We walk hand in hand outside the Kodak Theater, bustling with tourists and shoppers. We stare at the blinking cinema lights of the old theaters and watch searchlights rotate in the sky above us like planets circling on a wild orbit.
When we’re both exhausted, we drive back to Santa Monica, but I insist on seeing the ocean at night, so we head down to the beach. It’s the perfect place to end the perfect day.
And to bring up a thought that’s been plaguing my mind.
First Time
Gray
The waves are white against the black horizon and rise up only to crash down like angry fists. Dylan and I sit on the sand and watch the free performance. We’re both quiet, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders. I lean close to her and rub my lips back and forth along her jaw line and slowly work my way down her neck. I feel her shudder. She tells me I’m missing the ocean and it’s beautiful. I tell her she’s more beautiful. My other hand’s resting on her leg. I slowly slide it up, under her dress, and I can feel her thigh break out in goose bumps.
I hear her breaths shorten and I smile to myself. I’ve never been very smooth with women. Or confident. But with Dylan I am.
“I want to give you something,” she says suddenly. I look into her eyes and they’re wild, intense, but with a hint of seriousness. I tell her I’d love anything. I tickle her neck with the tip of my nose. I tell her I’d love a book on tractors now that I’ve finished the one on mullets. I wait for her to come back with something. When I look at her she isn’t smiling, and I realize this is something serious.
“What is it?” I ask.
She tells me it’s something you can only give one time, to one person. My heart pounds and my eyebrows shoot up.
“Yeah?” I manage to say.
“Yeah,” she says with a smile.
“Are you sure?” I ask her.
“I love you,” she says. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. And I wouldn’t regret it. I would regret not doing it. So I want to give it to you.”
I grab her hand and pull her up. I have to make an effort not to sprint back to the hotel. My mind’s spinning. I’m going to have sex? I’m going to have sex! Holy shit. Holy shit. I’m going to have sex. Should we buy condoms? Where should we buy condoms? Why didn’t I bring the damn condoms?!
We walk with long strides across the sand and the hotel slowly inches toward us, but not fast enough, like it’s teasing me. As if she can read my mind, Dylan informs me she packed condoms. I almost pick her up and swing her in circles at hearing the second greatest news of my life. But I’m too fixated on getting back to our room.
“Is that dirty?” she asks.
I grin and a self-assured smile crosses her face. “Yes, it’s dirty, and I love you for it.”
She tells me she’s wanted to have sex for a while. She just wanted it to be a surprise.
Okay, that’s good, I tell myself. It’s not just a spontaneous idea. She’s been considering this, so there’s no question she wants to do it. We walk into the lobby of the hotel and I try not to grin at the man behind the counter. I refrain from scream- ing, “I’m going to have sex! With this gorgeous woman. She wants to have sex. I didn’t even have to ask, she just wants to have sex. With me! Can you believe it?” I take deep breaths and try to downplay that this moment is the highlight of my life. Air kicks and high-fives probably wouldn’t be a cool move right now.
***
We walk down the hallway and take the elevator up to the third floor. My hand’s sweating in Dylan’s, but her fingers are loose and relaxed. Doesn’t anything make this girl nervous?
I fumble with the key card and finally open the door. A breeze blows the curtain into the room. I shut the door and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle. I smile. I’ve always wanted to do that.
I turn and look at Dylan. She’s standing a few feet away, studying me with a small grin. Is this going to be awkward? Should I just throw myself at her? Will she want to take it slow? Should I undress myself or let her do it? Maybe I should stop standing here looking like a clueless idiot before she changes her mind.
She sits on the bed and keeps her eyes steady on mine. She slowly slips her shoes off one at a time. Oh, my God. Since when is Dylan this sexy? So why am I standing here like a human-size brick?
I tell Dylan I have to go to the bathroom. I shut the door and try to pee, but my dick’s already sticking straight up at the ceiling. Great. I’m sure she caught that minor detail. We haven’t even kissed yet. I shake my head and do my best to pee. I pull my pants back up, trying to make my hard-on less obvious. I stare at myself in the mirror and splash cold water on my face to calm down. My face is flushed.
I concentrate on one critical thing. Last, Gray. You’ve got to make it last. No two pumps, you’re done. Don’t be that guy. You’re stronger than that.
Think sports.
Try to name every candy bar you can.
Think about anything but what her body feels like, because as soon as you let yourself go there, it’s over.
Enough with the pep talk. I take a deep breath. This is it. It’s what you were born to do.
I open the bathroom door and Dylan’s sitting there, her legs crossed, leaning back on her hands, her long arms supporting her weight. She could be the poster girl for composed confidence, and I’m a little jealous. She has the condoms sitting on the bed next to her. I look down at them and bite my lips. Will she want to put it on for me? Oh, that could be weird. What if she doesn’t know how and I have to walk her through it like a health class teacher? I stare back at Dylan and hesitate. Why am I so nervous? Come on, Gray. Use your animal instincts here.
“Are you sure?” I ask again.
I don’t want her to feel pressured. I’ve heard girls change their mind at the last minute. Panic. I can understand. They’re the ones letting us inside. They feel the pain more than the pleasure, at least the first time. I don’t want Dylan to feel any pain. That thought almost makes me lose all my nerve.
She stands up from the bed and steps toward me. She reaches her arms around my neck. She reassures me with a kiss that starts out slow but then she opens her lips and I stop thinking and suddenly all I’m capable of sensing is how she feels and how she tastes. My fingers curl around her hips and I pull at her dress and squeeze the fabric until it balls up in my fists and I really want to rip it off. We fall back on the bed.
I don’t have to worry about anything because it’s Dylan, it’s me—it’s perfect. We can’t be wrong together. This realization gives me the confidence to take the lead. To pull her clothes off. To show Dylan how much I love her.
First Breathe
Dylan
We stretch out on the bed, naked, with the blankets kicked off and only each other’s body heat warming the mattress. My breaths are still short. So are his. It’s the only sound I can hear. My heart’s kicking against my chest. The room is dark, lit only by the street lights outside the window.
I sigh, utterly relaxed, completely, ridiculously happy, and Gray runs his hands through my hair. I rest my head under his neck and it fits just right. His other arm’s around my waist, pinning me tight against him. Like he never wants to let me go.
We talk about it a little bit. I admit at first it hurt, but when I relaxed it felt good. I lift my head up and we both glance over at the clock.
“You lasted almost five minutes,” I point out, and Gray winces.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that,” he says.
“That’s not good?” I ask, and he laughs.
“No,” he says. “It’s pathetic. But it took every ounce of mental discipline to go that long.”
Gray promises me sex only gets better, and we agree we’d like to practice. He tells me, speaking of practice, he can set up a training schedule. And now he rambles.
He informs me every morning will begin with some calisthenics followed by sex. Then we’ll eat a breakfast rich in carbohydrates to maintain energy, followed by sex. In th
e evening, there’ll be some warm-up stretches followed by sex. Then a cooldown followed by more sex. Then ice cream, preferably chocolate. Then sleep to rest up for morning practice.
I brush my lips across his warm shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re a normal healthy male.”
***
Gray’s content to spend the next day in bed, but the sun’s bright and beckoning me to play outside. When he gets out of the bathroom, I announce I found a hiking trail in downtown Los Angeles.
“The woman at the front desk recommended it,” I say.
He tells me I’m nuts.
“People don’t walk in L.A., Dylan. Let alone hike,” he says.
I’m determined to try, so we drive to west L.A. and north of Hollywood Boulevard, carved through the hills, is a park called Runyon Canyon. We find parking on Vista Street and climb the steep pavement to the entrance. People are coming and going in droves to enjoy the beautiful day. Gray gapes at all the chiseled, greased-up bodies that surround us. I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones there wearing T-shirts.
“I think you have to be a supermodel to use the park,” he says, but I’m too ecstatic to see dogs scampering everywhere to notice all the beautiful people.
We hike up a gravel trail that slowly ascends over the city. We stop and look out at a mirage of skyscrapers spread out in a smoggy skyline below. Gray points out the cluster of buildings that make up South Central and Century City and Westwood. When we reach the top of the trail we have views of the multimillion-dollar homes packed tightly together in the Hollywood Hills, and I photograph the Hollywood sign, perched on top of the mountain like a constant spotlight. I turn to start the climb back down, but Gray grabs my arm. He points to an open gate on the other side of the trailhead, and we walk through it to discover we’re standing at the edge of Mulholland Drive.
Gray tells me Mulholland is one of the most famous streets in Los Angeles, known for its steep winding turns over the hills, connecting the valley and downtown.
“We can drive down it tonight,” he assures me. “It has the best views of the city.” He turns to head back into the park, but I grab his shirt.
“Let’s walk down it right now,” I say.
We stand at the edge of the curving road and watch cars take the sharp turns too fast. He shakes his head and tells me he’s driven down Mulholland lots of times, but he’s never seen a pedestrian attempt to walk down it.
“Why not?” Just as I ask this, a Mercedes barrels around the corner and nearly takes out my knee. I jump back, and instead of slowing down, the driver honks and sticks his head out the window.
“Lay off the crack,” he yells at us.
Gray nods to the guy. “Thank you,” he shouts, and waves at him. I wave too, with a wide grin.
“We have every right to use this road,” I insist as another car comes within inches of hitting us.
Gray throws his arms up in defeat because he knows my crazy ideas will always win out over his rational ones. He offers to hold my camera, and as I follow behind him the road descends so quickly that we start to run. We’re sprinting and cars are nearly grazing our sides and I can’t stop laughing because I think we’re the only people nuts enough to attempt this (or I’m getting high off of car fumes).
We soon discover why running down Mulholland is madness. Not only are there no sidewalks, but there’s no shoulder next to the road, so walking it is about as safe as strolling straight into oncoming traffic.
When we come to a lookout spot on the side of the street, we stop to catch our breath. Gray points out the Highway below us, packed with a steady stream of cars, and the Hollywood Bowl in the distance, a famous outdoor music venue where he’s seen a few bands. He grabs my arm and we’re running again and waving at tour buses and cars as they pass. I’m getting a cramp in my side from sprinting and laughing at the same time. Gray says we still have miles to go.
We find a steady pace and I start singing the lyrics to “Like a Rolling Stone,” and Gray joins in. My leg muscles start to burn and I can feel sweat dripping down my chest. Finally Mulholland ends only to connect to Cahuenga Boulevard. Cahuenga is a straight shot, but it runs parallel to the Highway and cars take it just as fast. We stay close to the edge, but there’s still no sidewalk. Cars are flying past us at eighty miles an hour and I’m screaming and Gray turns to ask if I’m okay but I’m laughing too hard to answer him.
A highway ramp suddenly merges with the road and we have to cross it to get to the other side. People refuse to slow down for two insane pedestrians trying to use a freeway for their afternoon run. When there’s a second break, Gray and I dive forward and sprint for our lives to make it to the other side.
We continue to run down Cahuenga and finally a shoulder appears along the road. We pass the Hollywood Bowl entrance. We’re sheltered under the shade of eucalyptus trees, and Gray slows down and tells me to break the leaves open and smell them. We each grab a handful of leaves and inhale their cool, sweet scent. It’s a nice relief from breathing in so much engine exhaust.
We pick up our pace again and pass Franklin Street and run alongside lanes of cars stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. We hear impatient tires screech and horns honk. Seeing all these people confined in those closed, tight spaces on such a gorgeous, sunny day makes me feel free, and I think they’re the crazy ones and wonder if their looks are something closer to jealousy than surprise.
When we get close to Hollywood Boulevard, there’s finally a sidewalk. I sprint with all the energy I have left and Gray races me to the finish line. We dodge tourists on the sidewalk. I scream that I think I see Cher up ahead and Gray yells that he just saw Alec Baldwin down the street, and people are turning their heads to look. When we make it to Hollywood Boulevard, we’re both flushed and covered in sweat.
We finally stop running and buy some bottled waters and weave through tourists. We pass people dressed up like Captain Jack Sparrow and Spider-Man and the Hulk and I stop to take pictures with every one of them. We get sandwiches for lunch and then Gray pulls me into a music store and we spend hours looking through more CDs than I’ve ever seen in my life.
I ask Gray why he loves music so much. He looks at me and his eyes are as bright as the sky and his face is pink and his hair’s a mess and I’m positive he’s the most beautiful person in Los Angeles. He grabs a few strands of loose hair around my face and tries to wind them back into my ponytail. My stomach flips from his touch, and from the way he’s looking at me I know what he’s thinking about. Sex. It’s probably the hundredth time he’s thought about it today, because the kid will not stop glowing. I can’t help thinking about it either. How it felt last night. And earlier this morning. And again, later this morning. Hopefully we’ll be having it again soon, but maybe after a shower.
“Gray,” I say, and he blinks back to reality. I smile at him. “Stop thinking about sex and answer my question.” He blushes and tells me sex is the furthest thing from his mind.
“Right,” I say. “I know when your mind’s in the gutter.”
He shrugs and concentrates on my question. He tells me it’s hard to explain.
“Music is life-changing,” he says. I tell him to give me an example.
He scrolls through some albums. He tells me music can change your mood instantly. It can make memories feel present and any dream seem tangible.
“I’m convinced people like Bob Dylan and the Beatles and Paul Simon are magicians,” he says. He tells me that one song has the power to time warp you to the past. Transport you to the future. Wake up the dead. Put you under a spell. And you come out of it transfixed.
He pulls a U2 album out of the rack and points to the playlist.
“I can have the worst day of my life and all I have to do is play one track and it has the power to shut out every negative thought in my mind, every worry, every frustration. Music can transform you,” he says. “It can make you new again. It’s like medicine.”
He ends up buying five CDs from the five-dollar bin and
I buy a collection of love songs on sale for two dollars. We walk outside and I set my CD on the ground in front of the music store and Gray asks me what I’m doing. I grab his hand and we cross the street and sit on a bench. We watch people saunter by and glance at the CD. A woman with two kids stops to examine it but she doesn’t pick it up. Finally, a man walking by himself bends down and picks it up. He’s wearing a business suit and he looks tired and his gray hair’s a tangled mess. He looks at the CD and glances around. He shrugs and puts it in his bag. I smile and tell Gray maybe he needs to listen to it. Maybe it will be life-changing for him.
We walk back to the car and drive to In-N-Out for dinner. We lift up the back of Gray’s hatchback and sit on the edge so we can eat with the sunlight pouring in and listen to music. We’re sunburned and sore from running, and we take turns rubbing each other’s calves and shins. We head back to the hotel, where Gray’s ready to settle in for the night because he knows what’s in store. Before I have to ask if he’s having a good time he tells me today has been the greatest day of his life.
Gray
I do the “I just got laid,” walk for days after our trip to Los Angeles. It’s more like a strut. It’s pretty obvious when you’re doing it. Your mind is clouded in a euphoric high. Your head is held at an angle twenty degrees higher than normal. There’s a continual smart-ass grin on your face. Your eyes twinkle, literally, as if stardust fell inside them. You walk taller. Prouder. Your back is held straighter. Shoulders wider. You know you’re hot. It’s been proven. You had sex.
So, what do I think while I’m in this mind-set? Mostly this: When will I have sex again?
The best part of all: Nothing can bring you down. No words can harm you. No one can annoy you. This is a bullet-proof state of mind. You’re cocky and confident, as if the world should lay down a red carpet under your feet and reporters should stand in line to ask, “What’s your secret? Why did she pick you?”
First Comes Love Page 12
