The Weekender

Chapter 4: Easy

Chapter 4: Easy

Our chests touch to the music as Radiohead, Depeche Mode, LMFAO, and Antigone play for the next hour. Our n*****s touch and hands lock together. Our buckles graze, grind, and brush together. Navels glide against each other. The music shelters us, causing us to become closer. The thick smell of boys jerking off in a shadowy corner hangs around our bodies and lingers in our pores. And sweat on our bare torsos—glistening in the disco ball’s reflective silver-white light—combines and sticks us together in a heated and s****l moment of bliss.

Corey doesn’t look at me, he looks into me. What does he see in my stare? What does he want from me? Why did he invite me to his city? What secret agenda does he have in store for me? The questions twirl and collide within my mind. One after the next. A list builds between my temples. Each question is lined up perfectly and waiting to be answered.

I lean into him, place my chin on his shoulder, and ask, “Why are you single? You have your own business, flat, and a business degree from Temple, a Mustang, and lots of money. What’s your deal, Corey? Do you have a boyfriend at home or what? And why hasn’t a dude caught you yet? What are you keeping from me?”

“You think there’s some hunky jock waiting for me back at my pad?”

He has his left hand wrapped around my neck and his right hand one of my hips. He says, “Listen. This life I have is what it is. I have no secrets. And the reason I’m single is simple. I’ve been holding out for you. Ten years without your cute smile, nice ass, and charm is long enough. I wanted to see you. This is why I contacted you.”

“Are you trying to catch me?” I ask. It slips out of me like cuss words at a rodeo.

“What if I am?”

“I’m not easy to catch.”

“Trust me,” he laughs, “you’re easy. You’ve always been easy. Besides, something tells me I already have you.”

He doesn’t have me, though. And most likely, by the end of this weekend in the city, he will never have me. I realize that our days of high school, swimming, and innocent s*x are long over. Time has spanked us both and we are opposites now, separated by states, distance, careers, and different worlds.

Instead of sharing this honest approach with him, I say, “You’re adorable. Now, stop teasing me.”

He removes his right hand from my hip and slides it between us. I feel his fingers along the tight denim area between my legs, grazing my semi-stiff c**k. He gives my d**k a little squeeze, teases me with a masculine chuckle, and asks, “How easy are you now?”

“Easy and sleazy,” I reply, firming up between my legs.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Before things start to get out of hand between us, I try and pull away from him. He has me by the balls, though and says, “Country boy, you’re not going anywhere. Don’t make me find you again. You’re in my life to stay from this moment on.”

As lovers?

As friends?

As a memory of our boyhoods?

I wonder. How can I not wonder?

My mind drifts as he kisses me on the neck. Locked together, we sway to and fro to the pumped house rock, and I admit to myself: I do feel easy.