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Mark Farrow, the boy I’d crushed on before I even knew what a crush was. The first guy I’d ever jacked off to. The first guy I’d ever wanted to kiss. The first guy who’d ever touched me exactly the fucking way I’d wanted to be touched. The only guy I could never have.
“So if it’s so easy to get laid, why are you complaining about not getting laid?” I asked. “Because I have standards.” “But you also eat chocolate Pop-Tarts.” “Quit throwing my completely inane logic back in my face.”
“The fuck are you doing to me, Farrow?” He spoke in a raspy, wrecked way that lit me up, like I’d stumbled upon a key that unlocked a part of himself he’d forgotten.
Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I blew my load. Just like that. Just because Chet Pynchon told me I was sexy and tight in a growly, pure sex voice.
My name in his mouth. My weakness. I wanted him to keep saying it in that throaty, wrecked murmur.
“I would’ve let you in anytime.” I met the dark pools of his eyes, the confession soft. “I always will. I don’t know that I’d ever be able not to.”
Chet: I want to take you out. Mark: Mafia style? Or like to dinner and a movie. Chet: Idiot.
We’d been swoops and dives and potholes for most of the time I’d known him. But for this moment right now, it felt like open road between us, and it was my heart that was moving at breakneck speed.
Because the truth was, nothing else felt as good as Mark Farrow. I wasn’t sure anything else ever could.
That was the scary thing about love. It was unpredictable and unfathomable, and when you were walking a tightrope in its throes, the only thing that mattered was how much you trusted the person walking it with you.
