Page 209 of Coach
And then licked my left cheek.
“Did you just lick me?”
“It’s the European hello, darling,” he said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“You’re not supposed to use tongue during the European hello. It’s quick pecks, that’s all.”
He waved a hand like I was being pedantic. “Omar licks me, why can’t I do unto others?”
Omar, who had followed behind at a much more reasonable pace, strolled up with a grin and a full-on “yes, I do” shrug.
“That’s different,” I said. “You’re together, and, from what we’ve been told, Omar’s tongue is a religious experience. Yours feels like a damp stampede.”
“You’re just a pouty pants,” Matty said, releasing me and flouncing onto the barstool beside mine. “Hi Todd! We’ll take two ‘Daddy Issues’ and a shot of tequila with emotionally unavailable men in it.”
Todd gave him a thumbs-up without turning around, though his shoulders shook.
Omar took the stool on my other side and raised an eyebrow. “So. Shane.”
Oh no.
Matty gasped. “Oh my God, yes. Shane. You invited Shane? To this? To meet us?”
“I did,” I said, sipping my beer like it was poison and salvation in one. Then I caught myself. “No! I didn’t invite him to meet you . . . I mean . . . I did . . . he will . . . but that wasn’t . . . fuck.”
“Set aside the ice-bath-shock of meeting our group, you decided to bring him to Jockstraps? For a second date?” Omar asked.
“Is he okay with homoerotic sports kitsch?” Mattyadded, glancing around at the framed jockstraps and theRocky Horrorsingalong playing over the speakers. On a whim, he reached back and pretended to cradle the not-very-well-hidden balls of the nearly naked baseball player in the frame behind him.
“He said yes.”
Omar blinked. “He said yes to you bringing him here?”
Matty placed a hand over his heart. “He’s braver than the Marines.”
“He’s hot?” Omar asked the only question most gay men cared about.
“Hot in that broody, emotionally constipated carpenter way,” Matty agreed. “Like if a growl were a man.”
“Like if Ron Swanson had tattoos and sad eyes,” I quipped.
Matty clapped his fingertips together. “Exactly! And muscles. Do you think he has a hairy chest? I bet he does.”
“Stop objectifying him,” I hissed, glancing toward the door.
“Puhleeeease.” Matty rolled his eyes. “If you didn’t want us to ask, you wouldn’t have texted ‘I want to climb him like a jungle gym’ three days ago.”
“That was private,” I grumbled.
“That was a group chat,” Matty countered.
“It was a moment of weakness,” I said, then buried my face in my hands.
Omar leaned in, voice softer, and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” I lied.
“You’re sweating,” he said, pulling his hand back and staring at his palm as though it came away covered in blood.
