8. Lolly
eight
Lolly
The past week has been filled with mundane assignments and thoughts of him.
His lips. His eyes. His mouth on mine.
The way his mouth formed the word “no.” A beautiful olive branch that I couldn’t deny.
And there goes my dick. I groan in annoyance, readjusting my pants before Jay spots me and asks questions he does not want answers to.
“What’s up?” he says through a yawn.
Nothing, just sorting through having kissed another closeted guy.
Typical me stuff.
“Not shit. Just got back from the library and I am seriously considering taking a nap.”
He nods in understanding and rolls onto his side, closing his eyes.
Thank fuck.
This boner isn’t backing down. A fucking Bat Signal calling for freckles and flushed cheeks. Unwilling to take no for an answer.
Deciding to room with Jay was easy. Similar study paths and easy friendship made that one a no-brainer. Also, the thought of having to explain to a stranger why I sometimes wake up crying and sweating felt less than ideal.
Jay knows me—knows my story. He understands and easily navigates my demons when they arise. A quiet, steadfast anchor in my storm.
I kick my boots off and fall onto my bed.
Jay’s soft snores carry from across the room.
Rhythmic, soothing. I’ve always found it ironic that such an intimidating guy could provide such a beautifully calming presence.
He is wildly misjudged by most, allowing very few people close enough to know him like I do.
My mind betrays me, immediately returning to thoughts of beer and citrus. His hand fisting my shirt. Our hungry breaths and delving tongues. Fuck.
I remember the way he recoiled from me. Everything changed in a matter of seconds. His eyes full of fear and uncertainty.
I know that look. Recognized it.
Fear dressed up as confusion.
I used to wear it too.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen it on another man’s face. Likely won’t be the last. Proof that they haven’t worked through their own shadows, shifted through their own baggage—and that of others.
It took years to realize that the majority of the weight I carried wasn’t even mine to begin with. It belonged to others, but was placed on my shoulders without my permission.
Memories of Mom warm me as they play in vivid detail.
Oliver, she had said, God, the creative intelligence behind life as we know it, is so much bigger than the box people have put her in. Don’t let man’s misrepresentation of what should have always been love, unconditional, deter you.
Long conversations with her about my sexuality, and how even the blueprint of my melanin will affect how I’m perceived, helped me grow into the man I am today. She guided me through letting go of old ideas and making room for new ones.
Reexamining, and reimagining, I took the brush back from the artist and decided to paint my own masterpiece.