Page 113 of Pucking Strong

He glances sharply across the table, eyes narrowed. “You better not be about to ask me if I traded sexual favors for it. The answer is no, asshole.”

I raise both hands, leaning back in my chair. “I said nothing.”

“I forgot my suit at home, and he had one. End of story.”

I smile, sipping my beer. “You should keep it. It looks better on you.”

He huffs, poking at the mussels with a fork, looking for one with the meat still inside. “Oh believe me, for five hundred bucks, I’m keeping the suitandthe shoes.”

I just hum, contentedly sipping my beer. Since our conversation in the car last week, I’ve felt a new kind of curiosity towards Teddy. And I’ve researched the term.Demisexuality.It’s a rather broad term, covering everything from those who seek no sexual touch ever to people who engage in casual sex but may not express romantic feelings until a deeper relationship is established first.

The more I read, the more the label seems to fit me. The article last night talked of primary versus secondary sexual attraction. Apparently, primary attraction happens at first sight. You can look at a person, even a stranger on the street, and feel attracted to them. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that before. Aesthetically, I may look at someone and admire their beauty. But I admire them with the same feeling of joy or excitement as seeing a sunset or a stag standing in the snow.

I glance across the table at Teddy again. Aesthetically, he’s very pleasing. I’ve always thought that. He’s a composition of sharp angles—broad shoulders, long legs, pronounced cheekbones. I particularly like his neck. I like watching how it twists and elongates as he looks around, as he laughs.

But I want to photograph his neck, not lick it.

The article had a lot to say about scent as a primary attractor too. As a Swedish person, I found it all very amusing. We Swedes enjoy having our own space, even with friends and family. It made me mindful. How often do I ever let myself get close enough to smellanother person? Well, aside from the sweaty hockey players I encounter on the ice. But not one of them has ever sparked my sexual interest with their stench.

No, scent has only aroused me with one person. Only with Teddy.

I blame it on the fact that I’m still sleeping in his bed. I don’t know why I haven’t put a stop to it. Now that I’m admitting to myself that I’m curious about him, it feels like a line is being crossed. But I don’t want to stop. I’m getting the best sleep I’ve had in ages. And I like it. I like lying in the bed and having him roll to me, hands seeking in the dark. Even in sleep, he’ll curl around me, his head on my chest, our legs tangled.

If he doesn’t roll to me, I seek him out. I lock my arm around his chest and press my face to his neck, breathing him in. I’m not sure what to make of his scent arousing me because he’s using my body wash and wearing my cologne. Am I attracted to him? Or the scents? Or is this some kind of caveman hindbrain situation where I’m attracted to my scentonhim?

“How are we doing over here?” says the waiter, removing the empty plates.

“Fine,” Teddy replies, fishing the cherries out of his drink as he tries not to look in the corner.

I hate that the photographer is ruining this for him. “I’m sorry,” I say as soon as the waiter leaves. “We can go if he’s making you this uncomfortable. Poppy didn’t say how long we need to stay.”

“It’s fine.”

But I know it’s not. He hates this performance as much as I do. I want to make it up to him. When I get back from this series of aways, I’m going to take him out again. No cameras. No falsity. Just good conversation and a good meal. We both deserve it.

He leans back as the waiter returns, placing down our main courses. We decided to split the whole roasted branzino and a plate of lobster and scallop risotto. He heaps some risotto onto my plate as I squeeze half a lemon over the branzino. He can’t help but glance at the corner again. “Has Laura said anything else about the interview requests?”

“I told her to refuse them all,” I reply, testing the flakiness of the fish with my fork.

“Will that cause problems?”

“I made it clear that would be my only statement. We’ll let them take these pictures, and hopefully we can all just move on.”

He nods, eyes on his plate as he tries the fish.

“Hey.” I set my fork aside and reach my hand across the table.

He glances at it for a moment before sighing and placing his hand in mine.

“I’m glad you’re here. Our voyeur notwithstanding, I’m having a nice time.”

He snorts. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You can use the word ‘notwithstanding’ correctly in a sentence, but you don’t know the phrase ‘happy as clams’?”

Feeling prickly, I switch to Swedish. “And you can’t understand a word of Swedish, so let’s refrain from throwing rocks at glass houses, shall we?”

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