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“I wouldn’t want to make things weird between us,” I bullshitted, shaking my head and reaching for my drink. It was sometime around the witching hour and I assume he waited as long into the night as he possibly could. It was a bump to a conversation that had long past grew stale. He had agreed to let me sleep on his couch as a way to extend his opportunity. Coming out of his bedroom with a comforter under his arm, he sat back down next to me and pressed the spacebar on the pirated Oscar season screener neither of us were really paying attention to on his MacBook. I could see him playing Scrabble in his head trying to find the right words. It wasn’t long after Rayon strutted into the Dallas Buyers Club bootleg that he had finally found his segue. He downed the remnants of his Solo cup and stumbled into a conversation about homosexuality. I pretended I didn’t sense the awkwardness of it all and answered his questions with comforting facial expressions. When the convo paused, he’d ask another question and I’d answer as quickly and positively as I could.
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When the boilerplates stretched as far as they possibly could, he finally decided to caution himself into. The classic: “I heard men give better head than women.”Ī few weeks prior, we worked together during one of my stints of blue collar fuckery. Worst of all, though, the shame attached to the memories of those first times marred how I would approach sex for years. He knew I was gay and treated me accordingly as the environment called for. It was listening to Years & Years’ new song Sanctify, and seeing the band’s out gay singer Olly Alexander talk about how the song was inspired his sexual trysts with straight men, that I realized that these feelings are way more common than people let on. It was everything they teach you in the sensitivity training videos I always cringe at. Dialogue started off scarce, but as the weeks went by and the realization that I probably wasn’t going to be leaving anytime soon, you find a little more common ground and it goes slightly deeper. We’d eat the clock analyzing Tarantino films and when it was time for lunch, he’d branch off toward other employees and pretend we didn’t. I assume he had to field jokes about being partnered up with the faggot and he’d defend himself because his fragile masculinity had no choice. Like a lot of hetero men, they’ll be cool with you in private company, but when they’re in a space where they can be judged, they act aloof. I had my own life outside of that fuckin’ time clock. I was fired a few weeks later because I always find a way to get fired from my shitty jobs once I get a little monetary leeway and can look for something more reasonable with my skill set. When I received a text from him a few weeks after that, it kind of came as a surprise. I already deleted his number because I didn’t expect I’d need it again seeing how I’d only used it to ask when our shift started whenever I’d typically forget. He wanted to know how life’s been going since I lost my job and to remind me that Oscar season screeners have started to leak. Life’s been shit and I’d already watched 12 Years A Slave and American Hustle and I was saving Her and Dallas Buyers Club for tonight.