by Megan Walker
Will smiles, but it’s hesitant. “Okay,” he says. “Ben wants to borrow a movie tonight, and I told him I would drop it by. I can get takeout while you shave and so forth.” He looks at me like he’s asking if this is okay.
“Yes,” I say. “That sounds perfect.”
Will nods and goes to put on his shoes.
It’ll be okay, I tell myself. Better than okay. It’ll be great. Talking about sex is always more awkward than having it.
If it’s not, this is going to be a very long night.
Eight
Will
As I drive to Ben and Wyatt’s place with the movie Ben wants to borrow, I go over the conversation I just had with Gabby. I’m used to us being goofy and awkward. We’re always a little like that, which I kind of love. My social skills are hardly fit for public consumption at the best of times, but with Gabby I can be still be myself, offbeat as I often am, and yet it feels comfortable and right—something I wasn’t used to feeling at all before her.
But today—that was more than our usual slight awkwardness. Gabby seemed nervous about something, and I haven’t seen her be nervous about sex since we were first together, years ago.
I knew things had been tense lately, mostly due to my inability to sell a novel and contribute in any way to our monetary needs. I know I’ve been kind of moody about it, prompting strange phone calls from Gabby where she inquires about my emotional well-being, apparently. But I didn’t think there was anything wrong with our sex life.
Which makes me wonder what Anna-Marie said to her at the sex shop, and why she even talked Gabby into going there in the first place. I like Anna-Marie in general, but I don’t love the way Gabby often returns from their hang-outs feeling a little worse about her body and herself, like Anna-Marie is this perfect paragon to which she will never measure up.
It pisses me off, to be honest. Gabby is beautiful and wonderful and the best person I’ve ever known. And Anna-Marie is a good person, sure, and gorgeous, there’s no question. But she can be a bit shallow and self-centered, which is something Gabby never is, and prone to flashes of anger where she throws shampoo bottles into people’s cereal bowls, something Gabby never does.
I’ve tried pointing this out to Gabby, but she won’t tolerate anyone suggesting that Anna-Marie is less than perfect, so I gave that up long ago. I’m sure Anna-Marie doesn’t mean to make Gabby feel bad about herself.
But I still wish she would cut it out.
I arrive at Ben’s and knock on his door, and he answers as he ususally does—in a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, with his hair looking like he just got out of bed, even though I know he got home from work not that long ago. Gabby once said Ben looks like “Neil Patrick Harris taking a sick day,” and now I can’t unsee it. The t-shirt is, of course, the signature bright green one he always wears. He bought it at a Goodwill before I met him. Apparently someone had donated leftover shirts from some carwash event and Goodwill was selling them for a dollar. Ben bought one and then wore it out to lunch with Josh, who mocked it so hard that Ben marched right back to Goodwill and bought the rest of the rack, just so he could wear them every day and convince Josh that he only has one and never takes it off.
To this day, I think Josh hasn’t been able to prove that Ben owns more than one of these shirts. Though it’s possible Josh does know and is playing along to see how long Ben will keep up wearing this seriously ugly shirt before Ben’s husband Wyatt sets his whole wardrobe on fire. It’s pretty funny and is emblematic of Josh and Ben’s friendship, which they both say is more like being brothers, given how long they’ve been friends and how close they are.
But it sure as hell is nothing like the relationship between Sean and me.
Ben grunts at me and leaves the door open, and then goes back to the couch. He’s not one for enthusiastic greetings. Or an abundance of enthusiasm in general. I’m still holding the DVD I brought for him—a documentary about Pride made by a friend of mine who used to write for Passion Medical. But clearly Ben expects that I’m going to hang out instead of heading back home. I do it often enough when Gabby is working late and I’ve been stuck in the house all day alone with my laptop and am dying for human interaction.
“You okay?” Ben asks as I wander after him.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Really?” Ben says. “Because you look like one of your characters died.”
He says this because it’s happened. Not lately, because lately I’ve been making very little progress on my second book—certainly not enough to be killing off characters. “No,” I say. “I just had a really weird conversation with Gabby.”
Ben collapses into his armchair and motions to the couch. It’s cleaner in here than normal—Wyatt doesn’t love Ben’s need to shed clothing and crumbs everywhere while he relaxes, so they’ve agreed that Ben will restrict his mess to the den where he watches TV, and make an effort to be reasonably tidy in the rest of the house. It looks like Ben and Wyatt have recently had one of their quarterly come-to-Jesus fights about the state of the den, because the room has been vacuumed since I was here last.
I sit down. I can stay for a few minutes before I head back.
“You guys all right?” Ben asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Gabby just got back from a sex shop with Anna-Marie.”
“Ha!” Ben says. “That kind of weird conversation. Did she not bring back something good?”
“She did, actually. It’s this painting project where you decorate each other and then roll around on a canvas.”
“Nice.” He gives me a side-eye. “Why do you not seem excited about this?”
“I am excited about it,” I say. Though I recognize that right now, I sound more defensive than excited.
“Really?” Ben says. “Because—”
“It was just a weird conversation, is all,” I say. “It was awkward.”
“It’s you and Gabby. Do you have other kinds of conversations?”
“Yes,” I tell him, probably again more defensively than I need to, given that I was just thinking that our mutual hint of social awkwardness is something I love about us. “She’s my girlfriend. We’ve been together three years. I can tell when she’s nervous about something.”
“Maybe it’s about bringing a sex painting to someone who wasn’t excited about it,” Ben says.
I hold out my arms. “I am excited about it!” I say. Now I sound more exasperated than excited, and I’m feeling like I may have to start labeling my emotions with many synonyms in my actual life and not just in my writing. “What would you have done? Jumped up and down?”
Ben shakes his head at me. “If Wyatt brought home something we were going to have sex on, you’d better believe I would have acted excited about it.”
I sigh. I am excited about the painting thing—it sounds legitimately fun, and even with as moody as I’ve been lately, I love being with my gorgeous, hilarious girlfriend. The more naked, the better.
But knowing that she’s anxious and not knowing why or how to fix it, in addition to all the other things in our lives I can’t seem to fix . . . Yeah, that I’m less excited about. And, apparently, it’s showing.
“She also possibly wants me to talk dirty to her,” I say. Maybe in a theatrical performance? Which sounds more like something I’m capable of, but less like something that anyone in their right mind would actually do.
“That should be easy for you, right?” Ben says. “You’re a writer.”
I hold out my arms again. “Why does everyone think this is the same skill set?”
“I don’t know,” Ben says. “They both involve words.”
There’s that. “I’m a writer. Not a speaker. I don’t have any idea what I would say to talk dirty to someone.” This isn’t really something I’ve ever done with any of my girlfriends, and the one time a girl tried that with me, I found myself mentally c
orrecting her grammar. Which was most definitely not sexy.
Ben looks at me like I’m sadly lacking in both culture and sophistication.
“What would you say?” I ask. “Theoretically.”
“When I’m talking dirty?” Ben says. “I usually start with, someone’s happy to see you.” He pairs this with a gesture at his crotch that resembles a double karate chop.
Seems dubious at best. “And this works? For Wyatt?” Wyatt, I know from their extensive DVD collection, has a keen love for regency romance, particularly of the Jane Austen variety. And I don’t exactly see Mr. Darcy going with that move.
“Sure,” Ben says with that unflaggable confidence of his. “Why wouldn’t it?”
I rub my forehead. I suppose after the weirdness with Gabby and my potential forthcoming foray into erotic theater, I don’t have any room to judge.
“I’d better go,” I say. “I need to go home and be excited about the painting. And possibly try out your line. But probably only the former.”
“Hey,” Ben says, saluting me as I get up to leave. “You do you.”
I’m pretty sure I always do, and I’m starting to wonder if that’s the problem.
Nine
Gabby
I’m actually glad Will has a couple errands to run, because it allows me some time to prepare. Not like I need time to prepare for sex with my boyfriend in general, but special adventurous and artistic sex that will hopefully re-ignite any fading passions—that does seem to require a little extra.
And I really do need to shave. Regardless of whether Will cares, my body is going to be a work of art tonight and I don’t want the poking of my leg stubble through paint to be the central theme.
I take care of that, and then set about to romantify our living room—which is where this is going to be happening, given that it’s the only room in the apartment with enough floor space for this canvas. I move the wobbly coffee table out of the way and clean up the open bag of chips and the plate crusty with the remains of Will’s lunch. I bring the laundry basket piled high with unfolded clothes into our bedroom. Then I spread out the big canvas and set out the paintbrushes and tubes of paint on one side.
The room is cleaner and ready for some artwork, but it doesn’t exactly scream romance. I scour the apartment for candles, but all I manage to find is one half-burned magnolia-peach scented candle I can’t remember acquiring and a set of numbered birthday candles we use each year when we make each other birthday cakes.
I actually consider the birthday candles—can I make some sort of sexual innuendo with the numbers? “Sex with you is a 10,” maybe, or just go with the classic 69?
I shake my head. I’m trying to go with sexy, not “I’m a high school boy on the internet.” I’ll stick with the magnolia. And some of that lingerie that I do, in fact, have, even if I haven’t worn it in way too long.
And so it is that when Will comes back home, a carry-out bag in his hand and the delicious scent of Fong’s wafting in with him, I’m perched on the edge of Cushionless Couch (the lack of cushions forces me to sit straighter, which is better for showing off my boobs) in a slightly-wrinkled silk nightie, next to our lone romantic candle.
I hope it’s a more enticing vision than I’m imagining.
And maybe it is, because Will’s eyes widen. He pauses, then blurts out, “Someone’s happy to see you.”
I blink. “You?”
Will’s expression drops. “Um, yeah.”
“I’m happy to see you, too,” I say, and I am, but mostly I’m confused. Did I get that wrong? Should I have gone with the 69 candles?
And seriously, when did things start getting so weird between us?
Will sets the Fong’s down on the counter and turns back around. “I’m so excited to do this painting thing!” he says, but it’s way too forceful and his brows are pinched together.
“Really? Because you seem kind of . . . angry?” I hold back my other guess, which is “constipated.” Because that is definitely not sexy to talk about.
“I’m not angry,” he says. “I’m so excited.” But there’s something about the way he says it, like someone trying to psyche themselves up for a ride at Six Flags that they’re terrified of and will undoubtedly make them puke.
I definitely do not want to be that ride for Will.
What the hell is going on?
And then something occurs to me, way too belatedly. “Wait. Was the someone who’s excited to see me supposed to be your penis?”
Will groans and flops onto Cushionless Couch next to me. “Stupid Ben.”
“What?” I’m more confused than ever, but the thought that maybe Ben somehow caused this extra weirdness is comforting. Because then there’s less chance that I already messed this up.
Will sighs. “You wanted me to talk dirty to you, and I don’t think that’s something I’m particularly great at, you know? So I was asking what he would say.”
I bite my lips to keep from laughing, even as my chest loosens in relief. “And that’s his line?”
“Apparently it works for Wyatt. Or Ben thinks it does, anyway,” Will shakes his head. “He also said I didn’t seem excited enough about the painting idea, so I was trying to seem more excited, because I really am.” He looks at me with those deep green eyes, and now he sounds like Will, sincere and gentle, and I actually believe him. “You look beautiful, Gabby,” he says. “And I think it’s really great that you got this for us.”
My heart flutters, especially when that dimple appears in his cheek as he smiles.
“Now that’s the line that works for me,” I say, smiling back. I lean toward him and he leans toward me, and we kiss softly, and it still feels so good just to kiss him. Like sunshine, warming me all over. His hands run up the back of my nightie, his fingers working under the straps, and my pulse is picking up, our kiss growing deeper, more urgent.
I pull back a little. “Should we dim the lights?” I say in what I hope is a saucy voice. Then I remember Anna-Marie’s expression when I told her about how I’ve been turning the lights off during sex, and her telling me that Will wants to see my body, and really isn’t that what this art thing is about? Bravery? Or something? “No!” I say too suddenly, and Will flinches back like maybe he hurt me. “Let’s not dim them,” I clarify.
Will blinks at me. “Okay.”
I can feel how forced my smile is. “We should leave them on, so we can have all the bright, bright lights showing off our bodies.”
Will’s brow furrows. “Are you worried about your body again?” He sounds sad. “It’s been a while.”
I’m tempted to tell him I’m fine, that I know my body is a freakin’ wonderland, but he knows me too well for that. And really, I want to tell him what’s going on in my head. I want to talk to him about everything, even the difficult things. “Yeah,” I say, chewing on my lower lip. “Maybe. We haven’t talked about it in a while.”
I don’t think not talking about my body has been the biggest issue, but Will’s eyes widen.
“Oh,” he says. “Is that what the talking dirty thing was about? You want me to talk more about how much I love your body.”
And maybe that’s not actually what it was about, but suddenly talking about the difficult things doesn’t seem nearly as appealing as hearing him say those things. Preferably while we’re hardcore getting it on.
“I definitely wouldn’t complain about that,” I say.
Will smiles, and there’s a look of mischief in those green eyes. “Well, how about you sit on this canvas, and I’ll get a brush and illustrate for you all the many, many things I love about your body.”
There’s a flicker of fear at the thought of so much focus on every naked inch, but that fear is overcome by the heat that rushes through me. “Yes, please.”
Will leans in and we kiss again, and then he slowly peels my nightie
off and runs his hands down along my bare skin, and I shiver against his fingers. Without words, we move towards the blank canvas on the floor, and I start peeling off his shirt, too, quickly followed by his jeans and underwear—because I’d rather not be the only one naked, in part, but mainly because Will’s body is something I always, always want to see more of.
He uncaps the paint and squirts out big blobs of all the colors right there on the canvas, and then picks up a brush. The kit came with a few different sizes—I suppose some people want a tiny brush for actual artistic detail, but I doubt either of us is capable of that. The brush Will picks is a middle-sized one, and he dips it in the blob of yellow paint.
“Well, you know I can’t get enough of your incredible face,” he starts. “Of the way you smile, and the color of your eyes, and that little button-nose.” He swipes my nose with the paint, and I laugh. “But let’s move downward, shall we?”
Oh, yes. Let’s.
“There’s this gorgeous neck,” he says, and he kisses me in the spot I especially love, just under my jaw. The heat burns brighter, and a little moan escapes me. He pulls back and swipes a line of paint down my neck. It’s cold, especially after the warmth of his lips, but I don’t mind, because his kisses are trailing along my collarbone now. “And these shoulders, with this little patch of freckles that drives me wild.” His lips graze my skin there before he adds another swipe of paint, and now I can’t keep my hands off of him, running my fingers up his bare chest as he works his way down mine. “And, of course, the Chosen One of Texas prophecy mole . . .”
He works my body this way, piece by aching piece. His lips and tongue brushing each part before he paints it—my arms, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs—and there’s the heat of him and the cold of the paint, and oh my god, it all feels so good.
Even in the bright living room lights.
He’s started focusing on the area between my thighs when I can’t take it anymore. “Okay,” I say, more than a little breathlessly. “I get how much you love my body. Now it’s time to love on yours.”
