Not the Type
pardon our French
There is the standard preamble before kissing. We talk about something unimportant, doing the necessary fiddling and waiting before the opportunity to devour each other. This is how I imagine the “standard preamble,” since I haven’t brought many men to my bedroom before Adrien. Too tired, not ready, looking for something different. But here is this Parisian, kissing me gently now with plenty of spit, pushed against my secondhand dresser.
The kisses are good. Exceptional, really. Like French pop from the 60s. Our heads lock together, rock together as we move to my cheap Walmart bed with the mattress that came rolled up in a box. He says nothing about the squeaks coming from the bed’s plastic legs and crumbling frame. Secretly, I hope he finds these squeaks endearing, nostalgic, just like I do.
Adrien pulls my legs over his shoulders, sliding off my pants even though they’re skinny
and my thighs have grown too big for them. He pauses, my underwear in his hands.
“This is what I’ve wanted all day,” he says, looking up with a smile, and then I’m naked.
Earlier in the day, Adrien called my ass a “Juicy Lucy,” the name of a famous Minnesotan burger stuffed with cheese. Carbs and fats and heart attacks, the Juicy Lucy is Minnesota’s state treasure. The burger is never going away because Minnesotans are proud people. These are the people who wear shorts when it’s 35 degrees. As long as the Minnesota State Fair stands and Babe the Blue Ox roams the north woods, the Juicy Lucy will be made. Chefs will argue on Cedar Avenue about whether it’s Jucy or Juicy, but the patty production will never cease. I like the thought that my ass is Minnesota’s state treasure. Obama has eaten a Juicy Lucy.
Adrien says many American phrases that aren’t so sexy. He says “no biggie” and “booyah” and asks if Lake Street is the “hood.” I don’t blame him, as he gathered all his ideas of American culture from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I gently correct him on some of these idiomatic missteps, though he has quickly learned that repeating these phrases makes me uptight and touchy, which I guess he thinks is cute. But Juicy Lucy – I do not correct Juicy Lucy.
We gasp for air. Foreplay, check.
“Roll over,” he says.
The Internet told me a good bottom should trim, shave, lotion, and douche prior to encountering his top. I give Adrien a look that signals I have completed these steps.
“I’m going to take a nap on your ass.”
“You know,” he says, “like your ass will be my pillow, and you’ll put your head – your head, um – ” he searches for English, “under my balls.”
Hmm, I think. This must be a French nap.
I called my mother one time and told her I wanted to be the kind of boy who has “a type. ”Things seem more enjoyable for men who can view men as body parts. But my taste is a shotgun, not a rifle. I liked Rick, the Marxist middle school teacher who lived in a mansion and had a beer belly. I liked John, the slender urban planner with a pornstache who picked me up when a rainstorm scared away all the taxis. I liked Michael, the grocer who was a yoga teacher and then a chef and then a real estate agent but always a prick.
I made a list.
MY TYPE OF BOY 10-15-15
Boy Next Door. Slim. Or Fit? Not Too Fit. I Don’t Care About Their Body As Long As They Have Mysterious Eyes. No, As Long As They Have Thick Eyebrows. But Maybe I Want A Daddy. An Iranian Painter. Intelligent But Generous. Foreskin Optional. Tattoos Preferable. Not Corporate. Ezra Miller. But Not Ezra Miller From We Need To Talk About Kevin.
It wasn’t helpful.
Adrien’s balls are fine. Relaxed, even. Hygienic.
This is all very new to me.
“Mm,” he moans, “this is nice.”
I imagine napping on my ass is probably nice. Pale, hairless, round, and firm. A quality pillow.
He’s getting the better deal, I think, attempting to mouth-breathe under his scrotum.
“Yeah, this is nice, too,” I say. I might mean it.
“Would you consider this sex?” Adrien asks, pulling his head up from my ass.
The skin of his cheek and the skin of my left butt cling to each other a little before they *pop* apart. I wish the spot of the *pop* would leave a permanent mark so I could show it to the world. “Here,” I’ll say, proudly displaying the beige mark, “is where a Parisian napped on my ass.” On my right buttock is a similar beige mark, which I say is a birthmark, even though it’s a burn from a tanning bed I used in the back of a rural post office in the Rocky Mountains. The Parisian nap mark would be much more impressive.
“No,” I say, “I typically only call penetration sex.”
“Ugh, Americans.” He rolls his eyes – he’s very good at this. I’m jealous of how good he is at this. “So if I put my cock in your mouth,”
he does, “is this sex?”
My mother always said I should never talk with my mouth full.
Pulling out, he retreats and sits on my hips, legs riding off like I’m a saddle. I like him in this position – on top. I fear this means I’m not a real bottom. I frequently have this fear.
“In France, it’s all sex. What if I don’t want to fuck you? Like today, I was so horny before meeting you.” Say more, I think. “I kept masturbating but not coming. So I’m spent. But, I wanna be here with you. I wanna see your ass. I wanna lie on your chest, spoon you, nap together.” This must be how women felt in 90s Rom-Coms, like how Meg Ryan felt in those movies my mother likes. “And I wanna fuck you in your mouth.”
He stops, content with this final statement. I’m learning he gives a consistent pucker whenever he’s proud of himself.
“But real talk now. You want to have real talk?”
I say yes before I’m able to ponder 1) How he learned the phrase “real talk,” and 2) How I’ve never had someone ask for “real talk,” for boundary setting, for relationship defining, on Date Three. “Do we sleep with other people?” “Yes,” I say, knowing that’s what he wants. “Good. Do we tell each other?” I feel a familiar panic, the one that begins as a lump in my throat. I’ll soon overthink our texts and check if he’s on Grindr. Remember, you have a life, and it does not revolve around Adrien, I’ll think before swiping through his pictures. Those lips. That hair.
I bite his neck and say, “I wanna know everything.” He smirks, but in a kind of scary way. “Come up here,” he says. I pull up to his face. “Now kiss me.” We do. There’s a lot of spit. There’s always a lot of spit.
In between the kisses, I stop myself from giving every compliment I can think of. I know that saying your eyes are blood moons, your hair is a field of Afghan poppies, your testicles smell nice is a sweet disguise for please stay. I can change, but please stay. He whispers, “You’re my beetch.” “Do you mean bitch?” I ask. “Yes. Beetch.” “So I’m a hookup?” “No,” he says, tersely. He’s ruffled up. Angry? “No. You’re not a hookup. You’re my beetch.” “Do you have a lot of bitches?” “I had beetches in Paris,” he sighs. “But I let all my beetches go. I said, ‘Be free beetches. Go be your beetch selves.’”
This is a boy who says a nap on my ass is sex, so all my former relationship lingo is out the fenêtre.
“So, I’m your bitch, and we sleep together, and we go on dates – ” “I give you homework,” He interrupts. “Like…” “Have sex with other people. Once a week.” He puckers, satisfied. “I could,” My answer isn’t entirely certain, “definitely do that.” Each word assembles a new possible-me. “Do we kiss in public?” He asks. Without question, I say: “Yes,” but realize this is my first misstep. He squints.
“Oh,” I stumble, “We also don’t have to kiss in public. I’m kind of new to this – this whole poly thing – ”
“No, no,” he stumbles too, “you never know – ”
“Right,” I say, “You never know, but we don’t have to – ”
“Maybe!” He blurts out. “Let’s see how it goes.”
“Great.” The negotiation is over. His tongue gives me a slow and proper physical, wandering from my neck to my thighs.
I’m thinking maybe Adrien is my type. Maybe I’ve always been waiting for some dom French top, ready to tell me how I like it and when I like it, confidently moving my body and spanking my imagination. Maybe I’ve just been waiting for someone to say, “Now kiss me.” Or maybe this is just another experiment. I’m exhausted by the idea that this experiment will be followed by another, and another, and another. “Keep going,” I ask. He smiles. “You’re never satisfied.” “That’s not – ” He eats me out. It’s better than a Juicy Lucy.
CHASE BURNS is a writer and performer based in Seattle. His writing has been published in City Pages, L’etoile Magazine, Minnesota Playlist and Talking Soup.