Page 47 of The Legend Next Door
He’s so close to me that I’m momentarily unable to remember what we were talking about. “What’s what like?”
“Being gay. What’s it like? I’ve always wondered.”
“It’s… Well, it’s hard to say because it’s all I’ve ever known. I’ve known I was gay forever. I can’t remember the day or specific instance that made me realize or anything like that. I’ve just always known. I’m lucky, I guess. I don’t have a lot of internalized homophobia, and I have people in my life like Lissa, who make me feel good about who I am, so I like being gay. I’ve never wished I was made any other way.”
He harrumphs again and says, “I read an article once that said gay guys have been winning at sex forever.”
The sound I make is high-pitched and tinny and sounds nothing like my usual laugh. I’m unable to tamp it down, and instead, it takes off at an ungraceful canter.
“Yes, well, there are lots of reasons for that thinking,” I say. I’m aware he hasn’t asked for any, but I can tell from how fast my thoughts are coming at me that I’m about to outline them with or without my consent. “There’s the variation, you know, the option of switching roles and taking turns to top and bottom. It gives us a lot of options in regard to the acts we can perform on each other. Versatility, as we call it.”
I manage to stop just short of educating Ben on the perils of the shortage of good tops in the US—and what a fucking relief that is. As I celebrate that small victory, I lose focus and forget I’m trying to stop talking. “There’s also the whole two men thing, which, as you can imagine, is kind of a key feature of gay sex.”
“Two men, huh?” he says, chewing his cheek to hide his amusement.
“Yes, but no, I mean, yes, obviously there are two men involved in gay sex. Sometimes more, actually.”
Do not start educating Ben Stirling about the intricacies of group sex,I tell myself sternly.For the love of all that is holy. Do. Not. Do. That. I note that I’ve adopted an educational tone, which fills me with dismay. I can’t stand it when I get like this.
“My point is that everyone participating in gay sex is a dude, and you know what dudes are like.” When he doesn’t answer immediately, I seamlessly fill in the blank for him. “Dudes are horny, that’s what dudes are. So, when you take a bunch of gay men and throw them together, you get a good time. That’s what you get. You get a lot of people casually saying yes, and you get a lot of sex in gay sex. A lot, a lot. There are far fewer nos, you know? For example”—good God, when the hell did providing examples become so fucking important to me, and how do I stop it?—“I’ve been thinking I need to get laid, so I met a random guy on an app last night, and we’re going out for a drink tonight. The rules are clear. Both he and I understand innately that if we like the look of each other, we’re going to bone. It’s as simple as that.”
I hate this conversation with the fire of a thousand suns. I hate that I can’t stop talking, and I hate that I can’t tell if talking about sex with Ben is turning me on or if the adrenaline is pumping into my bloodstream this excessively because I know I’m currently at risk of causing my own death by disgrace. I do know that I urgently need to put a stop to it. At the very least, I need to divert attention from the fact that I just used the word “bone” on Ben’s front porch. Before ten in the morning.
“And there’s no risk of pregnancy when two cis men are involved,” I continue, deeply dismayed by myself but undeterred. “And f-fewer of us have kids. We aren’t subject to heteronormative relationship rules and regulations unless we choose to be. So, basically, what I’m saying is that when there are two guys involved, you have a lot of reasons to have sex and not a lot of reasons not to. And that’s something you don’t always get when there’s a man and a woman. When there’s a woman involved, statistically, there’s a greater chance of someone being sensible.”
“Statistically, huh?”
I plow straight on, not slowing my roll despite the fact that I’m talking complete and utter shit. “Yes, statistically. In straight sex, there’s a better chance of someone saying no. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’ve never had straight sex, so I’m far from an expert on the matter, but from what I’ve been able to glean from the way society treats women, it’s far less celebrated for them to be hoes.”
Oh fuck. Now I’ve said “hoes” too.
Jesus Christ, I need a muzzle and a powerful sedative.
“So, in summary,” I say, adjusting my posture to one that’s more upright. More scholarly, though it’s also not lost on me that since he didn’t ask for any of this information in the first place, it can be safely assumed that he’d be perfectly fine without a summary of it, “women aren’t as feral, depraved, horny, or hoe-like as men are.”
Oh God. I wish I was at home right now. I could be curled up, reading the dragon book. Even if it’s the worst book I’ve ever read, it would be so, so much better than this.
“Hmm,” he says, thoughtfully mulling over the mess I’ve made. “I’ve got to say, Jeremiah, that hasn’t been my experience with women. At all.”
My brain function has been severely compromised by all the ways I’ve embarrassed myself, so it takes me a second to organize my reaction into something coherent.
“Um, excuse me,” I say when I’m able. “Did you just casually drop the greatest humble brag that’s ever been humble bragged into the conversation.”
“Dunno.” He shrugs, biting back a smile as he lifts his mug to his lips. “I’m just telling it the way it is.”
“Oh my God.” I shake my head, amused, faux scandalized, and abjectly relieved by the change in topic. “You just did it again. But, ugh, you know what? It kind of makes sense. It stands to reason you haven’t had the typical straight male experience with women.”
“How’d you figure?”
“Well, you know. It’s ’cause you have all this”—my spine contracts in warning as I wave in a small circle around his face and then broaden it to include the rest of him—“Ben Stirling-ness going on.”
His chuckle is low and easy, pouring out of him in a soft ripple. I have no idea how he’s doing it, but he’s managing not to look absolutely aghast at what a blithering idiot I am.
He truly is a marvel.
I eye the picket fence in front of me longingly. It’s probably only fifteen or twenty yards from where I am. If I ran really fast, I could probably jump it like a hurdle. All I’d need to do from there is rush home, pack my belongings, rent a U-Haul, and drive north. Vancouver is only a hundred and forty miles from here. I could change my name and start a new life. It’s totally doable. People have done more for less.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” asks Ben. He’s trying to save me from myself, bless him. He can see I’m suffering, and he’s trying to help. He’s a good, kind man, and I feel for him for having to deal with me when I’m like this. I really do. “Do you ever, like, flirt with me?”
