That evening, I sketched Michael until the sunlight withdrew from the room and we had to turn on lamps to supplement the fire. I filled page after page with the sprawl of his legs, the incline of his head, his inattentive features and easy posture. One page, I devoted entirely to his hands, which were miraculously still as he read.
I have always preferred drawing to photography, because photos only reveal what is, but the sketch reveals what is felt. And that’s art—the irrepressible filter of feeling between the self and the world. As I interpreted Michael into graphite lines, I focused on affection instead of shame, and on the growing love I felt for him instead of the hatred I felt for myself. Of course, I was falling in love with him. He had witnessed all of my darkness and he was still at my side.
“Can I see?” he asked, not for the first time. We had spent the whole day on reading and drawing, breaking only for lunch, dinner, and cigarettes.
I walked over and inclined the sketchbook.
He studied the page seriously.
“You’re good at everything.”
“You don’t really believe that,” I replied. About the things that mattered—love and intimacy, a healthy and fair-minded view of the world and myself—he believed I failed completely. I watched him process my comment and close his mouth.
“I’m tired, Michael. I’m heading up.”
“Oh.” He hopped out of the chair. “Me too.”
“You could stay down here, make yourself at home.”
“No, I’m tired.” Contrary to the statement, his face was pale and alert.
“Well, there’s a guest room in the basement.” I put out the fire and closed curtains and blinds. I knew he wanted to babysit me and it might have been amusing to watch him squirm if I didn’t offer my bed, but he had been through enough in the last twenty-four hours. “Or you can sleep with me.”
“Sure,” he mumbled.
I gave him a toothbrush and kicked him out of the bathroom for a few minutes of privacy. He was waiting by the door when I emerged.
“You’re welcome to do a full body exam,” I said, stripping lazily as I crossed the room. “Or maybe some forensic work in there.”
“Very funny.” He darted into the bathroom.
It was funny to me, his mounting uneasiness over our sleeping arrangement. I tossed my clothes in the hamper, turned off the lights, and stretched out, naked, beneath the sheets. I rarely slept naked, but Michael didn’t need to know that.
His shadowy shape appeared in the bathroom doorway, boxer-clad, carrying a pile of folded clothes. “I’ll just ...”
“Put them anywhere,” I murmured.
“Okay.” He shuffled cautiously toward the bed.
“Watch your step.” I grinned in the dark.
“You’re a dick.” The comforter shifted and he scooted onto the mattress with minimal movement. And there he stayed, tightly curled at the far side of the bed. I yawned and stretched and waited.
“I think I need to invest in sheets with a higher thread count,” he said.
“Hm,” I agreed.
“Thanks for letting me stay.”
I made another affable noise.
He was actually going to say goodnight, as if we were boys at a sleepover. I could feel it coming. I steeled myself.
“Anyway”—he cleared his throat—“goodnight, Cal.”
My shoulders trembled and my throat clamped powerlessly around my laughter, so that it came out gravelly and suppressed.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
“Come here, Michael.”
He inched over until his spine touched my flank.
I rolled onto my side and pulled his back against my chest, nestling my erection into the cleft of his bottom. Only then did he realize I was naked and he jumped. I touched his chest, brushing my fingers over his nipples. They were terrifically sensitive. I teased them for a while, making him twitch against me.
“Cal ...”
“What?” I felt him through his boxers. He was rigid.
“I don’t ... want you to get turned on and ... hurt yourself.”
“It’s a little late, for the first part. And I won’t, okay?” I pressed against him. “I won’t.” I needed him so badly, I would have agreed to anything.
“You have to finish,” he said.
“I will. I promise. You can watch.” I pushed down his boxers and he twisted to face me. We touched each other gently, kissing and rubbing together. When he dragged back the covers and moved down my body, I let him go, my fingers woven into his hair as he kissed my shaft. He had no idea what he was doing and, somehow, his inexperience was incredibly arousing. I moaned sharply as he sucked on my head.
“Michael ... use your hands.”
He obeyed at once, clumsily squeezing my balls and shaft. I would have been laughing, if I weren’t gasping and writhing. In my limited experience, growing up with a male body never quite prepares one for handling the same.
He tried to take me deep and gagged, backing off and panting. As he collected himself, he kissed my abs, then my thighs, then my inner thighs, his lips and tongue caressing my cuts and scars. Teardrops hit my skin.
I pulled him up and kissed the damp tracks from his cheeks. Then I kissed his mouth, sliding my tongue in and out suggestively.
When I reached for my lubricant, he started to roll over.
“No,” I said, positioning him on his back. “Like this.”
I lifted his legs over my shoulders and penetrated him. I told him I could get deeper that way, and that I knew he wanted to keep an eye on me. I made him touch himself and I watched as I rocked into him. He came first, always.
I enjoyed him for a long time afterward, slamming against him, slowing down, riding the edge of ecstasy and telling him every filthy thought that crossed my mind.
While we did it, I made him look at me, and we kissed and I touched him. I never wanted to stop. He was perfect, trapped between discomfort and pleasure, and when I rode him hard, he gripped the sheets and made the most obscene noises.
Sweat dripped from my chin to his chest. “Good,” he said continually, “it feels good,” even though he winced when I went too fast. “Doesn’t it feel good?” he panted, pulling my body against his.
I nodded, slowly losing my grip on control.
“Because it is good,” he said. “It’s good, Cal. It’s okay.”
He drew my lips to his as I came and he kissed me as if he could change my mind with a kiss. I moaned into his mouth. He clutched at me then and after, his limbs like bars around me, and when I woke the next morning he was still clinging to me.