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Alan grins.
A moment later finds us washing off together in his (sickeningly) enormous shower, standing under the biggest rainfall showerhead I’ve ever seen. Our hair flat against our heads, beaten down by the soft drumming of water over us, we hold each other’s bodies and make out. Already, our cocks are swelling once again between us, and it isn’t long before his hand is wrapped around mine, and my hand is wrapped around his. And under the soft rainfall, while never letting go of each other’s lips, we come together once again.
It is, by far, one of the most intimate sexual experiences I have ever shared.
Cuddled up on his bed later, still naked, the air of his apartment and the still-opened balcony door drying us off, he says, “You have your internship in the morning.”
“I know. I should probably get going.”
“My place is on the right side of town,” he also points out. “It’s much closer to Wales Weekly than your spot all the way in Mayville.”
“True …”
“Why don’t you stay over? Just one night. I’ll get you up and make you a mean omelet before you go.” Alan turns around in my arms. He’s the little spoon. “How does that sound?”
“You mean eating an actual breakfast before I go in for yet one more unforgiving six-hour totally-unpaid shift?” I give him a careless shrug. “Sure.”
He puts a kiss on my lips. “Right answer.”
We cuddle back up, the issue of where I’ll sleep tonight resolved. I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I hold him against my body, feeling our warmth swelling between us. He smells so clean, and he is such a gentleman.
How could I possibly have gotten so lucky?
“Was there something you wanted to confess to me?” I ask him suddenly, remembering. “When I was going in for another kiss on the balcony …? You said you wanted to confess something.”
Alan doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he half turns his head, gives me a lopsided smile, and says, “I just wanted to confess that I … haven’t felt this safe with someone for a long time.”
“That’s saying a lot about someone who pulled you out onto your own balcony and scared the shit out of you.”
He turns all the way around in my arms and kisses me with meaning. “You took me to a height tonight I never thought I was capable of.”
I smile, then give in to another session of bed-sheet wrestling, tangled legs, and reckless making out. I doubt either of us lovesick souls are getting a wink of sleep tonight.
13
My time with Alan last week sure does put a little pep in my step.
I’m literally humming to myself as I type away on my laptop in the workroom, legs crossed, while a few of the other interns glance my way, squinting suspiciously.
When we sit in on a meeting with some of the higher-ups of Wales Weekly (always sans the big man Mr. Wales himself for some reason, whom we have still not met face-to-face), I wear a smile and take notes with chipper enthusiasm. I doubt even a spiteful comment from Jay could ruin my day.
Of course, my private bubbliness is put to the test when we’re made to present short articles each of us wrote on subjects assigned to us by Brenda. We stand before the group in the workroom, and with a copy of our article layout projected on the wall behind us, we read the article out loud, then host a ten-minute (and hypothetically educational) feedback session with each other, Brenda, and two senior editors. Dave’s piece is on the homeless who “plague” the nearby park, which makes me wince, as I might have taken a more tactful and sensitive approach to exploring the subject. There is a piece on police brutality against minorities, a piece on a scandal involving health code violations in popular restaurants, a piece on abuse in nursing homes, and even a piece on overpriced condominiums.
My piece is on developing neighborhoods and the struggles they face. I cite the turnaround of a popularly “gay” part of town which used to be a dump. My own: Mayville. When I’m finished, I get a comment from Brenda about how she liked my use of language, but that I leaned too heavily on adjectives. “Don’t use so much flowery poetry. Get to the facts quicker. Let them speak and incite your readers to anger.” Bree gave my piece a muted compliment, which is more than she’s given anyone else’s, and for that, I’m appreciative.
Then Jay speaks up. “Facts or not, this piece does little to inspire sympathy—or anything—for a part of town I wouldn’t deign to live in.”
I shift uncomfortably.
No, I didn’t happen to mention in my piece—or to anyone in this room, for that matter—that I live in the aforementioned “gay” part of town.
