Upside Down(47)

He let out a loud breath and almost swayed. He sagged back onto the couch next to me. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re like a rabbit in front of a fox.”

He barked out a laugh. “That’s an apt description, because it’s how I feel.”

I gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I want you to feel safe around me. But I get it. I do.”

He frowned and spoke to his hands. “It’s just that things always start like this, and there’d be hand holding and kissing, and I’d say that’s all I want and they’d agree, but then they’d think kissing was just a tool for foreplay. Like no one can just kiss because they like it. It has to be a prelude to wanting more, and they’d always think I was playing hard to get, and then I’d have to say no, again, because how could anyone not want to have sex, right? And then they’d say, ‘But you like kissing, it’s not that different,’ but it really fucking is. Kissing and having sex aren’t mutually inclusive. Just because I want one doesn’t mean I want the other or have to partake in sex just because I want to enjoy kissing.” He took a breath. “And you kissed me and it was incredible. Like, seriously, it may have been the best kiss of all time and I was floating. Seriously. You have skills. But then habit snuck in and I thought for sure you’d ask for more and I didn’t want to have to say no to you because well, this has been the best date ever and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

I shook my head. There was quite a lot to unpack in that. I took his hand and waited until he looked into my eyes. “Okay, first things first, you saying no wouldn’t ruin anything. Don’t ever think you’re doing something wrong by saying no. Blame should fall on the person with the expectation that they are owed sex. Secondly, kissing is not the same thing as sex. Not even close, and if someone tries to guilt you into something you’re not comfortable with, then they’re a piece of shit and witches should put a hex on them so that every time they get a hard-on, they cry for their mummies.”

Jordan snorted. “If they don’t already.”

I laughed and the tension was now, thankfully, gone. I squeezed his hand. “Jordan, I don’t want to have sex with you.”

“Oh.” He jolted back, shocked, frowning and upset. His voice was quiet. “Is there something wrong with me?”

I would have laughed at that, except it really wasn’t funny. It was a very stark reminder that he was still coming to terms with his asexuality and that he had a lot of years of rejection and stereotypical demons to conquer yet.

I lifted his hand and rubbed my thumb over his knuckles. “Jordan, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect just as you are. My not wanting to have sex with you isn’t personal. I don’t want to have sex with anyone. That’s where I am on the spectrum of sexuality, and there’s nothing wrong with me either. It’s just who I am.” Now for the tricky part. “Your knee-jerk reaction to thinking there’s something wrong with you because I’m not attracted to you sexually tells me you’ve spent a lot of time dealing with arseholes who told you you weren’t normal for not wanting sex.”

He chewed on his bottom lip and conceded with a small nod. “You’re very good at this support-group-mentor speech.”

I chuckled. “Thank you.”

“But yes. I’ve been told too many times to count that there’s something wrong with me.”

I scooted a bit closer so our knees touched, and still holding his hand with one of mine, I put my other to his cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Jordan. Actually, you’re pretty damn close to perfect.”

He blushed. “Well, then that’s such a coincidence because I think you’re pretty damn close to perfect too.”

I grinned at him and we both took a second to just take it in. “You feel better?” I asked.

He nodded. “Much. Thank you for not letting me freak out and ruin everything.”

“You were about ready to bolt for the door.”

“I was working out the mathematical equation of hurdling your couch and escaping.”

“It takes maths to jump a couch?”

He nodded. “Yep. Distance of the jump required times the height of the couch, divided by the energy and exertion necessary. I’m sure there’s a cos, tan, sin equation in there somewhere but I failed year-eight maths so I really wouldn’t know. And you’d need to subtract the amount of food I ate at dinner and my absolute lack of athletic ability to do anything, really, so I’d also need to allow for an inevitable crash over the back of the couch, hitting your floor, possibly denting the wall, and in all likelihood, any bones that break when gravity reminds me that I’m no longer a teenager, fit, or agile.”

I laughed, because right there was the real Jordan I knew; all hint of anxiousness was gone. “Then how about I walk you around the couch and see you out.” We stood and I took my phone out. “Let me book you an Uber. It’s late.” I handed him my phone. “Your address?”

He quickly thumbed it in and handed it back to me. “Thanks.” Then he was quick to take my hand again. “We still need to practise.”

“Oh, true. Practice is key.”

He swung our still-joined hands and smiled. “You can stop trying now. I stopped scoring this date. It passed a solid ten at lunchtime. You’ve lapped ten several times.”