So we go to McDonald's. And it goes as expected. Tyler orders the Big Mac--ambitious, and obviously belying his physical condition. A guy of 17---like Tyler---who digs into his Big Mac as soon as he's seated? It raises a question or two.
"Easy turbo," I say, feigning concern. He's hunched over the table and half-done with the burger. "You might hurt something."
He gives a muffled sound as he swallows the rest of the burger and speaks.
"Sorry. This is the first chance I've had all week for normal food."
"Uh, I wouldn't exactly call it normal, Ty," I say and poke the french fries.
"Well...food at any rate. I've been stuck on strict diets since Monday. You ever had whey protein?"
I shake my head.
"Well, don't start," he snickers and moves on to his McNuggets. I lean back in my seat and sip my soda intermittently. I feel something against my foot. Through the cloth of my Chuck Taylor's.
I angle my head to one side discreetly, trying to hide the motion from Tyler, to see under the table. Well. This is...interesting. Tyler's bare foot rubbing up against the American Flag pattern on my Chucks.
I pull my foot back quickly--instinctively--and go back to my soda. Dumb, John. Dummy-o. Tyler's eyes glance upwards from his food only for a moment to assess, and then they go back.
Dumb.
We say our farewells at our respective cars, leaving whatever might've happened unspoken and behind us. Tyler pats me on the shoulder and says a too-ravishing "see ya." Gets in his car and leaves without fanfare.
And I take the scenic route home. It being 11 pm and darker than sin, my mind finds latitude to wander.
Tyler. He was...rubbing his foot on mine. Whether he was doing it consciously or not, it was...strange. Exhilarating. He took the freakin' effort to slip off his shoe--yeah so it was a flip-flop, but still...
It was the apparent effort he put into it that caught my attention. It wasn't just a thing of flesh and blood and bone running up my foot. It was like he was...grinding? The tendons stood out against the pale skin, and his toes arched. Like they were trying to drill through the canvas of my shoe. Trying to get at the prize.
A curious prize.
I get home and go in through the kitchen. And I see my Mom, clad in her typical after-9pm pink robe, perched over the table in the center of the room, steamrolling through another romance novel sale-rack exclusive. This particular one bears cover art of some obscenely hulky Fabio-type about ready to seal the deal with his buxom lady friend conveniently stuck between his arms. And that sells. And they say gays contribute nothing to society...
"Hey honey," she says, not looking up from her book. "How was the wrestling match?"
"Fine." I throw my keys on the table and have a seat diagonal from where Mom is. After a minute, she dog-ears a page and puts the book down.
"Just fine?" This is Mom prying.
"Yes, Mom. Just fine."
"Anything you want to talk about?"
One of my eyebrows arch. "No."
"Okay," she says. "I won't pry." And she picks up her book. Starts reading and humming idly. `Frere Jacques,' if memory serves.
I sigh. "Alright."
"Okay," she says with gleaming eyes and tosses her book down. God, she's like a child sometimes. "So how did it go. Really. Was Tyler there?"
I'll give her this. Where other parents would go NSA, Black Ops on their kids, Mom comes by her curiosity honestly. She doesn't put cameras in my bedroom or anything, but she knows stuff. Mom was...the first one I came out to. She took it better than I thought she would. `Course, I figured she'd collapse of a seizure or something. But she friggin' hugged me. That was the weirdest part of it all.
And she knows how I feel about Tyler.
"Well, did you say anything to him?" Oh-so-innocent.
"We went to dinner."
"Dinner?" She asks, like we went to Spago's or something.
"McDonald's," I say, shutting out her hopes. "It was...uneventful."
She leans back and cocks her head to one side. "Oh?"
After a pause: "Yeah. We went, we ate, that was it."
"All of it?"
"Jesus, what do you want from me?!" The outburst comes before I recognize it or even have a chance to stop it. She recoils instantly and frowns.
"I'm sorry, Johnny. I was just...curious. That's all. I won't ask anymore."
"No," I say. And I suddenly feel tired. "No that's alright. I'm sorry. It's just...things have been kinda weird lately."
"Complicated." She sounds like she instantly understands--and sympathizes. And she does. I nod my head slowly. It seems to get heavier. And I lower it to rest on crossed arms. I wonder...why is this happening to me? Is it some kind of joke? God pointing down at me, doing his best Dave Chappelle and saying "Gotcha bitch!"
No, I can't be that lucky.
This is just an amalgamation of events. Events that like to play billiards with my fucking mind. Fucking. Fuck.
Tyler.
Yeah. There it is. There's your big epiphany John. Fuck Tyler. Bend him over and ram him like a fucking piston. Be a machine that robs him of his cute. Take out your anger on that tight ass of his and pound it till dawn. Make him bleed. Make him scream. Make him want you. So that when it's all done...he'll never forget you.
I shouldn't even be angry about this. But I am, even so. Angry that I'm feeling this way about something I know I shouldn't.
"I've felt this way before," I say. I raise my head and stare right into Mom's eyes. "But this is...more potent? Like some dream that won't get the hell out."
"I'm sorry, Johnny." She lays a hand on mine and pats. "Is there anything I can do?"
"No," I say, before I even consider options. "I, uh...I dunno. I feel..."
"What?"
Powerless. "Lost."
"Johnny, if you like this boy so much, then you should at least stop keeping it to yourself. If you like him, then why not let him know? The worst he can say is no."
"And what if he does say that?! What do I do then?" And quieter, almost a whisper: "what the hell do I do now?"
"You enjoy what you have, Johnny. Don't lie to yourself, and the rest'll fall into place. If you feel this way about Tyler, then find an outlet for these feelings. Otherwise they'll eat you alive. You owe yourself that much."
Mom.
She always understands.