Page 12 of Strange Lad

He shouldn’t have said that. My confused brain can’t hang. Nope.

Now, all sorts of images are flashing through it at warp speed, blurring into one long stop motion picture of his mouth and all forms of genitals. Good lord.

I swallow hard and go for my water now while he cocks his head.

“I didn’t insinuate,” I lie.

“You did.”

“Alright,” I huff and flip my curls out of my face aggressively. “Fine. I insinuated.”

“How come?”

“Beats me. Just where my thoughts went.”

“Been a while?” he asks, but there’s a tightness to his lips and tension in his shoulders.

“Yeah,” I breathe, leaning back in the chair. “Not that I haven’t had any offers. I just,” I raise my hands, “don’t want to. Getting lazy in my old age.”

“Well,” he starts, getting up and taking his plate to the trash to scrape it. “If it’s any consolation, I haven’t…done thatin years.”

“YEARS?!” I jump to my feet, stalking after him. “Is your penis okay? Did it fall off?” I eyeball his crotch and realize too fast that it was a huge,hugemistake.

There’s a bulge.

Obviously, there’d be a bulge, Jorge. But I didn’t expect to see it so clearly in the crotch of his jeans. Oh. My. God. I’m staring at Phoenix’s little brother’s dick. Clothed, but still.

“Jorge,” Oli says, backing away from me.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” I rush out, finding the opposite corner of my kitchen to stand in while I freak out silently.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Oli declares, holding his hips and staring at his feet. “Just forget all about this weird conversation.”

“Agreed.” I nod adamantly.

“Good.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

A nervous laugh bubbles out of me, and I slap my hand over my mouth. What is happening? What is wrong with me?

“Well. I have to…go,” Oli says and grabs his hoodie off the chair he was sitting on. “I’ll grab an Uber and…text you?”

“Okay,” I squeak through my palm.

“Okay,” he repeats.

He lingers, studying me for a few more seconds, and then lets himself out. I’m too freaked out to move, let alone breathe. So, I stand there in my kitchen for another fifteen minutes before I rush to my bathroom to shower off the weird funk all over me.

“Devon,” I say randomly.

He and I are in the studio today, mixing some new vocal tracks over our existing instrumentals.

Looking up from the computer, he arches an eyebrow at me. His mohawk is limp today, the strands hanging down to his shoulder. I don’t typically have a filter, but I’m nervous to ask him. Nervous to eventhinkabout the questions I have. That doesn’t mean I’m one to beat around the bush. I like to rip the bandaid off quickly. So, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“You're bisexual.”

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