Chapter 15
Gray
I don’t laugh even though—I mean, I don’t want to laugh. But it’s there, bubbling up, because there is no way any of this is happening.
Some other, better part of me seems to be in control, though, because I say, “Oh.” And then somehow I’m smiling, and I say, “That’s okay.”
Sam shakes his head, and his eyes are shining. He makes a noise that isn’t words but is definitely disagreement.
“Why don’t we go back in the house?” I ask.
Sam shakes his head, but after a second, he starts moving toward the front door.
I don’t try to catch up, but I do follow him inside.
It’s strange how familiar the space feels now. Homey. That distant panel of light that spills out of Sam’s room. The lingering smell of the chicken enchilada casserole.
Sam’s already on the other side of the room, arms folded across his chest. Not combative. Definitely defensive.
I shut the door and give us both a moment and say, “Do you want to sit down?”
He shakes his head and makes that not-laugh sound again. “I can’t believe I said that. What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“Nothing’s wrong with you. I’m glad you told me. Thank you for telling me.”
He looks off into the kitchen.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” I say. “Do you want to talk about this? Or do you want to, I don’t know, chill? We can put something on TV.”
That brings him around. He looks at me with this simultaneous look of horror and disbelief, like I might be the stupidest person he’s ever met.
He even manages an outraged, “No!” Sam only sounds slightly more in control of himself when, a few seconds later, he says, “I only told you because—I don’t know.
” It takes him even longer to say, “I like you.”
I don’t know everything about Sam, but I know that’s a few hundred miles of progress packed into three words.
“I like you too,” I say.
He shakes his head.
“Yeah, dumbass, well I kissed you, remember?”
He actually looks betrayed. Then, like he’s fighting it, he smiles.
“Can we sit down?” I ask. “I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I raise my hands. “That was reflex.”
But Sam gives me a look confirming I’m the dumbest person he’s ever met, and he takes a seat on the couch. At the far end. Pressed up against the armrest like he’s going to flip over it and sprint away if I try anything.
“If I sit next to you,” I say, “are you going to put me in a chokehold?”
He looks younger when he rolls his eyes.
I sit—close, but not right on top of him. I bump his knee with mine. “You realize about ten minutes ago, we were pretty comfortable touching each other.”
“I shouldn’t have told you. Now it’s going to be weird. I kept thinking I wouldn’t have to say anything and—and you know.” I don’t know, but from how red he turns, I’ve got an idea. “I should have kept my trap shut.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not weird for me.”
He does this single, contemptuous ha, and all of a sudden, I know two things: the dark side of teenage Sammy, and the fact that his gran must have gone through a lot of switches.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
There’s this part of me that thinks he might not answer, but then he says, “You think I don’t know what I’m doing.” He rubs his thighs. “And you’ve got all this experience.”
Now, I do laugh. A short one, and it makes him snap his head toward me. I hold up my hands. “It’s just, this is the first time that not keeping my dick dry has come back to bite me in the ass. Well, in this particular way.”
Not even a smile.
“Okay,” I say, “so let’s be real polite and use your way of saying it: I’ve got some experience.”
“You’ve got a lot of experience.”
“Jesus God, Sammy, it’s not like I’ve got a For Rent sign.” Still nothing, so I continue, “I’ve got more experience than you. So what? I don’t care. Nobody who’s worth a damn is going to care.”
He breathes out in a way that suggests he thinks I’m full of shit.
“Everybody’s got to have a first time.” I hear how that sounds and say, “Not that I’m suggesting it has to be right now.”
Finally, miserably, he says, “I’m twenty-four.”
“I know this isn’t going to help, but I’m going to say it anyway: believe it or not, that’s actually a kink for some guys.”
He screws his eyes shut.
I laugh again, in spite of myself. “Look, you’re the only one making it a big deal.
Like I said earlier: why don’t we relax?
Nothing has to happen tonight. We can have another beer, watch a movie—that VHS of CHiPs looks like it’s seen some use—and enjoy being around each other.
I meant what I said earlier: I like spending time with you. You’re my friend.”
His eyes open slowly, and there’s something lazy about how he blinks them now, considering me, intent. “You said you like me.”
Okay, I think. That was what I said. Not that bullshit about spending time together. But, in my defense, I was wigging the fuck out, and I hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
“And I like you,” he says, and because he’s Sammy, I can hear him doing the math.
“Right, well, there’s no rush—”
“And you said everybody has to have a first time.”
“That’s how it works in general principle, but I think the important thing I said was to take it slow, relax—”
He’s up, swinging his body across mine to straddle me, before I can even process what’s happening. And then he kisses me again. It’s not hard to tell that Sammy hasn’t done a lot of kissing. This one is more like catching a baseball with my teeth. He parts his lips. He moves his mouth against mine.
Still, though. It is Sammy. And now I’m smelling his mouth and his skin, and he’s sitting on my lap, and it’s so much more than a kiss.
When he pulls back, I say, “That’s the exact opposite of relaxing.”
He’s so serious, still considering me with that intensity that’s almost predatory. “How was that?”
“You know, the gays have made a lot of progress, but we don’t have a scale for kissing yet.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, dumbass, I know. But I’m not giving you a fucking scorecard. If you want that, hop on Prowler and knock yourself out. Plenty of guys will be willing to tell you all the ways you don’t measure up.”
His body stiffens. He looks away.
God help me, I think. And then, only slightly more clearly: How in the fuck did I get myself into this situation?
Because the fact that I am in it is growing clearer and clearer.
The night’s previous unreality has washed away, and now I’m faced with the fact that not only is this happening, but somehow, I’m supposed to be the adult in the room, which is so fucking unfair.
I rub his stomach through the tee. I don’t expect it, but in some ways, that feels more intimate than the kiss—like I’ve crossed another line I didn’t even know was there. “Think about it this way,” I say. “I enjoyed kissing you. Did you like kissing me?”
He’s still looking over me, past me. He’s so tense his stomach feels like iron under my fingers. But eventually he says, “Yes. Obviously.”
God, I think. Maybe I need a switch.
“Okay,” I say. “That’s what matters. It’s not like porn. It’s different with everybody. So, part of the process is figuring out what you like, and if you’re a good partner, you try to figure out what your partner likes, how to make them feel good.”
That gets his attention; his eyes lock onto me again. “What makes you feel good?”
“I liked kissing you. That felt good. I’d like to try a little slower, though. See if we both like that.”
I don’t know if Sammy thought it through or if he was literally jumping my bones, but now it seems like a good thing that he’s on top, since it gives him control.
He drops his head to mine more slowly this time, and this time, when he goes to kiss me, I tease him a little.
I let him brush my lips, and then I pull back.
I smile at him, and then I move to meet him, and then I pull back again.
He’s got stubble, enough to scrape. The next time I withdraw, Sam’s smiling.
A hint, barely there, but it’s good he’s relaxing.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he murmurs, and then he catches me by the nape and pulls me in for a kiss.
He’s a good student, and I know I’m going to hell, but I can’t help thinking that Sammy just got himself another mentor.
He’s slow, like I said, and he’s more careful about how our mouths meet.
I kiss him back, and we stay like that for a while.
When I run my tongue against his lips, he hesitates.
And then his mouth opens, and I slide inside.
He’s wearing shorts, and I feel him get hard instantly.
He wants to try too, kissing me as deeply as he can, and I don’t know if he realizes he’s doing it or not, but he scoots forward, pressing us more closely together.
Minute by minute, he relaxes. He starts to pick up on what I do, and he does it too.
His mouth softens. He pulls playfully at my lips.
He’s making up for twenty-four years, and he’s making good progress.
And I can’t help it, but I’m getting hard too.
I know the minute he feels it: he’s shifting on my lap, and he freezes. His mouth hovers over mine.
“He’s got a mind of his own,” I whisper, and I tweak Sam’s ear.
His voice is husky when he says, after a second, “Mine too.”
“I like feeling you get hard against me, but if it’s weird for you, or if it’s too much right now, we can change positions.”
Sam shakes his head. And to my surprise, he even says, “No.” He only stumbles a little when he adds, “I like it.”
“Good,” I say. For the first time, I let my hands settle on his hips, and I stroke his belly lightly with my thumbs. “Is touching okay?”
He swallows, and it’s loud. But he nods.
“Let’s try something else,” I say. “Come here.”