Chapter Text
It was Georgie. He didn’t really think that much about marriage, or the future other than some sort of analogous blob of academia and caffeine and destroying himself at the altar of knowledge. It’s strange: he works himself to the bone, fucks up his back and his sleep schedule and his social life, all in pursuit of… something. Some vague future. He has drive without purpose– Georgie is getting her degree in English and Religious Studies because she loves the two, she has nebulous dreams of a television show or a book of folklore or owning a bookstore. Three in the morning and she’s pouring over some dull Aquinian catechism, and Jon will tell her how remarkable he finds her. “I can never understand how you spend so much time reading these things and still enjoy it, Jo.” Set a mug of tea down on the desk next to her, press a kiss to her temple. “Bloody incredible, never cease to be amazed.” She’ll laugh, tell him it’s all worth it.
“Yeah, the Big A was a chronically constipated weirdo who quotes the Bible like a textbook and had a pedo haircut, but I’m trucking through. ‘Sides, I only need to do a couple of boring-old-white-man classes, I only get credit for five classes in the folklore emphasis. I mean, I’ll still get credit- credits, but like in order to graduate with the degree you need…” She’s go on, excitedly talking about how she was literally designing her own degree within the Religious Studies department, and I’m being mentored by the coolest fucking professor ever like seriously if she wasn’t 70 we would be best friends, and she applied for a position doing peer advising within the Religious Studies department, so I can help other people with this sort of thing. Plus, maybe I’d like to be a teacher or something? Maybe? Not, like, a teacher-teacher who teaches kids, but like those science-people who come into schools and set balloons on fire or whatever. That, but for paganism. She thinks of her future and sees creation, excitement, a world of her own devising.
Jon thinks of his future and it’s just Georgie. Everything else in his life he studies because he feels he should, he pursues English because he likes reading and Classics because he picked it out when he was 17 and knew nothing about anything. He loves Georgie because she’s incredible, sunny and warm and the funniest person he’s ever met. When he’s drunk enough, he’ll admit that he thinks they’re perfect together: they can spend hours in silence hunched over reading, Jon is a decent cook and Georgie a fantastic baker, they have the same tastes in books and movies and places to watch the sunset. He doesn’t vocalize it, even several pints deep, but he’s relieved neither of them seem to care much for sex.
He hasn’t mentioned it since their third date– “I don’t want to have sex with you” is, to him, the beginning and end of the conversation. He didn’t particularly want to have sex with her, either, nor did he particularly want to talk about sex with her.
She doesn’t talk about her previous boyfriend often. She’ll call him fuckface and pervo-beard, but honest emotional conversation has never been their forte. Her forte. It’s not until they’re laying together, intimate as in close, not sexual. They’d gorged themselves on warm bread and clams cooked in wine, beer that tastes like bitter water at a pound a pint. Staggered home, collapsed in a pile of limbs and warmth. She’d huffed, eyes somewhere distant, and began to speak. “My last boyfriend was a real piece of shit, y’know.”
She looks angry, something he isn’t used to seeing on her. “Just… perpetually wanting to fuck, a man has needs and all that.” She’s been curled around Jon on the shitty loveseat in her apartment, tongue loosened by long-term sleep deprivation more than the shared beer they’re nursing. “I mean I’m not gonna say he assaulted me, ‘cuz if I really told him to quit it he’d leave me alone, y’know? But he’d always, like, beg me to just suck his dick, or something. And he’d whine and make a big deal out of it if I didn’t want to.” Jon scratched at the nape of her neck the way she loved, and she hummed and squeezed closer to him. “I dunno, there was nothing, like, intimate about it whenever we’d do– I mean, okay, there were a few times but for the most part? I didn’t finish and he didn’t even notice, I don’t think me coming was part of the equation. I was there to get fucked by him.” She took a deep breath, let them sit in her words. Jon took her wrist, gently between cool fingers, and started tracing little loops and swirls over her pulse point. She cooed, and he blushed and turned away. “What’re you drawing?”
He sighed. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Let me be the judge of that, Jonny Boy? I just bared my fucking soul to you, I think I deserve to know–”
“I’m writing the lyrics to ‘Landslide.’ By, uh, Fleetwood–”
She strains her neck so she can kiss the tip of his nose. “That’s not embarrassing. It’s sweet. You’re sweet.”
They sit in silence for a while more, she almost thinks he’s conked out and is sleep-writing ‘o, climb a mountain,’ until soft words break the hush. “I’m so sorry, Jo, you didn’t deserve that. I mean, no one would, but–”
He sounds like he’s going to cry.
She twists around, he looks like he’s going to cry. It just won’t do, so she wraps him in her arms and tucks her face against his neck. “Hey. ‘S’okay, I dumped him and he ended up moving back in with his parents. ‘Sides, you’re a million times better boyfriend than him. Tanner– that’s a stupid fucking name, too.” She started giggling, the puffs of air tickling his stubble. It made him smile and hold her tighter. “Y’know I only started dating him ‘cuz he had a truck and liked to go camping. Just took me way too long to get out.”
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and traced a few letters (‘see my reflection’) against her hip. “I’ll kill him for you, if you want. Think I could take some prick named Tanner.” She’d laughed again, and fallen asleep in his arms. He dozed off, too, beneath her on a loveseat meant for one.
—
Jon was nothing like the men she’d known before– not that she’d had tons of experience, she’d only dated two men before him (three if you could Drew when she was 13, which she firmly did not) but even male friends. He never let his hand drift to her chest or rear during a hug, he never made jokes that weren’t really jokes to test where the line was. Never got closer, touchier than would be considered strictly appropriate and used the excuse of liquor.
Jon would stroke her hair just to make her smile, he would kiss her without it turning hungry. It was nice, it was refreshing and relaxing, but… well. Not to sound like Tanner, but she does have needs. Or at least wants. Once, while they were snogging on the couch, he shifted and pressed his knee between her thighs. She’s moaned, because fucking Christ she was keyed up and he was warm and perfect against her– he flinched, and pulled away, and apologized. It’s fine, clearly the man didn’t have much of a libido and after five months of being practically on-call for Tanner’s she wasn’t exactly raring to go at all hours of the day, but…
He’s just nothing like the other men she’d dated.
The first time he’d invited her over to his apartment for capital-d-Dinner, not just winding back up there after the bar or splitting pizza on the floor to David Attenborough, she thought it would be The Night. Georgie was excited, mostly, at the prospect of sex with Jon. He’d probably be attentive at the very least, probably say she looked divine in that awed tone usually reserved for her research projects and confectionaries. He’d probably touch her reverently, and even if he couldn’t make her finish she’d bet anything that he’d at least try. Even if she was physically unsatisfied, she told herself, she wouldn’t feel used.
She shaved her legs and bikini-line, but not everything else– it would be wildly out of character for Jon to care that she didn’t spur for the full Brazillian. She put on nice underwear (nothing too elaborate, just a cute lacey pair with no period stains. Jon had said she was gorgeous wearing no makeup and a Tesco’s uniform, and crazier still she believed him) and painted on the nice lip gloss she bought for job interviews. She knocked on his door at 7:28pm and he opened it by the third rap. He also looked a bit off kilter, squeezing at the back of his neck.
“You, uh. You look incredible, Georgie, um. Is that a new lipgloss?”
Because of course Jon would notice that.
“Yeah, it is. Loreal frosted toffee, usually I don’t go for the glittery ones but…” She swallowed, took in her boyfriend. His hair was neat, his shirt had been ironed. “You look pretty great yourself.” She handed him the bottle of screwtop wine she’d brought and kissed him on the cheek. “Smells amazing, by the way, what did you make?”
It was a perfect date– he’d made an incredible shrimp-garlic-pasta-something with a salad and precious little apple turnovers for dessert. She laughed through bites of food and he was all smiles and eye-rolls as she told stories he’d heard a hundred times before but didn’t mind hearing again. At one point, he rambled on for a half hour about ancient septic systems and she barely even registered that this probably wasn’t normal date talk, just happy to listen to his voice. It was rich, and lovely, and somehow he made Augustinian Era refuse channels sound sexy.
She’d had a glass of wine, then another, then enough that the two of them killed three bottles in as many hours. She was giggly, she was safe with her boyfriend and there was more warmth between her legs than trepidation in her chest. Jon wouldn’t be like the other men, she was sure. He’d take care of her, make sure she was ready and enjoying herself, he’d probably try to make her come (even though her expectations for men were low and she wouldn’t really hold it against him if he couldn’t get her off). He poured her a “digestif” (cheap whiskey and Coca-Cola), then stole the rest of hers after finishing his own. They migrated to his couch, a scratchy eyesore with more pillows than spaces to sit, and they were making out.
She was on his lap, his hands were firmly on her waist and she was less restrained in her sighs and hums as he did delightful things with his tongue. She dragged his head from her lips to her neck and he got the message, kissing wet marks down the column of her throat. It was perfect, it was incredible, her head was spinning with pleasure– her head was spinning.
The room was spinning, her mouth was full of salty saliva– “Shi– stop, wait–” Immediately, eyes wide, Jon pulled away.
“Are you alright? What’s wrong, did I go too far? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to–”
“No, bathroom–” She flopped off his lap and ran, barely making it to the toilet before retching. He followed her, also staggering, and braced himself against the counter.
“Fuck. Water, shit let me–”
She retched again and whined, high and scared. “Don’t go? Please?” He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see that with her head in the toilet and put his hand on her back instead.
“O-Of course. Whatever you need.” Carefully, he gathered her hair from the sweat-soaked back of her neck and forehead. It was too thick to really do anything with, and he didn’t have a clip or elastic or anything, so he just held it and tried to soothe her. “You’re alright, there we go, just let it out.”
She whined– “Fuck, Jon, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m the worst girlfriend on the planet.”
His hand was gentle on the nape of her neck, he made some gentle noise. “No, you’re not. Just let it out, don’t worry about me. It’s okay, it’s okay.” He kept shushing her, eventually getting her to allow him out of the bathroom long enough to get a glass of water and a tab of alka-seltzer. She guzzles half the glass, it almost comes back up but– “Feeling better?”
She nods. “I’m so fucking sorry, Jon. You planned this whole, sweet, romantic night and I…” She drops her head back against the toilet seat, then makes a choked little “ow.” He just laughed, kindly, and helped her up.
“It’s really okay, Jo. I drank too much, too, so.” He lets his forehead fall against hers. “And all I wanted was to have a special night with you, which I got. So, in my mind, successful date night achieved!” He giggled, kissed her on the sweaty forehead, and rested his head against the wall. “I mean it, I’ve gotten wasted and embarrassed myself too. You remember me at trivia night.” His eyes get a glassy, far-away look for a moment, then he shudders. “Christ alive. Did I tell you about the time I tried moon–” He gagged and shuddered, turning two shades greener. “Moonshine? Those damn yankees…” Georgie laughed at that, and they were both laughing, a sweaty pile of limbs against cool tile.
“You’re a marvel, Jonny Sims.” She giggled. “Be a marvel with toothpaste?” He gives her mouthwash, because you need to flush the detritus out before you brush, come on Georgie I know this isn’t the first time you’d overindulged, corrals her into the shower, then respectfully turns to face the wall as she undresses. “Y’don’t need to turn around, I trust you.”
He breathed in sharply. “I… I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable, y’know. I wouldn’t, like, get you drunk and then try to take advantage of you– I’m drunk, too, not that that would make it okay, but I wouldn’t do that and I’m not that kind of–” She grabbed his shoulder.
“Hey. Jon! C’mon, you know that I know you aren’t anything like that.” She squeezed him. “You are one of the sweetest, most gentlemanly, respectful guys. And, frankly, if you want to look at your smokin’ hot girlfriend take a shower, well, I’m perfectly okay with that. As long as you are.” He un-squeezed his eyes. She was smiling down at him, benevolently, and it reminded him of a God. Or what a God should be, benedictine and gentle. She stood back up, makes eye contact. Reaches around her back and unclasps her bra. It’s nice, he’s no lingerie aficionado but even he can tell that it’s a nice bra. Black, lacey but not in a way that seems gaudy or overblown. She drops it, and… she’s beautiful. It doesn’t stir lust in him, not in the traditional sense, though his mouth does begin to water. Soft, gentle curves. A pretty little pudge of belly with coarse hair pointing down, down to where her fingers messed with the top buttons of her skirt, peeling it off then thumbing her waistband– he looks away with a squeak.
“Sorry, you’re beautiful and wondrous and I’m…” He looks at her, her sweet smile and perfect silhouette. “You’re beautiful. I just don’t want to leer, but you’re–” he burps, then reddens and looks away, “--you’re perfect.”
She smiles at him, then presses a kiss to the crown of his head. If Jon pressed forward a bit he would be able to kiss her nipple, maybe even bring it into his mouth, but he doesn’t. Instead he looks back up at her, hoping to convey all the love he feels. All the love he can’t show her in the physical sense, She hums, then goes about his bathroom as if she owns the place. She rubs Ponds Cold Cream over her eyes and then blindly feels her way to the shower door, cranks the water as hot as it’ll go. He watches, enraptured, as she uses his body wash (lemongrass) and face wash (CeraVe sensitive skin). She wraps one of his towels around her torso– “D’ya have pajamas I can wear? I, uh, think I need to crash here t’night.” He rushes up, bracing himself on the counter as his own head spins (he’d also overindulged) and then grabs her a soft t-shirt (“B-positive, Donate Blood”) and sweatpants he hopes will fit her larger frame. She grabs the shirt and ignores the pants, squeezing his hand before staggering back to the bedroom. “C’n I get a bag to have for the bed? Just, uh–” she makes the g -uhgh of a person about to vomit but refrains, “--just in case.”
When he makes it back with a plastic bag and another bottle of water, she’s already curled up beneath the sheets. She’s on the left side of the bed. Privately, he considers it “her side” and smiles every time she plops herself onto it. He settles beside her, half-planning to use the bag himself. He assumes her to be asleep, but she stirs and curls up next to him. Her head is pillowed on his chest, her hair fills his mouth but it’s nothing he’d rebuke. The room is spinning, his girlfriend is sing-songing. “‘n fight tha’ break’a dawn, come tom– hic– tomorrow you’ll be gone.” She squirms, then melts against him. “‘s your apartment, you can’t leave, I’ll leave, I guess, but not until…” she sniffs and digs her nose into his shoulder, “‘m not too drunk to, dunno, stroke you off ‘r something?” She can feel him flinch so she wraps her arms around him. “I know, I know, I’m drunk and you’re drunk. But! But that’s my point! You’re just… ugh. You’re so nice, and I just wanna do nice stuff for you too. You– You rub my shoulders to make me feel good, you make me a whole elaborate dinner and tell me I’m pretty just to do it, not to get in my pants. You’re…” A sloppy kiss is pressed against his sternum, he doesn’t flinch even though it’s slimy. “You’re nice.”
For once, he doesn’t argue with her about that fact.
—
Two weeks later, two drinks deep, two of Georgie’s cold feet tucked under Jon’s thighs where he sits on his couch. He was rather proud of himself, and by himself he mostly means his frozen mojitos. He’d purchased an American cocktail book and borrowed his roommate’s blender so he could make them into slushies. They were good but not great (though she’d never admit it to Jon, who was looking so self-satisfied she couldn’t break his heart by admitting it was a bit cloying and could use more mint), and she was getting a bit of a headache from the ice. He settled his left palm (cold and damp from the glass) against her calf.
“Is…” She huffed, then folded her ankles over his lap. “Do you not find me attractive?”
He shot up– “What? No! No, I mean, yes! Yes, you are breathtakingly, devastatingly attractive, and I’m so sorry if I’ve ever made you feel anything different!” She huffs, lightly kicking her legs against him–
“No! That’s what I– ugh. Why don’t you want to have sex with me?”
He peered down at her, queerly. “You… you said you didn’t want to?”
She scoffed. “What, before that dumb slasher flick?” He nods, wordlessly. “That was, like, four months ago! I didn’t mean never. I just meant not after our third date.”
He nodded again, not making eye contact. “Oh.” Swallowed, hard. “And, um. I’d– I’d be okay if you didn’t? Ever, that is– I’d respect your…” huff “I assumed you meant you never wanted to sleep with me, and I was more than willing to accommodate.”
She nods. “Well, uh,” liquor was swirling in her stomach, “I appreciate it. Um.”
“I just thought, with all the stuff you told me about Ta– your ex, I just…”
“God, you’re so– thoughtful, or respectful, or– sometimes, definitely, I don’t… but that, um, having bad sexual experiences doesn’t mean I never want to try to have good ones? With a sweet, gentle man who sees me as more than that?” He nods, still unable to look at each other. He makes a soft sound, it could be construed as oh or ah, and takes another glug of his drink. They could just leave it there, but… “There’s more to it, though. Isn’t there?” He’s quiet for a moment. “I mean, you’ve been nothing but respectful, but you’ve been snogging me a lot for someone who thinks I’m afraid of sex.”
He takes a gulp from his drink, then winces at his own ice cream headache. “I apologize, Georgie, I should’ve… this is a conversation we probably should’ve had, uh, earlier. I, I mean I thought we did, but I still should’ve…” He swallows. “I’m not… terribly… interested? In, um, sex? With anyone– it’s not just you, or something you’ve ever done.”
She hums. “Ok. So you’re asexual?”
It’s… it’s a lot. No judgment, or cajoling, or anger. Just curiosity? He looks over to her and she’s looking back, no scorn in her eyes. “Um, I’m not a prokaryote?”
She rolls her eyes fondly. “God, you’re so daft. You’re minoring in linguistics, put two and two–”
“Yes, yes Georgie I understand the… etymology of the word.” He bats at her shoulder, lightly, and she giggles at him. “I’ve had sex, though. Lots of– well, not lots of sex, but a decent amount.” He shrugged. “I didn’t hate it, either. I mean some of the stuff, sure– but it’s not like all of it was terrible. And I don’t hate the idea of having sex again at some point, though I would be fine if that were the case.”
“I mean, I’m hardly a queer scholar–” “Well, technically–” “Shut– what I’m trying to say is that I’m not an expert but I don’t think you have to be? Like, I’m, uh…. A-olives.”
He looked at her blankly. “Beg pardon?”
“I’m a-olives! Like, I don’t really like olives. I’ve tried a bunch of olives, the salty black ones on pizza, the nasty ones in the cans, the nasty ones with the red thing stuck in them, the bitter ones, the nasty green ones again but stuffed with fucking goat cheese at that dumb Soc department dinner–” Next to her, Jon laughed (and thank God they could laugh during a conversation like this).
“I know we’re having an important conversation, but I could really just listen to you describe different types of olives for the rest of the night.” She rolls her eyes, and bumps him with her heel.
“My point is that I’ve tried a bunch of olives and I don’t really like them. I mean, I don’t hate olives, and I’ll eat olives if they’re around and I’m hungry. I even kinda like the really bitter ones they put on Greek salads. But for the most part, I just don’t really care for olives.”
He sighs. “So olives, in this analogy, are equivalent to sex?”
“Yes, Jon, if you’re going to be purposefully obtuse, olives are like sex. And I think that labels can only ever be so useful, in these sorts of situations, so if the label of asexual feels like it’s useful to you to understand yourself then it’s good for you, and if you feel like it doesn’t fit right you don’t need to.”
He swallows. “Can I think about it?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, you need to make a permanent decision about your sexuality right at this very moment– of course you can think about it. And you can, like, change it as you– listen. Personally, I think we give too much credence to labels. You wear the clothes, not the clothes wear you!”
He looked at her, painfully confused and not just because of the liquor. “That wasn’t proper… I’m… I’m sorry, in this analogy are clothes now sex?”
“Gah! No you daft creature, olives are sex and clothes are labels. You… you pick clothes that fit you, but it’s just something you put on until you find something that fits you better. You don’t buy one shirt for the rest of your life and then purposefully gain or lose weight so it fits you forever. Stuff it, I’m not a metaphor girl.” “You’re literally an English major, we both are.” “You are what you are, and if a word helps you understand that and makes it easier to explain yourself to others, then great! But if not, that’s fine too. Just something to think about.”
He still doesn’t look comforted. “Y’know it’s like, fine, right?” He shrugs. “No, fuck you Jon you don’t get to just– okay, y’don’t want to have a bunch of sex all the time. Or any sex ever– okay. That’s fine, you’re allowed to not want to fuck. I mean, shit, I’m not, like, criminally horny 24/7.”
“But you are… horny… sometimes?”
“I mean, yeah? Are you?”
He shrugs. “I don’t… Yes? Sort of, though it’s not really like I want sex as much as it is I want to be…” He trails off, face red. “Held? Or, like, I think someone is attractive, I think you’re incredibly attractive, but that doesn’t really translate to me wanting to put my penis in you.”
“Christ– never say it like that again!” She snorted. “That sounds so clinical.”
“I’m trying to go about this from an academic perspective!”
“Well fuck that! I mean, do whatever makes you comfortable, blah blah, but it’s just the two of us.” She smiles, preens a bit. “And thank you for saying I’m attractive.”
Jon swallowed, he’d taken to writing on her with the tip of his finger while in thought and Georgie had stopped asking what exactly he was scrawling on her unless she was bored.“Do you want to have sex with me?”
“Yes.” Georige answered almost immediately, then made a choked noise and covered her mouth. “I mean, yeah? Of course I do, you’re gorgeous for a start and you’re… you’re you. You’re my Jon, you’re sweet and…” She goes red-faced, the next words spilling from her lips like she has to force them out as quickly as possible. “And I’m pretty sure you’d make me come? Or at least try? Like, that’s… ugh, Jesus fucking Christ,” her hands go to cover her eyes, “I know that’s a low bar but every time you kiss me and it gets heated or you look at me a certain way, all I can think is that this man is going to fuck me within an inch of my life and I’m going to thank him for it.”
Jon starts coughing, red in the face and eyes wide. “Oh! Ah, shit, too much?”
“No, no, not at all. I mean, these are the sorts of things we need to talk about. And, um, it’s sort of… an ego boost? That you’re so sure I’d… perform well?”
She giggles, raising her leg to kick his shoulder then dropping it back to his lap. “Do you, eh…” she chews the inside of her mouth, stalling asking a question she knows she has to. “D’ya want to have sex with me? I mean, you don’t have to, or you don’t need to give me an answer right now, or–”
“Yes. As much…” deep breath, be brave for once in your pathetic life, “as much as I’m capable of wanting to do that with anybody, I would like to have sex with you. Um. It’s sort of, eh, serendipitous that… well, most of what I like in sex is… in other people’s satisfaction and responses? Um, you know, the you-touching-me part isn’t always the easiest for me, and I would never ask you to put my penis in your mouth– yes, yes I shouldn’t talk about it so clinically, would you prefer I say fellate? I do not want you to fellate me, but I wouldn’t be opposed to some… touching, should we both be in the mood. And, um. I can’t be relied on to initiate things all that often, I don’t typically get aroused of my own right, but you should feel free to make the request of me whenever you please, so long as you are alright with an answer in the negative. And I rather require being held in the aftermath, so…” he huffs, as if those conditions would be arduous to his partner, currently looking up at him with wonder in her eyes. “Given those parameters, I would like to have sex with you.”
There’s a delighted little squeal– “Godsake, Jon! You– God, you’re perfect. You’re wonderful, you know that?” She shoots up, pressing a kiss to his lips. “God, how hasn’t someone else snatched you up yet?”
He snorts in that self-deprecating way she can’t seem to get him to stop doing. “I’ve been told I’m acerbic, have a face made to be slapped, and am generally emotionally constipated.” He shrugs.
She just rolls her eyes at the familiar tirade. “Stop quoting your therapist!”
He snorts out a laugh, sharp and bright, chortling so hard his eyes get teary. “God. So, I suppose this means you’re not breaking up with me?”
She furrows her brow. “No, I– come on, why would I break up with you over this?”
He shrugs again. “I’m not really a normal man.”
Huff. “Well, by that metric I’m not a normal woman, because I’m also not perpetually in the mood. And normal is stupid, and your general…” She flutters her hand in his general direction, “acerbicity and slappable face are what drew me to you in the first place.” She strains up, core aching (she should probably do some sit-ups because this is pathetic), and kisses him. Sure, and warm, and solid against his lips. Then, she starts giggling. “Look at that, Jonny Boy! We had an open, honest conversation about ourselves and our sexuality.”
“The horrors are unimaginable.”
“Oh, stuff it! It wasn’t that bad, and it only took a little liquor.” He sighed.
“Next time, I need to hear about your coterie of lovers– I mean, if you want to, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable or like you need to talk about things you don’t want to talk about–”
He knocked his shoulder against hers. “You don’t need to do that, Jo.” He smiles at her, a shy and unsure thing. “Don’t… you don’t need to assume that, because of this, anything related to sex will immediately make me uncomfortable? I’ll tell you, um. Or, if I can’t, I’ll get all flustered and stuttery and won’t blame you for not knowing. I’d rather you say something that makes me feel uncomfortable in the moment than feel you need to watch yourself around me.”
She nods, mostly to herself. “Alright, then. Coterie of lovers, young man. And I’m expecting a full slideshow, notes, all the best ways to make you tick.”
He giggled, then took downed the rest of his slushie. “Christ alive–” His nose puckered and he winced. “Is that too sweet, do you think?”
She smiled to herself, but shrugged. “Maybe a little less sugar next time, but I didn’t mind.”