Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time (47 page)

“
I dunno.
It
’
s just
...
well, when your hand was on my face, the other night, it felt
...
it was
...
well, you see, in my family, well
...
fact is, if my daddy does anything more
’
n shake your hand and pat you on the back, you know he
’
s had a few too many.
Even Andrea doesn
’
t
...
well
...
”

He shifted and the material fell away, drifting loose across his leg, tickling the hairs that swirled up his thigh.
I ached to tickle them, myself.

“
I can see where it spooked you,
”
I said,
“
me feeling up your face, like that.
”

“
What a way to put it
...
but, yeah
…
l
ittle.
”
He sipped the beer then looked directly at me
,
and I stopped drawing.
“
But I
...
I liked it, too.
An
’
that
’
s got me all confused.
I never even thought about bein
’
with a guy.
It
’
s got no interest for me.
But here I am feelin
’
...
I mean not mindin
’
...
I mean
...
aw, shit, I don
’
t know what I mean
.
”

He flopped back and put the cold beer bottle to his forehead.
And you know what?
I didn
’
t even think about the fact that Aaron-un-fucking-believably-good-looking-Friesen was lying on my bed.
I didn
’
t cast one look at his legs or his crotch or his body as I stood up.
I didn
’
t even think about wanting to trail my fingers up his thighs
–
not then, anyway
–
or kiss the hair on his chest
–
as I
’
m thinking now
–
as I sat on the bed, beside him.
The only thought that entered my head was
c
omfort him.

“
C
’
mon, Aaron,
”
I said,
“
just because you liked being touched doesn
’
t mean you
’
re gay.
Shit, you think it
’
s contagious?
That I infected you with queerness or something?
”

“
No
...
but it
’
s so
...weird
...
”

“
Why?
Even if a guy
does
make a pass at you, it doesn
’
t mean you
’
re obligated to say yes.
It
’
s not like guys like me are diseased monsters out to force you into something that
’
s not right for you.
”

“
I know.
It
’
s just
...
I
...
uh, I got
...
”

His voice trailed off
,
and I finally understood the problem.
I
’
d forgotten the extra little bulge in his pants, the other night.

“
It got you going.
”

He blushed and nodded.
I just shook my head.

“
Dude, haven
’
t you ever had a massage?
”

He looked at me with complete confusion.
“
What?
No.
”

“
Well
...
I have.
And it was at the hands of Olga, she-wolf of my dad
’
s gym.
That woman had arms bigger
’
n my legs, and she hurt me right and left as she rubbed and pounded and twisted me into a pretzel, once.
Not
what you would ever call foreplay.
But let me tell you something: I got a real woodie off her.
”

“
You kiddin
’
me?
”

“
Swear to God,
”
I said, giving him the Scout
’
s Honor salute.
“
And I mean it
…
she was
not
at
all
attractive to me.
But there I was, lying face down with a hard-on as this big blond buff dominatrix smacked my ass and told me to roll over.
”

“
What
’
d you do?
”

“
I told her, No, and pulled the towel tighter around me.
So she grabbed it, gave it a good yank and flipped me sunny side up.
And there I lay, totally birthday suit boy, the joy of my life pointed straight to the sky.
Talk about embarrassing.
But all Olga did was laugh and say,
‘
Vell, by Gott, ye
’
ll have not
’
ing to vorry
‘
bout in der bedroom
’
.
”

“
No shit?
”
he laughed.

I nodded.
“
Seems she
’
d also worked over my brothers.
And while they may have inherited the brawn in the family, I was
...
oh, compensated in other ways.
In comparison.
”

Aaron doubled over with laughter and choked out,
“
Fuckin
’
shit, Joe!
”

I chuckled, remembering the response my brothers had when I told them the story.
They
’
d dragged me into the bedroom and yanked down my pants to see for themselves
–
the Neanderthal creeps
–
as if we
’
d never seen each other
“
nekked.
”
And they both were pissed as hell when they realized how right she was.
I still use it as a weapon whenever they get too pissy.

Finally
,
I told Aaron,
“
Everybody likes to be touched.
In some way or other.
My mom says that
’
s why men used to get haircuts every week
–
for the feeling of it.
Same for contact sports.
It
’
s a way of connecting with another guy.
And that
’
s what happened when I ran my fingers over your face
…
I connected with you and found a way to transfer you to canvas.
And you felt that.
”

“
An
’
that
’
s the only reason you did it?
”

“
Yes,
”
I said, with full and complete truth behind that lie.
“
I
...
I didn
’
t realize how nice it was until after you left.
”

“
You think it was nice?
”

All I could do was nod, in answer.
The vision of him lying there looking up at me, arms up, hands cupping his head
,
I felt a quickness of breath that made me a little light-headed.
I wanted so much to put my hand over his heart and send signals of understanding into it.
He looked back at me, almost smiling.

“
Guess it was, kind of,
”
he said, and before the softness of his voice could register in my nimrod brain, he added,
“
So you
...
you want to do it, again?
”

“
I
’
ve already got your face,
”
I said
–
still being dumb.
Then I snapped to and quickly added,
“
But I don
’
t have your body.
”

“
That a fact?
”
And he gave me his little
I-know-what-you
’
re-up-to
look.

I got up, stretched
,
and man, I
did
feel like fuckin
’
Jam-the-cat: cool as ice and full of self-confidence.
I wasn
’
t just stretching; I was flexing my muscles in preparation to run for my supper
,
and
“
guess who
”
was most definitely the mouse.
I
liked
it.
I sat on my stool and said in what had to be the coolest voice I ever used,
“
You
’
re right.
It
’
d be weird for you, wouldn
’
t it?
”

He sat up, eyed me for a minute, took a long sip of the beer
,
and pulled off his shirt!
And his body was even more perfect than I dreamed it could be: pecs like something you
’
d find on a statue of David, smooth round nipples standing at attention, a belly so tight that even sitting there were no creases or folds to it, silken threads whispering up the center of his abs to fan out over his chest
. O
h, sweet Jesus, this little kitty was
so
ready to pounce!
He stood up and strolled toward me.

“
Think you
’
re in my seat,
”
he smiled.

I shifted to the chair before the easel, carefully removed his sketch from the pad to reveal a fresh sheet and grabbed an umber Conte pencil, this time.
He sat on the stool, hands positioned above his crotch, his eyes sharp and warm on me.

“
You better stop when you touch the top of my shorts.
”

“
You got it, boss,
”
I smiled back.

“
Now close your eyes,
”
he said.

“
What?!
”

“
Do it right.
”

I sighed and placed my left fingers on his left shoulder, pressed the pencil to the paper, sat up straight and lowered my lids.
The darkness wasn
’
t as complete as with a blindfold, but it would do.
It took me a moment to focus on just touch
,
focus on the idea that I was sketching him, not making love to him (not yet, I hoped).
It wasn
’
t as hard to shift away from my imagination, this time.
Why, I don
’
t know; I guess I just knew it wouldn
’
t be the last time I got to do this, and that made me less needy.

I took a deep breath.
The gentle aroma of soap
–
Irish Spring?
Coast?
–
mingled with the scent of the wax.
I could both hear and feel his breath whispering in and out of him.
I could sense him watching me, waiting for me to try something stupid.
Well I wasn
’
t going to give him that satisfaction.
This was going to be exactly what we agreed to – torso only, nothing lower – and what suddenly surprised me was that was all I really wanted, right then.