Page 41 of Napkins and Other Distractions
“Want me to wash it?”
“No, it’s good, leave it. I’ll take care of it,” I say, satisfied with the sanitize button on my dishwasher.
“You know, that was fun last night.” Kent turns the faucet on and scrubs his hands.
“Your daughter and son-in-law are fantastic. And Lia, I mean, I’m not the biggest fan of kids, but she’s pretty spectacular.”
“My family is wonderful, but I meant us. In bed. The canoodling.”
“Oh.”
He wants to talk about us. Kissing. Cuddling. Grinding. I reach for my phone and start the music. The bass drum kicks. Hard. Guitar plucking joins in, and before long, the harmonies of the entire band join in. They sing about the wind blowing and the sun rising, and I close my eyes, anticipating what’s about to come.
“You know, we don’t have to be more than friends,” Kent says, grabbing a paper towel to dry his hands. He slips on the bottom of the stool but catches himself on the island. “But also, the kissing, and well, the rest, was a lot of fun. For me.”
“Me too,” I say, my knee bouncing.
“We could do it again. If you wanted,” he says, fidgeting. “Not now, I mean another time.”
“I’d like that.” My mouth becomes as dry as the toast I’ve almost finished. Maybe he has the same idea about friends with benefits. I’m sure that’s it. Regardless, if Kent and I are ever going to fool around more in any capacity, I need to be honest with him.
“The thing is, Kent, well, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Is this an ogre/human situation I need to know about?” he asks, a soft smile tugging at his face. “How long do I have until your ogre form? Midnight? Does it involve you getting wet?”
I turn down the music as they sing about not being loved on a glorious, endless loop.
“I hope not. I mean, no, definitely not. It’s just for me … sexually … ” I wipe my mouth, letting the napkin hover. “I’m a side.”
Kent doesn’t say anything or move, and I’m pretty sure this will be the nail in the coffin of anything between us. Given our current professional proximity, it’s probably for the best.
I turn toward Kent, and he’s looking at me. Silent.
“I know it’s unusual for most guys in the gay community,” I say.
“Actually, I’m bi.”
“I know, I’m just saying, for men. Who sleep with men. It can be unusual.”
“Vincent.” He moves to the seat beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. When he pulls me closer, he slides off his stool and falls into me.
“Sorry, I’m fine. Hold on a sec,” he stammers, pulling himself onto his seat. With his balance momentarily restored, Kent leans over and whispers, “I don’t know what you mean.”
Rubbing the back of my neck, I take a deep breath. It’s not the first time I’ve had to explain it, and it won’t be the last.
“I’m not a top. I’m not a bottom.” My mouth pinches. “I’m a side.”
Kent squints, and he dips his chin and shakes his head slightly.
“Tops are—” I begin.
“I know what tops and bottoms are, Vincent. But what’s a side?”
Two deep breaths.
“It means I don’t want to top. Or bottom.”
“Oh!” he says. A loud, bellowing chuckle chases his exclamation. The solo bass guitar has its moment before the band’s crescendo joins Kent’s laughter.
