HE SAID HE LOST HIS VIRGINITY when he was twelve to his older cousin, who was seventeen. It was on some beach off the coast of Portugal one summer.
“First time, eh? Did you give him poop-dick?” I asked.
“No, man—it was summer, my diet was all oysters and champagne!” He giggled as he pulled my body closer to him.
We were lying naked in bed together, and it was cold outside. It was early spring in Berkeley and the window facing the bay was open. The air was brisk and chilly, but also fresh and sobering. I could see the fog rolling over the streetlights and the orange glow refracting off the fog. It gave that muted orange Creamsicle color I always found peculiar. I missed it whenever I left the bay.
It was chilly but when he said the words “Portugal,” “beach,” and “summer” I could feel the slap of hot heat on my face and saw blue sky for miles and miles. He always took me there.
“Did we really just have sex?” I asked.
“No!” he said, and looked me in the eye, stern and annoyed, and I already knew what it meant.
This meant, “My boyfriend can’t find out.” This meant, “This is our secret.” To me this meant, “You are somehow disposable.”
I got quiet and he noticed. “Stay here a second,” he said, and left the bed and went to the bathroom. I lay there in the bed and felt … silent.
I looked at the décor of his room. It was very calculated, a mix of midcentury and Northern California rustic. It was all wood, and glass mason jars, and sensible lighting. He had graduated from UC Berkeley, top of his class. He had some tech consulting job in the city and he owned his home. He was only a year older than me. I always felt like I had to be well-behaved, like I was this baby doll thing he would play with until he got tired. He was generous most of the time, though stern at points, but never unkind. He’d bake me things, tell me how “cool” I was, and invited me over every night whenever his boyfriend was out of town. Heaven help me I was defenseless.
I heard the bathtub running. It was his ritual. He always made me fancy baths, and they were always made of different things. The first time it was five other naked boys and me on drugs dancing around his fireplace. He took me and his boyfriend aside and brought us to the bathroom. “I made this for you guys,” he said. It was a warm bath with rosemary, slices of lemon, clover oil, and some herb I didn’t recognize. His boyfriend and I sat in the water drinking whiskey. He washed us with soap and poured water over our heads.
This particular bath was lavender, Dead Sea salt, and basil.
“Sit and talk to me,” he said.
It was always the same conversation when we were alone. We talked about the first time we met, though neither one of us could really pinpoint it. He was one of those types of friends that you forget exactly how you met them; it’s as if they’ve always just been there. Every year our mutual orbit got closer, then farther, then closer again. Perhaps it started as a chance meeting at an art opening or at a bar but then it inevitably crescendoed into that first night we went home drunk together. Then it would happen again, and again, until it became a pattern.
I sat in the bathtub sideways with my feet dangling out, facing him. He was sitting on the bathroom floor, naked, smoking a cigarette. I hated the way he smoked in the house.
“The problem with you is…,” he began, and I winced because that is a horrible fucking way to start a sentence.
“… that if you really thought about it, you already have everything you need from me,” he concluded, sucking on his cigarette hard, like it was a joint or something.
“I’ve only ever wanted you to acknowledge me,” I said.
“You’re not my boyfriend. Thomas is,” he said, his voice raising a decibel louder, as I expected it would.
He stood up in an angry manner and got in the tub with me. He sat behind me and pulled my body from sideways to lengthwise with the tub. He held me from behind, my head fell on his chest. He dripped single droplets of water on my head from the warm bath; the drops slid off his fingertips to the middle of my forehead. He is the only man who makes me feel this special.
“I’ve never really asked you for anything,” I said, quite meaning it, as I raised my head off his chest to look him in the eye.
“Be quiet,” he said, taking my head and gently pushing it back to his chest.
We stayed in the bathtub silent until the water turned cold.
We dried and retreated to bed, wrapped our naked bodies into each other on clean white sheets. I could feel his stomach press into mine and start to sweat before I fell asleep.
Around 3:00 a.m. we were both awakened by his phone ringing. It was his boyfriend, Thomas—he was having some form of crisis. He hung up the phone, his face red and in a panic.
“Hey, let me call you a car home. Thomas is coming over, it’s serious,” he said in a rush.
“It’s fine, I’ll walk,” I said, already out of bed and putting on my underwear. I got dressed faster than I realized. He kissed me and told me to call him later that day. I heard right through him.
The fog was gone and the night sky was clear, save the orange glare of the streetlight pollution. There was no longer that dreamy orange Creamsicle color, but literally just orange light; it was ugly as hell.
I took a bit of bourbon from my backpack and put on my headphones and decided to drink and meander home the long way. I was not hurt, distressed, or even bothered, only filled with a weird feeling that was somewhere between a premonition and déjà vu, like this was a day that had happened many times before and would also, one day, repeat itself.