Page 2 of 12 Gays of Christmas

He turns toward his room, shaking his head, and I grab his arm. At that moment, I realize several things. My roommate hasarms. Guns. Muscles he hides under his clothes. Theoretically, I know they are there. I’ve seen them. But touching them? Holy hell. I also realize that except for the occasional fist bump—and putting my hand over his mouth earlier, which I regretted instantly—I’ve never touched my roomie before. And last, my dick is an asshole. But that’s not surprising. And I’m the one who violated our no-touching agreement.

Colin twists away from my hand, which hurts a little. Emotionally, not physically, because I’m bigger than Colin. Much bigger. “Don’t.”

The anger in his eyes—and I’m still not sure why he cares if I make my way through a list of guys—has me regrouping. “Look,” I say, holding up my hands, “that’s not what I meant.”

“So you didn’t sleep with Mr. Growly?”

“His name was Paul.”

“Was? Did you off him?”

“Did I call you to help me hide the body? Then no.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and avoid his gaze. “I didn’t—we didn’t—”

Again, those eyes analyze everything. The intensity of his gaze has me squirming. “You have a list of guys—”

“Types of guys—”

“Types of guys—and those stereotypes are insulting, by the way—and you don’t want to sleep with them? Is this a tea party? A murder list?”

I snicker, but at his glare, I clear my throat. “No, I don’t. I mean, yes, I do…”

The stare intensifies, and I feel like a frog being dissected. Pins holding me down. Keeping me in place. I have the urge to run and never come back. “You do, or you don’t. Which is it?”

I sigh the heaviest of sighs. I am a bit dramatic for a wide receiver. Why are we held to a different standard? Does liking football and crushing someone to the ground mean I can’t be dramatic and flounce? I love a good flounce. Yeah, as I said, dramatic. But back to the current crisis and things I don’t want to admit to my roommate. My birthday is on Christmas Day, and I’m determined to get my cherry popped before then. But not with some rando.

I’m not good at lying. Not when it matters. Telling my algebra professor my fish died and I couldn’t make it to class? Sure. No problem. But this?

“I want to fall…madly-in-love-with-someone.”

“Excuse me? You want to fall…making a snowman?”

“Ugh,” I yell at him. “Why are you so nosy?”

He grows quiet. Still. No muscles moving. Crap. “Because this is my apartment. And that,” he says, stabbing a finger toward my list, “is my fucking chalkboard. So if you wantA Cute Jock Who Likes to Take Chargeto stay on it, you better be talking real quick.”

I gulp and cover the bottom half of my traitorous body with my doodling notebook. “Fine.” I lift my chin and stand to my full six foot two inches. “I want a boyfriend.” My face heats to a thousand degrees, and I shift from one foot to the other. “I want to fall in love.”

It’s so quiet I can hear things: a buzzing in my ears, the faucet drip neither of us knows how to fix, the thumping of my heart as if I’ve run the entire football field and back. And then Colin starts laughing so hard that he doubles over with it. Clutching his side, he shakes his head. Rapid little shakes that mortify me.

What color is my face? Magenta? Boysenberry? Is there a specific color for dying inside?

“Nice,” I say, hugging my notebook against my chest. “Go ahead. Erase it if you want. I don’t care.” Hiding in my room for the next two years sounds like a perfect plan.

Colin steps into my path before I can leave. “I’m sorry.” He pinches his lips together, trying and failing to school his features. But my focus pinpoints on his hands squeezing my biceps. This is getting to be a problem. I stare at his left hand and raise a brow. He quickly lets go and pushes a hand through his strawberry-blond hair. “Sorry. It’s just this list, Gil. You think with your dick.”

“Yeah. I’m twenty-two,” I say, insulted. My dick, however, is not insulted.Down boy.

“Okay, but something on a love list would be: a sweet guy who likes to watchDoctor Who.”

My heart rate triples, something usually not attainable without twenty minutes on the treadmill or playing Nebraska on the football field. Colin and I binged all this year’sDoctor Whospecials in one afternoon, and we usually watch reruns on Sunday night. Is he…? No. He just picked something I could relate to.

Colin backs up and blinks. Has he realized what he said and now regrets it? He takes a deep breath, and he’s Colin again. I nod, unable to get the words in my head out in the right order.

“Your list isn’t about love. It’s about getting your dick wet.”

Please stop talking about my dick. He’s getting ideas.“I don’t…” How can I say this? “I don’t know what I like.” I stare at the board, unable to look at him. This is a stupid idea.But virgin. At twenty-two, my brain reminds me. But my cock is yelling,Hell yeah. Let’s do this.

“I don’t—what do you mean? Can’t you just—what the fuck do you mean? You don’t have to go through the gay alphabet, Gil. Are you having so much sex that it’s all the same?” His voice rises, and he’s shaking. With anger. At me. Gosh-darn-it.

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