As told to the author by David R.
Soft lips, full and supple. Gorgeous smile. Tender skin. And his eyes, those big brown eyes.
I don’t know if he’s gay. But I’m going to kiss him. I have to.
My friend Nick and I are lying on a bed in our hotel room, facing each other. We’re both 18 years old. We’re on spring break. I’m nervous as hell.
He’s talking and I’m talking but I’m not really listening. I can only look at him. He’s so damn beautiful.
How do I do it? How do I make my move? I don’t know much about being gay. I grew up in a small town in Oklahoma playing sports with guys, not cooped up with girls. “Gay” meant effeminate. I was athletic.
But I know I want Nick. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to hold him, make love to him, take care of him, make him feel beautiful.
I decided I’d kiss him before our spring break trip ended, and now’s my chance. We’re alone. He’s beside me, smiling with me, laughing with me, making eye contact. What does it mean? Am I reading the clues right? Are there clues? What are clues?
Does my breath smell okay? I want to smell and taste good for him when we kiss… or, oh my god, when I kiss him and he screams in disgust. What if he doesn’t like me? What if he rejects me? What if he’s straight?
My heart’s beating fast. Too fast, too hard. I feel my pulse through my chest, neck, arms, legs. Every minute feels like an hour.
My palms are sweaty. I’m almost sick to my stomach. I’m in a state of unreality, the sort of feeling you imagine getting before speaking in front of thousands of people. My peripheral vision blurs. I see only his eyes.
Every moment is more agonizing than the last. I know the longer I wait the harder it’ll be.
I have to just do it. Put the wheels into motion, David. Just calm down and move slowly.
I shakily prop myself up on my forearm so I’m looking down at him. He’s smiling while he’s talking. Or maybe he isn’t. I don’t know anymore. It doesn’t matter. I’m trying to stay cool, but I’m sure he can tell. I try to slow down my breathing but I can’t.
I’m on my forearm, looking at him, taking him in, thinking of everything and of nothing and of only him, and all at once. It’s like the whole world is crammed into a single moment, clamoring for release.
I don’t know much about kissing another guy. I want to do it right. I want to impress him. I want to assert my dominance but show my tenderness. I want him to see me as worthy and gentlemanly. But I don’t even know if he likes me—or if he’s gay.
I want to do it. I’m going to do it. I’m going to close my eyes and do it. I’m just going to kiss him. There’s nothing to lose. Is there? So just do it! And I’m going to do it and I can’t stop thinking and I can’t help but worry and I can’t help but procrastinate and I want to kiss him and I’m going to do it and—
And I do.
My lips are on his, his are on mine.
Holy shit. I did it.
He’s going to pull away. I know he will.
But he doesn’t.
He kisses back.
No. It’s more than euphoric. It’s unworldly, everything I’ve fantasized about for so long, and so, so much more. And it’s real. I’m really here. It’s really him.
We kiss. We cuddle. We talk. We become more and more intimate.
But we’re drunk.
Maybe too drunk. My adrenaline fades, exhaustion strikes, and after all of that preparation, I pass out in the middle of a senten—
David R. lives in Philadelphia.