Page 29 of Romance Languages

“Don’t be. I’m actually impressed that you got all the puke in the toilet bowl. I didn’t need to do much cleanup.”

Much. Meaning there was some. He’d cleaned upsomeof my mess and then carried my fat, drunk, blacked-out ass to the bed. I was a person who preferred to keep his mess tidy and to himself. I was the friend who helped friends with their messes.

“This is why I never drink hard stuff.”

“Why did you bring it then?” His lips pouted in beautiful confusion, making my stomach find the strength to flutter.

“I thought it would relax us, make things less awkward.”

“I watched you blow chunks like I’ve never seen chunks blown before. I think we’re past awkward.”

I hung my head. I couldn’t admit that I’d needed to drink alcohol to calm my nerves last night, because agreeing to lose your virginity to someone you were secretly in love with was a very nerve-racking proposition.

“You don’t want your first time to be in a drunken haze. Plus if you drink too much, then you might get whiskey dick. We don’t need alcohol to enjoy this.”

I hoped that Seamus found some enjoyment in this odd arrangement. We were not off to an auspicious start.

“Come here.” He nudged his head, inviting me over.

I wasn’t going to overthink this one. I sat next to him and let myself admire his chest and the hazy smile hanging on his lips.

“Thank you for…all of your help last night. With everything.”

“How was it, from what you remember?”

What I remembered before I threw up? How amazing it felt to touch another man. How hard he was. My hand vibrated with lingering heat.

“Good. It was cool.”

“Yeah, you were great.”

“I was?”

“The girls I’ve been with don’t know how to hold it, or they pull too hard or too soft. You’re a natural.”

“I’ve had practice.” I shrugged.

A memory from last night: hearing that low rumbly moan escape my straight friend’s mouth. I’d made a straight man moan. My face deserved to be carved onto Gay Mount Rushmore.

“Hand job.” I made a check motion, crossing it off my imaginary list.

“That was just over-the-pants action.” He rubbed his fist in the air in a gesture I couldn’t translate. Did we as a society change the signal for hand job while I was drunk? “I just erased your check mark from the board.”

“Damn.”

“Did you want to try giving a hand job?”

“Right now?” I followed his eyes to the boner tenting his blanket. It stuck straight up, like someone dressing as a Yankees ghost for Halloween. “We were just talking about epic puking and you’re hard?”

“I always get one in the morning,” he said.

“No matter what, it seems.”

The boner hardening in my pants could not be blamed on the morning. That was all for Seamus.

“Did you want to give it a try?” Seamus remained his chill self, but a hint of curiosity dazzled behind his sleepy eyes.

My hangover was raging. I was tired. And as previously established, I looked like shit. But time was a-ticking. The golden rule of life stated that we should grab opportunities when they arose. Welp, Seamus’s opportunity had risen straight up. That meant only one thing.

---