As Beyoncé Would Say, Watermelon

I PICK up some hair gel on my way home from work on Sunday. I feel a little stupid doing it, and it’s probably not worth the money, but I want to look nice when I go over to Dave’s, even if all we do is play video games.

When Dave opens the door to his apartment, I can tell from the curl in his upper lip he likes what I’ve done with it. “Aye, Papi,” he says like an asshole, almost ruining it but not quite because I’m getting used to Dave’s particular brand of humor. When a guy is into you and makes it known, you make some allowances.

I go inside and cross the room, not knowing what to do with myself, which happens quite often. My mom says it’s because I’m growing so fast, but to be truthful, I’ve never felt comfortable in my skin unless I’m doing something like skating or playing soccer or mowing lawns, something to take my mind off my own bumbling awkwardness.

It feels so small in here, just the two of us. Like a fishbowl. I glance toward the couch, but I don’t really want to play video games. Then the bed, which is, like, way too intimidating. I start doubting myself, thinking I shouldn’t have come at all. Dave seems to sense my anxiety because he offers me a drink. I tell him I’m not thirsty.

“You want to play video games?” he asks. I stare at him, unable to form the words. I shake my head instead. “Okay.” He takes a step toward me, and I shift nervously from one foot to the other. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, studying me like an algebraic equation.

“You’ve never done this before,” he says, a statement, not a question.

I shake my head again and glance toward the door. I don’t want to leave, but this is awkward as hell. What changed since yesterday? Dave tells me to have a seat on the couch and make myself comfortable. He puts on some music, not anything romantic either. Hip-hop. Not too soft, not too loud.

He plops down on the couch next to me, yawns, and puts his arm behind my back like we’re on a date at the movies. He’s trying to loosen me up by making me laugh, but the joke falls flat. My sense of humor is buried somewhere beneath all the nerves and whatever I had for lunch that afternoon.

“So, how about those Dolphins?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“I don’t follow football.”

“That was just my opener. You want to mess around?”

I shrug. Meanwhile, my junk starts acting up at the prospect and my pits start sweating something fierce. Dave glances at my crotch, then nods like he’s figured something out. “Take off your shirt,” he says. I take a deep breath, sit up, and pull my shirt over my shoulders, feeling a little self-conscious because I’ve got some muscles but I’m by no means buff. I’m hoping my deodorant did its job today. The air conditioner clicks on, and the cold air sends a shiver down my spine.

“Yeah,” Dave says like he approves and gestures at my pants. “Unbutton.”

It’s easier when he tells me what to do, less room for me to overthink or second-guess myself. He stares at me—up, down, and back again, moistens his lips with his tongue, and reaches into his pants.

“Show me what you’ve got,” he says while pulling out his own.

I stroke myself a few times with a trembling hand, wishing I had more confidence or that my body would just take over for me in situations like this. Regardless, I can see Dave getting turned on by it, which turns me on. It’s different from how it is with Chris. Chris can walk into a room and I’m hard. With Dave, it’s more like I’m turned on by thinking about what he wants. The anticipation.

Dave moves closer to me on the couch and takes off his shirt. He’s got a nice chest, hairy too, which I like. He’s not that cut, but there’s a solidness to his physique I appreciate. And he seems very comfortable with this dance, which eases my mind a bit.

“What are you into?” he asks, and I freeze. “Never mind.” He squints and assesses me, like I’m on a job interview and he’s trying to determine if I’m a hard worker or a slacker, whether or not he’s going to take the chance on me. I want to offer him some bit of assurance, but I’m pretty unqualified for the job.

“You ever had a blowjob before?” he asks.

I shake my head and try to swallow, remembering when Chris told me about that girl who offered to give him one and he turned her down. Now I’m in that same situation.

“You interested?”

It’s not much different from when he offered to cut my hair. Strangely, it reminds me that I still need to mow his grass.

“Yeah,” I say, because my prick is already twitching at the thought of it.

Dave buttons up, tells me to lean back and relax. Like when he cut my hair and taught me how to shave, there’s some preparation. He gets a pillow, for instance, and a condom, then gets comfortable on his knees in front of me. I feel really exposed as he looks me over, like he could make one wisecrack and ruin everything, but he doesn’t. He rubs me up and down a few times, not rough, but not too gently either. Kind of like it’s a regular old job and he’s done it a million times before. Strangely, his efficiency helps me relax a little. I lean back and close my eyes, gripping the couch cushions with both hands like it’s Space Mountain and I’m twelve years old, knowing there’s all this hype to the ride without knowing the ride itself.

Then Dave starts doing things with his mouth that feel really, really good. Like that roller coaster, my whole body is going for the ride. He’s drawing all these sensations out of me I could never accomplish by myself, making me utter things in a voice I’ve never heard before—yeah, come on, right there, fuck yeah. My hips lift off the couch as my dick goes deeper inside his mouth. His lips smack as he moans, and it sounds so wet and nasty and I want to ram it farther down his throat, but I don’t. No wonder the guys at school are always going on about it. Just when I’m about to cum, he slides me out, strips off the condom, and finishes me off with his fist. My dick explodes, and I think of that guy who used to smash watermelons with a hammer. All the red meat going everywhere, landing on people’s faces. I’m not very tidy.

“Goooooooal,” Dave says, and I chuckle, though it sounds more like I’m being strangled. I’ve been holding on to the couch for dear life the whole time, so when he backs away, I have to take a few deep breaths and uncoil myself like a snake.

Dave goes to the bathroom for a minute, comes back with a towel, and tosses it to me.

“Well?” he asks. “How was it?”

“Damn,” I utter, catching my breath. My dick is still raw and throbbing and exposed to the cold air conditioner. I put it away before it starts to look sad and dejected, thinking what most guys have probably thought at some point in their lives: if I could do that for myself, I’d never leave my bedroom.

“You’re welcome,” Dave says, and his self-satisfied smirk is back. I finish buttoning my pants and glance over at him, hoping he’ll tell me what happens next.

“You want to give it a try?” he asks with a teasing smile.

Like I said before, I’m a person who likes to return the favor. I settle down on my knees in front of him, appreciating the forethought of the pillow. Dave tells me what to do every step of the way. It’s not much different from when he taught me how to shave.

Dave’s a good teacher.