Cut Both Ways Read online

  Not thinking. Just going in and out.

  It feels so good that I want her to like this. I can’t tell if she does. She’s mysterious in a way that Angus wasn’t. And I’m almost there, ready to come. I stop everything.

  “Can you be on top?” I say.

  She doesn’t say anything; we just switch spots. It’s almost like we’re people in a movie theater, hedging around each other. Like we should say excuse me.

  Stopping might have been to buy me time, but it doesn’t work, seeing her sitting up there on me. It feels even better, her up there, even though she’s not moving as much as I want her to. I can’t ask her to move different though; I don’t know how to explain it. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. Because it’s going to end, no matter what.

  I wish I had more time. I wish I could be better at this. I know she will forgive me for it, though. I just know.

  When I’ve reached the point of no return, I shut my eyes. I wish it was dark. I don’t want to know what I look like. I hope she’s not looking at me. Then it happens: I come and my head jerks back against the pillow and headboard, which knocks over the candle from her nightstand and there’s all this fucking noise and the lamp falling to the side.

  “Fuck,” I say. I can hear the wax hissing on the bare floor. Brandy’s still on top of me, but she’s shushing me. Shushing me, reaching over to turn the candle upright. Everything fast, sure, quick. Then we’re both kind of hanging our heads over the side of the bed. Looking at the puddle of yellow wax, the little black mark where the flame touched down. I think she’ll be all upset. But she’s not. She kisses me. She’s laughing. Saying, “Oh my God, Will, I’m sorry, I didn’t expect that, are you okay? Will?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  Then she’s on the floor, wiping up the wax and the scorch mark. I watch her cleaning up my mess. I feel lazy. Strange. Like a king, and she’s my servant. She relights the candle with matches from the nightstand drawer and then stands up and I can see her body, all of it, naked, and I like how her hips and ass are. You can’t see how they are when she wears clothes, because they squash everything down. Flatten it. Make it seem less than it is, less than how it feels when I touch her. It’s just a few seconds of seeing her like this, even if she hurries to get back over me, to make me stop looking. I like the idea that I get to see this and no one else gets to.

  I slide down so my head’s on her chest. I’m hearing her breathe. I’m feeling her fingers scraping through my hair. I’m touching her boob, watching the skin flicker and get all goose-bumpy, the nipple getting all tight. It’s like I’m doing science, but blurry. My eyes are so close to her skin. You never dream you’ll get that close, see that much of a person, when you like them from a distance. Getting to see it makes me feel greedy again. I never want to give it up.

  So, I don’t go home. It doesn’t make sense—her nana could wake up any time—but I don’t. But neither of us can sleep. It’s like four in the morning and we’re hyper. She goes downstairs and gets me a glass of water. I’m sitting in her bed naked and she’s smiling like crazy and I think, Do we do it again? But then I don’t know if she’s sore or if that’d be too much and she’d be grossed out? I want to be cool about it. I don’t want her to see the greedy side of me. I just smile back. We have to be so quiet.

  Instead of sleeping, though, she hauls out all this yarn. Yarn, everywhere. It’s hanging in one of those shoe-thingies that women put in closets; my mom has, like, seven of them. She pulls it out and dumps all this yarn on the bed.

  And she sits across from me on the bed, still naked, and starts rolling hanks of yarn into balls between her fingers. I put on my glasses. Sit up myself. Grab a thing of yarn and start doing the same thing. It’s hypnotic.

  “Why are we doing this again?” I whisper.

  “Because it’s easier to work with yarn that’s in balls instead of skeins,” she says. As if that means one thing to me.

  “It tangles less,” she adds.

  “What do you do with this yarn?” I ask. “Knit stuff?”

  “I crochet,” she says.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Crochet uses a hook and knitting uses needles.”

  “Oh.”

  “I like to make sweaters and stuff,” she says. “But right now I’m making a blanket.” She looks at me and laughs, and I look down, pull the sheet of her bed over my dick. It’s kind of soft and soothing, I guess. I’ve never done anything with yarn. I’ve never had sex with a girl, either.

  But now I’m doing both. Never doesn’t matter. We’re sitting across from each other, naked, and I am not worried. The Brandy Magic is back. I know it. Even as she’s telling me about her real mom and how her dad’s in prison in Stillwater and how her aunt Megan won’t even visit him, not ever, because she’s so pissed at him for being such a fucking loser, I still feel it. Magic. Us sitting across from each other, the bed springs squeaking as we move a little bit, stacking up the skeins of yarn. I swear, through Brandy’s window, I can see the first bit of the sun nudging up the sky, making everything a light bluish-gray. The lighter it becomes, the bigger the pile of colored balls we’re winding gets. I see Brandy’s nipples, the same color pink as one of the things of yarn. She sees me looking and she smiles and says, I should take a picture of you.

  Do it, I tell her.

  And she does. She takes a picture of me with her yearbook camera. Me, under her sheet, surrounded by yarn. We laugh and I kiss her and even when she makes me go when the sun’s almost up, because Megan’ll be home soon, I don’t care. I don’t know where my dad is and I don’t know if it fucking matters. I know we got away with it, and I know that’s good enough.

  EIGHT

  ROY’S LAST DAY working on the house, my dad gets a bunch of barbecue from this place he likes in St. Paul, and we all drive to Garrett’s out in Shoreview to eat it. I bring Angus with me.

  Roy seems both uncomfortable and happy about the whole event. Which can also sum up his experience working with my dad in general, probably. Or maybe it’s because Roy’s got another girl with him. Not the girl from the day we went swimming, but another one. Equally cute too.

  I like going to Garrett’s house. For one thing, he has no neighbors. They literally live next to cornfields. But it’s a normal house and a garage. Plus, a giant pole barn and a bunch of chicken coops. Everywhere you look, there’s a tractor or a fish pond or some other weird thing. Planters made out of old tires, full of daisies. A pitchfork holding a sign that says THIS WAY TO THE BARN! Stuff like that. His girlfriend, Kristin, raises chickens and goats, and she’s actually a pretty nice lady, but she’s gone now, at some event with the chickens this weekend. We’re out in the backyard of his house and there’s a million stars out. The air smells like a farm. Like animals and manure.

  The girl with Roy doesn’t say anything. Just smiles and sometimes nudges him and it’s so fucking weird. She doesn’t seem upset or shy that everyone’s talking about things that don’t include her—mainly the house remodel and Time to Eat and stupid stuff Garrett and my dad used to do when they were younger. And Roy doesn’t ignore her or anything. But she just kind of sits there, like an accessory. Like one of his Nalgene water bottles or something. It makes me feel sorry for her. All the girls. And bugged by Roy, for being so weird. Can’t he just have a girlfriend? It feels like a question you can’t ask, though.

  Garrett’s talking about when he was in college, some art class he took, how he couldn’t keep it together for the nude life drawing class.

  “It was this naked guy, right?” Garrett says. “I figured, I can handle this. I’ve been in locker rooms my whole life. Gang showers in the dorm, even. But this was completely different.”

  Roy’s girl’s phone goes off but she silences it and puts it in her purse. Garrett continues.

  “So this kid, he’s not anyone I’d ever seen before. The U’s a big campus, so that’s not surprising. But it was just strange, because he’s wearing a blue bathrobe. Sitting on thi
s stool. But our instructor is talking and I’m not listening. I’m just looking at the guy. But once she’s done talking, the guy’s completely naked. And the whole class is completely silent and totally busy. Everyone focused on their paper, or fully focused on him, squinting at him. Like he was this puzzle you had to solve, one of those paintings that’s got a sunken ship in it and you can see it if you look hard enough.”

  Angus laughs. I stop eating my food.

  “The thing was, the kid wasn’t nervous. Not at all. He’s doing exactly what the instructor asks him to. Sit. Hands on his knees. His junk was . . .”

  Roy’s girl starts giggling. Kind of loud too.

  Roy looks down. “I think I can guess where this is going,” he says.

  My dad leans back in his chair, downs more beer. “This ought to be good.”

  “Well, it wasn’t ready for action, at least,” Garrett continues. “I don’t know why I expected it to be. It just . . . It was the saddest thing. Plus he’s this really thin guy. Like a goddamn greyhound. All dick and ribs.”

  Roy’s girl laughs again. Snorting, actually. She covers her face like she’s ashamed. Roy’s still looking down.

  “But that’s not the kicker, really,” Garrett says. “It’s that he’s a redhead.”

  “Jesus,” Roy says. Then he just busts out laughing with everyone else.

  “Do they pay people for that?” I ask.

  “Oh, of course,” he says. “They get paid a lot per hour. Though they don’t normally sit longer than an hour.”

  “Sitting like that isn’t easy, either,” Roy says. “They’ve got to remain still. That’s part of the job.”

  “So, what happened?” Angus asks. “I mean, you couldn’t handle a naked guy or he didn’t like the drawing you did?”

  “I couldn’t do a drawing,” Garrett says. “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t think of anything except how that metal stool must have felt on his ass cheeks. I swear to God! And the instructor even came over and asked me what my problem was and I could barely talk to her. She was pretty pissed off; I knew she thought I was some immature pig. But that was when I realized I couldn’t do it. No way I could say I was serious about art if I couldn’t look past that naked redhead guy’s wang. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t see him like that. Like an object. A series of angles and shapes. I walked out and went straight to the registrar and dropped that class and changed my major. The next semester I dropped out and started cooking full-time at the Lamp Lighter.”

  After that story, everything kind of breaks up. Roy looks at his girl and says, “Shall we?” which seems pretty affected and romantic, but she just smiles. Maybe because it’s the first thing he’s said to her all night. She goes inside to use the bathroom and then I walk to Roy’s Jeepster to say good-bye. And Roy hugs me. I don’t expect him to do that, but he does. Roy’s not all weird about touching. Angus isn’t either.

  “Listen,” Roy says. “You let me know if you need anything, okay? I’m just an hour south of you.”

  “Okay,” I say. He’s so serious; I try to be serious back but I can’t imagine why I’d want to bug him for anything about the house when he’s busy at school.

  “Don’t let your dad get to you, either,” he says. “This is his project. Let him own it.”

  “All right,” I say. He nods, but I feel like I’m not getting something. He pulls out his phone and we make sure we’ve got each other’s numbers and then Roy’s girl comes back and the Serious Hug Time is over. She kind of waves at me and they get in the car and I watch the thread of dust the Jeepster kicks up the drive. Everything seems so over. Like we shouldn’t even wait out the weekend. We should just give up and go back to school tomorrow. Surrender to it. Summer’s over. The remodel’s nowhere near done. And now Roy’s gone with his girl with no name and I don’t know why I feel so shitty about it.

  Garrett and my dad are playing cards when I get back. There’s a whiskey bottle on the table. At least we’re staying over here.

  It’s getting dark and buggy out, so Angus and me go inside, with the plates and extra food. Garrett nods at me, like thanks, when we do this, and it’s like we’ve made a deal: I clean up, you keep an eye on my dad.

  “This place is fucking cool,” Angus says.

  I pull open the dishwasher and we start loading it.

  “And Garrett’s a fucking cool guy.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We’ve been coming here a long time. Since I was little.”

  “Roy’s cool too,” Angus says.

  “Yeah.”

  I want to say, did you tell DeKalb about us? About you? But I can’t. I pretend to be looking for the dishwasher soap. Once I’ve started the dishwasher, I look up and Angus is leaning against the counter. Staring at me.

  “What?” I say.

  “Nothing,” he says. He looks to the side. Smiles.

  I take off my glasses, wipe them on my shirt. Angus is still staring at me when I put them back on. I want to touch him. I want to. I don’t know how to do it, though. The way things move with him has always been me being wasted. Things always private, in the dark. Not him standing under the kitchen light and the cuckoo clock in Garrett’s kitchen.

  I ask him how the band thing is going with DeKalb, if they’re gonna practice or what. We walk to the back of the house, where the screen porch is. It’s not far from the backyard area; we can hear Garrett and my dad talking, and there are two old sofas with a cedar chest between them like a coffee table. Angus lights the big fat candle sitting on the cedar chest and the light wobbles between us, spiking up on the ceiling of the porch. We both lie down on our sofas at the same time. Everything’s kind of creepy and strange.

  “DeKalb’s cool,” he says. “We practiced last week. I’m trying to set up a gig at this one coffee shop.”

  “Nice,” I say.

  He tells me more of it, how DeKalb’s got all these old gospel spiritual songs he wants to rework, making them less folky or whatever. Lullabies and slave rebellion songs and nursery rhymes. I say, “Nice” and “Yeah” and “Cool” a bunch. I’m not being a dick. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t want to be the guy who just thinks about sex. But I am. I kind of hate it. And I kind of hate that there’s no way for me to do this. Even if my dad and Garrett weren’t here. I can’t decide if it’s just that I suck at this, or I don’t know how to be gay. Or I don’t see enough people being gay in the way I would be gay. The nonflashy gay guy. The boring-old regular gay guy. Not the one who likes theater and dresses snappy and who has a ton of girls for friends.

  Maybe that doesn’t exist. Maybe I’m just not gay. Maybe I’m a cheater is all. A cheater like my mom; she was with Jay before the divorce. I know this because my dad got drunk and started crying and told me all about it a couple of years ago.

  Angus stops talking. Sits up.

  “You don’t have to be like this, Will,” he says.

  “What?”

  “You’re weird because of what we did,” he says. “What we do.”

  I close my eyes. I wish my glasses were off.

  “But you don’t have to be,” he says.

  His voice is low. Like he knows I’m worried about Garrett and my dad hearing us. Knowing about us.

  “I know you don’t want to be out or anything,” he says.

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I don’t, you know . . . it’s not my business if you do it or not.”

  I’m not sure what he’s saying. I mean, I could guess. I don’t want to guess. I want him to stop talking.

  “You can just say when you want it,” he says. “It’s not a big deal.”

  He means, I should just jump him. He means, he doesn’t care what I do with him. To him.

  Then Garrett is in the house, knocking around the kitchen.

  “Guys?” he hollers.

  “In here,” I say.

  Garrett stands in the doorway holding the half-empty whiskey bottle.

  “Oh, good,” he say
s. “There’s extra blankets and pillows in that cedar chest.” He points. Angus nods.

  “We’re hitting the sack,” he says. “You guys all right?”

  We tell him yes. He heads up to bed. I can hear my dad talking, low, and their footsteps. A toilet flush, the sink running. Everyone getting settled.

  Angus takes the candle off the cedar chest to open it. The light on the porch gets all crazy for a minute. Then he tosses me a pillow and a blanket that smells like cedar chips. It’s kind of scratchy but I don’t care. I say thanks and then I unlace my boots.

  I notice he takes off his shirt. I don’t take off mine. We both settle into the sofas again. The candle sputters between us. I can hear, faintly, a soft thud from another part of the house.

  We’re quiet. It’s kind of nice, though too. Would be perfect, if we hadn’t had that dumb conversation. And I know it’s not over, either. I can feel Angus wanting to bring it up again. I listen to the wind rustling up the cornfield and wait for it. I know he’ll bring it up again.

  “Is it because you’re not stoned?” he finally says.

  “What? No.”

  “I don’t have any more weed,” he says. “My guy’s in Iowa at a family reunion.”

  “Oh.”

  “I shoulda got some from him before he left but I was working.”

  “It’s not the weed, Angus.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s . . .” I stop. “I don’t know.”

  “It kills me that you’re like this,” Angus says. “I’d rather just . . . oh, whatever. Forget it.”

  Forget what? I don’t want to know. I want to know. I don’t say anything. Angus pulls his bandanna out of his pocket, starts twisting it around. I wonder if he’s going to tie it up or what.

  “I wish it never happened,” he says. “Now you’re all uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable. I’m not.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’m not. It’s just . . .” I let out a big breath. I could be my yoga-loving mom for all the big breaths I’m holding in and letting out. I take off my glasses and set them on the cedar chest. Then I just tell him. I just have to fucking tell him. I look straight at the ceiling.