Boy Midflight Read Online Free PDF

possible, hovering by pure strength of mind and fear on three inches of mattress. We lay silent for seven solid minutes. I know because my eyes were glued to his radio clock, blinking at me with its red glowing numbers. Why am I here? What was I thinking might happen?
    “Hey Ash, you uh, you ever thought about kissing a guy?”
    I turned in my boxers to see my buddy lying on top of the covers, clutching a pillow over his stomach, staring at the ceiling. “Sometimes, okay, all the time.” I grinned and decided to take a risk. “You ever think about kissing me?”
    “Sometimes. More when I’m drunk, though.”
    I laugh. “Well, you want to try it?”
    “Kinda. I’m not gay or anything, just horny, you know?”
    “Sure.” My heart was beating staccato as I moved closer to him, swallowing hard. We locked eyes, and I was terrified. Was this real or a cruel joke? He rose on one elbow to meet me. Placing a hand on his chest, I leaned over and closed my eyes. Waiting, waiting, contact! He bit my lip like he was so hungry he didn’t know what to do. That’s what straight guys are like—they don’t know whether to fuck you or fight you. He ripped off my shirt and kissed my chest, his light stubble grazing my skin.
    Tearing off our underwear, we jammed our bodies together. Hitting hard, grasping tightly, rough and desperate, trying to cram a lifetime of longing into one night. We both knew this was it—one night together because it couldn’t happen again. It’s one of the unspoken rules. If we did it again, he’d be gay. It was amazing. This guy’s guy who played football and worked construction was with me.
    “Do what you like done to you. Yeah, that feels good. Watch the teeth!” I panted.
    To see his face shift to such utter ecstasy made me wonder if it looked the same when he was with girls. How can they know what makes us feel good?
    I fully appreciate and respect sex between man/woman, man/man, or woman/woman, but to me it only makes sense that same-sex coupling would generally be amazing. When you’ve spent a lot of time baking in your own kitchen, you know just what temperature your oven cooks best at. You know which drawers have the whisks, the beaters, and the strainers. You’ve noticed the effect of eggs beat too furiously and recall how much yeast it takes for the bread to rise.
    So when you are invited as a celebrity chef in another kitchen, you can find your way around pretty well. Sometimes you reach for the wooden spoon in the first drawer like at home but soon realize it is actually stored one shelf down. All in all, you are very comfortable in the kitchen being a chef as well. The soufflés you serve very rarely fall, and you are complimented on your adeptness.
    The next week you find yourself in your apron and floured hat in a mechanic’s garage. The head mechanic wants a variable-venturi carburetor changed. You don’t know how to spell it, let alone what it is. The comfort of the kitchen is far behind, and you find yourself trying to grease nipples, cock pistons, and rotate wheels. Just saying these things will get you excited. Say them again in a low sexy voice to yourself. Go ahead, try it.
    Grease nipples… cock pistons… rotate wheels.
    Ooooh! Yeah. Sounds good, but trying to do these things is a far cry from lightly toasting coconut and basting a turkey. Without knowledge of equipment and tools, you may never get that engine running, let alone revving.
    I return from my tangent, back to sex with friends. After this one night nothing was the same between Justin and me. Hanging out was awkward, and there was always the eminent but never asked question of “Are we just hanging out, or is this like a date?” So eventually I deleted Justin’s numbers from my phone. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. So with that friendship, sex busted it. My comment to Justin while instructing him in the ways of a good lover, “Watch the teeth!” reminds me of another friendship with a very different