look down and realize I have a huge boner. It’s pressing up against my towel, creating a kind of tent. I immediately throw my hands over my lap and push down.
I hate that my dick has a mind of its own.