Change Clothes

Right as I finish packing my eye contact solution in my overnight bag, my phone rings, notifying that my ride is here. I throw my bag over my shoulder, turn off the lights in my bedroom and skip down the stairs and out the front door.

Waiting outside is the silver Mustang, roaring in the breezy evening. I open the door and get comfortable in the passenger seat I’ve sat in several times before. All-American Reject flashes a smile as I lean in to peck him on the corner of his lower lip.

“Ready?” he asks. I nod while rolling down my window. All-American Reject turns right on Market and we begin heading back his place in the East Bay.

What started as a one-night stand has grown into something more. I guess the appropriate term would be, “fuck buddies” but even that is more serious than anything I ever expected this to turn into, considering our first night together was completely impulsive and came entirely out of spite.

If you’ve forgotten All-American Reject is the boy who ratted out his friend, Potential Player, as a Total Player. So then I, in turn, gave in to his advances.

Driving through the Bay Bridge, I always wonder what would happen if something where to go “snap!” All the cars and vans and motorcycles heading into the city would ram right into the traffic trying to leave. Head on collisions on all lanes, the stuff Jerry Bruckheimer’s dreams are made of.

AAR grabs my hands, distracting me from envisioning a disaster, and I wonder, “Do fuck buddies hold hands?”

He had been asking me over to come check out his place ever since we got into a routine of him texting me every night and me replying every time. Judging from his street brat attitude and his Ed Hardy wardrobe, I expected his one-bedroom to be a total mess.

But as he lets me in through the front door, I realize that I shouldn’t have judged a boy by his TK. His apartment is clean, immaculate aside from the oversized gym bag lying in a corner of his well-lit restroom. And in the living room, tiny candles rest on forest green fixtures hanging from the sand-colored walls.

The tour of his place ends in his bedroom. The queen-sized bed is made, and there are no signs of Ed Hardy anywhere. I’m pleasantly surprised by the condition of his apartment, and I wonder, “Do guys clean up their place for a fuck buddy?”

I turn around and fall into AAR’s big arms. As I kiss his neck, I drag his built body closer to the edge of the bed. And we fall together. I love feeling all his weight on me, just enough pressure keeping me in place on his cool, clean bed.

As the temperature rises, he gets up and takes a quick restroom trip before the action begins. As he dashes out of bed, I ask him, “Hey, can I borrow a pair of shorts?”

“Sure, in the closet,” he answers and steps outside.

I walk up to his closet and slide open the mirrored walls. Even though it’s pretty dark, I can still recognize him. There he is, Ed Hardy is all his studded glory: ripped jeans, tattooed shirts, flamed hats, and I’ve made up my mind.

I’ve always considered a big advantage of being involved in even a semi-serious same-sex relationship the fact that you can borrow each other’s clothing, thus doubling your wardrobe. So this discovery seems to reinforce the fact that AAR and I aren’t going very far. But at this point, we don’t have to go any further than the confines of his bedroom. Our steamy time together works because neither of us care to wipe away the mirrors reflecting the truth.

He comes back into the room, and I realize that AAR’s wardrobe is not so much a deal breaker when we both like to spend most of our time with our clothes off.

The next morning, I notice that I have a text from the previous night. It’s Potential Player, informing me that he’s coming back into town.

The last time I saw Potential Player, he had borrowed a shirt from my closet, and despite AAR’s allegations that he was a lying, manipulative scoundrel… I still want to see him. I want my shirt back.

“Who is that?” AAR asks after catching the look on my face.

“Eh, no one,” I lie to myself, thinking these two boys are like the traffic on the Bay Bridge, on separate levels, going opposite directions, and never bound to collide head on.

Oscar Raymundo
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