Dani Putney

I knew he was dangerous: horn-rimmed glasses, PBR in hand, dirty-blond hair ascending his forearms. It was like a film negative of the day I met Cody.

“Let me pay for your coffee,” Cody said, grabbing my tiny wrist. I counted the dandelions on his hands and tried to follow them toward his chest. Did he catch my gaze?

Kyler knew I was looking. I can never hide when I’m drunk. I also can’t help but melt in front of an unruly beard and pair of metallic spectacles. I felt the radiating flush of my half-Asian cheeks.

“I’m Kyler,” he said, as if I hadn’t eavesdropped on his conversations all night. “What are you drinking? Let me guess … you’re a Bud Light guy. You look like you have some country in you.”

“Spot on,” I sputtered. I was obvious. He was obvious. We both knew where we had to go next.
Inside his car, he cupped my crotch with his rough palm. “Just tell me when to stop, and I will.”

“Cody and I are done,” I replied.

“Still, I don’t want you to regret anything.”

I lunged, hoping he would shut up. My tongue had never failed me before. I bit his lower lip—not my first rodeo—men love it when I make them bleed a little.

The windows started to fog. The familiar symphony of panting, shuffling bodies, and inadvertent groans overtook us. This was my coda.

He reached to remove his glasses, but I clutched his hand. “Leave them on.”

A simper. I thought I’d let that smile do anything to me. Let me be your bottom. Stick your fingers in my mouth.
Ever the egalitarian, I proposed 69. We shared salt on his bed. I was surprised at how hairy he was: chest, legs, penis. If Cody was an otter, Kyler was a bear. I wasn’t sure I liked it.

He exploded. I followed. Our semen decorated his bedsheets like queer postmodern performance art—Carolee Schneemann’s “Meat Joy” paled in comparison.
“Want to shower?” he asked.

“Sure, let me wipe off all this cum first.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of you.”
I entered his small bathroom. When I turned on the showerhead, he placed a cold hand on my waist. Lightning bolted throughout me.

“Can I wash you?” he asked.

“No, I prefer to clean myself, thanks.”

We began our shower in silence. I remembered scrubbing Cody’s back, his tan, sunscreen-laden neck repelling water. Something had always seemed off. I didn’t like to do it, but he wanted me to.

“Hey, I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “Can you clean me up?”

He simpered and navigated his loofah across my body. This was his second exploration—above the waist. I didn’t have to look behind me to sense his erection.

Even with the water steaming, my lungs felt frigid.

Dani Putney