Cam and I had started a little tradition -- when I met them, they were going through a break-up, and I half-jokingly suggested we have a grotty little boys' night like the cis straight guys I knew in high school. They came over, we ordered a pizza, put Die Hard on the TV and drank beers all evening, watching the action and violence and not talking to each other about our feelings, just letting Bruce Willis handle our catharsis.
It became a ritual every time one of us was going through something rough, like another heartbreak or problems at work or with family. Usually, we wouldn't directly address what it was that had us down. We'd just call each other up and arrange to hang out. It always helped a bit.
A couple of times, I thought I'd felt them look at me funny when they were one too many beers deep, but nothing ever came of it. I got into a relationship just after we met, and stayed in it. And Cam liked girls. Real girls, girly girls. Femmes with long hair and long nails and soft, sweet-smelling skin. That was never me.
After that relationship ended, I was really down. It was the longest, most intense and intimate connection I'd ever had with a partner, but we wanted different things and ended amicably. Still, I was heartbroken. I called Cam one Friday afternoon and they came over that night with a crate of beers and a takeout pizza.
We settled in with a drink each and Die Hard on the screen, and for the first time since we met, we talked about how I was hurting.
"I really thought she was it, man," I kept my gaze on the bottle in my hand. "I thought we'd be together forever. Is that silly?"
"That's not silly. You two seemed great together."
"We were. At least for a while." I finished my beer. "God, I hate being single."
"So get back out there! You're a good looking guy, you won't have any trouble."
I cast them a side-ways look, but their eyes were trained on the screen. Bruce Willis was picking his way barefoot through the glass.
"It's been a long time," I said, picking at the label on the bottle.
"Scared you'll have forgotten how?"
I felt them looking at me, and felt the blush rise in my cheeks. They leaned over to the cooler by the side of the couch and handed me another beer. I popped the cap and took a long drink. We watched the movie and didn't talk for a while, not until they'd finished their second bottle and gotten halfway through a third.
"Can I ask you something?" they asked. "And feel free to tell me to fuck off."
"Sure," I said. I tried hard to act cool, like I wasn't already feeling shy.
"When you guys did it, did she ever fuck you or did you only ever fuck her?"
The heat in my cheeks flooded down across my chest and into my stomach. In my experience, it's a near unspoken rule between butches that we don't talk about getting topped. We all know some do, but we'd never admit it between bois. Call it what you like, toxic masculinity or something, but that's just the way it was. Still, the beer and the dopamine withdrawal in my system had me feeling a little more honest than I usually would.
"Yeah, we'd switch sometimes." I said, quickly chasing my confession with the rest of my drink.
"And you liked it?"
That aching heat was spreading persistently through my abdomen and down between my legs. I couldn't help it. This felt so forbidden.
"Yeah, I guess I did. I trusted her, you know?" I scratched the back of my head awkwardly. "But I liked fucking her better."
Cam's hand suddenly and decisively landed on my thigh, their fingertips resting right where I'm sensitive. It made me want to squeeze my legs shut, but I resisted. I looked up at them, looking straight back at me. The look in their eye was less like they wanted me, more like they already had me.
"I think you'll like it better when I fuck you."
All at once their mouth was on mine, kissing me hard and urgently. Their fingers dug into my thigh, and I brought my hands up to their neck and jaw. I returned the kiss, head swimming, wanting to feel them against me, wanting wildly and inarticulately for something I didn't know how to ask for.
