Blood Sugar(17)

I was so comfortable with Roman, more so than with Ameena and even with Ellie in some ways, that a few times I almost mentioned Duncan Reese in passing. Totally, like that one time I drowned that bully in the ocean. I almost casually referenced slashing Richard Vale in the eyebrow. Believe me, I know the head can bleed a lot, even when it’s just a surface wound. And as the memories and the thoughts were about to fly from my mouth, I would remember that I could never say these things out loud. These were secrets I had to keep forever. From even my best friends. My closest family. Secrets forced me to keep up a thin wall between me and the people I loved and trusted most. Another thin layer of latex. Some might think this is sad, no way to live, but if you’ve never had sex without a condom, using condoms feels pretty damn good.

But still, maybe, if there was anyone I could tell or would tell someday . . . it would be Roman.





CHAPTER 11


    BETRAYAL



Roman felt it would be a crime to not share his beautiful body with the world, so he signed up to be a nude model for several Yale art classes. How he would find the time to stand around naked for the betterment of others while crushing his two majors, studying for the LSAT, and doing two-a-days in the gym was beyond me.

His one concern, however, was that while naked in front of the art class he might make eye contact with a pretty girl. Or have a pornographic thought. Or let a daydream turn into a fantasy. Any of these things could make him get hard. He didn’t want to get hard. He wanted to be a muse, to be gazed upon and adored, calm, cool, and collected, like a statue, and didn’t want his penis to give away that he hadn’t transcended natural bodily functions. So he came up with a plan.

I arrived at his studio apartment—he was now living off campus—with my laptop, a bag full of textbooks, and two giant coffees. His with exactly one and one half pods of cream, mine with two pods of cream and two packets of raw sugar. I handed him his coffee and plopped down in his one comfy chair. He took his pants off. And then his boxer briefs. He looked comical with his T-shirt and socks still on. He realized this and he quickly pulled off his T-shirt. And then bent down and removed his socks. Roman was now fully naked, standing in front of me. He was beautiful.

I had never seen him naked before. And I stared. Because that was part of the plan. I was to stare at him, in all sorts of ways, from all sorts of angles. And he was to stand there and see if being naked in front of a girl would make him hard.

“So?” he asked.

“What do you mean, so? I’m not here to critique your dick.”

“I know. I just thought I’d ask anyway.”

“This might come as a shock, but most women, me included, don’t care so much about the penis. It’s weird-looking, and as long as it’s in the realm of normal human size, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Wait. All of them are weird-looking? Or mine specifically is weird-looking?”

“Jesus Christ. All of them are weird-looking! Why do you think male sex symbols are always in tuxedos? Men are at their most attractive when they’re covered up as much as possible.”

This seemed to really demolish his spirit. He plopped down on his couch, deflated. I felt bad, and sat next to him. I put a hand on his arm. Felt the muscles tense under my touch. I then put my head on his shoulder and side-hugged him, allowing my hand to rest on his protruding left oblique. I felt a thrill shoot up my spine and also down into my pelvis.

“Listen to me, your body is incredible. You know that. We aren’t here to debate that. We are here to see if you are going to get hard or not.” Roman looked down at his flaccid penis. Then looked at me, then took a sip of his coffee. And we waited.

Roman did not get hard, not in front of me and not in front of any art classes. He was as good at modeling naked as he was at everything else he tried. And our friendship continued to soar through to the beginning of senior year. Which was when I met Jake.

It was my twenty-first birthday, and I was celebrating with friends at New Haven’s coolest bar. The place was much stricter with IDing than any place had ever been in Miami, so my fake ID had never been able to cut it. I had to wait until the night of my actual birthday to get in. I hadn’t had a drink since that night at Club Rox when I saw Duncan’s mom. Her pathetic frazzled image and the phrase gateway drug kept me away from alcohol for five years. So I was drinking a club soda with a lime.

Ameena’s new boyfriend, a cute Indian guy who, unfortunately for her parents, was a staunch atheist, brought his buddy Jake. As thanks for allowing him to crash my birthday, Jake offered to buy me a drink. Instead of explaining to him that I used to do lines of cocaine off stolen side-view mirrors and then ran into the drug-addled mother of a boy I had killed, which turned me off all mind-altering substances, I said, “Okay. I’d like a glass of Champagne.”

Jake, who could best be described as a heartthrob, with perfectly symmetrical features and mischievous eyes, bought a bottle.

I reasoned out that I was now twenty-one, older and wiser, and truly happy. My frontal lobes were fully fused. I could make good decisions, and I didn’t need the crutch of drugs to dull the pain of loneliness like I had when Ellie left for college. And my curious side wanted to test the “Once an addict, always an addict” belief. With all that in mind, I confidently took my first sip of Champagne.

It was a delight. Dry and bubbly. Feeling the alcohol hit my bloodstream didn’t launch me back into some drug-hungry frenzy. It didn’t even inspire me to drink too much. I had only two glasses of the expensive bottle, and that was perfect. I was buzzed, but not drunk. I was also surprised when Jake leaned in and kissed my neck.