Page 5 of The Masks We Wear
“I’m coming,” I mutter against his skin. “I’m coming.”
“Ohfuckohfuckohfuck...”
“I’m comin’, darlin’.”
“Fuck!”
With us muttering dirty cuss words, we burst in unison. Sparks fly from up my toes and down from my scalp to this one perfectly connected climax. Kitty Cat strokes us thoroughly as I drag my thumb rapidly in circles around both his nipples. The sensations are overwhelming, as shot after shot of hot semen jets onto our lower bellies.
Despite the secrecy, anonymity, and chemical smells of the closet, this was the best dang sex this Southern boy has ever had.
When we finally come down off that high, I kiss him again, hard. Reality is sinking in, so I need one last taste, hoping to memorize Kitty Cat in my daydreams to come. We both have kept so much of ourselves private, so it’s obvious we won’t be discussing this in our everyday lives. We won’t recognize each other on the streets, or in the university buildings. This was a one-time thing, so I need to remember that he was real.
We pull apart and do our best to clean ourselves off using only our shirts. Since it’s Halloween, it’s doubtful anyone will be lucid enough to notice the semen stains all over our bodies—weirdness is normal here in New York City.
“Um, I uh…” Kitty Cat coughs, letting the awkwardness set in. Oh, hell no.
“That was great, darlin’.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, sounding so damn uncomfortable.
“You should know, that was my first time.”
Even in the darkness of the closet, I sense him tense up. “Really?”
“Well, sorta. The first time with someone I actually like.”
He scoffs. “You don’t know me that well.”
“Doesn’t matter. I believe in the good in people, and I don’t think a lick of you was fake all night.” I bite my lip, trying not to overthink this moment. “Somethin’ tells me you liked opening up to someone who knows nothing about you. Like a church confessional, you let yer secrets out, and so did I, and no one’s ever gonna know. But I enjoyed every moment of tonight. So maybe you can say I don’t know you, but you can’t really say I don’t like you.” It’s a tense ten seconds as he doesn’t move, and silence lays heavy between us. I take that as my cue to make a move. Summoning up every ounce of courage I have, I wipe my hands on my shirt one last time, then gently grab his collar.
Pulling him in, I give him one last lingering kiss. I put everything in that tender meeting of our lips, hoping the memory of me stays with him in the coming months. Because I know the memory of this sexy stranger will stay with me. His mouth is soft, sweet, and he kisses me back, reminding me that I’m not alone in this world.
When we pull apart, I whisper, “Happy Halloween, Kitty Cat.”
He stares at me, letting the words hang in the darkness of this closet. I can’t stand to watch any regret sink into his face, so I bolt out the door. The night is over; I’m not Superhero anymore, I’m just Jamal again.
PART 3: JUNG
[OCTOBER, SENIOR YEAR]
The bass is thumping in one of the lower apartments, drowning out the throngs of chatty college kids. I should be relishing one last “hurrah” with my final Halloween party at university. Instead, I find myself chewing minty gum and checking my clock—Eleven p.m.
Exactly one year ago today I was in this very building. When my friends invited me out to this party, I hopped on without hesitating. They have no idea why I’m here dressed up as Black Panther, yet again, and maintaining my sobriety. As everyone else gossips, dances, or hooks up on couches, I manage to slip away.
I make my way up that same old staircase, and my heart skips a beat when I pass that old janitor’s closet—yes, I open it up to make sure it’s unoccupied. Finally, I reach that familiar terrace from what feels like just yesterday.
I walk out and my heart sinks—no one is here. I’m alone, accompanied only by orange city lights. Twelve months ago I saw that perfect figure hunched over, leaning on the stone ledge, and if I squint my eyes, I can imagine him here again.
I’ve been doing a lot of that this past year—imagining.
I’ve imagined what life would be like if I gave Superhero my phone number. I’ve imagined what my time could be like if we exchanged Fanstagram or some other social media. I’ve imagined each of my few dates with guys this past year as him—no wonder none of them asked me out a second time.
It’s unhealthy to dwell on a sexy stranger, someone you knew for all of half an hour a year ago. But I can’t help my fixation. He understood me, he rocked my world, and he even respected my decision to keep the masks on.
Now here I am, in that exact same spot, hoping he’ll show up. But no, it was a Cinderella-esque one-time thing. There is no glass slipper, only disappointment sinking in my gut like a rock.
I scratch underneath the mask, feeling so stupid for, among many reasons, wearing the same costume as before. I was foolish enough to believe he’d be here and he’d say something like—
