This is a date. I’m almost 87% positive that this is a date. Not only that, but he’s flirting with me. And worse, I’m flirting back.

“I live just down the street,” Craig says while I use the wall for balance to put my shoes back on. He slipped into his effortlessly, which seems to be a pretty perfect metaphor for our differences. The things I struggle with are easy for him. “Do you want to come over for coffee before you try to drive home?”

We’ve finished dinner and paid – separate checks, which drives my date percentage surety down to 85%. But coffee? That demands a bump back up to 92%. Because that’s the universal signal for hooking up, right?

Do I want that? It will inevitably go south, and then things could be awkward for Ben at work. Of course, he’s not planning on staying there that long. And he’s put me in plenty of awkward situations at school while he whored around with the whole GSA. (Not that I have any room to judge people’s sexual preferences.) I’m older now. There’s no reason why seeing someone after a mutually beneficial time together needs to be weird.

But maybe he just has a thing against drunk (tipsy at most, really) driving and really means coffee? Oh god. How do I know?

As my panic increases and I realize I’ve been standing here without responding for entirely too long, I make up my mind. Either way, I do want to go home with him, so I nod my head and try to give a confident smile when I say, “Sounds good.”

Craig laughs, but softens the blow when he holds out his hand, palm up. “Shall we?”

I feel my smile change into something smaller and tentative and real as I slide my hand into his. A little of the tension I’ve been holding in ebbs as warmth travels from his fingertips into my own, and the temperature difference gives me chills. His fingers lightly brush along mine, like simple contact isn’t enough. They want to explore and sense everything possible about my hands, and my fingers itch to do the same.

We’re quiet, walking hand in hand to Craig’s place, and although it’s comfortable, it’s not on purpose. My brain has short-circuited from the intimacy, not that it’s great at conversation starters during normal circumstances. Ideas for topics float to mind, but I shoot them down before they ever make it out of my mouth. Finally, I stumble onto one that doesn’t sound idiotic or contain some innuendo or sound like I’m reading way too much into this hand holding.

“Must be nice, living so close to Old Town.”

The words have barely left my mouth when a loud group comes crashing out of a bar behind us, startling me out of his grasp.

“It has its advantages and disadvantages.” He laughs and pulls me back to him and re-secures our hands. “It’s nice to walk to work.”

“Except when it snows, I bet.”

“No, I don’t mind the snow. I just pretend I’m out skiing, and suddenly it’s an adventure instead of a chore.”

I can imagine Craig doing that, shushing through the snow like a little kid. He might have that edgy look, with his piercings and intensity, but I can also see the big kid at heart inside. The same one who’s scared of bugs – ha!

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I think skiing is the chore.”

“You don’t like to ski?” Craig asks, as if I’ve personally offended him.

“Ben made me go once, and no,” I shudder, remembering the horrors of that weekend, “I did not like it.”

“But snow.” His voice is almost pleading.

“Nope.”

“I bet I could get you to enjoy it.”

“Never, ever going to happen.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“Even Barney Stinson couldn’t get me to enjoy skiing,” I say with conviction.

Craig stops and turns to me with a strange expression. “You know, you’ve gotten all of my references so far. That never happens.”

My cheeks flush, but it’s with pride this time, not embarrassment. “Nerd, remember?”

“Huh,” he says, dismissing my comment. A few seconds later he stops again, this time in front of an old Victorian. “This is home.”

We enter through the front door, which opens immediately to a stairwell. Craig tugs me by the hand up one flight and takes his keys out for the only door on this floor. The kitchen is on the same wall as his apartment’s front door, and as soon as we arrive, he tosses his keys on the counter and sets to actually making coffee.

My goddamn nerves don’t know what to do, and he notices, with a smile.

“Feel free to wait on the couch, if you want. How do you take your coffee?”

“Just a little bit of creamer. Or milk, if you don’t have creamer. Can I use your bathroom?”

“Sure,” he says and points to the only door, which is wide open to his bedroom. “It’s through there.”

I try to focus on the bathroom and not perv out on his bedroom, even though I’m dying to know what size bed he has and what his sheets are like. After ridding myself of this evening’s beer, I can’t help but stare at my reflection as I wash my hands. My hair has dried into an even frizzier mess than usual. There’s no flush on my face at the moment, so it looks extra pale, especially in contrast to my dark glasses, which cast an unfortunate shadow under my eyes. Not exactly wet dream material. I fill my lungs with a fortifying breath, and prepare to be quickly ushered home after coffee.

Craig sits on the couch with two mugs of coffee on the table in front of him. He notices me lingering in the doorway and pats the spot next to him. My legs take me to him before I’ve even realized it.

“Hey,” he whispers on a breath.

I can’t answer, and I realize it’s because I’m chewing on the inside of my lip.

He takes a curl between his fingers and traces it with his fingertips. “Is this okay?” he asks, and I can only nod. He’s not even touching a part of me that can feel, and yet my skin prickles with heat from the intimacy of his stroking my hair.

“Your hair drives me crazy,” he says, but his voice is low and grainy.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

A feral grin transforms his face from tender to vicious. “I’m not. It makes me want to do bad things.” His fist closes around a handful of curls. He doesn’t tug – I still can’t feel it. But the visual alone stirs my dick and makes me whimper. “I did promise retaliation for the cricket stunt.”

I can’t fucking breathe, waiting to see what he’s going to do. My head turns toward him, though I’m trying to hold still. My arms stick to my sides and my hands will probably leave permanent indents in his couch cushion. I’m afraid to look, so I close my eyes instead. My breath hitches at the first slight touch. His lips ghost mine, puffs of breath more tangible than his skin.

Craig kisses me like he’s scared I’m going to run away. The hand that had fisted my hair moves to gently cup the side of my head, but doesn’t hold me in place. When he pulls back to look into my eyes, his hand remains, and his thumb gently strokes from my cheek down to my lower lip.

I guess it’s because I’m so shy that he’s treating me like Donna Martin, and I vaguely wonder if he’d get my reference this time. Because this, I can do. When the situation is all uncertainty and doubt, yes, I’m a hesitant wallflower. But once you stick your tongue down my throat like you mean it, I’m all systems go. The thing about sex is, I don’t have to worry about saying something stupid when my mouth is occupied.

Heat surges me forward, and Craig takes the hint and recaptures my mouth. I open to deepen the kiss, and thrill at the scrape of his stubble across my chin. The sensation jolts my body into action, and my hands extricate themselves from the couch, only to tangle back up into his shirt.

He tastes like beer, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the fact that he’s exploring a mouth that recently tasted crickets. I mentally shake myself from my wandering brain. This is the most difficult aspect of sex for me. I enjoy the sensations, but it’s so hard to keep my brain focused.

There is an easy solution to that problem, so I take the lead and crawl onto Craig’s lap. Concern that he might think I’m moving too fast flickers into my consciousness, but then I feel his hardness under me, and my brain clicks back into place.

It feels good to grind my own hardness into him, so I do and feel a surge of power as he gasps into my mouth. His touches have changed from gentle to urgent, and I make a gasp of my own when he grabs my hips and thrusts his pelvis into mine so hard it’s almost painful. I’m going to have a terrible case of beard burn from the ferocity of our kisses.

Craig puts a hand on my jeans button, and pulls back from the kiss long enough to ask, “Can I?”

I press my mouth back to his and hum my consent. He doesn’t hesitate after that. My pants are open and his hand is wrapped around my shaft in seconds.

“Fuck,” he groans as precum dribbles onto his fingers.

It feels good. Really good. His strokes are tight and slow, and I can’t keep my hips from bucking up to meet his fist. I’m so overwhelmed that I forget that I’m supposed to be kissing him. Or returning the gesture. Yes, that’s what you do in this kind of situation. I shimmy back a little so that I can have access to him, but his pants are too tight to pull down with me still on top.

I stand so that I can get his pants down, but while he has easy access in front of him, Craig guides my cock to his mouth and wraps his lips around the head. A shocked laugh escapes my chest, and I can feel him briefly smile around my dick. His tongue circles the tip, then flicks back and forth over the large vein at the base, sending chills up my spine.

Eventually my brain reengages and then my usual problems return. I stroke his cheek and appreciate the sight of him swallowing me whole, but my nerve endings have become almost numb from sensitivity. That numbness is making my mind wander, and I know from experience that I’ll need something else to finish me off. I won’t be able to come from the blow job alone.

I pull away from his mouth and settle onto his bare lap, our motions still slightly restricted by both sets of jeans bunched around our ankles. Collecting a load of spit, I let it drip from my mouth onto his cock. Craig moans at the sight, and my balls tingle at the filthiness of it. I spread my spit around his dick with my own, then gather both in hand and start to jack our shafts together in earnest. A wet, squelching noise fills the room, but is quickly drowned out by heavy panting.

Craig captures my mouth again with his, more urgently than before. He squeezes handfuls of my ass and trails fingertips along my crack. Each squeeze spreads my ass more, exposing my hole, and the soft pad of one of his fingers taps the clenching opening. My traitorous mind supplies extra fodder for my orgasm, imagining that Craig holds me open for the greedy eyes of others. That he wants these anonymous voyeurs to see how hungry my hole is for him.

“Fuck,” I moan into his mouth as my orgasm hits sooner than expected. I come over his stomach and cock. My brain is still a little fuzzy, but my hand doesn’t slow on his dick. Instead I gather my release to use as extra lube to pump him faster. He follows soon after, shouting my name with his face buried into my shoulder.

We lean on each other for support as we come down from our highs. I try to keep this moment going as long as possible – this brief feeling of satisfaction before my brain kicks back in. A sharp swat to my ass stings enough to get my floppy dick to twitch.

“Up with you,” he says, and helps hold my unsteady legs as I clamber to my feet. “I need a shower.” He looks down at himself and laughs. We’re both still clothed, and our combined releases drip from his shirt and stomach, collecting in the opening of his pants. “How am I the only messy one?”

I put myself back together after Craig shuts himself into his bathroom. Our coffees sit, untouched, on the table. Pretense, then. So does that mean I should go?

The sex was good, I think. I had an easier time staying focused than I typically do, which I think is due to his responsiveness. Previous hookups only cared about getting themselves off, and so variety and eroticism was always missing. I feel a little guilty about adding in a fantasy, but you can’t always control where your mind takes you. Plus it made me gush like a fucking fire hydrant.

The next time I see Craig at Game Over, or if he ever hangs out with Ben again, I don’t think it will be too awkward. At least, as long as I don’t make this parting bit weird. Which means I should go ahead and go. That would be the polite thing, right? Not make him have to kick me out or come up with excuses for me to leave. Right.

My chest hurts a little when I take one final glance around Craig’s home before closing the door behind me. I’m halfway back to my car when I realize that it’s because I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t get to explore his bedroom, or look around at his pictures, or snoop through his music or DVD collection. I didn’t get to do all the things you do when you’re getting to know someone. And I wish that I could really get to know Craig.

Fuck. So much for not making things awkward.