by Eli Easton
“Huh. That sucks. Why even be in California if you’re not on the ocean?”
“A question I ask myself nightly,” I deadpanned. In truth, I didn’t care all that much. I’d be working long hours anyway.
“Well, what are you looking forward to, then?”
“Having a desk and my own computer at work. My first official work space.”
“Nerd.”
“You know it.”
“What else?”
“Finding an apartment. Setting it up.” I’d be living with Sierra at first. But I looked forward to getting my own space once I had a few paychecks under my belt.
“Okay. That’s two.”
“Sun, baby. Perpetual sun.” I taunted him. Harvard was close to Boston, and we both knew what that climate was like.
“Fucker. That’s three.”
“Getting to know people at work. Maybe I’ll make some new friends. Find a new drug dealer. Join a cult.”
Andy huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Because that’s so you. That’s four. What else?”
I thought about it. “Exploring the state. State parks. Hiking trails and shit. Seeing San Francisco.” That would be more fun to do with Andy there. But Andy wouldn’t be there. And I would make new friends, I reminded myself.
“Five.”
I shifted in my chair. “I guess California’s supposed to be liberal. I’m looking forward to being in that kind of environment. More diversity and all.” I talked around what I really meant. I hadn’t been honest with Andy about certain things in the past, and I wasn’t going to tell him now. So I kept it vague.
But Andy pressed the issue. “More diversity? There’s a lot of diversity at NYU.”
“That’s true.” I changed the subject. “Let’s see. That was six. Um . . . Mexican food? I hear they have killer Mexican food there. And not frozen burritos by the pound either.”
Andy scoffed. “You’re down to the food already? What about California girls? I would have thought they’d be number one.”
“Right. California girls,” I agreed.
I was looking forward to that, sort of. I knew there would be lots of beautiful girls in California, but I was uneasy about whether or not I’d get on with any of them. Would they be beautiful but shallow like in the movies? Would I meet someone I had anything in common with? Or maybe I’d find a different sort of connection.
“Having sex in your own place without your roommate barging in,” Andy suggested.
“Oh, yeah! That’s eight, nine, and ten,” I joked.
He laughed and leaned forward to drink from his straw. Our lawn chairs had cup holders, which was convenient for those of us without palms, and Emily had made us big cooler glasses of iced tea.
His elbow dug into me a little more with his shift in position. My gaze was drawn to his pursed lips around the straw. That punch-drunk band of butterflies came back.
Fuck, Andy was so gorgeous. It was unfair to us mere mortals, and sometimes it hit me in the solar plexus from out of nowhere. If anyone had seen me, I’d probably have looked like a kid gazing at Santa Claus, my eyes glowing with rapturous awe. It was embarrassing.
He’d always been thin and lanky and tall. His hair was naturally a dirty blond, but he’d bleached it nearly white for a punk phase in high school, and it looked so great on him he’d kept it. He had cheekbones for days and a jawline so sharp it could put your eye out. The best part was his eyes though. They were light blue, usually soft and amused, and when the sunlight shone in them, they could steal a little bit of your soul. Even when he was being a brat, he was just . . . a gravitational force. He was good the way rambunctious dogs were good. Or hyper babies. Or the Energizer Bunny.
I’d never find another friend like him. Not in California. Not in the world. But then, maybe that was for the best. Being friends with Andy had its own pain, and it had nothing to do with his stunts.
I closed my eyes and focused on feeling the sun on my upturned face. My hands weren’t in as much agony as they’d been at the start, but they throbbed right now, the nerves pulsing like silent voodoo drums. Maybe that was the skin healing. The Vicodin from last night had worn off and the mega aspirin wasn’t strong enough to make me stoned, but the sound of lapping water and the sun on my face allowed my brain to slip into a relaxed zone easier than it otherwise might have done.
“Tell me a ghost story.” Andy sounded as drowsy as I felt.
I smiled. We used to love to stay up late and tell ghost stories. Jesus, those were the days. “It’s too bright out here to set the right atmosphere.”
“Don’t care.”
Neither did I. We could both close our eyes and pretend. “Okay. So one night this guy takes his girl out onto a country road to make out . . .”
June 2017
Andy
The first few weeks at the cottage we had good weather and spent most of our time outside. Walter said our burns were coming along well. So far we’d avoided making things worse, which was a miracle. The burns were gnarly looking though, and painful when he rewrapped them.
My palms were the bright red of fresh blood. They looked like they’d been dipped in boiling water, with layers around the edge turning white and loose in spots. My hands alternated between a mild burning and piercing pain that went supernova anytime I accidentally clenched them or bumped them into something. Doing or lifting anything that required any pressure on the skin whatsoever was right out.
So by the time we’d been basking on the Nantucket Sound for two weeks, I was climbing the fucking walls.
“I’ve never been this damn horny in my life,” I complained to Jake, bitterly and sincerely.
It was almost noon, and we were sitting out on the dock like we usually did. It had been great hanging out together. We’d caught up on a lot of stuff we never seemed to get around to talking about during school—his upcoming new life. Harvard. Our mutual friends and exes. We’d told ghost stories. We’d taken long walks and kicked around a soccer ball for hours. We’d played poker on Jake’s tablet and consumed six seasons of The Walking Dead on the big-screen TV. It was nice having undivided Jake time, but I’d reached the point where frustration had me close to tears.
Not tears of boredom either. Sexually frustrated tears.
“Turn page,” Jake responded. He was reading on his Kindle.
“I’m not sure how that would help me get off,” I joked.
Jake snorted, but he didn’t rise to the bait.
I shifted in my chair. I wasn’t kidding. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone more than two days without an orgasm. Probably not since I’d figured out the magical wonderland that was my dick when I was eleven years old. I’d had a permanent semi for days now, and my loose, silky gym shorts—worn because I could get them up and down by myself if I scooched against a wall—were doing nothing to disguise it or help it go away.
I moved my bandaged hands onto the arms of the deck chair and looked down at myself. Even looking at my crotch made my dick grow under the silky blue fabric. It was like a hopeful puppy anticipating attention.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Jake glance at it too. He leaned forward in his chair, hunching toward the Kindle, which was propped on a little table in front of him. “Turn page.”
“You did not just read an entire page.” I smirked.
“Shut up, Mr. TMI.” Jake fake-read some more.
But I knew I had his attention. “Have you figured out a way to get off yet? Because I haven’t.”
“No,” he said in a distracted voice. Despite his blasé look, I knew there was no way he was absorbing a single word on that Kindle screen.
“Me neither. I tried humping the bed, but it didn’t work. Fucking mattress is so soft and lumpy.”
“Can you not give me the gory details?” Jake hunched further and stared at the Kindle.
“Rubbing against the tiles in the shower didn’t work. They’re too hard.”
He snorted. “What are you, the Goldilocks of self-love?”
I chuckled. “That’s me. I need something just right.” I used a filthy voice on the last bit.
Jake shifted uneasily but didn’t look at me. “Too bad Amber dumped you. Maybe you could call her and play the poor invalid card. She might be willing to drive down for a conjugal visit.”
“Nah. So not worth the bowing and scraping I’d have to do.”
I gave it a moment, trying to build up my nerve.
I hadn’t been kidding. I’d tried a half-dozen ways to get off, but nothing was working. So I’d put some serious brain power into figuring out a solution. I was good at working around obstacles, but the obvious answer—the thing I really wanted—involved Jake, and I wasn’t sure how he’d react.
Just thinking about it, I plumped up further, causing a definite tent in my shorts. I half expected Jake to tease me, something like, You could poke someone’s eye out with that thing.
But all he said was, “Turn page.”
“So . . . you haven’t gotten off since before the hospital?” I asked.
“No,” Jake said quickly. “And it’s not helping to talk about it, thank you very much. It’s like when you talk about having a tickle in your throat, it makes you want to cough.” His voice was tense. I saw his eyes flicker toward my shorts, though he didn’t turn his head and he continued to pretend to read.
My heart pounded. I felt exposed at the moment, my semi obscene, so I sat up and hunched forward too, elbows on my knees. I watched a ski boat go by. The roar of the motor was loud. I waited until it had passed. Then I swallowed and told myself it didn’t matter. It was no big deal to suggest it. And if he said no, it was no biggie. I could play it off as a joke. But it really didn’t feel that way.
“Speaking of a tickle in your throat . . . I have an idea about how we can get off.”
“You do?” Jake’s tone was fast and curious. Definitely interested.
“Yup.”
“Like what? Gonna have Walter install a Fleshlight in the shower?” He chuckled.
I huffed. “Yeah. You know my dad combs through every one of my credit card statements. No way am I ordering a Fleshlight. Not to mention the fact that I’d have to kill myself after asking Walter to install something like that.”
Walter, our nurse, was in his fifties, white, bald, and pudgy. He had a squeaky-clean fundamentalist thing going on and had mentioned “praying” for us several times. Ix-nay on asking Walter to mount a fuck tube in the shower.
“So what then, Oh Planinator?” Jake sat up from his slouch and looked at me.
Unable to meet his gaze, I studied the water. “Okay, so just hear me out before saying no.”
“Oh shit. You only say that when it’s really whacked.”
“Come on! I’m serious.”
Jake sighed, but I could swear there was a new tension in the air. He was no longer pretending to read his Kindle. He leaned back in his chair and waited. “Go on, then. Spit it out.”
I grinned and turned my head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “That’s the goal, yeah.”
He kicked my leg lightly with his bare heel. “Just say it.”
“Okay. So. We can’t jerk off, right?” I held up my bandaged hands a little.
“Obviously.”
“Well, have you ever heard of guys who can, you know, suck their own dicks?”
There was a sharp inhale from Jake, but he kept his face blank. “Yeah. I can’t though. Not even a little bit.”
“I know. Me neither. So I thought . . .” Fuck. This was hard to say. Incredibly hard to say. But there was no point in beating around the bush. “Okay. So. What if we sucked each other, like, at the same time, and pretended we were doing ourselves? Sort of self-suck by proxy.”
I’d intended to keep a jokey tone during this, so I could claim I was teasing. But the words started tumbling out, and there was a hollow ringing in my ears. I honestly didn’t have the slightest fucking clue what my tone had been or how it must have sounded to Jake.
Next to me, he went deadly still. He stared down at his knees. There was a little frown behind his brow. He looked worried. Or disturbed. Or both concurrently.
I fought the urge to overexplain or justify. Play it cool. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes as if soaking in the sun. “It would get the job done.” I shrugged.
“Did you honestly just ask me to suck you off?” Jake asked in a quiet voice.
“No. That’s not what I said. Don’t go all homophobic on me, bro. Look, we can’t use our hands at all. Fact. If you could suck yourself, you would—right? Fact. But you can’t. I’m in the same boat. So I’m thinking if we were end to end, we could close our eyes and pretend we’re doing ourselves. And we’d get off. And we wouldn’t have to get Walter or anyone else involved. It’s really the best solution.”
Jake was silent again for a long moment. “I’m not doing that.” His voice was firm, grim, like he meant it.
Honestly, I was surprised. And a little hurt.
“Fine,” I said. “It was just a suggestion. You got a better idea? Or do you want the worst case of blue balls ever? Because I’m about to crawl the fucking walls.”
“I’m not doing it,” he repeated adamantly.
“Yeah, I heard you the first time, Jake.”
In my peripheral vision, I could see he was stiff and tense, like he might bolt. But, finally, he relaxed. He leaned forward toward the Kindle. “Turn page,” he said, his voice tight.
“What if I dared you?” I asked, unable to let it go.
“Jesus, Andy, fuck off!” Jake snarled. He got up and stormed toward the cottage. We’d figured out that if we kicked the bottom of the screen door, it would bounce open for a second, long enough to get one foot in. He did this harder than necessary and went inside. I was so shocked, I let him go without a word.
Goddamn it. I’d known it would be risky to bring it up, but some part of me believed Jake would jump at the chance. Or, worst case, brush it off as a joke. I hadn’t expected anger. Jake had never told me to fuck off like that. Not that I could remember.
Shit.
Okay. Bad idea. Abort, abort. But it was too late to take it back.
Jake
I stormed into the cottage and went straight through the living room to the bathroom. The door was open, so I went in and bumped the door shut hard with my hip, not even caring that it would be difficult to open it again. I slid down the wall and sat on the floor.
I needed to get away from Andy, at least for a few minutes. Here at the cottage, like in our dorm room at school, getting away from Andy was nearly impossible. If he wasn’t actually in the room, his presence still flooded everything, larger than life, like the sun I revolved around. Normally, I was fine with that. But, at the moment, it was too much.
Holy Mother of God and Baby Jesus, Andy just suggested we sixty-nine to get each other off. I was completely losing it. My stomach was knotted and aching. My heart pounded in my ears. I couldn’t even tell what emotion I was feeling. Outrage? Fear? Desire? Shock?
Shock, I decided. It was definitely plain-old, run-of-the-mill shock.
I sat there for an unknown amount of time with my eyes closed, trying to get it to sink in. And, finally, logic began to trickle back into my brain like a stream only temporarily diverted from its course.
You know Andy. This is just an expedient solution, like the tools from medical supply. It means nothing to him one way or the other.
Yeah. I got that. Or I thought I did. But, even so, I was surprised that Andy would be willing to suck another guy off for any reason. Even if the favor was returned. Even if he had no other way to get off. The idea of Andy doing that, being okay with that, even in a hetero “whatever, it’s no worse than eating bugs” kind of way, was bewildering to me. Because I’d always assumed, told myself, that Andy would never do that. Never want to. Never would. Period.
But you know Andy. He’ll do anything.
Yeah. That was true. Andy was an adrenaline junkie, the biggest shock joc
k I knew. But there was “anything” when it came to stupid stuff like sticking something in a light socket, chewing an entire jalapeño, licking a frozen metal pole, or jumping his dirt bike over the quarry. And then there was “anything” when it came to fooling around with guys. Despite knowing Andy was the poster boy for the former, I’d never thought he’d go near the latter.
It was freaking me the fuck out. I’d kept a secret from him, from my best friend in all the world, and this stupid idea of his threatened to expose everything, in more ways than one. Here was the thing I had never told Andy: I was bisexual. While Andy had only seen me date girls, I was also attracted to certain guys. And I’d followed up on that. I’d had sex with men. Well, with one guy anyway.
Because I couldn’t tell Andy about that, and Andy and I had pretty much the same circle of friends, I didn’t tell anyone. Except my sister. She knew. And, of course, the guy I’d been with.
I wasn’t ashamed of it or in denial. I wasn’t intentionally hiding in the closet. I was cool with the entire LGBTQ rainbow. It was just . . . I didn’t want Andy to know about me. I really didn’t want Andy to know. The thought of him knowing made me feel sweaty and nauseous. Sort of like I was feeling right now.
It wasn’t that Andy was a homophobe, or that I thought he’d hate me. We had a friend, Cody, who was openly gay, and Andy had never treated him any differently than anyone else. I’d never heard him talk smack about gay people.
But Cody hadn’t grown up with Andy. He hadn’t spent at least one night a week in Andy’s bed from eighth grade on. I was afraid if Andy knew I was bisexual, he’d be wondering if I’d thought about him like that, if I’d lusted after him when we’d showered together in the locker room or when we’d been in our underwear sharing covers. He’d wonder if I’d wanted him, how badly, and for how long. He’d wonder if I’d had a massive crush on him all these years.
How could he not think those things? Andy was a good-looking guy. Everyone found him attractive. If I was into men, why wouldn’t I want him? Why wouldn’t I think about touching him? About grazing my hand over his back when we played one-on-one basketball and his shirt was off and his skin was pale and sweaty. Why wouldn’t I think about rolling closer to him in the night just to learn how the length of his body felt against mine? To check out the size and shape of his morning wood? Why wouldn’t I wonder what it would be like to kiss him?
