by Andrea Speed
I’d like to remember the next part as me apologizing eloquently, dazzling Nay with my sincerity and devotion. But except for the day I learned my full jerk potential, I don’t run. Ever. So the very next part was me bent at the waist, wheezing and holding up my hand, hoping she’d get that I was begging her not to leave before I could actually speak. She waited but didn’t look happy about it.
I finally pulled myself up, looked her in the eyes, and said, “You weren’t in class.”
No! No! Wrong!
She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced toward the door. “Think I’ll drop that class. Nothing to learn there I don’t already know.”
I stepped closer, and she glared at me. My stupid mouth wouldn’t work—it tried, but nothing came out.
“Shouldn’t you get back to class?”
I shook my head. Even knowing I didn’t deserve it, I hoped she’d take pity on me and… I don’t know exactly what I hoped for. When she grabbed my shoulders and walked me backward into the handicapped stall, I didn’t know if I should be happy or afraid.
She kept walking until she had my back against the wall. When she twisted and flipped the door closed and locked with one hand, the fear won out. I twisted my hips to put my thigh in the way, to protect myself. Her hand returned to my shoulder, and then I was flat against the wall. Pinned like a bug on a… whatever they pin bugs to. I braced myself, but you can’t really prepare for that kind of pain. She stood there, looking down at me. Waiting.
I slid my back up the wall so I was standing up straight, and thinking that word—straight—made me laugh. It was a short bark of a laugh and exactly the wrong thing to do. But it’s not every day you realize your best friend was right and you’re not the straight arrow you always thought you were. Kyle tried to tell me—and he should know; he’s been out since the third grade—but no, pictures of dudes never interested me. Real dudes never interested me either. But maybe anyone would feel straight next to a guy whose nail polish didn’t come from a Sharpie. Everyone talks about gay or straight, straight or gay, like there’s nothing in between. But there is. Like bisexuals, and….
I’m bisexual.
Nay interrupted my epiphany by pushing her knee between mine. I didn’t even try to fight her. I deserved whatever she wanted to do to me. What I didn’t expect was for her thigh to press against mine and her chest to press against mine and her lips to brush my ear.
“You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.”
She sighed and rubbed her thigh against mine, and it’s a good thing she had me pinned to the wall because I wasn’t in any shape to run… stand… anything. Her cheek brushed mine, and then she kissed me lightly, right there, on the cheek.
“I think you’re pretty all the time.”
She kissed my cheek again and a strange noise came out of my mouth—something porny—but she understood. Lightly, with hardly more pressure than you’d get from a puff of air, she touched her lips to mine. Like in the movies, she kissed me lightly, slowly, and then a little harder… faster. I had no idea if I was doing it right, but I reached out with my tongue. She opened her mouth and she tasted like a blueberry muffin and her strong fingers squeezed my shoulders…. She moved her mouth away, and I couldn’t keep from whimpering. She pressed her thigh against mine, trapping my hard-on between us, and I shuddered. It’s a good thing I’d been jerking off about twenty times a day for the past week, or I probably would’ve shot a load right then.
“You’re a good kisser. I knew you would be.” Her voice sounded all purry. It sent a shiver down the back of my neck. She let go of my shoulder and moved her hand down over my chest. She grabbed my hip and pulled, flexing her hips, just enough to bring every ounce of my attention to our crotches. “I could take care of this for you.”
I tried to pull my mind up where it belonged but didn’t have much luck until Nay took a step back. I slid a few inches down the wall, and she smiled. She squeezed my hip once—hard—and then softly traced the line of my swollen upper lip with the tip of her finger.
“But not here. Our real first time won’t be in the handicapped stall of the PCC bathroom.”
She leaned her shoulder against the wall beside mine and then dropped her other arm to her side. For a few minutes, we stood there and listened to my breathing get less raggedy and finally go back to normal. I still felt crappy about bailing, but if this didn’t mean she honestly forgave me, then I should go back to grade school and start all over again, because I obviously hadn’t learned a freakin’ thing in my entire life.
My vision cleared up to normal, and the bulge in Nay’s jeans made my mouth water. Slowly, I looked up, past her purple It’s Okay to be Takei T-shirt to the hollow of her throat, past the dimple on her cheek to her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say, what to do. I thought about going back to class, about getting “taken care of,” but basically my thoughts were comprised of a swirl of brown curls and browner eyes.
“You okay, Jordy?” She drew a line on my cheek, starting near my ear and ending under my bottom lip. With a little grin, she pushed my mouth closed. “You okay with Jordy?”
Nobody else had ever called me that, so it was perfect. I didn’t think I was the only one who considered that whole moment perfect. I nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault you got scared. I’m pretty scary.”
“No you’re not. Just pretty.”
Nay traced a line down the side of my neck, across both collarbones. When I thought she was finished, she went over the outline of the TARDIS on my T-shirt, and then the words You Never Forget Your First Doctor. Truer words were never spoken, before or since. But it didn’t seem like a great idea to call her doctor, so I’ve pretty much stuck with Nay.
That was the first time she kissed me on a day when she felt like a boy, the first time I’d ever kissed anyone. Graduating from high school a year early was just about the best thing that ever happened to me.
CHARLI GREEN grew up on Star Trek and Star Wars, back when all television was free. Which was a good thing, because otherwise she never would’ve seen any of it. She grew up in subsidized housing in the San Francisco Bay Area and since then has worked as a pusher of various (legal) products, arranged a lot of flowers, wrangled many words, and made more sandwiches than any human would dare count—occasionally all in one day, and sometimes even for money.
Charli has survived droughts, earthquakes, floods, and over a decade living in an area affectionately known (in her strange little world) as Portland’s middle finger, but couldn’t make it through one day without stories.
Links:
Blog: http://greencharli.wordpress.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/GreenCharli
Tumblr: http://greencharli.tumblr.com/
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/cgreenbooks/
E-mail: [email protected]
WHEN WOLVERINE MET TAYLOR
ANDREA SPEED
MAX KNEW he couldn’t do it. “I can’t do this,” he said. “I’m gonna die.”
Sasha clicked her tongue as she continued to get dressed in the adjoining bathroom. “So dramatic. You know you’re contributing to the stereotype, right?”
“What stereotype?”
“That gays are drama queens.”
“Hey, I resent that. I can’t do this because I’m afraid I look stupid.”
“You look awesome and you know it.”
Uncertainly, Max checked himself out in the full-length mirror on Sasha’s door. Not only had he never been to a comic con, he’d never “cosplayed” before. Although he blamed Sasha for talking him into this—she thought theme outfits would be “fun”—the truth was he kinda sorta wanted to do this, ever since he’d spotted the perfect jacket at the thrift store.
He’d always liked comic book Wolverine, ever since he read Weapon X as a kid. And Hugh Jackman as Wolverine was totally hot, which was actually not somethi
ng he’d considered before. Oh sure, Wolverine was naked in the comics a lot, and while he was usually depicted as muscular and in good shape, he was usually also super hairy, and the nudity wasn’t exactly salacious. He was being experimented on or had his clothes blown off/burned off with his skin or whatever, although sometimes it was played off as a joke. But in retrospect, that was kind of cool, wasn’t it? He was never ashamed of his nudity, nor did it ever seem to bother him at all. No character was as accepting of his body as Wolverine, no matter his mutation.
But movie Wolverine was, like, totally hot. Although he hadn’t been as naked quite as often as the comic version. (Yet those shirtless scenes… oh man… if he hadn’t known he was gay before….) Max had considered dressing up as Wolverine for Halloween, but he never had anywhere to go. He was usually stuck at home handing out candy, although the last couple of years he’d been eating more than he’d been giving away. Dressing up didn’t seem worth the bother.
But then, thrift shopping with Sasha, he’d spotted the worn brown leather jacket on a rack, and visions of Logan flashed through his head. As soon as he mentioned it aloud, he’d pretty much doomed himself to this fate. He’d known Sasha was itching to go to the con, as she’d tried to talk him into it before that day. So here he was, stomach tying itself into knots with anxiety. He wasn’t great with crowds anyway, but now there’d be so many strangers judging him, he wasn’t sure he could do it.
But while he was nowhere near Hugh Jackman hot, his cobbled together Logan costume wasn’t too bad. The leather jacket totally made it, but the dog tags (which of course said Logan—he bought them cheap on eBay) also helped. From there, it was just a white tank top and jeans, along with leather boots and fake sideburns, with his hair gelled up in that sort of Logan way. He also bought some wearable Wolvie claws on eBay—not as cheap as the dog tags—although he was waiting until they got there to put them on. Otherwise, he was just trying to perfect his brooding, menacing look, which wasn’t natural to his face. How could it be? He was a nerd, and his body type edged toward string bean, so he didn’t fill out the tank top at all. Sasha wanted to use pins in the back to make it “super tight,” but he refused.
There was also the fact that he was half-white, and Logan was totally white, but even Max knew he generally passed for Caucasian, just one with an olive complexion. It was his last name, Rodriguez, that generally gave the game away. Still, it was all part of cosplay, right? Being something you weren’t. Even if he was white and well built, he’d never have a healing mutation, an adamantium skeleton, or claws. Or be as hot as Hugh Jackman.
“Ta-da!” Sasha said, coming out of the bathroom.
“Holy shit!” He knew she was dressing as Storm, but he’d had no idea she was going for comic book punk-rock-phase Storm. She wore the black suit and short cape you’d expect, but she also had a big white Mohawk and wraparound mirror shades. “That can’t be your hair!”
“No, it’s a wig on a bald cap, but it looks great, doesn’t it?” she replied, doing a model’s turn. It may have been a wig, but it looked so real it shocked him for a moment.
“It does! Your costume is awesome.” He looked down at his humble costume, which was really just regular clothes, although perhaps a bit more grungy and macho than he usually wore. “Now I feel totally pathetic.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re perfect arm candy for me.”
Max scoffed. “Now I know why you talked me into this.”
She grinned, not even the slightest bit ashamed. “It wasn’t for my health, bub.”
Because she wore ridiculous high-heeled boots with the costume, she took them off to drive, and he ended up holding them in his lap like a purse dog. He pointed out that Logan would never hold Storm’s stuff for her, but Sasha ignored that.
The parking lot of the Seattle Center was full, so they had to drive around a bit before Sasha found a parking spot on the street over. Max would have felt super awkward about walking in like this, except he spotted someone in a Superman costume, and a woman dressed up as some anime character, and just about no one even bothered to look at them. Dressing up was nothing special around here.
Except some people did look at Sasha’s awesome Storm, and she got some comments, most along the line of “all right” and “awesome.” Sometimes he’d get a friendly nod in passing, but clearly he was second fiddle to her, and he was really okay with that. Sasha liked attention. She was always the flashier and more aggressive of the two of them, even when they were little kids. He still teased her about getting sent to the principal’s office for punching out Todd when he’d bullied Max on the playground, but that was also why he adored her. You didn’t ever let go of a friend who could drop the biggest kid in school with one punch.
In fact, Max was pretty sure that’s why he wasn’t bullied much now. Sasha had a bit of a reputation at school, mostly that she was “crazy,” which she totally wasn’t, but no guy ever wanted to articulate they were afraid of a girl, so crazy was the easiest tag for them to live with. As a result, though, no one wanted to cross her, and since he was her BFF, that meant steering clear of him as well, even though he was a gay nerd, which was total bully catnip. In many ways, Sasha already kind of was a superhero. He wished he could claim the same thing.
The comic con was more crowded than he thought it would be, although he didn’t know why. He’d heard it was big, read articles about it, and yet it was one of those things he just didn’t grasp until he was completely in the middle of it. Max was glad it was all a little blurry, because he refused to wear his glasses (Wolverine didn’t need glasses), and he couldn’t wear contacts (he tried, but he even felt those soft daily wear ones in his eyeballs, like tiny plastic splinters that just wouldn’t go away). His nearsightedness probably spared him from a full-blown panic attack. Had he ever been in a crowd this large before?
There seemed to be an endless array of tables and booths, ranging from comic publishers to movies hoping to garner interest from the nerd crowd to computer software companies hoping to sell their new special effects or illustration technology. The place smelled like food and coffee, courtesy of the overworked concession stand.
Sasha, of course, was thrilled. She squeezed his arm and made a small noise of excitement. “This is awesome! Where should we go first?”
“You remember I’m not the greatest navigator right now, right?” He pointed at his naked eyes, in case she missed the subtext. He was glad he wasn’t wearing his claws at the moment, because only in retrospect did he realize he could have poked his own eye out.
“I wasn’t asking you to lead the way, two eyes,” she replied. “I was just asking for a suggestion. You must have one of those.”
“Well, Cara Wilkes is here, isn’t she? We should find her.”
“Good idea.”
Cara was the writer of several of their favorite comics and probably the most famous female comic writer of the current era. Not that there were a whole lot in the mainstream comics, ’cause there weren’t, which seemed weird in this day and age.
As they walked through the crowds, passing assorted tables for a variety of comic publishers, writers, and artists, Sasha continued to get compliments on her Storm costume. But Max began to wonder if it was only because she was cute, because they passed some real hardcore cosplayers who made them look like kids at Halloween. There were guys in full Stormtrooper gear who looked like they’d just come from the set of a Star Wars film, and a Chewbacca who could have passed for the real thing. Then there were the impressive-looking Borg, the woman in the Wonder Woman battle outfit, and several realistic-looking zombies. Max was glad he wasn’t entering any costume contest, ’cause he’d lose so badly it wouldn’t even be funny. Sasha might be in with a chance, though.
There was a line for Cara, which figured, so while Sasha held their place in line, he wandered off to a nearby booth that a comic store had set up to sell their wares. They had lots of hard to find stuff, including endless boxes of comics, many dating from way before he was
born. It reeked of that weird smell that old books and comics got, something like ink and dry rot. He couldn’t afford much—he did have a budget—but he loved looking through them all the same. Some of the old covers were crazy, and the story titles even more insane, although the stories themselves were rarely the good kind of crazy. There were a few exceptions.
He was perusing an X-Men miniseries he was unaware of (it wasn’t like there weren’t a million of those), when he heard a guy say, “Cool Logan. Is that your hair, or a wig?”
Max looked around and spotted a boy at the end of the table, looking through a box there. He seemed to be about his age, a bit on the short side, but lean and kind of cute, with deep brown eyes behind round super nerd glasses that reminded him just a little bit of Harry Potter. Probably not a coincidence. “It’s my hair,” Max finally said, suddenly aware he was staring. “It took a buttload of styling gel and epoxy, but we finally got it to stay. I’m sure it’s gonna be hell to wash out.”
The guy smiled, and it made him even cuter. “We?”
“Storm there did my hair,” he said, gesturing at Sasha. “Every time I tried to do a Wolvie thing with my hair, it just looked like a bad fauxhawk.”
The guy gave Sasha an appraising look. “Awesome costume. Is that her hair too?”
“No way, that’s the wig. She’d never dye her hair white.”
“It looks cool on her, though.” He glanced back at Max. “I’m Taylor, by the way.”
“Hi. Max.”
“Not Logan?” Taylor then gave him a cheesy smirk.
Was that a joke? Max hoped so. “Only when I’m angry.” He was so inexplicably nervous he couldn’t tell. He wiped a sweaty palm on the leg of his jeans before resuming his search through the box of comics. Max wasn’t sure what he was looking for now; he was pretty much only focused on Taylor from the corner of his eye.
“Hey, are there any Transmetropolitans in that box?” Taylor asked.
