Theory, 8

8.
He woke up suddenly and threw himself out of the bed, panting, crouching animalistically on the floor for a moment before getting up as nonchalantly as possible.

He turned and looked at the bed. Jake was just waking up. Samuel tried hurriedly to smile through the shakiness, glancing around the room, still only half-conscious as his dreams buried themselves again in his vast memory.

Jake’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled sleepily and groaned – it was almost a growl, Samuel thought – and mumbled out a “Good morning.”

As he woke, he glanced back at Sam and his face registered surprise. “You’re still here?”

“…Of course?” Why would he not be?

“Oh.” Jake quickly adjusted to this change of plans. “Are you… you… You can go, if you want,” Jake said, grimacing at his choice of words. Sam seemed to shrink. “Do you want me to?”

“Not really.”

Theory, 7

7.
Willow was dreaming. It wasn’t the best dream, but it would nearly evaporate as soon as she woke up, leaving only a thin film of paranoia in its wake.

She would know which dream it was, though, because it was a recurring dream. She had it at least once a week and dreaded its return. She would know it from the vague sense of being watched and from the covers tangled and cool with sweat around her legs, from the chills through her chest.

She dreamed that she was standing outside. The preface of the dream was always different – sometimes an entire storyline would take place before the dream was set in motion. She would walk out of her house or her high school, and the sun would be bright – too bright. She would try to cover her eyes. She would be unable to see as the light strengthened and stabbed at her skin, burning like stinging insects.

And then the light would be gone as a backlit figure descended from the sky. Every time she had the dream, she was convinced it was Jesus, or some other God, coming to take her away, coming to forgive her sins and lift her from the drudgery that was her life, that was all of their lives.

But it wasn’t God.

Theory, 6

6.
If you had been me, what would you have done? I didn’t have many options – I had just been fucked and probably couldn’t walk properly, and now I was in the arms of a charming gay boy with a nice smile and adorable sex hair. It wasn’t like I could get up, so I just laid there in his arms, feeling his breath come in waves, his heartbeat like the beat of a metronome against my back. My eyes were open. I thought about closing them. I looked across the room at nothing – at the closet door handles, at the colour of the walls.

This was the best decision of my life – agreeing to be fucked by Samuel was the best decision of my life. He had been so careful. So slow. Generous with the lube, gentle sliding it in. Checking with me every step of the way. “Are you okay?” and “Does it hurt?” and “Do you want me to stop?” and then, breathlessly, “Does it feel good?”

Of course it felt good. And now this felt good – cuddling. I wondered if I had it in me to date a guy. I had wondered this before, but the answer had always been no. Now I wasn’t sure what to believe.

Theory, 5

5.
Jack and Samuel hadn’t spoken much since the sex, and it really didn’t seem necessary. They were curled together in the bed. Jack had redressed himself in his boxers and an undershirt, and Samuel had boxers on. It was the non-sexual kind of cuddling that comes when both parties are satisfied.

Jack wondered if Samuel wanted to be his boyfriend. Jack wondered if he wanted to be Samuel’s boyfriend. Jack wondered if he would ever see Samuel again and he prayed that he would. He didn’t want this to be the last night he ever spent in bed with another boy cuddling after sex.

Samuel was trying not to wonder anything, he was trying to hold Jack tight and not let go, and he was trying to stay up in case Jack tried to leave or freaked out. Samuel was trying not to feel guilty.

They were lying together in an undercurrent of complete bliss while the waves frothed above them. They were lying together above and separated from the beat of the music downstairs. They were lying together.

Theory, 4

4.
Willow had never found orgasm satisfying – it was a release that left her wanting more. But she didn’t know what that ‘more’ was, and she didn’t care enough to find out.

She knew for sure that it wasn’t sex, though. Her sexual experiences with other human beings had been limited, had felt awkward and wrong, and, most importantly in Willow’s mind, hadn’t gotten her off.

She tried to forget that she knew what was missing. She tried to pretend that it wasn’t what she knew it was. She was waiting for the right person to give her what she needed, and she would make do with solo sex until then.

She curled deeper into the blankets, body still pulsing with her recent release, and searched for sleep in the folds.

Theory, 3

3.
I was apologetic the second I finished inside of the newly-gay boy on the bed under me and I quickly pulled out, still dripping, and apologized. “Sorry, I’m sorry, are you alright?” But Jake was fine, I was fine, we were fine, he assured me. “Did I hurt you?”

He moved experimentally, cringing a bit, and I winced at his pain. “Nah, I’m fine,” he repeated, and this time I almost believed it. I always knew I was gay but Jake had the air of someone who had just recently figured it out and this had definitely been his first sex. He had semen all over his stomach, and I helped him off the bed and into the shower to clean off.

I wonder if he wanted to wash off the gay. I wanted to tell him you couldn’t wash it off. I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter if he only wanted to be friends. I wanted to tell him that if this had been a mistake I could arrange it so that he never saw my face again, never had to remember the day he had his virginity taken by a boy two years older than him. He could pretend his first time with a girl was his first time period and move on with his life.

But I didn’t say any of those things. I climbed into the shower with him and helped him clean up, hearing for the first time the music thumping through the floor beneath us, a reminder of the peers we had left behind.

Theory, micro-chapter 2

2.
She was spending New Year’s Eve alone, as usual, in her basement room. Wan evening light trickled through the window as it neared midnight. There was a TV upstairs but it was turned off; her parents were asleep and probably assumed that she was also.

She flopped back on the mattress that laid in the corner of her room, settling on top of a quilt, a comforter, and her pillow. The winter was bitterly cold and seemed unfeeling, uncaring. She liked the winter because she liked getting under blankets and holding her own body heat close and imagining that she had someone else to hold to her side. She also liked the cold because she preferred to masturbate with the blankets pulled up under her arms and that was implausible in the summer when it was hot.

So she turned on her ipod and slid the tiny speakers into her ears where they funneled the noise to her and nobody else could hear it and she turned on some porn and slid a hand into the warm dampness between her legs, clutching her breasts to her with her other arm and tried not to mewl for release, imagining touching a lover, imagining a lover calling her name at his own release, Willow, Willow, Willow…

Theory, micro-chapter 1

1.

Lying on his back with a cock up his ass wasn’t how Jake had visualized starting the New Year, but here he was in an unfamiliar basement being rammed by a wiry white boy, his face slack with pleasure as he felt a, by contrast, completely familiar blooming in his groin and he knew that within a few minutes he would be coming.

His New Year’s resolution had been to come to terms with his sexuality and he still didn’t know exactly what that was (and maybe he just didn’t want to face the g-word) but he had to admit that lying here on New Year’s day with a cock up his ass, he was having the time of his life and he never, never wanted it to end.