Bromosexual

“I’m fucking wiped,” groans Stefan at my side.

Our shoulders are touching. “Think you got me on that last round.” I sigh and sink more into the couch.

It brings my head very close to his shoulder.

Just half an inch to the left and I’m nuzzling him. I’d daresay we’re a hair away from cuddling, and for some reason, I’m not panicking. Maybe it’s the beer, which I rarely ever drink. I guess my infrequency of consuming alcohol makes me a lightweight, and I feel like all my inhibitions are in a puddle at my feet.

“Can’t believe it was a whole week ago that you found my sorry ass by a dumpster,” grunts Stefan.

“The week really flew by, didn’t it?”

He chuckles, then settles a bit more into the couch. His weight presses into my side even deeper. I can’t express how much that fulfills this deep craving inside of me I didn’t know I had all this time. I’ve been starved, and one night of gaming with Stefan Baker next to me on this tiny couch made me realize it.

“Joined at the hip,” mutters Stefan, his voice closer to my ear than I anticipated.

I shift slightly. My face is literally two inches from his, though he’s staring off at the TV and all I get is his profile. “Huh?”

“That’s what my mom always said. ‘Joined at the hip.’ Me and you. Couldn’t separate us. Now look at us, literally attached at the hip on this couch.”

I glance down, my cheek nearly knocking into his shoulder.

He’s not wrong. I didn’t realize I was pressed so close against him. Or maybe I did.

“It isn’t my fault you sat so damned close to me last time you got up for a slice of pizza and sat back down,” I tease him.

“Your couch is small,” he shoots back with a sneer.

“So you’re complaining about my couch?”

“Nah. It’s great. Fantastic, even. Totally suits your tiny, puny frame.”

I shove Stefan playfully for that. He barely budges, the heavy block of muscle that he is.

“So you planning to move that ass of yours and give me any space?” he asks me.

“You first.”

“Nah. You first.”

“I’m comfortable right here.”

“Well, so am I.”

“Good.”

The two of us remain right where we are, pressed up against each other and staring at the TV, which still shows our stats from the last round we just played. I totally whipped his ass, by the way. It’s weird how just being around him can make me feel fourteen years old again. I’ve never acted this way around anyone else—schoolmates from college, colleagues at the school, my family.

My students would sure as hell get a kick out of seeing their school counselor vegging out on a couch with the Stefan Baker playing dated Xbox video games until the wee hours of morning. On a Friday night, no less.

Who are you, Mr. Caulfield? Sometimes, I find myself still trying to answer that question and coming up empty.

Stefan and I have always had this unique dynamic between us that I have with no one else. It scares me, how quickly Stefan and I have managed to rekindle that energy in just the space of a day. It’s as if we’ve picked up right where we left off.

Except we’re eight years older.

And he’s eight years sexier. And meatier.

“I’m surprised you aren’t snatched up by now.”

His statement catches me by surprise. I turn my head slightly, eyeing the side of his face. “What do you mean?”

“You liked the smart girls back in the day,” he grunts sleepily. “You dated Lisa with the fuzzy purple notebook.”

I gape. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“She took that thing everywhere. Oh, and Shannon with the big black glasses. You loved the smart chicks.”

I remember her. She smelled like strawberries all the time. All we did was kiss once after the Sadie Hawkins dance. I only went since she asked me, as is the custom, but then she started getting clingy and wanting me to do everything with her. Of course, the only person I ever wanted to spend time with was Stefan. It was an unfair competition she was unknowingly engaged in, one she was destined to never win.

It was like that with all my girlfriends.

I spent way too much of my childhood convincing myself that that was what romance was supposed to feel like: what had been drilled into my head by heterosexist marketing my whole life. Boy and girl. Obligatory kisses. Holding hands so others knew we were a thing. Giving her flowers on our one month anniversary because that’s what I was supposed to do. Stuffing love notes in her locker that regurgitate every romance cliché I’ve seen in the movies.

Whenever I parted ways with my girlfriend and headed off to practice, however, that’s when my heart really started to beat. And still, I told myself all other guys felt that way, too. We were all happy to get away from our girlfriends and race out onto the field in our sports gear. “I’m totally just like everyone else,” I kept promising myself. “And wow, Stefan’s butt looks really great today on the field. He must be doing extra sets of squats.”