extra like hashbrowns ~ <3 ultraviolet stereo juice







ugh. medicine is making me depressed and snappy and sluggish. i'm surprised i squeezed this one out of my womb-like brain.

xxx Cam’s POV xxx

It’s warm out for once. I love weather, to be honest, the whole idea of air currents and tornados and condensation is incredible. The sky’s a dirty yellow color like the shade of my old white shoes fwapping against the pavement underneath me, it’s the color that the sky and air gets right before a desert storm. I’ve tied my coat around my waist, it was cold when I left, but it’s a higher altitude up there. It’s hitting the back of my legs with each step, a little annoying but I’m used to it ‘cause my coat’s always too heavy for the weather around here.

I’m plodding down the sidewalk with Phil’s three-ring binder under my arm (he forgot it at my place last time he was there), decorated with dozens upon dozens of scribbled doodles with black sharpie, most by me but there’s a few on there by him. He claims he can’t draw, but I don’t think they’re all that bad, not as good as me, though. Most of mine are trees, those big spindly ones you see in horror movies, while his are little pieces of toast with eyes and smiles.

I chuckle, flipping the book over in my hands to look at it. His toast have legs, sitting in my trees with goofy grins and tip-dotted eyes. I like them, but I’d never tell him that ‘cause I like making fun of his lack of artistic skills. Science is more his thing anyways.

I’m going to his house now, I just got in from the airport on yet another flight from Chicago. I visit him as regularly as I can, mostly because I can’t seem to make any new friends. I miss this stupid place. I finally turn into his cul-de-sac and follow the curb to his house, the first one on the right with it’s unorganized build and it’s dark green siding. There’s a little white balcony on the top floor, it’s built like it’s going to fall over. The ‘top floor’ is just Phil’s room.

I stop on his lawn for a second, putting the binder back under my arm, heaving myself up and over the stone wall onto the second level of his two-tiered lawn. Judging by the silver car in the driveway, his parents are home, so I have no chance of getting through the front door. They hate me because I’m a bad influence on Phil, which is so true, but I’m sure they’re just basing it on my appearance.

I heave a sigh and slink towards the house off to the left and past the little white wooden archway into his backyard. Just beyond that is a web of trelliswork up the side of the house next to a small window that I know is a laundry room. The criss-cross weave of the trellis has got a clematis curling up it but I plant one of my boots on a bottom plank and haul myself up, climbing until I hit the dormer. I pull myself on to that flawlessly, having done this so many times. I walk to the corner and up to his balcony, climbing onto that and over the railing. He’s got two plastic lawn chairs up here that we sit on at night when he brings his portable TV out (we’ve lost two when they fall over the railing. One hit his mom’s car).

Peeking through the sliding glass door that’s off it’s tracks, I (predictably) see Phil. He’s on his bed on his back with his legs against the wall, reading a book upside-down. I can hear his horrible music pumping loudly through the room and I glare while knocking three times on the glass. He tips his head back and looks at me with a childish grin, showing a row of blue braces on huge teeth.

He flips around and plods to the door without being polite by turning the music off. He yanks at the door handle but it’s stuck again, he yells through the glass and tells me to help. I sigh and drop my binder on the ground, using both my hands to pull as well. It reluctantly opens for us but the tracks squeak loudly, making Phil turn his head towards his door, ready to push me onto the roof if one of his parents comes in.

I squeeze into the small gap we’ve made and I’m finally in his room, glaring at him.

“You’re never going to fix the damn door?” I drawl, he grins at me.

“My dad doesn’t think I use it, so he says there’s no reason to fix it.” he replies in that high pitched little voice he has. It’s lowered in the last year, but it’s still more pre-pubescent than most of the guys our age. “So shut up and deal.”

I punch him in the arm, then glare at his stereo. I do a lot of glaring while I’m at his house.

“How the hell can you listen to this shit?” I groan, flicking the music off with the press of a button. He sneaks by me and turns it back on, even louder than before. It’s gross heavy metal, just some half-retarded guy screaming to a chorus of drums and guitar, barely heard over that damn SCREAMING.

“Wha? This isn’t shit!” he exclaims, sticking his tongue out at me. “This is the best stuff ever.”

I sigh at his lack of music taste. It’s always been like this, him and his stupid metal music. It’s horrible. “I cannot wait until the day you grow out of this.”

He flops back down on his bed, legs back in the air, heels drumming against a poster on the wall. He picks his book up, it’s a thick black coverless one. “Too gorgeous to grow out of, mon amie. Two years and going strong.” he chuckles, pulling at his single dirty white sock with his bare toes, getting it off and flinging it to the ground. “Besides, it’s better than that emo drivel you like. ‘Ohno my soup isn’t tastey I’m going to kill myself!!’.” he laughs.

I leap onto his bed and punch his skull, laughing too. He throws his book on the floor and growls with a grin, gritting his teeth. He jumps on me and knocks me off his bed onto the carpet. We’re both laughing and fighting, his knees are digging into my ribs, his boney little ass is bruising my thighs and he’s got my arms pinned over my head.

It’s sad, but he’s actually putting up a fight, I’m taller but he’s nowhere near as scrawny as me. I manage to buck him off me and I get him pushed up against the bed, but he kicks me off and gets me pinned again. I groan in frustration and try to fight back, but … I dunno. Maybe he got stronger or maybe I got weaker, but he won’t get off.

“Say you love heavy metal!” he sneers, leaning in way too close. I dig the heel of my boot into his back and he grits his teeth, leaning back a little, more unphased than I’d have hoped. These boots are heavy, too.

“No.” I say defiantly, snarling up at him. “A blind cripple could do it.”

He digs his nails into my wrist and I laugh. “Don’t cut me, you probably have diseases.”

“You probably cut yourself, emoboy.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. I look up at him towering over me, short but shaggy chestnut hair hanging down between us, not quite close enough to touch me. He’s stopped for a second, just smiling at me and holding back periodical giggles. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he just rubbed his fingers over my hands. But I know better.

I take this momentary lapse in his normally airtight judgement and I grab his arms, flipping him over. He makes this weird squeak-noise that makes me laugh when I turn the tables, so to speak, and pin him to the floor again. His head cracks against a game cube controller thrown on the ground with a tangled cord and he whines and squirms like a little kid.

“Cut your fucking hair!” he says, trying to bat my hair off his face. It’s long enough, unlike his, to be touching the ground underneath us and it’s touching him too. I grin as he whips his head around to try and get bits of black hair off his face. I tip my head back and throw it over my shoulder so he can see. He doesn’t look pleased. “You look like a sheepdog or a girl or something.”

“You wish I was a girl, then you might actually get someone to date you for once.” I snicker, earning a glare. I wasn’t even being that mean, it’s true: Phil’s not exactly what you’d call a ladies man. “Tell me you love emo music.” I retort, knees so hard against his sides that he might not be able to get up.

“No thank youuuuu,” he giggles. “My virgin wrists can’t handle the kind of abuse you give yours.”

I squeeze said wrists hard enough to make him flinch. “Your wrists aren’t the only thing about you that’s virginal.”

He snarls and I get a swift kick in the back for that one. Again, it’s true in any case.

“Shut up, whore.”

“Make me, you stupid little shit.”

A small scuffle ensues. We fight just like boys fight, pulled shirts and tossed punches but no real anger, not really. He can call me a whore all he wants but we’re best friends and he’s just jealous that I’ve had sex already. I end up getting him down again, one arm twisted behind his back, lying on his stomach on his bed. My knee’s between his shoulder blades, keeping him down.

“I win.” I smile, but he can’t see me. “Say you hate heavy metal.”

I feel a sharp intake of breath; his chest expands just a little. “Nope, sorry.” he says, still not admitting defeat even though we’re both exhausted and pinned and my hair’s a mess ‘cause he kept fucking it up. “Not gonna happen.”

I heave a sigh. This calls for the heavy artillery. “Say you hate it or you don’t get any of my weed. Ever.”

He stiffens underneath me before throwing me off. To my surprise, he doesn’t jump on me, he just sits there, legs drawn under him, staring unhappily. “D’you have any with you now?”

“Two joints.” I say honestly, in one of the pockets of my coat, lying next to my foot. I bundle it up in my arms so he can’t take it. “And you don’t get any.”

Now, don’t judge us. Pot is barely a drug at all, not addictive, not life-ruining if used right. We smoke it because we’re bored and it’s awesome, and we don’t do anything stupid on it anyways. We just like it. Especially Phil, surprisingly. He really doesn’t look it, with the short hair, the braces and the aptitude for science, you’d have no idea he was into it. But, I’m the only one he can get it from.

“Why does this music thing matter so much?” he says, hilariously panicked. Weed comes into the picture and suddenly he’s mister serious.

“It didn’t, until you made a big deal about it.”

“I did not!”

“You called me a whore.”

“Maybe you are!”

“You know I’m not.”

This shuts him up, this always does, the splinters of real friendship showing through.

He groans, burying his face in his hands. “I hate heavy metal music.”

I grin. “Now say that you’ll never listen to it around Cameron Fath.”

“I’ll never listen to it around Cameron Fath.” he says dejectedly, glaring over at me.

“Aaaand, say that Cameron Fath is a god and you want to bear his children.”

He sputters and, to my delight, blushes. Guys should never blush. He sighs and rolls his eyes for emphasis. “Cameron Fath is a god and I want to bear his children.”

“You might get sore after the first five thousand, lets stick to that.“ I joke and roll over in his bed, messing up the quilt so I can sit next to him. We always bitch-fight (as he puts it) like this but it’s never serious and we’re always friends again a few seconds later. He leans back against the wall next to his bed and switches his tiny little tv on, perched precariously on top of a tall chest of drawers that’s covered in clothes and paper.

We watch Mythbusters and I fish the lighter out from under a drop-out compartment in his nightstand. His parents are crazy overprotective, as are mine, so we have to keep stuff we don’t want them to find in this little nightstand cave. Lighters, matches, a pipe and any pot I give him goes in here, along with anything else we might come across. It’s very discreet.

I light the end of the joint and look over at Phil, a little surprised to see him looking back at me. I get embarrassed so I look back at the tv and suck the joint as hard as I can until my lungs hurt; I’ve fortunately trained myself not to cough. I hold my breath and flip my hair over my shoulder again, passing the joint in careful fingers to Phil, who takes it with an almost inaudible ‘thanks’. I blow the smoke into the room through my teeth, shoulders slumping.

We sit like that for what might be hours, watching as many senseless home video shows as we can, completely baked out of our minds. If Phil’s room wasn’t separated from the rest of the house by a rickety spiral staircase, his family totally would have been able to smell this shit. The closest room to this one is his little sisters and she would flip if she knew what we were doing. She’s only a couple years younger than Phil but she doesn’t like either of us and would leap wildly at the opportunity to get on her parent’s good side by squealing.

But then, we screw ourselves over.

Usually the weed doesn’t effect us al that much, besides making everything soggy and interesting. And that’s no different this time, but we’re watching America’s Funniest Home Videos for the third show in a row and there’s a thirty second block where it’s nothing but people falling off trampolines and we just can’t stop laughing. We don’t think there’s anything wrong with laughing, even as loud as we’re doing it now, but then we hear four hard knocks at the whitewashed door leading to the stairs.

“KEVIN!” a man’s gruff voice sounds through the wood. I still find it weird that his parents use his real name, I’ve never thought of him as ‘Kevin’ since he introduced himself as Phil. “WHAT’RE YOU DOING IN THERE?!” he shouts over our laughs chorusing with the studio audience’s ones on tv. Even through the haze of drugs and giggles, I stop and know I have to get the fuck out of there. I’d hide under the bed but there is no under the bed, his bed’s solid to the ground with a frame of wood and drawers.

I grope for my coat lost somewhere in the quilt covering the mattress, finding it just as the knocks get louder. Phil vaults off the bed, turning the tv down before opening the nightstand compartment and pulling out a little concentrated can of air-freshener. He sprays it madly then turns to me, pulling the door open, shoving the remainder of the second joint into my hand.

“C’mon, go go go go, he won’t wait!” he urges, but I stop right in front of him for a second, frozen with a boot-clad foot on the metal track of the door. It must be the pot, but I just watch him for a second. His dark skin. His boyish little nose. The way his lips are just parted enough to show the shiny row of braces on his top teeth. I’m staring at only his lips now. It must be the pot. It’s not the pot. It’s how thick his lips are, so naturally darker than the rest of him. It’s his face being flushed with intoxication and anxiety.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, I feel cottony and stupid but I lean forwards, bracing a hand on the open door. I lean to his right and rub my cheek against his, eyes fluttering shut. I breath him in and don’t let my lips touch him. I pull back and he’s staring at me with a new kind of blush and a weird little smile on his face, a smile that’s shaky and toothy and asks me what the fuck I’m thinking, just a single eyebrow raised. He smells like drugs and dirt and febreeze, he’s gotta be one of the only guys our age that isn’t using cologne or deodorant to woo women, and because of it he always smells like food or toothpaste.

Being embarrassed about whatever the fuck I just did is useless. I give him a rowdy grin and a thumbs-up before slipping out onto the balcony, scooping up my binder and leaping off the railing onto his front lawn and down the street.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

This kind of thing gradually goes on for dozens of visits after. We never used to be really touchy-feely, hell of course we weren’t, we’re guys. We were like every other set of friends we knew, walking at least a foot apart, sitting at least a foot apart, avoiding the usual contact other than fighting and high fives.

But now, it’s just sorta … changed. I guess my pot-induced nuzzle started it. We walk closer, sit closer, don’t move away if our knees accidentally brush. High-fives become touches instead of slaps and punches linger too long. Glances fade into stares and smiles end up being genuine, even the snarky ones. Neither of us say a word about it, I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it. It gets more severe when we’re high, I even go as far as having my arm around him, but it’s always just thrown across his shoulders in a casual way, it’s not like we’re hugging.

It gets to the point that I don’t even know I’m doing it. It goes on for months, the touches and closeness until I forget all about the cheek-nuzzle on that fateful afternoon.

Three months later, we’re stoned in his room on a hot July night with the glass door wide open, letting small currents of air float into the room from the still outdoors. Traffic is silent, the tv is low and flickering, the only source of light other than streetlamps far out on the main road, garish orange rays barely reaching us. He’s let me play music I like for once, but he of course didn’t stick to the no-heavy-metal pact we made, still burdening me with listening to it when I’m over.

But right now Children of Bodom is long gone, replaced by the quiet chimes of The Postal Service, lyrics dripping softly out of the speakers in this tiny little loft of a room, pooling in wet ultraviolet puddles on the floor, soaking dirty socks and sandals and shorts strewn on the carpet, fumes rising and curling out the open door.

I burrow back into the pillows and sigh happily. Phil just came back from downstairs where he’d collected every pillow in the house, the spares, the couch cushions, bed pillows, and brought them to his room. I haven’t gotten up for hours but he has such a nice bed that I’m not even sore, this has to be the nicest mattress in the universe. Kings themselves never had such a good night’s sleep.

I keep sighing and tossing contentedly in the pillows, blown away and blindsided by the quality of this weed, but it’s gone now while it’s effects stay. A new song starts, catching my attention.

I was running late for work, so I didn’t change my shirt, the evening’s drinks left a lingering taste in my mouth …

I roll over a blue corduroy pillow and my outstretched hand touches Phil’s fingertips. I look at his yellow-blue eyes peeking at me over the top of a white bed pillow. He looks so innocent, he always does, but it’s sorta … I dunno. His eyes move and I think he’s smiling; his hair flops over his forehead when he sits up.

… And when I left you were fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, and on the bus, I could have sworn, it was all a dream … and it didn’t happen to me …

As I said earlier, it’s almost August now and it’s hot even at night; he’s shirtless right now. He’s so evenly tanned, not being completely caucasian and all, but he’s always been a bit on the pudgy side all his life. Never enough that anyone would mention it, but enough that I noticed. It’s kind of … well, cute. He’ll never be drop-dead gorgeous, but he’ll always be cute.

And then I felt the scrape … of the slippery subway gates, oh how you laughed, at my complete, lack of grace …

He looks a little surprised and clueless like a deer in the headlights. I roll over again until my side hits his shins and I’m on my back, looking up at him. It’s the drugs or it’s just me being perceptive, but his eyes are sort of glowing right now, but that might be the blue light of the television. Either way, it’s cool.

But I could not recall … a more perfect fall, ‘cause when I looked up, into your eyes, it didn’t hurt at all …

I blink a few times, really slowly. Wind starts to blow outside and rustles a few stray bits of paper around the room and a wind chime nailed into the ceiling. A curly lock of my hair blows across my nose and that makes him smile. He reaches down very carefully and lifts it, rubbing it happily between his fingers. I give him a lazy smile and he drops it back against the mattress. I sigh contentedly.

And I thought, be still my heart. This could be a brand new start … with you. And it will be clear … if I wake up and you’re still here with me… in the morning …

The pads of his tiny fingers brush against my cheek as another warm breeze tousles the thin black tank top I’m wearing, too self conscious to be shirtless even though the cotton’s sticking uncomfortably to my back. Phil looks so happy, so drugged and peaceful. I like seeing him happy, I decide. His fingers drift down my neck and he opens his mouth just a little; his braces glint in the dim light.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers like he’s telling me his biggest secret. And in a way, he is.

I shiver as I nod, intently watching the completely mystified look on his face.

He leans down, bare chest brushing tentatively against my arm and he’s just a few inches away, eyes shining purple from ultraviolet stereo juice. He’s too naïve, too modest to even go for my lips, he presses his mouth to my cheek in a soft kiss, lingering as long as he thinks he can get away with. His breath smells like marijuana and peanut butter and his skin smells like soap and human as I close my eyes, breath hitching just a little.

He stops kissing me and doesn’t go for another one. He lies down beside me, wrapping both his arms around one of mine, and we just lie in the pillows like that until we fall asleep, stereo still dripping gorgeous music, soaking through the rafters onto his kitchen table.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

As fate would have it, we have the worst timing in the world. That night was Saturday and I have to leave for Chicago early the next morning. I blink bleary eyes when I wake up, staring into Phil’s mop of hair. His chin’s tucked against my shoulder, an arm thrown hazardously across my chest. I smile at the look of childish happiness on his face and the sweet drool pooling on his own hand. I could stay here forever, just watching him like this, but I really have to go.

I manage to wriggle out of his grip without waking him, replacing my body with a few thick pillows. I’m sitting on the edge of his bed, bare toes curling into the carpet, and I look at him with a weird kind of softness in my eyes. I lean down and kiss the tip of his nose, trying so hard not to giggle when he scrunches his face and buries it in the pillow that was my chest.

I don’t want to wake him up, he looks too peaceful, but I leave him a note taped to the tv. It’s folded five times and written in orange highlighter with the nearly un-readable scrawl that is my handwriting. Most of it is a bit pointless. I tell him I’m sorry for leaving so early, and that I’ll be back on the fifteenth. I tell him I liked the kiss and that I want to date him until the earth cracks in two and satan himself rises up and rubs all humanity on his crotch into a soapy lather of evil. And I say it in those exact words, leaving it at that. Being serious or subtle never got anyone anywhere.

I yank the door open and stop again, giving him a look over my shoulder. He’s turned over at some point during my search for a pen and he’s sprawled upside-down on his back, bare chest broke out in goosebumps with the morning chill. His dark little thighs are bare, green board shorts bunched up too high on his legs.

I never want to stop looking, but I step out onto the balcony and shut the door behind me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The three weeks between the next time I see him is pure hell. My mother’s parents are visiting (why I can’t go back to Phil’s earlier) and it’s a prime opportunity for mom to parade Laur and I around like poodles. Laur has to wear pigtails and a pleated skirt and I have to brush and tie my hair back with a fucking ribbon. Neither of us are allowed to swear and we have to drink tea and talk about our good grades. Laur can’t mention her gay friends and I can’t mention my drugs or my own homosexual habits (that only Lauren knows about anyways).

My father, Laur and I spend most of our days hiding in one of the spare bedrooms playing cards, avoiding mom and her parental induced wrath. Her parents have never liked any of us yet mom keeps insisting on inviting them over to show off the big house with the gold plated doors and clean white walls and carpets, just to show how well off she is.

Then they leave us with nothing more than an old-person smell and white hair clogging the drains. The very day they leave, I’m on a plane for the hour flight back to Phil.

It’s strange, kind of. I’m walking down the street again, just like before. The sky is bright and blue this time, not a cloud in sight. The trees are green and cheery, lining the streets, donned with little white flowers that float off and end up lining the gutters.

The little flowers are on the houses too, Phil’s even more so because it’s surrounded by the trees. They’re morphing the black roof and dormer into white ones, coating his balcony in the little things. I pick one off the sidewalk and bring it to my nose; they smell like soap. I pick a fresh one off a tree complete with a little green stem and I tuck it behind my ear, smoothing back some unruly, frizzy strands as I near his house.

I swim through the blossoms on the lawn, back up the white-painted lattice, careful not to step on the pink clematis crawling alongside me, bigger than last time I saw. I nearly slip on the dormer because of the flowers again, but I manage to grab onto a shingle before I slide off. I get to the tiny balcony with it’s white planks and dirty plastic chairs stuck with dust and dried pepsi.

Taking a deep breath, I peek into the room. It’s actually a little different. He’s got a few extra posters up and a flag covering his closet instead of doors. His quilt is a new terracotta-plaid print that’s oddly familiar. He’s sitting on the floor with a pillow behind his head and a joint balanced precariously on his bottom lip, mouth a little ajar. His teeth are looking straighter lately, but the weed bothers me. It means he’s gotten it from someone else. I can hear that sickening music even from out here.

I knock twice on the glass, knuckles making a hollow ‘tunktunk’ on it’s surface. The second he hears it he leaps up, turning off the stereo with the flick of a dial. I can’t help but notice the pink flush across his nose, threatening to spread over his cheeks and neck and I know he got my note. Judging by the jackrabbit look on his face, he’s certainly not mad at me. And if he isn’t mad, he’s …

He opens the door with a hard pull, both hands wrapped around the handle. It squeaks deafeningly loudly and shrilly but crunches along the tracks with reluctance anyways. He holds onto the doorjamb as if he’ll blow away and he looks up at me, a little surprised. I don’t know why he is, today’s the fifteenth just like I said.

“Hi.” he says so quietly, he sounds like a mouse. He takes a step back and I realize he’s inviting me in. I accidentally kick a few flowers in with me, stuck to my boots, littering his already cluttered carpet. He doesn’t seem to mind, he’s got the joint in his hands and he holds it out to me. “Want some?”

I shake my head, something tells me I want to be sober right now. “How much have you had?”

“Not a lot.” he says, looking down. “I knew you’d come.”

“Yeah.”

We’re so silent, this is so tense, this is so weird. Best friends should never be like this, so I break the tension. I raise my hand and rub my fingers just below his ear, cupping his face. He blushes such a nice shade and I draw him towards me, a careful guarded smile on my lips. He looks so incredibly scared but so excited and I bend down a little and press my mouth to his.

He draws back, maybe on instinct. I make sure he doesn’t get away, holding him closer, both hands in his hair now, revelling in the way his lips are trembling. He’s kissed before. I know he has and I’ve even witnessed a few of them; he had his first girlfriend last year, I can’t remember her name, I didn’t like her for obvious reasons. She was timid and shaky like a mole rat with the face of one too, she followed him around non-stop. They never had anything even close to sex, even the closed-mouth kisses I witnessed were awkward and too shy. He dumped her after a month.

But now, I think his inexperience is nice, even if I didn’t think so back then. He’s clumsy and unsure as I sit him down on the edge of his bed, parting his legs with one of my knees. He opens his mouth for me but he shies from my tongue and doesn’t know how to offer his own. He makes all these little throaty noises and his fingers grab at my bare arms, thumbs rubbing over chords of ropey muscle. I groan into his mouth, running my tongue over the sharp-edged metal hooked into his teeth.

From just one kiss, I know this is what’s supposed to happen. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about this, I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t dreamt about him nearly ever night since I was in fifth grade. I tried to make it go away, he’s always been so damn innocent that I couldn’t bring myself to taint him with my thoughts or to force myself on him.

I dated other people, I dated boys and girls and did my best to convince myself that I’d stop liking Phil, just as soon as I found someone else. Girls didn’t and still don’t do much for me, the sex felt unnatural and garish, but they made me feel a bit useful; girls have always liked me (I lost my virginity to one when I was fourteen, don’t judge me). The guys were better, quite a bit better. Sex was mind-blowing and insatiable, which made me know that I was definitely gay, whether I wanted to be or not. The guys themselves were cheap and shallow, fairies with pierced tongues and fake tans that I never really felt a lot for, too one dimensional to consider ever loving any part of them other than their ass.

But, then I always thought back to Phil. I’ve always thought he was a bit queerer than most guys; I was the only person he was ever around and he never ever talked about girls, unlike the other horny bastards in our grade. He was small and cute without being girly, he was different without trying. He wore baggy clothes, always tshirts, and he kept his hair short despite the flipped-swoopy fad that was seeping into guys like a virus along with clean-cut polo shirts and embroidered jeans.

Just something about him, long story short. And now after so many years, he’s here in my arms, letting me touch him with my lips. I can’t believe he isn’t shoving me back, he isn’t laughing and avoiding this with awkward good nature as is his usual coping mechanism. He’s fucking letting me kiss him and he’s kissing me back and this is so good, this is right.

I lean back, keeping my hands on him. His own fall from my arms back onto the bed. The look on his face is so priceless. He isn’t blushing anymore, oddly enough.

“You like me?” he asks like a little preteen kid, ‘like’ is such a childish word, but how else do you put it? You’re not sure if it’s love, but you know it’s more than friends. You like them. It’s funny to hear it from a fifteen year old, in any case.

“Yeah.” I say simply, rubbing a bit of hair back off his forehead. “I’ve always liked you.”

The comfortable look fades away a little, replaced by the priceless-shocked one again. “Always?”

“Since we were eleven.”

He fidgets now, twisting fingers in my jeans. “But, you had sex .. and … stuff …” he mutters and I think my loss of virginity bothers him more than he lets on. He’s always dropped subtle hints about it, calling me a whore, throwing it at me when he’s in a bad mood. I didn’t really think it was because he liked me back, I thought it was just ‘cause he really did think I was a whore.

“That doesn’t matter, those guys were nothing compared to you.” I say sincerely, pulling him closer to me like the stupid sappy bastard I am. He sighs a little and squirms in my hands.

“You had sex with guys?”

“Yeah.” I say simply, not realizing that I hadn’t told him that before, not about the male part of it.

“Okay.” and he pulls me down onto the bed to lie next to him. “That’s good. Girls are gross.”







back to archive ~ <3