by Annie Harper
“Don’t look too intrigued.” Dave raises his eyebrows. He takes Logan’s hand as they start walking along the beach.
“Ways to make Logan remember that he’s a blushing virgin in the face of a sex god—check,” Logan mumbles, as they swing their hands and walk.
Dave stops suddenly. “Did you just speak in the third person?”
“It’s unforgivable, I know. I take it back.” They’re both laughing now.
“Okay. But can you please just leave in the part about me being a sex god?”
Logan can’t really take it back when it’s his impression that it’s true. They haven’t really done anything big yet. Well, it’s been big for him, but not, you know, from the perspective of Cosmo, which he can’t believe he’s just mentally cited as an authority. But Dave has this confidence. It can be intimidating. It’s also hot.
“So what can I say to convince you that I don’t care that you haven’t had sex before? I think it’s kind of random that I have. I mean, gay boys in Hicksville, Pennsylvania? What are the chances?”
“Tell me about it,” Logan agrees. “And I manage to find the one that has.” He sighs.
“Oh I promise to make that work to your advantage.” Dave is doing that flirty and confident thing again. But he’s serious. “So here is my disclaimer. I’ve had sex with one guy. One. And I’m going to be honest here, I like sex—”
“Yes, Casanova. I figured.” Logan tries not to be defensive. And fails.
“Buuut, despite everything that happened with Colin, and it was good, it was—everything with you, though?” Dave looks at him meaningfully and continues, “I like it more.”
Logan closes his eyes. He wants to believe it. “Dave, while that’s very nice, we haven’t done it yet, remember?”
“You know what I mean.”
Though they haven’t had sex—nothing below the belt, yet— Logan does think that their chemistry is pretty dynamite. At least in his totally inexperienced opinion.
“And I promise that whatever we decide to do, I will do my best to get to you in all the ways that will make you want to drive from Allentown to Lancaster as much as our parents will allow.” Dave’s shiny eyes belie his attempt to be cutely glib. Well, he is cute. But there’s more.
“Yes, okay.” Logan nods. Apparently, that’s it. It’s that simple. “I do have scathing judgment, though. Remember?” And then they’re kissing again, so it doesn’t really matter.
Because Dave insists on romance, and because they are rarely alone at camp, Dave has a plan. It involves a day off “in town;” a dinner at The Burger Joint, the staff favorite; and an overnight at the Best Western. Logan is pretty sure that most staff go to a couple of karaoke bars before crashing, but Dave suggests they skip that part. Dave has the best ideas.
They ride the bus with two arts and crafts staff, both distant but reasonably friendly acquaintances. They banter about tie-dyeing mishaps and water-fearing campers, and Logan is silently lamenting the reality that these two are probably also going to The Burger Joint, when he discovers that, as luck would have it, they’re vegetarians. Bless the ethical eating movement; he and Dave are soon alone, eating juicy, ketchup-smothered hamburgers and superb fries with malt vinegar at a picnic table at sunset.
It’s their first out-of-camp date. They gossip about the latest hookups and breakups at camp, sharply judge the small town summer fashions—if you can call T-shirts with loons on them fashions—and eat the most delicious comfort food available. Then they take a walk along the boardwalk, where Dave stops at a kiosk and buys them matching hemp bracelets.
“I am not wearing a hemp bracelet. Seriously, Dave. Do you know who you’re dating?”
“It’s a memento of our first official date,” Dave insists. “Indulge me, Logan. It’s hemp or boondoggle.” So Logan reluctantly ties on the bracelet. For tonight. Only.
They’re in a small town and don’t know the scene, so they’re being cautious and not holding hands. Instead, they get into each other’s space a little too often with gentle touches on the back or arm, or a hand on the elbow to navigate tight aisles in the shops.
Logan turns to point out a kitschy lamp and finds Dave staring at him. “You’re hot,” Dave whispers. Their eyes lock and Dave reaches up to run a finger along Logan’s cheek before remembering where they are and drawing it back. “Oops. Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Logan responds. “Let’s go, okay?”
“Definitely okay.”
There is something both ridiculously luxurious and satisfyingly rebellious about having your very own room in a Best Western with your boyfriend and nobody else, at age seventeen. Especially when you’re planning to have sex for the first time. It makes Logan feel wild, but also responsible. He is sure of how he feels about Dave. Sure of how Dave feels about him. The connection is real and deep and sex will bring them closer. So what if he also wants to know how it feels, wants to see Dave naked, and is nervous. He’s allowed all those things too.
For the next ten minutes, they putter around the room awkwardly, opening their overnight bags, folding clothes and unpacking toothbrushes and soaps so they can settle in and choose sides of the bed—Logan on the left, Dave on the right. They’re almost like an old married couple on vacation. Except for the jitters and nerves. But Dave just lies down and flicks on the TV. He stops at The Golden Girls, of all things.
“Check this out.” Dave looks up at him with childish giddiness. “We have access to, like, 230 channels, and this one has all the classic ‘80s comedies.”
Logan stands with his mouth agape. “Seriously, Dave?” He does suspect this is Dave’s attempt to make him feel comfortable, but Dave’s enthusiasm for pop culture history is pure.
Dave looks up at him, a little bit guilty. “What? How can anyone resist a little Betty White?”
“I’m more of a Bea Arthur man myself,” Logan indulges him, sitting on the corner of the bed and folding his hands in his lap. “Dave,” Logan says, turning to look at him with the most certain expression he can muster amidst his nerves and excitement, “can we turn off the television?”
It’s both more and less than Logan had imagined. More fun and more emotional and more playful, but less intense, less life-changing. It’s easy, actually. And he’s much less nervous once the TV is off and their clothes are in a pile on the floor and they’re wrapped up in each other.
They take their time—all hands and bodies and nakedness, and letting themselves chase that feeling and not pull back or stop. Logan loves looking at Dave. He loves watching Dave touch him. He even loves watching Dave watch him; and he loves all the reactions that embarrass him to think about but apparently not to actually have. It’s exhilarating and empowering and the most natural thing he could imagine.
Logan will never understand how one act out of so many has become the only one to be considered “sex,” because even though he’s not ready for that yet, and may not be for a while, he and Dave had sex. That’s what it was.
Afterward they lie in bed, sheets tucked around them as they watch ‘80s family comedies, laughing and talking until they fall asleep with the blankets rumpled messily between them, a pile of sweaty, tangled boyfriends.
* * *
“Shut up, you totally did! Oh my God, Logan. I can smell it on you.” Sarah is so stunned she practically screams it to the camp. Luckily, they’re alone and approximately three minutes into their power-walk the next day when Sarah figures it out.
“Actually, I think you’re smelling the beginnings of my workout sweat.” Logan smirks at her but he can’t not tell her—not when he’s this excited. “But yes. Did you think Dave and I took our day off together so we could spend the evening playing Scrabble?”
“Oh my God!” she screeches again. “Logan, look at you! I am so happy for you. Was it amazing? Did it feel like the romantic movies tell you it should? Do you feel different?”
Logan side-eyes her. She needs to calm down.
“Seriously, Sarah?”
“Yes, well. Mr. Tripper McHotpants wasn’t meant to be part of the story.”
“Oh my God! I have never heard you talk this way, Logan. Where is Dave? I want to kiss him.”
“Please don’t.”
“And wait—what about your what happens at camp stays in camp theory? You slept with him at the end of your romance? You have lost it, Logan.”
“Well,” Logan says, “as it turns out, my theory, which I’m sure is generally correct, is not applicable.”
“Wait, what? You’re staying together?”
“We both live in Pennsylvania,” Logan reasons. “Might as well.” Logan tries, with everything in him, not to grin like a puppy in love.
“Shut up. You have a boyfriend. A totally not-going-anywhere boyfriend.”
“Mmm.” They walk in comfortable silence, swishing their arms in sync as the late summer breeze rustles the leaves along the tree-lined path
“So do you feel different? Seriously this time.”
“Not really.” Logan shrugs. “But also yes? Look, I know this doesn’t really make sense, and I’m still kind of in shock—God, I think I’m still in shock about this entire summer. And yeah, I’m kind of desperate to do it again.”
“Oh my God, Logan!”
“Shut up,” Logan turns to her. He can’t help the impish smile spreading across his face, his cheeks now freckled from the summer sun. “And that’s all you’re getting.”
“Me too, by the way.” Logan jumps at Dave’s low voice in his ear. The staff talent show is about to begin, and he is just finishing setting up. He turns around.
“Oh, hello there.” Logan smiles at him, giddy for no particular reason. “You too what?”
“Well, Sarah tells me you can’t wait to, you know, again. Me neither.”
Logan turns a burning shade of crimson. He is going to kill Sarah. “She said what?”
“Before you decide to kill her, it was actually very sweet.”
“Sweet?” Logan sasses. “‘Well done, Dave. Logan has become a sex addict thanks to you.’”
He’s startled by another set of hands grabbing his shoulders from behind. “No worries, bro. Dave was already a sex addict.” Stuart smiles coyly behind him before running backstage. “Gotta finish setting up the mikes!” He’s gone before Logan can say anything to him and Dave is standing in front of him, hands up defensively.
“I didn’t even really tell him anything!” Dave insists. Logan looks at him skeptically. “Well, all I said was that we had a great time and that it was very romantic.” Logan can’t help but smile before raising his eyebrows. “Fine. And then I winked.”
“Oh I see,” Logan says and smirks. “The meaningful wink.”
“Yes. The meaningful wink.”
“Well, Stuart is cooler about these things than Sarah.”
Dave laughs and takes his hands. It is really hard to stay furious when Dave does that. “Sarah just congratulated me on cracking the layers of Logan Hart, and she wasn’t so subtle about the double entendre.”
“Oh she approves, does she?” Logan wants to be so mad, he does, but he can’t, because there’s Dave. So really, who cares? Besides, Sarah means well, and they have an epic duet to sing tonight, and they are going to kick ass.
Logan and Sarah step onstage with perfect comedic game faces to perform “Master of the House” from Les Miz. Logan loves to sing out their real life combination of teamwork and mockery. And he beams when they get a standing ovation.
In fact, he’s flying so high after they take their bows, that he walks up to the microphone, apologizes for interrupting the order of the evening and invites Dave up to the stage for a full circle duet. He figures they could use a second take. The look of surprised glee on Dave’s face is totally worth his bit of residual hesitation. As soon as they begin, the entire camp is on its feet, singing along to what will forever be known as “Logan and Dave’s ‘Summer Nights.’” He feels so alive singing, with Dave beside him. When the summer began, he ran away; now, all he wants to do is stay.
Tomorrow is the last day of camp, and Logan will leave his summer of bliss— he is happy to say that is definitely not hyperbole—and return to Backwardville, Pennsylvania. He is definitely still getting out of Allentown in a year. Definitely still going to San Francisco. It is ironic, though, how far he had to come to find that elusive thing that was so close to him all along. Not a boyfriend—that’s just a bonus—but a belief in the present, not just the imaginary future. Sometimes your reflection is clearer on a lake than it is in your bedroom mirror.
In his senior year, he is still going to be the best swimmer. He will also still be the gay kid the rest of the time, even if he’s big enough now that tormentors won’t come too close. But he may hate it just a little bit less because he can always drive to Lancaster, or Skype Matt or Stuart. And also he gets to have sex with Dave—or at least he’ll try to as often as he can when his parents aren’t home. It’s funny how being the outtest, most totally himself that he’s ever been, has made him at least a bit of a teenaged cliché. An ordinary enigma. Well, now he’s an oxymoron, and that’s pretty much perfect. As long as he never falls into the terrible style vortex of sweatpants and Crocs. He shudders at the thought. He is still way ahead of the fashion curve. Even if he does hide a hemp bracelet under his fabulous layers.
My Best Friend
H.J. Coulter
First off, to be quite honest, I am kind of surprised that you agreed to move to Toronto. Sure, it’s not like you had much choice—you did marry the woman. And being asked be to an associate with Richardson Langley is a tremendous opportunity for her. But of the two of us, I always figured it would be me that eventually made the move to the big city. It just makes sense, me being a professional photographer and all. And I hate to break it to you, but “driving a tractor since I was old enough to see over the steering wheel” and “milking cows for so long I pretty much do it in my sleep” are not really skills transferable to life in the city.
Plus, you could barely stand the constant noise and the lack of open space during the two years we lived in Winnipeg, and the buses confused the hell out of you. Come to think of it, I would pay good money to see you try and navigate the TTC during rush hour, with your muddy cowboy boots, ripped blue jeans, Winnipeg Blue Bombers jersey, and John Deere hat. So go ahead and move, and make sure you take lots of videos.
I remember the first day we met. I had just finished setting up a photo shoot out behind the barn for all of Anika and Becky’s dolls, because the girls refused to pose for me, when you came barreling down the driveway, covered in sweat and dirt, with a big smirk on your face. You were so damn proud of yourself for biking four miles all on your own and couldn’t wait to tell Charlie all about it. Of course, knowing your mother, she had already called Charlie in a state of panic when she couldn’t find you.
Do you remember how pissed Charlie was when we found him? I felt so sorry for you, because I knew when you got home you were going to get one hell of a spanking. And I think Charlie felt bad too, because he pulled the “responsible big brother” card and somehow convinced your mother he would keep an eye on you for the next couple of hours while he finished up in the shop. And suddenly I had a real, live model—one that was way more fun than my “stupid” sisters anyway. That summer was the first of many we spent attached at the hip.
The other day I heard “I Love A Rainy Night” on retro country and I cranked it up and danced like an idiot out on the deck. Becky and her boyfriend were down by the fire pit and kept giving me looks like “what the fuck is he on?” But I didn’t care! I had forgotten how much I LOVE that song. It reminds me of when I was a kid and my only goal was to sleep outside during a thunderstorm. As soon as I heard the first rumble in the distance I would
race to my closet; grab my raincoat, rubber boots and camera; and then tiptoe across the hall and down the stairs. I never made it. Every time, somebody was waiting at the door to send me back to bed (and depending on whether it was Dad, Mom, or Great-Aunt Olga, sometimes with a quick spanking).It was almost as if they knew.
The first time I actually got to sleep outside during a storm was on the grade eleven canoe trip. I remember everybody was either freaking out or pissed off. But not me. I was giddier than a kid going to Disneyland. They all thought I was nuts. Except you. I will never forget the look on your face, the one that said, “Yep, that crazy fucker is my best friend.”
I know that, even though we have serious conversations, you don’t really “do” deep shit. But I can’t write you a letter talking about all the memories I have with you without bringing this up, because it is really important. I have told you things I haven’t even told my journal. Mostly about my dad. About how I love him, and how I know that deep down he loves me too—even if he never shows it. You know my deepest fear: that one day I will become him, and that there is really nothing I can do about it. You have never once told me I am being paranoid—I think you know better. But you have never written me off because of it, either. “We can’t pick our genes, Nikki. If we are meant to be fucked up, the least we can do is pray for somebody to be fucked up with.” Somebody to be fucked up with. Is that your own twisted way of saying what I should have realized a long time ago—that we are destined to be in each other’s lives forever?
The night my dad went to the hospital was the scariest of my life. It’s not like we didn’t know what was going on; in a way we were all kind of waiting for it to happen. He had been paranoid for weeks, going on and on about how he was certain he was dying from pancreatic cancer, and that it was somehow my Uncle Murray’s fault, when Uncle Murray didn’t even live in the same city. But still, to walk into the backyard to find your father filling a rain barrel with water and telling everyone he is going to drown the cat because we can’t afford to feed him anymore and letting him starve would be cruel—just is not something you can really prepare for. And no matter how many times we told him that it wasn’t true, that Muffin was perfectly fine, he never believed us. It’s crazy, because besides his family, and maybe his 1949 Ford pickup, that cat was the most important thing in his life.
