When he came back, he was calmer. We immediately began making out on the couch so we wouldn't have to speak. There was nothing that could neutralize the awkwardness at this point except deranged Republican-on-Democrat sex. It had become clear to me that Sean had what the literature calls "self-loathing issues." I imagined him trolling the AOL chatrooms, trying to lure guys to Rockville because he couldn't bring himself to go near a gay bar.
Soon we were in his bedroom. It was one of those rooms where the roof is the ceiling, slanted at a thirty-degree angle. I saw his computer, a Dell, sitting on a desk on the side of the room where the ceiling was lowest. I realized that while Sean was sitting at the computer, he must have to hunch over so his face was nearly touching the monitor. It made the image of him whacking off with his free hand in a private chatroom that much more depressing.
Our shirts came off. He was impossibly skinny. I could see his ribs through his chest hair. His pants came off. His kneecaps were roughly the size and shape of his hips. I'd never been with anyone with so little padding, and I was afraid I might hurt him if I tried to climb on top, so we squirmed side by side for a while like fish in a bucket. My arm was trapped under his torso and soon fell asleep.
"Your last name is Doo-ing?" he said, looking at my free arm.
"It's pronounced Doig — like foil or soil."
I moved my head toward his groin but he pulled me back up. I went for the nipple, but was again gently guided back to the kissing position. I decided I'd been wrong about the foreplay. I brought my hand up to his chest and felt nothing but rib cage. This was skinniness that suggested impending death.
Oh my God.
"Do you have AIDS?" I said, holding my breath.
"Uh uh."
"Uh uh no?" I said.
"Definitely, positively not."
I relaxed a bit and sort of rubbed his bony chest cavity. It felt like I was running
We settled into a spooning position, him behind me, his arm draped limply across my intact torso.
my hand across a picket fence.
That's when Sean said, "So I guess you've probably noticed I only have one pectoral muscle."
"What?" I said, sure that I'd heard wrong.
"One pec." He said it like, "So I guess you've probably noticed I reupholstered the couch."
"Does it gross you out?" he asked tentatively.
"Of course not," I said quickly, trying to make my gag reflex sound like a cough.
"You sure?" he said. "Some guys are freaked out by it."
"Not me!" I said way too enthusiastically.
I moved back a bit and looked. One side of his chest was skinny, but normal. The other side was perfectly flat, the skin stretched tight, like it wasn't his skin but a suit of human skin that he was wearing. Like in Silence of the Lambs. Whoa.
"It's fine," I said. I felt awful for finding it repulsive, but I just wasn't ready for it. Had he told me in advance and let me take a peek before we were on the verge of copulation, I might have dealt with it with more savoir-faire.
It dawned on me that this could very well be the reason Sean was a self-hating Republican who lived far from any sizable gay population — he'd probably received this same reaction many times before from guys who rejected him because of his missing pec. Maybe some had even laughed at him for it. I felt a surge of sympathy. But sympathy is a proven hard-on killer. There was no way this was going to happen, so I said the words I'm sure he was dreading.
"How 'bout we just cuddle?"
He smiled like I'd accidentally killed his dog with my car and he was trying to tell me it was okay. A smile-grimace. We settled into a spooning position, him behind me, his arm draped limply across my intact torso.
The next morning Sean dropped me at the Blockbuster parking lot. He didn't wait around for my bus to arrive. I watched his beautiful '81 Delta disappear down the street, as sturdy a car as they come. I didn't feel brave or reckless. I felt shallow, another twenty year old who thought his shit didn't stink, who couldn't handle life's little imperfections without freaking out. The ride back to the city would feel like a spineless retreat.
My bus wasn't due for another twenty minutes, so I walked into the Dunkin' Donuts in the next lot over.
"I'll have a blueberry muffin," I said to the cashier.
