Outside he led me onto a quiet, tree-lined side street. Rockridge was as Rockridge always was: bustling yet respectfully muted, a place of suits and strollers. When he kissed me it was harder than usual, quiet, probing. His tongue seeking answers. His hands in my hair. When we pulled away we looked at one another: Jesus Christ our eyes said.
“Let’s go,” he said. He was always the one to initiate. I wasn’t sure
how to do it. I couldn’t get over that barrier of imposter syndrome, the fear
of rejection. Even after we’d hooked up for the first time, the second, the
fifth. Always the hesitation, the wariness. Like nothing could prove to me that
he liked me that way, that he wanted a relationship. In my defense, he showed no indication
of wanting to be my boyfriend. We were friends with benefits. We never spent a
whole weekend day together, browsing neighborhoods with our hands locked. Him kissing
me on this street was the most public expression our passion had ever found.
“Wait,” I said. He raised his eyebrows, took my hand, pressed it to his
jeans. He was hard. I knew he would be.
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