What Happens When You Connect With Your Missed Connection

We’re interrupted when the roof access door opens and several boys step out; all dressed in variations of the same beat-up plaid shirt and tan pants. Dick is polite but reserved as they introduce themselves, their handshakes fleeting and flimsy. He waits until they bore of the small talk and wander away a few feet before mentioning there’s a small yard out back. He leads me through his apartment and into the tiny courtyard. Twenty minutes later I’m out of cigarettes and things to talk about in the dark. Inside, we walk straight past his roommates and into his bedroom.

Dick flops down on his bed, opening his MacBook as I take a seat on the floor. Leaning my head on the edge of the mattress, I stare at the strings of white and blue Christmas lights he’s strung between the suspended ballasts overhead. They’re reminiscent of the teenage bedrooms of my youth — had they been constructed of cement. The beers consumed on Dick’s roof combined with the drinks from the bar have left me warm and hazy, and the pleasant feelings multiply after taking hits off the pipe he offers me. I move from the floor to his bed, careful not to touch him as I stretch out to better enjoy the crooning of Roy Orbison.

“He had the voice of God,” Dick tells me, still scrolling through his playlists.

My vision is starting to blur around the edges but I know the words to most of these songs — they make me think of my dad and I close my eyes, telling myself not to compare anything involving my father to hanging out with guys in bed, because that’s weird. The thought leaves as quickly as it came and iTunes shuffles from Roy to Patsy. My breathing slows and my mind begins to drift — until I notice Dick’s hand is resting on my hip. He leans in close, peck-kissing my neck in a childish fashion. I might have thought he was a big strong man but he’s approaching like a very timid puppy. His lips move from neck to mouth, his kisses still light; it makes me think of the girls I kissed in elementary school when we were too bored to watch TV.

His hands find their way into my pants, fingers probing inside me but clearly unaware of how to catch just the right spot. My body does the lying for me, becoming wetter and warmer despite his unskilled touch. I fake an orgasm moments later, too buzzed to care if I’ve given a lackluster performance. He doesn’t seem to notice the difference anyway.

“I want to make you come again,” he says, lifting off the mattress. His shorts are unbuttoned and I’ve snaked my hand down to investigate what the good Lord gave him.

“Do you have any… uhh…”

He slides off his boxers before pulling down my leggings. His body’s solid — a little flabby, but every bit the physique I would expect a former high-school football captain to have. “Yeah.” He reaches over me and I hear the crinkling noises as he rips the foil wrapper.

He reaches down, battling to slide the latex over himself before liquor-dick gets the better of him. Do I really have to fake it again? Seems so. Whatever he wants to call this, it isn’t fucking — he kisses me like he means it, moving his hips at a distressingly slow pace once he’s inside me. Throughout our rutting I know I’m close but not close enough — lying again when he asks if I came. He doesn’t last long.

As I pull on my underwear before passing out, I’m with it just enough to check the time. It’s almost 3 a.m., tomorrow is Friday, and I know I will regret this in the morning.