I Admit I Would
Though the funny thing
is, knowing he’ll probably not stay around actually
relieves some pressure.
Whatever our connection,
I can play this game my way, and not have to pretend
I’m anyone except who I am.
Which turns out to be
a good thing, because now it’s Gabe’s turn to ask questions, including one I’ve never
had to answer out loud.
Something you said interested me. When you were talking about inviting people to share a drink or a kiss, you included girls in the comment. Are you into women or did my dirty little mind make that up?
I try to form the proper
sentences, but swallow
the first words that surface.
Forming cohesive thoughts around my frequent musings isn’t something I’m practiced at. Honesty. Let’s start there.
“I wish I was one hundred percent sure about who
or what I’m ‘into,’ as you put it. As I mentioned, I’ve never actually tried either boys or girls, but truthfully, I seem to be attracted to both.
I’ve got an excellent friend who happens to be a lesbian, and our relationship is very close to love at this point, but whether or not that will become sexual, I don’t know.”
I see. So then, what about guys? Or, I suppose more accurately, what about me?
“Jeez, are you always
so blunt? Okay, well,
to return the favor,
you’re the first guy
of my approximate age
who I’ve ever had fun
just being around. I don’t think I’m allowed to confess anything more because
the game isn’t played
that way, is it?”
Those Exceptional Eyes
Lock mine. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to, but
right this moment I don’t.
I don’t like games.
He puts his drink on the table, removes mine from my grasp, and places it just touching his.
And I don’t require confessions.
He reaches for my hand.
His skin is warm and rough in the way of someone who labors for a living. It’s not unpleasant. Now he lifts
my fingers to his lips, kisses the tips individually. One. By.
One. The intimate gesture
makes my heart tremble and lifts goose bumps. I never thought my first real kiss would be with a boy, but this boy says, And I don’t care if you love someone else. I really want to kiss you. Okay?
My Head
Doesn’t ask
for permission
to nod. It bobs all on its own.
Gabe turns his hands heel-to-heel, palms facing upward, cups my jaws and lifts, tilting my mouth toward his. Unlike his hands, his lips are soft when they cover mine, and if I had any doubt about my ability to kiss, he erases it immediately.
It’s instinctive.
It’s gentle at first.
Its intensity grows.
The flutter in my chest swells into a quake, one I don’t want to quell.
But now he pulls away.
Wow. Not bad for an amateur.
I Kissed a Boy
And I liked it. A lot. Wonder
if I’ll like kissing a girl as much.
“I thought it would be trickier.
Maybe you’re just a good teacher.”
Maybe you’ve got a high kissing IQ?
Anyway, I wouldn’t mind doing it again. But I think I’d better go before your father comes looking for me with a shotgun or something. Hey.
Wait. Does your dad own a gun?
I laugh, happy he has no plans
to pressure me for anything beyond kissing. I know I’m not ready for more.
“Not that I’m aware of, and I think I’d know about it if he did.” Thank God. Dad isn’t a very good drunk.
I’d hate to see him go off half-cocked with a deadly weapon in hand.
Well, I’m leaving anyway, so I guess we’re probably safe. A kiss good-bye?
My Second Kiss
Is a subtle echo of the first—quiet, caring, and a promise of something more to come, if I extend the invitation.
But I won’t do that right now.
After Gabe leaves, I sit for a while in contemplation, seeking the meaning of what just happened between us, its relevance to my quest for identity.
Is it really possible to lean both ways?
If it is, and I do, that must make me bi, but is multi-gendered attraction an actual, viable thing?
I’ve heard people say that’s bull, that those who claim to be bisexual are nothing more than nymphos indulging unencumbered greed.
Maybe I’m greedy, borderline
gluttonous. Or maybe I’m just
curious to know if I have a preference.
One thing’s certain: I’m confused.
The Worst Thing
Is I can’t talk to Monica about this.
Any other subject, she’d be my go-to confessor. But she wouldn’t understand and the last thing I want is to make her crumble.
Funny, but I’ve always thought she was the tough one, and she is on the surface. But just beneath the crust is a layer of liquid goo, one that’s hard to tap into.
It’s where she buries her pride when she must, which is usually around her family. At school she’s fine claiming her unique personal vision, and I covet the bold self-acceptance
she presents to our classmates.
I just wish she were strong enough to shed her hetero mask at home.