Page 2 of Romance Languages

Everett:We’re just putting together your birthday festivities.

Chase:They don’t involve either. I would say more, but I’m sworn to secrecy.

Everett:Lordy, excuse me for trying to drum up anticipation and throw in some red herrings.

Julian:Has anyone told you you have a flair for drama?

Everett:GASP.

Amos:We’re busy planning. It’s going to be epic, in a lowkey kind of way.

Julian:You really don’t have to do anything big. It’s just another birthday. We can have a birthday at your condo, like we did for Chase.

Everett:Save it, lady. We won’t settle for anything less than strippers slapping you in the face with their dicks.

Julian:Please tell me that’s not it.

Amos:That’s not it.

Amos:Or is it?

Chase:Would it hurt if you were hit in the face with a dick? More or less than a hand? I suppose whether it was erect or not would make a difference, as well as the flexibility of the stripper’s hips to create a suitable range of motion for the dick.

Julian:Chase, I love how your brain works.

Everett:I don’t.

Amos:Yes he does.

Everett:Bottom line - we’re cooking up something good for you, J. You’re going to love it. And I will continue to tease you with hints and red herrings because I live for drama. Now, is there anything special you want for your birthday?

I thought about it for a moment, then typed out my answer:I want to lose my virginity.

I stared at the group chat screen where my text sat, not yet sent. Of course I wasn’t going to send it, but seeing it spelled out in plain English turned it from a wandering thought flitting through my head into something real, something tangible, something I could achieve.

Julian:If there’s something special I want, I’ll let you guys know. Although now that you mention it, I’ve always wanted a mechanical bull for my house.

Somehow, I was going to have sex with a guy before my birthday. It was time to get over the hump. Or under the hump depending on the position.

2

JULIAN

Iwas a goal-oriented person. That was how I’d pushed myself through undergrad and grad school.

New goal: rid myself of my metaphorical hymen.

On Monday morning, I arrived extra early at South Rock High School, before the sun was fully up. South Rock was where I’d met Amos, Everett, and Chase. We’d all started here around the same time and bonded as nerdy, gay teachers. Our group chat was endless and the Holy Bible of our friendship. On rough days, when school bureaucracy or obnoxious students were getting me down, those guys were my saving grace. They were the family I happily chose.

I was close-ish with my actual family. There were no fights or estrangements, but everyone in my family was slim and trim and thought they were being helpful by constantly talking to me about my weight.

My grandma and I were tight, though. She was eighty and spry and lived life with no filter.

At South Rock, I taught French. I sat in my classroom, surrounded by posters of French sayings and touristy pictures of France. The Eiffel Tower. Vineyards. Cannes. I did a study abroad trip in college, and I forever fell in love. There was a reason why they called French a Romance language.

But this morning was not the time for romance. It was about lust. About two bodies coming together in a sweaty heap of passion.

With a heavy sigh, I reactivated my Milkman account. It was a gay dating app supposedly for finding love, though all the shirtless pics and mentions of DTF (down to fuck) said otherwise.

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