Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

sometimes.
    Rachel'd been masculine alright. Big-boned, tall and dark. We'd met at a cozy little Italian place and then stared across candles and bread sticks, measuring each other up. Nerves at the breaking point, I'd finally blurted out, "I'm gay." Just like that. Expecting her glower to deepen, not relax. "So am I," she'd said. "Or. I'm not, but I mean." She'd nipped at a hangnail.
    "You like cunt," I'd said, getting a glimmer of what she was about. She'd sort of goggled at me. I guess at my having been so in-your-face about it. "Good enough for me. I like dicks who like dicks; you like cunt." I'd reached my hand across the table and said, "Friends."
    Not what mom had in mind, but you know—whatever. We still keep in touch. Rach and I.
    So yeah. Mom's ideas are dismal. Viv's? Better, but...
    Okay. It's like this. When we were still in high school, she asked me to pose for a photo. Not nude, but she had this whole loincloth thing going on and I mean, what the fuck? So I figure she digs my looks, right?
    But every time she sets me up with someone, it's some clean-cut surfer, bare chested, smooth chin, all pretty. Which—okay, I don't want to fuck myself, yeah? This may be her ideal, but me? I like 'em hard, stout. Want some hair. Some solid five o-clock shadow and—
    Fuck me. I like 'em like Tomás.
    Stupid idiot.
    ****
    The week dragged by. Chulo's was sedate on the weekend—maybe because its bartenders were. A German skinhead in sunglasses and leather parked himself in front of Alex late Friday and wooed him until morning in a voice that was soft and high-pitched. Very effete. He was back on Saturday, ignoring everyone else in the room. He hadn't been here last weekend.
    Gave my skin the itchy shivers, watching Alex go all melty and stupid about it, so I ignored it.
    My funk was temporary. Or so I kept telling myself. Pull a tooth, and the ache sticks around for a while, receding with each hour. Each day.
    Hell of a tooth.
    Wednesday night, I took a gallon jug of OJ out to the beach and drank myself stupid. Or—you know. It was orange juice. I pissed a lot.
    I fell asleep in one of the loungers 'round about one. Dreamed about Tomás again. Same dream as the last time, yeah, except I was paying closer attention this time. And I'd definitely cried.
    When I woke up, the tide was coming in, sloshing around my ankles. The moon was low. I grunted, thinking I was thirsty, wishing the little bit of OJ still beside me was water. Thinking it was high time I grew a pair and got on with my life.
    I was watching the waves slapping up onto the beach, when I swear to you, a god seemed to rise up out of the water and walk towards me. Water around his waist, around his thighs, around his ankles. And yeah, you guessed it. No god. Tomás.
    Now I have to explain something, because I don't want you thinking I'm crazy and/or lying to myself. See, I'd just woken up from this highly sensual dream where, in water, Tomás was fucking me, and right now, as I tell this story, I cannot tell you that I know where the dream stopped and the reality began. Because I think I must have still been groggy and a little confused about waking versus dreaming when Tomás walked up. But walk up he did, and you know. He was wet. Looking fucking sexy as all get out. Buck-naked, balls hanging low in the warm air, dark hair plastered onto his chest and thighs.
    And I said, "Did you just come out of the water?" Yeah. Master of conversation, that's me. Not, Jesus, I've missed you and I'm sorry, but did you just come out of the water?
    And he said, "You called me."
    Or at least, that's what it sounded like he said. I never was sure. So me, I said, "Uh..."
    He cocked his head. Seemed to consider me, then said, "I was out for a midnight swim."
    "Midnight swim."
    "Yes."
    "You do that a lot?"
    He shrugged and straddled my lounge chair. I pulled up my knees to my chest, and he settled at the foot. "You're unhappy."
    "Oh no. Don't be silly. The last week has been a peach."
    "A party every night."
    "Yeah. Lots of fun, lots of dick. You know." I didn't meet his gaze, squinted instead at the shoreline, shimmering with bioluminescence. He ran a hand along my thigh, warm as ever, and a shiver pierced me. "I'm a slut, Tomás. You ask anyone, they'll tell you."
    "You want to be?"
    "No. Just. I know who I am. I'll only hurt you."
    "Mentira."
    "It's not—" ...bullshit, I was going to say, but Tomás cut me off with a hard kiss. And God help me, but I wanted him to be