The next time I saw Buddy, we both acted normal, but the second we were alone, he pushed me against the wall and started fumbling with our pants and I got hard in about three seconds.
We never talked about what we did. We never touched anything but each other’s dicks. Never kissed or caressed. That would’ve seemed totally weird. But it was clear that we both wanted it, so…. That whole month, whenever we were alone together, we jerked each other off, fast and hard, and then got drunk like it never happened and watched football or played one of his cousin’s video games. He would hang around the shop sometimes, shooting the shit with me and Sam. He was into cars too, so it was no big deal.
After another couple months, it was clear what he wanted. He wanted to fuck me. When I got annoyed at him trying to pull me down onto the bed, he’d just act like it was a joke and we’d finish up like we always had.
One day, though, he lost his temper. He was a smiley guy. Big and blond, and when he smiled he looked like he wouldn’t hurt a fly. But when he got pissed, his whole face and neck turned red and his eyes squinted and his mouth turned to a snarl. That day, when I tried to laugh it off, he crowded me against the wall. “You know how easy it’d be for me to tell everyone about this?” he said. I kind of laughed again and rolled my eyes, but his expression chilled me.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Let’s just help each other out, okay?”
I was shocked at what he was saying, but he was still Buddy. Still my friend, and I didn’t think he’d really say anything.
“Come on, man,” I said. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing, bud. I’m just saying there are things that feel a whole hell of a lot better than a hand job, you know?” And he smiled at me like he always did. “Look, just think about it.” Then he backed off like he knew he’d gone too far.
A few weeks later, I’d almost forgotten about it. Written it off to being drunk and horny and stupid. He called, asked if I wanted to hang out, and I went.
And it was fine. We drank a few beers, ordered pizza, watched a game. No problem. Same thing the next time. It was all fine.
Then he started bringing it up again. Casually. How good it’d be. How it was no big deal. Just getting off. Just between friends. And how easy it’d be to slip up and tell someone about what we did together.
Finally, one night, he was more explicit than usual and I was tired of going around in circles. So I agreed. Because he was my friend. Because people finding out seemed like the worst thing that could possibly happen. And because maybe Buddy was right and it would be good. Maybe also because I wanted to know for sure. Because sex with Maya had turned into a nightmare, but that was my only experience with it. So yeah. I said okay.
He got that familiar grin on his face. My friend. Happy because I was doing what he wanted. He patted me on the back like I’d made the right decision, and he fumbled our pants down and pushed me down on the bed.
“Cool, man,” he said. “This’ll be awesome.”
But it wasn’t awesome. I couldn’t relax and it hurt and when I wanted to stop—
“Don’t pull that girl shit, man. You agreed. We had a deal.”
So. Afterward, we never did it again. I didn’t go over to Buddy’s house anymore and he didn’t call me again.
But then one morning, I came out to the garage, coffee mug in hand, to see Buddy there, talking with Pop. It had been more than four years, but at the sight of his blond hair and rounded shoulders, I felt queasy and light-headed.
He was going to be picking up a few shifts at the garage, Pop said.
“Hey, man,” Buddy said to me, clapping me on the back. “Long time no see, huh?”
When Pop walked into his office to do some paperwork, I rounded on Buddy.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Aw, come on, bud, don’t be like that,” he said. “A job’s a job, right? And I need this one.”
I shook my head. “You gotta get outta here, man.”
His eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared in an instant. “Look, bud, I don’t think you’re in any position to be telling me what to do,” he said, and he nodded at Pop, coming out of his office. “Just a few shifts a week. No harm, no foul, am I right?” And he walked over to Pop to finalize arrangements.
DANIEL LOOKS stricken at what I’ve told them. Sick. And Rafe is still frozen beside me. He does that sometimes. He told me once that in prison, if you were still while others were moving, you were less likely to get pulled into a fight. It was easier to avoid being seen. To take a time-out until you can decide what to do.