The Name on My Wrist
By J.M. Snyder
The room is dark and I can feel his awkwardness like a loaded gun between us. I haven’t known him long but he’s just the way I like them—younger than me and blond. He’s one of the guys I’ve come here with this weekend, at this house along the beach, and he’s so full of energy, like I used to be. He reminds me of someone I used to know, someone I swore I’d never forget.
He’s in his twenties and out among our friends he’s all talk but in here I feel him tremble beneath me—I touch him, kiss him, lay him back to the bed like I’ve done with dozens of boys before, whispering it’ll be okay, and I know he’s just as nervous as I once was, years ago when Don breathed against my neck for the first time, told me he loved me, it’d be okay. I don’t say the word lo
