7. Orion #2
It’s been a while since I met her—almost a year, I think—and Jordan still believes I’m harboring a debilitating crush on her.
Asshole that I am, I haven’t corrected him.
I wish I were better than this, but since getting to college, the whole girl-thing has gotten really hard for me to manage.
In high school, I kissed girls now and again.
At first to check—and double-check—that it wasn’t for me.
When I found that it wasn’t, I kept doing it to avoid queer allegations.
It was easier back then because most high school girls were okay with taking things slow. A bit of kissing here and there, and that was that. I was okay with it. It was fine. It didn’t light up any major parts of my brain, but I didn’t hate it. I was kind of indifferent to the whole thing.
The first time I hooked up with a girl at college, things came unstuck.
During high school, I had a reputation for being a gentleman, and there, lots of girls considered it an admirable quality.
In college, the first girl I made out with grabbed my ass, told me she was horny, and invited me back to her room.
My stomach dropped and my heart started to pound, and not in a good way. Kissing I could do, but I knew there was no way I could have sex with a woman. It simply wasn’t possible.
I tried to tell myself I’d misread the situation, but then she reached for my dick.
At that point, I freaked out. Big time. I literally squawked as I leaped out of her grasp. I rattled off a long list of fervent excuses—none of which made sense to me the next day—and ran most of the way home.
I was anxious for weeks afterward, my entire body breaking out in a sweat when I thought about the encounter. And specifically about what would happen if she told people I hadn’t wanted to have sex with her.
Thankfully, nothing more came of it, and I haven’t seen her since.
It did make me rethink kissing girls though. Obviously, I shouldn’t be doing it at all. It isn’t fair of me to kiss people I’m not attracted to. I’m basically wasting their time and leading them on, not to mention using them to keep my secret when they haven’t consented to do so.
It’s not the way I want to conduct myself.
I probably shouldn’t have been kissing them in high school either, but back then, there was an element of exploring my sexuality.
It was something I needed to do to figure out my preferences, so I give myself a pass on that.
Being with girls now, when I know I’m gay, feels wrong in more ways than one.
I avoid it at all costs, but it’s fucking stressful because there’s a massive expectation on guys to frequently hook up, and not doing so raises questions I’m not ready to answer.
The Summer situation, while humiliating as hell, has been a blessing. Jordan thinks I don’t want to be with anyone else because I’m hung up on her. He thinks it’s quaint and romantic that I’m like this.
He praises me for it sometimes, and I let him.
West and Riley grab a couple of chairs and pull them up for Summer and Sarah. We all crowd around the table, and soon, people are laughing, talking over each other, and getting a nice little buzz going.
I spend my time avoiding eye contact with Summer by focusing my attention on the tiny drops of moisture slowly running down my beer glass. I use what little bandwidth I have left over to try to keep up with the conversation.
I think it’s mainly about cars.
“Yeah,” West says, taking a sip of his beer and nodding thoughtfully, “so like, I’d drive a Mini, but only if it was six-speed.”
Riley shakes his head, tutting in disapproval. “There’s no way I’d drive a Mini, bud, even if it was free. It’s a truck, SUV, or a supercar for me, and that’s it.”
West’s top lip curls up. “A supercar, bruh? Be realistic. Think of the cost. One service for a Bugatti would put you in debt for years. Hate to break it to you, but there’s no way you could swing it.”
“I didn’t know we were being realistic,” says Riley. “I thought we were talking dream-car scenarios?”
“Obviously, we’re not talking dream-car scenarios, or I wouldn’t have mentioned a Mini.”
“I love Minis,” pipes Sarah.
“Me too,” agrees Summer. “They’re adorable. I always think girls who drive them have such great style.”
Riley raises his hands as if he’s proved his point.
There’s a slight lull in conversation, and Jordan, not one to miss an opportunity like this, dives in headfirst.
“You know what I’ve just realized,” he says to Summer. “You and my boy Orion have a very similar sense of humor. Kind of dry. Kind of snarky.”
I smile, showing too many of my bottom teeth, and try not to whimper audibly.
Summer has been here for less than an hour, and so far, Jordan has already managed to drop that I can make pasta from scratch into the conversation.
And that I volunteered at an animal shelter last summer, and that I know how to change a tire.
If Summer was the kind of girl to fall for that kind of bullshit, she’d be all over me by now.
“He’s so funny. Seriously, he cracks me up.” Jordan shoots me an intentional look that I understand to mean, say something funny.
Since no one’s ever been even remotely amusing under this kind of pressure, I crash and burn, coming up with nothing more impressive than a choked, “Uck, uck.”
Jordan gives me a solid pat on the back and nods like a proud papa, as if I’ve just proved his point.
The situation is making my headache significantly worse. It’s traveled all the way up the back of my head now, over my crown, and since Summer got here, it’s started digging its claws into my temples.
Mercifully, Summer and Sarah turn to each other, leaning their heads close together, and start talking about things that don’t involve the rest of us.
Thank God.
I finish my drink in relative peace and get started on the next one before the Summer situation raises its head again.
Something about her tone of voice changes mid-sentence, shifting from discreet to playful and charged. It draws the attention of everyone at the table. “…so, actually, we’re the crazy ones.”
Sarah cocks her head, smiling as though she has a pretty good idea what Summer is going to say next and is looking forward to hearing her say it. “How’d you figure?”
Summer raises her voice to make sure she’s heard. “Well, think about it, babes. Here we are, perpetually shocked and disappointed that straight guys can’t find our clits…”
Her use of the word clit renders every man at the table silent. West’s jaw drops slightly and Rowan clears his throat.
All eyes turn to Summer.
She continues undeterred, seemingly unaware of the attention, “It’s insane of us. Our expectations are so unrealistic. I mean, how can we expect them to find our clits”—she pauses and grins with pure evil intent—“when they can’t find their own.”
There’s a microscopic moment of stunned silence.
It’s quickly shattered by a raspy splutter that comes from Andy. He raises his hand to his mouth to catch the sound, but he’s too late. Raucous laughter bursts out of him and infects Sarah and then Summer in turn.
Mischievous shadows and lights dance in Summer’s eyes. She looks happy to have made Sarah and Andy laugh, but more than that, she looks glad that she’s made most of the guys at the table uncomfortable.
Riley and West titter, acknowledging her wit with good nature.
Jordan doesn’t get the joke. He mustn’t because he keeps smiling, a little vacantly. Summer notices his reaction, or lack of it, and pounces. “Isn’t that right, Jordan? Straight boys couldn’t find their clits if their lives depended on it.”
Jordan’s smile doesn’t flicker. It stays exactly the same. Relaxed and good-natured. “I know where my clit is,” he says calmly.
Oh shit.
He’s missed the nuance of the conversation.
I hate it when this happens.
The rest of the table erupts into a loud burst of laughter, and I’m instantly fuming.
Summer has made Jordan look like a fool.
I don’t know who the hell she thinks she is, making fun of him like this.
Suddenly, I don’t care that I’m supposed to be all tongue-tied or whatever around her—I’m not letting her make him look idiot.
No one makes him look bad when I’m around. Not now, not ever.
Summer opens her mouth to say something, but I cut her off, nudging Jordan with my shoulder and speaking quietly to bring him up to speed on the joke.
“She’s talking about your prostate, bud.
” When that doesn’t immediately garner a look of recognition, I add, more quietly, “You know, the uh, gland in your ass.”
He turns his head to me and beams in that very typical Jordan way. That way that comes easily and doesn’t cost him a thing.
The fucker looks me dead in the eye, nonchalant as you please, and says, “I know.”
He knows?
He fucking knows?
What the fuck does he mean he knows?
He tells me everything, even things I don’t want to know, and he’s never, ever mentioned butt play to me. Never. Not once.
Believe me, I would have remembered.
To make matters worse, he’s completely comfortable with the admission. Pleased with it even. He’s happy to be here, in a public place, dismantling toxic masculinity one brick at a time.
The things that happen in my body in response to his words are hard to describe. Blood rushes south so hard and fast that my lips feel frozen. My mind swims, thoughts swirling into a blur as my dick swells.
Summer raises her chin, looking down her nose, as if she’s seeing Jordan for the first time. “Well, aren’t you evolved, straight boy?”
Bitch, that’s my line.
I try not to glare at her, but this conversation is way out of hand, and it’s thrown me badly.
I’m not equipped to deal with it at all.
It’s fucking me up big time because one of the things I’ve been telling myself repeatedly to help get me over my little issue with Jordan is that he has no interest in exploring that part of his body whatsoever.
What the hell am I supposed to think now?