On my way into the grocery, I pass two guys who lean against the side of the building like they’re the only things holding it up. They have to be brothers, two big beefcakes with tight jeans and muscle shirts that show off the way their arms ripple when they move. They’re cute, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t go for that type, the barrel chests, the quarterback thighs, the Popeye forearms. Too much testosterone. I like my boys a little less meaty, if you know what I mean.
But they’re looking at me as I go by, so I smile and the younger one—he’s less built than his brother and has softer eyes—he says, “Hey.”
Then they laugh. I flush like I used to when I was fifteen and in high school, walking past the football team in the hall and hearing them cough the word queer into their hands as the
