“You want a drink?” That’s probably a good host thing to do.
“Sounds great.”
Preparing a beverage would give me something to occupy my hands, but it probably won’t quell the rumpus in my brain. Should we be kissing already? Should we have got down to business the second the door closed?
Should I still be a virgin?
Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he—
Calm the heck down. Make his drink.
“They have scotch, vodka—”
“Any pop?”
Pop. That’s what people in the Midwest call soda, so he’s homegrown.
“Coke, ginger ale.”
“I’ll take the ginger ale.”
“I can go get ice?”
With a quick headshake, he removes his jacket, throws it casually on the bed, and heads to the sofa. His biceps are inked, with a full sleeve to his wrist on the right side. “One of those glasses on the sideboard is fine.”
He sounds confident, his swagger a sign he’s done this before. I’m not sure if that’s good or not, and after a second of not-very-coherent thought, I decide it’s probably better that one of us knows what he’s doing. His profile said he was 23 and “likes to be in charge,” which I think is code for a top.
Exactly what I need.
Bartending takes a couple of minutes. I’m conscious about not wanting to spill anything, like I need to impress him and leave the room in the condition I found it or my mom will be checking my bed-making skills later. It gives me a chance to organize my thoughts.
First and foremost is that I should not be near liquids or glassware.
Next, that I’m punching well above my weight. He could be doing this for a living and making a fortune off that body, but instead he’s here, ready to have sex with me—I hope—for free.
Does he recognize me? I don’t think so. There was no hint of it when I opened the door, but I’m not sure I’d understand any social cues right now, given my anxiety.
I pass off the glass filled with ginger ale and sip on my Coke. If there was ever a time I wished I drank alcohol, it’s now. But it’s probably best I keep my wits about me in case I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life and this guy scams me. Or worse.
I’m built and could take anyone who tried to overcome me physically, but I’m no match for a weapon or extra assholes on hand. (Ha, extra assholes. Wishful thinking or what?) Any encounter with a stranger brings with it a certain peril.
Some people might say that’s part of the thrill.
“Want to sit?” Jude asks. I wonder if it’s his real name.
His skin is a golden-brown but not in a tanning booth or spray way, more like he’s spent hours outdoors soaking up the sun’s rays. Everything about him is natural and easy, while everything about me is the opposite.
Forced, contrived, and as phony as they come.
I sit in one corner of what is really a love seat. It’s far too small. My knee practically touches his.
He smiles, and I almost drop my drink. Please keep that lethal weapon to yourself.
“How was your day?” He says it slowly, a little joke about making small talk, like we’re in some Fifties-era sitcom.
I smile tightly, letting him know I’m cool and in on it.
“Okay. I’m from out of town, so I had to travel to get here.” He doesn’t ask, but I add, “From the East Coast.”
“Long way to come for a blow job.”
A slug of Coke enters my airway, and I struggle to recover with some less-than-sexy coughing.
“Sorry,” he says with a grin that says he’s not sorry at all.
I wonder why he’s not making a move. Maybe he’s not attracted to me, and he’s trying to think of a good way to bail.
“Have you done this before?” I blurt out.
“Sat on a sofa drinking ginger ale with a hot guy? Yep, that’s on my resume.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I assume you have. I’m just …” I trail off because that about captures it. I’m one giant instance of dot dot dot.
Did he say I was hot?
“I’m guessing you haven’t done this before.” He arches an eyebrow, clearly tickled by the notion. “Sat on a sofa drinking Coke with a hot guy.”
I’m completely mind-blanked by his charm. What I wouldn’t give to have even a pinkie nail portion of that ease in this situation.
“No, I haven’t.” Quickly I amend, “The sofa, the soda. At least, not this soda.” Is soda our shorthand for guys or hookups? I think so, but it’s like I’m learning a completely new language. He doesn’t need to know that he would be my first to go the distance. I’ve messed around before in college, but those instances were furtive and shameful. More like stress relief, or at least that’s what we told ourselves.
This is different. This is a deliberate choice to take what I want.
“Figured as much. You looked surprised to see me, like you’d forgotten.”
“No, not that. I thought I had more time. I meant to shower before you arrived. Not that I haven’t already today, but I’ve been traveling—”
“From the East Coast.”
“New Jersey. Here on business for a couple of days.”
Still no sign that he recognizes me, which might be some internalized homophobia on my part, assuming a gay guy doesn’t follow professional hockey.
I’m a gay guy, and I play professional hockey.
“What’s that?” He’s studying me, like I’m a puzzle to be solved.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. You got this look like you are regretting every second of this adventure.”
“You think this is an adventure?”
Another hint of a smile. I’m starting to live for that hook of his mouth. “Sure, why not?”
“I was just wondering about whether you … drink a lot of ginger ale on a lot of sofas.”
“Sofas, love seats, armchairs. I’m equal opportunity on furniture as long as everyone’s on board.”
In that brief second, a bolt of jealousy rips through me. Ridiculous, I know, but I hate every other man who has touched him. Who will touch him.
I have no illusions about gay relationships and sex. Gay guys are more fluid about dating, or so my research tells me. Less inclined to be hung up on heteronormative expectations, but that can’t be an absolute truth. I’m a gay guy—admittedly not an out gay guy, but I know that much about myself—and I want to be with one person. I want to date one person, connect with one person, eventually marry one person.
But until I achieve a level of ease with who I am that’s even a tenth of the swagger this guy is rocking, I won’t ever have that. I was initially worried any reveal of my sexuality would hinder my chances in the draft, then my ability to bond with my team. These days … well, I’m waiting for the right time.
Sure, that’s why.
I need to get this monkey off my back first. My cursed virginity. Then everything else will happen the way it should.
He puts his soda down on the coffee table. Takes my glass and places it beside the other. Our fingers don’t brush, but I imagine that they do. I’ve never been short of imagination when it comes to romance.