Real Life(14)

Miller kissed him again, and Wallace involuntarily made small mewling sounds, which only encouraged Miller to kiss him more. Wallace felt as if he were being searched for something, as if each kiss, pressed to a different part of his mouth and jaw and cheek, was meant to yield some sort of answer to a question that wasn’t being asked. Miller’s hands were on his hips and then on his sides, going higher and higher until they arrived at his jaw, where they stopped. The sailing had roughened them, made their texture exciting on Wallace’s skin. His kisses tasted like beer and ice, cold and sharp. He bit Wallace’s lip.

“I’m enjoying this,” Miller said. “More than I thought I would.”

“That’s nice,” Wallace said. It seemed to be the wrong thing to say because Miller frowned and then went to pull away from him. But Wallace wrapped his legs tightly around Miller’s waist, stilling him. “Hey, where are you off to?”

“You didn’t seem that into it,” he said. “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I’m into it plenty,” Wallace said, and he guided Miller’s hand between his legs, where he was hard. Miller gasped a little, jolted in surprise as if remembering that Wallace was a man like him, but he was not chastened by this. He wrapped his hand around Wallace tightly, maybe a little too tight, and pressed his lips to Wallace’s neck.

“I don’t—I don’t know how to,” Miller said.

“It’s okay,” Wallace said. “It’s not too hard.”

Miller laughed. “I’m not a virgin. I just . . . This is . . . Well, you know.” He made a vague motion with his hands.



* * *



? ? ?

WALLACE’S BEDROOM WAS STILL DARK, except for the open window, which was blue-black from the streetlight below.

Wallace shut the blinds and the room was darker, shades of gray layered over each other, but this was his room. He knew its dimensions perfectly, and he knew that Miller was standing at the edge of the bed. He came up to him from behind, catching Miller unawares, and pushed him. Miller’s body resisted at first, just a little catch, and then he landed on the mattress with a bemused sigh. Wallace climbed onto the bed next to him, and they lay that way for a long time, or what seemed like a long time, the edges of their bodies just barely touching.

Wallace couldn’t remember the last time he had lain with someone this way, in that nearly innocent configuration that comes before sex when both parties pretend to want everything other than that, letting their bodies wind up to the point of unbearable tension. He reached for Miller first, his hand against Miller’s chest to feel the rhythm of his heart, its fast, hard beat.

They kissed again, the slow, downward sweep into desire. And then they came out of their clothes, shedding them like skins, so that when they touched again, they were bare and quivering like small, naked beings new to the world.

“Get under the sheets,” he told Miller, who obliged him. When they touched, it was so impossibly tender and fearful that Wallace could have wept for the boy he’d been at seven or eight, when he was touched for the first time, neither tenderly nor fearing that the touch might do him harm. Wallace was determined to give Miller what nobody had thought to give him, determined that at the end of this, whatever it was, Miller wouldn’t learn to fear his body or what it could contain. Miller’s fingers dug into his hair as his head bobbed between Miller’s thighs. He took Miller deeper into his throat, and there was the final, strangled gasp.

They fell asleep sore, covered in minor scratches and bruises. They fell asleep tangled together. They fell asleep, but Wallace did not dream. He skimmed beneath the surface of waking, gliding along a vast silver sea of light, viewing it from below, the world passing him by, passing over him.

Miller’s body was so warm and heavy against him. Hard in odd places that felt unfamiliar to him. While Miller slept, Wallace traced his fingers along the bones of his hips, through the sparse pubic hair above his cock. Sailing had indeed changed Miller’s body, not that Wallace had been familiar with it before. But there was something about its underlying firmness and the residual softness of his stomach and thighs. It was a body in transition. Miller’s chest hair was soft and curly. Asleep, he looked sweet, gentle, like a little boy in a grown man’s body. There was vulnerability in the way he had his hand draped over his face, a peace and depth to his sleep that suggested to Wallace a level of comfort, of innocence.

How long had it been since Wallace had slept well and easily? How long had it been since he had felt beyond the world’s grasp? Miller made a small sound in his sleep and rolled over, seeking out Wallace’s warmth. Wallace lay back down next to him and let himself be enfolded. The hum of the fan fell in and out of his perception. Would their other friends wonder where Miller had gone when they arrived home and found him not there? He shared a place with Yngve. It would be unusual if he stayed out. It wasn’t his habit. Even if he and Wallace were friends, it would be unusual, but well, there was tomorrow to worry about that.

Wallace got out of bed and went into the kitchen, where he poured himself a tall glass of very cold water. He drank it slowly, letting it numb his tongue and throat, until swallowing was hard and his thirst felt both sated and unquenchable. His stomach expanded. He almost gagged, but he kept drinking. Down and down and down, swelling, welling with water. He refilled the glass, right up to the brim. He drank it. His lips were red. He kept drinking. He drank four glasses back-to-back, and he went into the bathroom and threw up. Up came the water, the semen, the kernels of popcorn, the sour cider, the soup from lunch, all of it churning and orange in the bowl. His throat was raw and burning with acid. He trembled as he braced himself against the toilet bowl. The stench drew more vomit from him, a heaving, clenching retch.