Kevin Corrigan and Me Read online

  Early on, he sucked and gently chewed on a spot near my collarbone; it was the first time I’d ever received a hickey, and after he finished his work, Lane continued moving southward. He took his time, and by the time he tongued my navel, I was squirming with pleasure on the mattress. He even sucked my toes, which felt pretty damned incredible.

  When Lane finally released me and removed the blindfold, I was a tiger ready to pounce. “I’m on top this afternoon,” I told him, “unless you have a problem with that.”

  Lane shook his head while his eyes glittered. I took him on his back, just as I’d done with Kevin the weekend before. When I entered him, a blue vein popped up on Lane’s forehead; he sucked air through his clenched teeth.

  “Am I hurting you?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he said. “I can take it.”

  I didn’t rush things. I kept up a slow and steady cadence with my hips. The bedsprings moaned and the headboard knocked on the wall as I thrust. Lane grunted while he stared into my eyes and chewed his lips. I felt his hot breath on my chest each time he exhaled. After ten minutes or so, Lane reached orgasm, and then I came inside him only moments later. Like my last time with Kevin, I felt my orgasm in every part of my body, even in the soles of my feet. When I closed my eyes, I saw fireworks. I cried out Lane’s name and the sound of my voice echoed off the walls.

  After I collapsed on top of Lane, I gasped for air while our sweaty skins stuck together like they’d been glued. I stayed inside him for several minutes while our pulses slowed. We didn’t say anything; we just listened to each other breathe. The scent of our sex was strong in the room. When I finally pulled out, we lay side by side on the bed, just staring at the plaster ceiling and holding each other’s hands.

  “I knew this would be good,” Lane said, “but not that good. The whole thing was so much better than sex at the motel.”

  I nodded while Lane turned onto his side, facing me. He bent an elbow and rested his chin on his palm. “Who’s on top when you’re with Kevin?”

  I explained about my role reversal with Kevin the previous weekend. “I mean, I always enjoyed being on the bottom before—I never once complained about it—but there’s something amazing about poking another guy, isn’t there?”

  Lane nodded. “We can mix it up this weekend; how’s that?”

  After we showered, we hit the kitchen, wearing nothing but our briefs. Both of us were famished after all the energy we’d burned in Lane’s bedroom. His mom had left us a fridge full of sodas and a pantry stocked with snacks, the kind of junk food guys our age craved: potato chips, cheese doodles, pretzels, and cookies. We sat at the kitchen table and munched away like we hadn’t eaten in a week.

  “How long have you known you were gay?” I asked Lane in between munches.

  He snickered. “Ever since my cousin from Virginia slept in my room, two summers ago. He’s a horny guy—he’s a bit kinky too—and not at all bashful. He got inside my briefs the very first night, and right away, I knew I liked it. Girls have never interested me; how about you?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve never even gone on a date with a girl, and why would I? I just never felt the urge. I figured I’d go through life alone, but when Kevin and I had sex the first time, it was like he’d let me out of a cage. After that, I couldn’t get enough of him.”

  “Does your mom know?” Lane asked.

  I shrugged. “I think she might suspect, but she hasn’t said anything—not yet.”

  Lane studied a pretzel while he talked. “Back in July, I told my folks. They bugged me so much about why I wasn’t dating, and finally I got tired of making excuses. I said to them, ‘There’s something you need to understand: I’m not attracted to girls, and you know what that means.’”

  I whistled. “How’d they react?”

  Lane shrugged. “They were shocked, of course. They thought maybe I needed counseling, but I told them I didn’t. I said I didn’t want to pretend I was someone I wasn’t, and I think they respected my honesty.”

  I nodded and tried to imagine having such a conversation with my mom and sister. What if I told them about Kevin and me? Would Mom let Kevin spend the night anymore?

  “Let’s get dressed,” Lane said. “I need to turn on the outdoor Christmas lights.”

  Because it was chilly outside, Lane loaned me a leather bomber-style jacket to wear over my sweater, and then we walked around the perimeter of his house, plugging in light strands that covered the hedges and circled the trunks of palms. Extension cords snaked everywhere. We plugged in an illuminated Santa that stood on the Davises’ roof, and then we plugged in more light strands decorating their dock. By the time we’d finished our work, the property looked like a Christmas parade float.

  Lane snitched two cans of beer from a fridge in his garage, and we sat on the dock, admiring all the lights. Their glow reflected in Lane’s hair, in his wheat-colored eyelashes and his gray eyes. After he glanced here and there, he took my hand in his and kissed my cheek.

  “You’re such a sweet guy,” he told me. “I’m glad you could stay here this weekend.”

  “Me too,” I said. And then, between sips of beer, I told Lane about my phone conversation with Kevin the night before. “It’s like he thinks he owns me.”

  Lane shook his head. “I don’t understand why you put up with it.”

  “It’s hard to explain. I mean, Kevin and I go back a long way. I know him better than anyone else does. His home life is pretty dismal; I’m all he has to lean on when times get tough. And also…”

  “What?”

  “He’s sexy as hell.”

  I reached for my wallet and showed Lane a school photo of Kevin that Kevin had recently given me, a black-and-white headshot with Kevin dressed in a jacket and tie. Lane studied the photo for a few moments while he rubbed his lips together. Then he handed it back to me.

  “He is good-looking, but that doesn’t mean he should treat you like he does.”

  “You’re right,” I said, then realized I was already tired of thinking about Kevin and how often he neglected me. “Why don’t we talk about something else?”

  “Okay,” he said. “Come back inside with me; I have a surprise for you.”

  I crinkled my forehead while I drained the last of my beer. Already I felt a little light-headed from the alcohol. “What kind of surprise?”

  After Lane rose, he held out his hand. “Come on.” He pulled me to my feet. “I’ll show you.”

  Back in Lane’s room, where the scent of our sex still hung in the air, Lane produced a gift-wrapped rectangular package from his closet. After he handed it to me, we sat side by side on his bed, and I placed the package in my lap.

  “Go on,” Lane said. “Open it.”

  I untied the bow and ripped the brightly colored paper apart. The gift was an SAT preparation guide, a book almost four inches thick.

  “My folks bought it for you,” Lane said.

  “I don’t understand. Why?”

  Lane mussed my hair. “’Cause they think you’re university material, that’s why. You still have more than three months to get ready for the test.”

  I leafed through the guide while savoring its new book smell. The guide’s first half was dedicated the test’s verbal portion while the second half was devoted to math. In the rear were four practice exams.

  “It’s a lot of work,” I said.

  Lane nodded. “Take it in bite-size chunks, a couple of hours at a time. That’s how I’m doing it, and you’d be surprised how quickly you can progress through the pages.”

  I didn’t know what to say. No one outside of my mom and sister had ever given me a gift, and certainly not something substantial like this book. I felt so overwhelmed my eyes itched and I had to clear my throat before I spoke.

  “This was really nice of your parents,” I said. “I’ll be sure to send them a thank-you note.”

  Lane put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “They like you,” he said. “They know how
hard you work on your lawn business and how well you perform in school. They want to see you succeed.”

  I looked at Lane and raised an eyebrow. “Do you think they suspect you and I…?”

  Lane shrugged.

  Then I asked, “Do they even know I’m here this weekend?”

  “Of course,” Lane said. “I don’t like to hide things from them.”

  An hour later, we devoured burgers and fries at a Treasure Island A&W drive-in restaurant where two dozen kids from our school were hanging out. Radios played in cars while two waitresses delivered food on trays. We saw a few kids we both knew; we waved hello, and I felt very proud to be seen in Lane’s company. Glow from the drive-in’s neon lights reflected in the Dart’s shiny hood while I sipped from a soda cup.

  Lane dipped a french fry in a little container of ketchup on the dashboard. Then he asked me, “What do you think all these kids would say if they knew our story?”

  I raised my eyebrows while I shifted my buttocks in the car seat. “To be honest, I wouldn’t want to find out. I think we’ll have to be very careful when we’re out in public together, don’t you agree?”

  Lane nodded, and I told him how Kevin had suggested, more than once, that he and I live together after we finished high school. “He thinks we should move to New York where people don’t care if you’re gay.”

  Lane looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Would you actually consider doing that?”

  “You mean with Kevin?”

  When Lane nodded again, I made a face. “Probably not,” I said. “He isn’t reliable; I can’t count on him to do what he says he will.”

  “But how about with someone else, a guy you could trust?”

  I stared out the windshield and blinked. “Maybe.”

  We slept spoon-style in Lane’s bed Friday night. I fell asleep very quickly with my back to Lane and his arm wrapped around my waist. When I woke Saturday morning, bright sunlight poured through the windows. We had changed positions during the night, and now Lane lay on his back with his cheek resting against my shoulder. I studied his facial features: his eyebrows and eyelashes, and his pink lips; they each seemed as delicate as flower petals. Sunlight reflected in the golden stubble on his chin. I kissed his forehead and buried the tip of my nose in his hair.

  Lane’s eyelids fluttered open. When he looked at me, a little smile crossed his lips. He stretched his limbs like a housecat, then asked me, “How’d you sleep?”

  “Great,” I said.

  We both peed into Lane’s toilet at the same time—I found it kind of sexy—and after we flushed, we returned to the bed. We crawled under the covers, and our bodies intertwined while our lips smacked and our tongues rubbed.

  This time Lane took me on my back, and because we were alone in the house, we both uttered some pretty lewd remarks while Lane thrust inside me and the bedsprings sang. I think Lane called me his “fuckboy” at one point, which I also thought was kind of sexy. I felt like I was riding a rocket hurtling into space, and when I hit orgasm, my vision blurred. Lane’s entire body jerked three or four times when he unloaded inside me. After our heartbeats slowed, we lay side by side on our backs, both of us with our fingers interlaced behind our necks. Our shoulders and hips touched and our leg hairs commingled.

  Lane glanced out the windows. “It’s a sunny day,” he said, “and the wind’s not blowing, so I think Egmont Key’s doable. We’ll just have to bundle up ’cause it’ll be cold on the water when the engine runs full-throttle.”

  We showered together. I soaped and scrubbed Lane with a washcloth, and he did the same to me. We both washed our hair too. After we toweled off, we ate our breakfast at the kitchen table, butt naked. Lane looked so sexy with his damp hair and his sleek muscles that I couldn’t help myself; I kept pawing his limbs in between spoonfuls of Cheerios.

  Lane took one of my hands in his. He slipped his fingers in between mine and squeezed. “This is so cool,” he said. “Why can’t it be like this all the time?”

  I lowered my gaze and made a little smile.

  Yeah, I thought, why can’t it?

  Chapter Eighteen

  I suppose every guy experiences at least one special day in his life that he carries deep in his heart forever. My Saturday with Lane was one of those. I remember everything about it: the sights, the sounds, and the scents. I will always remember the way Lane looked when he stood at his boat’s helm with the wind fluttering his hair and sunlight dancing on the surface of Boca Ciega Bay.

  We departed around ten a.m. with an ice cooler holding sodas and sandwiches. We both wore jeans, sweatshirts, and jackets. The day was cool and sunny, and because the breeze was light, water in the bay wasn’t choppy. The boat’s hull plowed the placid water like a knife slicing whipped butter while chilly air burned my cheeks.

  I stood alongside Lane, watching him adjust the engine’s speed and tilt. He explained the function of the red and green channel markers we passed, and how they kept boats from running aground. We passed by waterfront communities where low-slung homes stood behind seawalls. Many homes had docks with sailboats bobbing alongside them or powerboats hanging from davits. We passed under a drawbridge connecting St. Pete Beach to South Pasadena, an imposing concrete-and-steel structure that made me feel a little bit vulnerable in our little boat.

  Lane pointed westward, toward more waterfront neighborhoods that looked pretty much like the ones we’d already passed. “That’s Three Palms Point, and then the next one is Brightwater; they’re dredge-and-fill islands that weren’t there twenty years ago. My dad says all that dredging really screwed up fishing in the area. They tore up the sea grasses where fish used to spawn, and now you can cast here all day without catching a thing.”

  After we left the dredge-and-fill islands behind us, the homes we passed began to look older, the streets narrower, and I realized we had reached Pass-a-Grille Beach. I thought about the Saturday before, when Kevin and had I parked outside of Jack’s, and then I thought about the squabble we had after Kevin suggested, for a second time, how we might live together one day. I remembered how Kevin said I was acting like a “jealous bitch” when I complained of his neglect, and now the memory of that moment stirred anger in my belly.

  The more time I spent with Lane, the less guilty I felt about not spending time with Kevin that weekend. At least Lane had never called me a bitch, nor had he taken our friendship for granted the way Kevin had. Lane treated me like an equal, even though he came from circumstances far more prosperous than mine, and I liked that.

  We entered the Gulf of Mexico via the Pass-a-Grille Channel. Lane took us about a mile offshore before turning the bow southward. We navigated in deep water now, and the boat’s hull rose and fell with the swells we encountered. It seemed like we occupied an elevator car that kept going back and forth between floors. I felt uneasy about the whole situation; I wondered if perhaps I should put on a life jacket, but I tried to stay calm. I didn’t want Lane to think I was a wimp.

  When the Gulf’s color changed from emerald to midnight blue, Lane told me, “We’re entering the shipping channel; it leads to the Sunshine Skyway Bridge and then to Tampa Bay. The depth here is about eighty feet.”

  Eighty feet? My stomach did a flip-flop while I seized a grab bar on the console with both my hands. Off in the distance, a hulking freighter approached; it looked like a floating warehouse plowing through the water.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to be out here?” I asked Lane, and pointed at the freighter. “Our boat’s not big like that one and—”

  Lane put his hand on the back of my neck. Then he squeezed. “Relax, Jesse. You know I’d never put you in danger.”

  Right away, Lane’s touch and the sound of his voice calmed me. I relaxed my grip on the grab bar, then bent my knees so my body could bob with the roll of the swells we encountered. Up ahead, another island loomed, this one with a lighthouse towering above a forest of Sabal palms.

  “That’s Egmont,” Lane said while pointing wi
th his chin. “We’ll dock on the lee side and then go ashore.”

  I drew a breath, then let it out. The idea of walking onto dry land seemed like a dream I couldn’t wait to come true. Lane steered the boat in a southeasterly direction until we passed Egmont’s northernmost point, and I saw a concrete dock with two boats tethered to it. As soon as we drew east of the island, the swells disappeared. The water flattened out, and as Lane throttled down, I saw the bay’s sandy bottom as we puttered toward the dock.

  I raised my chin and gazed into the cloudless sky.

  Hallelujah. We actually made it…

  Lane tossed an anchor off the stern of the boat, then ambled toward the bow just as we reached the dock. He seized a bow line and leapt like a gazelle from the bow to the dock. After he tied the line to a cleat on the dock, he told me to come ashore. I felt a little awkward getting off the boat, but I managed to hop onto the dock, then I savored the solid feel of the concrete deck.

  Lane glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s eleven right now. Let’s explore for an hour, and then we’ll have ourselves some lunch. Sound good?”

  I nodded and followed Lane up a sandy path that led to a clearing where the lighthouse and a group of small one-story buildings stood. The buildings didn’t appear to be in use. While we made our way up the path, we encountered a turtle as large as a Thanksgiving turkey; it was chewing flowers off a ground vine, and it didn’t seem the least intimidated by our presence.

  “That’s a gopher tortoise,” Lane said. “Much of the time, they live underground in tunnels they create. They can live for sixty years because they don’t have any natural enemies, other than man of course.”