Page 41 of Roommate
Kieran groans into my mouth. And the noise seems to wake him from this fever dream we’re sharing. He jerks his head back suddenly, as if I’ve burned him. “Fuck,” he curses.
I’m pretty sure it’s not a request. In fact, his voice is charged with alarm. Somehow that pricks through the lust fog I’m in, and I take a step backward.
He buries his face in his hands. “Fuck,” he says again. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I gasp.
“I don’t even know.” He groans, and not in a fun way.
“Hey,” I whisper. I plant a hand in the center of his chest. “Dude, it’s me who’s sorry. I took advantage.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been thinking about that a long time.”
I light up inside. “Yeah, I have too. But it’s still not cool to jump your roommate. Not without discussing it first, anyway,” I add, because hope springs eternal.
He lifts his face from his hands. “And I hate talkin’. So we’re totally screwed.”
I take a deep breath, because my brain cells need oxygen, and I’m so turned on we could power next month’s electric bill with a single electrode to my aching nuts. “Look. Let’s eat pulled pork. I’m drunk, and if we stand here any longer I’m just going to stare at you while I picture you naked.”
His laughter sounds uncomfortable. “All right. Dinner.”
Kieran
I make a plate of food for myself and then carry it into the living room. But I’ll be lucky if I can even taste it, because my mind is blown. I kissed him. And I liked it. A whole lot.
We sit on the new carpet, and eat at opposite ends of the coffee table that I brought home last night. It’s another relic from my mother’s attic. Absently, I pick up the giant sandwich and take a bite. And—Jesus. It’s so good. The meat is tender and the bread is yeasty and perfect. To my embarrassment, I let out a little moan of happiness.
Roderick grins at me from several feet away. “Honestly, I’d be more upset if you didn’t like this pulled pork than if you didn’t want to fuck me.”
I try not to choke on my next bite, because I don’t know how to respond to that. I’ve never met anyone like him. I don’t know any gay men at all. I mean—I’ve heard rumors. But I never met a guy like Roderick who calls himself “Gay AF” in a housing ad, or uses words like “cock” and “fuck me” in casual conversation. “You know, sometimes I can’t tell when you’re being serious and when you’re joking.”
He swallows a bite of our excellent dinner. “Here’s a tip—I’m almost never being serious. Life is easier that way.”
We chew in silence for a moment. It’s becoming increasingly clear that Roderick has things he could teach me. Besides cooking. And those are things that I desperately want to learn. I’d like to be more like him—willing to name my desires. Unafraid to know what anyone will think.
But I don’t have the first idea how you do that.
“Can I ask you a question?” Roderick says, breaking my reverie. “Have you ever dated men?”
I shake my head.
“So you date women?” he asks, looking perplexed.
“No, not really.”
“Maybe I’m asking the wrong question. Do you have sex with men?”
Again I shake my head.
“Women?”
“Sometimes. Not for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
I think it over. “A couple of years. Well, four or five.”
His eyes bug out. “And you enjoyed it? Never mind. If you liked it you wouldn’t have stopped.”
