1. A Piece Of You

ONE

a piece of you

The heat in my apartment had grown stifling. An assaulting drudgery had overtaken even the most mundane tasks: standing up, taking a piss, leisurely ambling through the compact space that some might consider a living room. All of it had become too much over the course of a couple of hours, a couple of hours spent wasting away in scorching temperatures without relief from natural air flow or electricity. How tacitly we’d all come to accept our unwavering reliance on technology. How sloth-like we’d grown in our inability to function without it.

Cool breezes weren’t streaming in from the window-unit air conditioner in my living room and refreshing gusts weren’t playfully swirling in through the open windows. The city was in the midst of one of the hottest days on record, but I’d flung every last one of them open anyway. It hadn’t made a difference. A small window in the bathroom next to the sink, a decent-sized opening in the bedroom just next to my bed, and three rectangular apertures framing my living space—two behind the couch and one in the kitchen—allowed for no reprieve from the sweltering heat.

Even though I had a corner unit on the fourth floor of my walk-up, no relief found its way inside. There was simply no reprieve from the one-hundred-and-one-degree temperatures that had been hovering over the normally bustling streets of Manhattan the last three days, no respite from the swelter growing stagnant along the once busy avenues.

The oppression waned slightly in the hours that grew dark—briefly. The conditions, if we were lucky, plummeted to the high eighties overnight. But the humidity went nowhere, content as a clam to lumber over the city, making breathing difficult and adding strenuous labor to simple movement.

From nine to two the last couple of nights, one would have thought Tenth Avenue had been magically transformed into Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. Revelers drank in the streets and loud music bubbled up into the air as those less accustomed to the structured culture of the states celebrated a less severe climate during the wee hours. The people of my neighborhood found relief in the outdoors during those brief moments of descending temperatures in the middle of the night. Many of them shared small apartments with four or five other bodies, apartments that lacked air-conditioning, and I’m sure their spaces had become even more unbearable than mine.

Today had been a test in resilience for the people of New York City. Rolling brownouts had been washing over the city for days as the power grid worked hard to keep up with the demand to stay cool. Earlier this afternoon, however, the grid became overwhelmed, and we had fallen victim to a city-wide blackout.

Two hours and thirteen minutes had passed since every source of cool air in my apartment—basically, the air conditioner and the refrigerator/freezer—had kicked the bucket. I’d tried not to open the refrigerator door since the power had gone out in hopes of conserving the few perishable items I had stashed away. The water in my building had gone out as well. I’m not sure how. There were only five stories, and my building didn’t have a water tower on the roof, so we should’ve been fine. But just like everything else in New York City, it was a mystery.

I’d picked up a case of bottled water from the market down the street a couple of days ago and hadn’t consumed any of them until today, an act of fortuitous serendipity. Twelve of them rested on a shelf in the refrigerator, warming by the minute. The rest sat on top of the fridge, just as stagnant as the air inside my apartment. I’d indulged in two since the water had gone out. I’d save the rest for when I really needed them.

The boredom was starting to get to me. I could have read a book. Hell, I could have written a novel. I had nothing else to do and nothing but time on my hands. And every time I thought about reaching for my phone, I quickly remembered that I’d have no way to charge it in current conditions, and set it back down to collect dust. The moments away from its time-sucking grasp would likely be beneficial to me in some way I didn’t have the aptitude to understand. Certainly not in my current state; sweating my brain cells away along with my will to live.

Every item around my apartment was attached to some type of power source or charging apparatus: the TV, the microwave, the coffeepot, even my toothbrush. I’d never really thought about how subservient I’d become to those devices. How dependent I’d become on the maze of electrical wiring that traipsed through every wall and nook and cranny of the building in which I lived. It was really quite frightening when I actually took the time to ruminate on it; the currents and synapses and sparks that shot through every supporting wall of every building on every block in every neighborhood of the city, at every hour of day and night. It seemed as though one little misstep, one little mistake, could send the entire city into flames.

I’m sure there were backstops and safety nets in place for situations like that. But when I thought about how old most of the buildings that lined these city streets were, and how most of them were probably constructed before any source of modern electricity existed, it made me question how they retrofitted the spaces for such contemporary amenities in the first place.

I was so bored that I’d started taking inventory of my space. The walls in my apartment were an unpleasant shade of off-white and lacquered in thick layers of paint that went back so many years that my nonna was probably birthed long after the first coat was applied. The front door was black on the outside but had been painted the same color as the walls on the inside. The grooves that cut rectangular panels into the door were permanently stained in places, stains that appeared to be the same color as a ring from the bottom of a coffee mug placed on a white kitchen counter sometime long ago. I’d been living here for four years, but I hadn’t painted because I wasn’t sure how long I’d call this place home, and I didn’t want to have to paint it back when my time here was up.

It was an old New York apartment: choppy and cramped and well-worn. Some of the furniture had been handed down from my ma years ago, and it didn’t all match. The deep green couch and the slate-gray armchair in the living room didn’t complement one another in the least, but neither of them looked bad with the area rug, the wall décor, and the potted banana-leaf plant I’d picked up when I first moved in. It was no less than a miracle that the thing was still alive.

The narrow walnut-brown planks on the floor sometimes creaked if I stepped too deliberately. There were a couple of tiles missing from the black-and-white honeycomb-style floor behind the pedestal sink in the bathroom. The door to one of the upper cabinets in the kitchen was slightly crooked and didn’t close all the way. But the ceilings were tall. The apartment was fine. Way too goddamned expensive, but fine.

And it was mine.

I’d been working from home when the power went out. I was glad I hadn’t trekked into the office in vain, only to have to commute right back home when it was determined that nothing would be accomplished without power. I didn’t hate my job, but in the pits of hell in which I’d found myself, I was relieved to have the afternoon off. It wasn’t like I could focus on anything important while beads of sweat trailed down my back and the thickness of the air stole breaths from my body. Life in the city had effectively come to a screeching halt.

I stepped over my couch and emerged from an open window onto my fire escape to gaze out over the streets below. They’d become restless with people, many of whom huddled on green benches under the shade of the honey locust trees in the pocket park across the street. Kids lazed on the playground equipment while adults took sips of water from plastic bottles, then sent cascades over their heads or down their backs with the liquid that remained. It seemed an odd day to spend time outside, but in this heat, and in the midst of a power outage, I guess it made no difference whether one suffered inside or out.

Some of the businesses lining Tenth Avenue had locked their doors, shut their roller gates, and gone home for the day. The heat had probably been too much for some of the aging business owners. A few of them stayed open, though; a couple of bodegas and shops equipped with generators to keep the lights on. In the doorways, people gathered and shifted, hoping for occasional blasts of cool air from inside. Those popping in for sandwiches, bottles of water, and cold beer shouldered and elbowed their way through the crowds that amassed in the entranceways.

Some kids were trying desperately to open the fire hydrant on the corner in hopes of creating a pressurized waterfall that would wash over the street and provide some relief. They ran across the sidewalk to the hardware store in what I assumed was an attempt to persuade the shop owner to loan them a tool to accomplish their goal. I secretly wondered if any water would sprout from its nozzle if they got lucky enough to jimmy it open, but I wished them well nonetheless.

City buses and cars occasionally whizzed by, slowing through the intersection where the stoplights had long ago stopped functioning and getting cursed out by locals who’d begun to use the streets as their personal sidewalks. Rules rarely applied in New York City, but especially not when there was some sort of disaster on the menu. I didn’t know where the drivers of those cars were going. There was nothing to do in the midst of a blackout. No shows to attend. No late lunches or happy hours at which to gather. Maybe they were driving home from work once they’d realized nothing would get done without the luxury of electricity.

For a while, I simply watched. Neighbors up and down the block had the same idea. On almost every level of almost every building, people relaxed on their fire escapes, lying on their backs or dangling their legs over the ledge or leaning against the railing, just like I was doing. Some of them listened to music from battery-powered devices, some of them smoked and drank, and some of them just watched as the world turned on its axis. The city looked just as colorful as it always had, but less vivid, almost hazy through the scorching waves of heat.

The rays of the sun burned hot, but at least clouds were passing by overhead, providing occasional respite for sun-kissed flesh. They did nothing to stop the sweat from forming on my brow or crawling down my chest, though. I needed to get out, if only to take a leisurely walk around the neighborhood. Maybe I’d pop by the pier and grab a drink from the bar that catered to tourists at the cruise ship terminal waiting to depart to someplace more hospitable, more habitable, than New York City in the dead of a summer heat wave. Maybe I’d catch a breeze off the water that flowed down the Hudson.

Nah.

If I’d thought about it, a thousand others probably had too, and the place would be crawling with people just like me trying to escape the heat—if it was even open.

Maybe I’d stroll down Ninth Avenue to Chelsea and find a bar that was open. I’d heard the blackout was city-wide when the lights first clicked off—chatter wafting up from the street below had alerted me to that—but was power restored neighborhood by neighborhood? Perhaps they’d gotten the electricity switched back on in Chelsea even if they hadn’t made it up to Hell’s Kitchen just yet.

I thought about jumping in the shower to rinse the sweaty film from my body but quickly remembered that I had no water, so I did the best I could with what I had: a swig of mouthwash, a sanitary wipe, and a stick of deodorant. It would have to do.

If they were even running, the trains would be crawling on the tracks, so I walked. As I trailed down the typically quiet stretch of Forty-Fifth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues—going with my gut, hoping for a block of sleepy solitude—I quickly realized the corridor was noisy with loiterers getting drunk, high, and doing whatever they could to ward off the heat by simply forgetting about it. Sadly, Forty-Fifth was no less busy than any other block in my neighborhood, but then, gut feelings couldn’t always be trusted.

But then, sometimes they could. As I approached Ninth Avenue with a bottle of water in hand, a beacon of carnal desire turned the corner, casually striding in my direction. Forty or fifty feet separated us but we quickly closed in on each other, and with each lumbering step he took, his features came into view more clearly. Six feet of height and probably a hundred and eighty pounds packed themselves into his rugged frame, all of which was tucked snugly into a white ribbed-cotton tank top, a perfectly baggy pair of dark denim jeans, and a set of fresh tan Timberland boots.

His expression, just like his body language, read confident and easy as he trekked toward me. The contour of his frame was traced with indentations and delineations that danced wildly with the sun and the shadows as he walked. Two small, round nipples, the darkness of which pierced through the bright white of his tank, sat brazenly in the center of his pecs, the outlines of which shifted gently with each step he took. The hair on his head was jet black and high-faded into a tight crew cut that he probably got trimmed up weekly. His skin was naturally tanned and exuded a Hispanic essence: Puerto Rican or Dominican, I assumed.

My eyes were fixated on him as he approached. Had we been characters in a Saturday morning cartoon, they might have popped out of my head while my tongue dangled from the side of my mouth. I tried my best not to appear obvious, though. He didn’t look at me until the last minute, when his eyes covertly shifted in my direction, then quickly averted back to his course. Maybe he’d felt my gaze lingering on him and thought it best to assess the situation for signs of danger. But as I turned for a look-back after he passed, I ascertained that that wasn’t the case at all. He met my look-back with one of his own, and a slight, sexy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, letting me know he’d been caught.

The most intriguing scent jumped from his flesh to my core when he passed, curling into me in the aftermath of our inconsequential encounter; a potent combination of citrusy body wash, musky cologne, and… maleness—carnal and raw. Almost like a quivering sweat had been beading on his chest and dripping down the crevices of his frame as he traversed the city; a shimmering sheen slicking his flesh as he worked on cars at a garage or hung from the back of a garbage truck or pulled pizza pies from an oven with a giant peel to sell to hungry passersby by the slice.

That intoxicating pheromonal pull stirred up a bubbling cauldron of erotically charged anxiety inside me, and I suddenly wanted to pounce on him like a cheetah attacks a gazelle in the African wild, but neither of us stopped. We simply turned and continued on our paths. A look was all that was needed for that titillating connection with a perfect stranger.

I’d hoped the excitement of witnessing his enticing body in motion might cool me down, might drench me in a dream, forcing me to focus on anything but my body temperature. But instead, it only turned up the heat, making me anxious with nervous energy. A disarming sense of promise as my heart beat heavy in my chest.

I really could’ve used a fan.

—

The streets of Chelsea were no less busy than the streets in my neighborhood. The lack of airflow indoors had coaxed residents and tourists alike into the streets to find some sense of relief. There were, however, a few bars that remained open to serve the population drinks at prices residents of other American cities would never consider paying in their hometowns. But in New York, that was part of the deal to be so close to the center of the universe, so they said.

The bars that were open on Ninth Avenue seemed to spill over with tourists and drunk straights, and I wasn’t sure I could be bothered with the hassle, so I contemplated a walk over to Eighth or pushing on down to the Village. My T-shirt was already damp with sweat. What would another ten or fifteen blocks in hundred-degree temperatures matter?

I finished my water and pushed onward, tossing the empty bottle into the grated garbage can on the corner. A few minutes later, I stepped into a bar on the corner of Grove and was met with the sweetest greeting I could imagine: a blast of cool air on my sweat-slicked skin. Never again would I underestimate the importance of a generator.

The bar was literally packed with people who stood shoulder-to-shoulder and wore tired, worn-out expressions from incessant exposure to the heat. Many of them held empty glasses in their hands, not necessarily keen on getting another but not quite ready to be forced back out into the fire. They lingered and loitered, weary but attentive, one eye on the door, scanning for new blood.

Pushing past the crowds that gathered more densely under air ducts, I found an opening at the bar and ordered a beer from the mildly irritated bartender. I then wandered through the maze of patrons until I found a lone high-top table by the window. It was in the process of being abandoned by a group of preppy-looking guys whose product had long ago sweated out, wayward strands of hair plastered against their foreheads. As they vacated, I populated, capturing one of two barstools that lingered on either side of the table before some other fatigued patron could swoop in to rest their weary bones.

The table was a mess with empty glasses and water spots and crumpled-up napkins that had probably been used to dab at beads of sweat resting mercilessly on foreheads and necks. I did my best to stack them and push them to the edge of the table, out of my way. I didn’t figure anyone would be by to bus the table anytime soon, but then, I didn’t require much space. It was surprisingly fortuitous that I’d been able to find a seat at all.

Pop music drummed from the speakers surrounding the main level of the bar at what I would describe as a reasonable volume—a much more reasonable volume than it would have been played on a Friday night, anyway. The grand piano that the more theatrical queens normally flocked to during typical happy hours sat desolate in the corner, no Broadway throwaways or optimistic drama majors to tickle its keys. The black iron railing around Christopher Park, visible from where I sat, fenced in groves of shade trees and benches packed with people, begging for relief.

I took occasional sips from my beer and lost myself in thought as I peered through the window. Seventh Avenue looked almost lonely. People seemed to move more slowly than usual, without any sense of purpose or inflated ego. Funny how one can become accustomed to the self-importance that wafts through the streets and wades down the avenues of New York City. The immodesty sometimes spills from the windows of taxicabs and bleeds from the cracks in the sidewalk. Overbooked calendars and vibrating phones and back-to-back calls and the incessant pinging of social media feed notifications fill the air around us with a thick pompousness that can only be cut with overpriced juices and the newest Asian food trend.

But when the city has no choice but to stop and bask in itself, to look at its haggard face in the mirror, to focus on nothing but the beauty around it, its citizens become human again. They become real people that ache and sweat just like the rest of the world. Their feet swell and their heads hurt and they realize just how much they need a break.

I relented into my love-hate relationship with the city I called home as I gazed out that window. I lost myself in the cool air and the quench of my thirst.

I grabbed my beer and brought it to my lips, and as I swallowed hard, there he was: the guy I’d passed on Forty- Fifth Street. The guy in the jeans and the white tank and the Timberlands. The guy with honeyed flesh and rugged definition and perfectly high-faded, jet-black hair. The eyes that met mine and the lip that curled when he realized he’d been caught. He strolled right by the window at which I was perched without looking in, without noticing me.

Had it been a coincidence that I’d seen him again? A twist of fate? Or simply the fact that a sizable portion of the city’s residents were in search of a light at the end of a deeply suffocating tunnel?

I smiled to myself and went back to my drink, back to idling and daydreaming. The air vent positioned in the ceiling not far from where I sat streamed cool relief into the bar and onto my skin, drying the sweat on my brow. I used the back of my arm to finish the job. An uncomfortable clamminess clung to my skin. I was oddly excited about taking a shower even though I’d had one that morning, simply to rinse the heat of the day off my frame.

“You mind?” The voice, even and deep, shook me from my thoughts. My attention was torn from the world outside and attempted to focus itself on the man standing next to my table. It was him, casually gripping the slender neck of a beer bottle in one fist while the fingers of the other rested easily on the tabletop.

It was him. The man I’d shared a look-back with on Forty-Fifth Street.

He stood there in all his ’round-the-way glory, the slightest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes stared through me, almost squinting as though the sun outside was still blinding him in this new, noticeably darker environment. Short, silken strands of black hair softly coated his forearms, tapering off as they reached his biceps. Had he been wearing a Yankees cap while sitting on the stoop of a brownstone and rolling a joint, I’d have written him off as a curious piece of rough trade, a guy on the down-low in a neighborhood his boys wouldn’t have been caught dead in. Someone I had no interest in fucking with, even as a one-night stand.

It’s funny the way I sometimes judge people. I mean, I grew up just off the M-line in Ridgewood. The son of a second-generation Italian-American plumber. My ma worked at a hardware store. Queens was in my blood. Stoop-sitting and handball and public school had all defined my childhood just as much as they’d probably defined this guy’s.

But he wasn’t hiding behind a baseball cap. His features were sharp but soft, and he wasn’t looking over his shoulder. His eyes were steady as he addressed me. They weren’t shifty. And he didn’t seem the least bit nervous about being caught in a gay bar.

“Nah. Seat’s open.”

He effortlessly perched himself on the barstool across from me and examined the tower of glasses and bottles at the edge of the table, smiling. “Been goin’ hard?”

I laughed. “They were here when I sat down. But you knew that already.”

“How’s that?”

“Because you saw me on Forty-Fifth. I haven’t been here long enough to finish a beer.”

He smiled. “Is that so? Small world, I guess.”

“You know it is. You’re native. Where’d you grow up?”

“South Bronx. Soundview. But I’m in Mott Haven now. You?”

“Queens. But I live in Hell’s Kitchen. What were you doing in my neck of the woods?”

“Just pickin’ up my check. I work at the garage on Forty-Fifth.”

Bingo. I wasn’t too far off the mark with my assumption after all.

Our conversation rode a direct path, one dotted with simple questions and even simpler answers, a no-nonsense approach to flirting with a stranger. That is, after all, what was happening. Had we connected on a hookup app, these details would have hardly been necessary, but the tone of the conversation would have been similar. When meeting in person, however, over a drink in the middle of a city-wide disaster, exchanging these bits of personal information seemed appropriate.

His irises flickered with light browns and deep greens and his hands appeared large and rough as they caressed the bottle. It was clear to me that he worked with his hands, but underneath that rugged, blue-collar exterior and that distinctive the-fuck-you-lookin’-at? attitude, a gentleness wept from his eyes and traced his fingernails and colored the way he sat on his barstool. Something told me that once our initial display of brusqueness wore off, once the obligatory questions had been addressed and the beer began to take hold, our conversation would become easier, more casual.

“What brought you here?” I asked.

“Same thing as you, I guess,” he joked. “It’s my day off. I wanted a drink. Everything in HK is closed, so I started downtown.”

I smiled at him and his shoulders relaxed slightly before he took a swig from his bottle and scrubbed the palm of his hand over the top of his head, almost as if he were trying to massage the cool air into his scalp. A black tuft of fur, mildly matted by sweat and circumstance appeared under his arm, the strands long and unmanicured. I appreciated his natural state. It wasn’t something normally found in the sea of plucked and pulled bodies that populated Manhattan’s west side.

I offered my name. “I’m Joey, by the way.”

“Luis.” He pronounced it like Louis , but I got the feeling he’d only started pronouncing it that way after growing tired of correcting people when they said his name wrong.

Luis and I chatted as we drank our beers, drifting from one topic to the next. We talked about our jobs and the neighborhoods in which we grew up and the pains of the MTA, always under maintenance. We grabbed another beer—his treat—and continued to chat, our knees occasionally touching under the table, sometimes by accident and other times as a tease, as a temperature gauge, to measure the response of the opposite party. The response was favorable each time: reluctant smiles and hesitant glances at the table and nervous chuckles highlighting rosy sheens on the cheeks.

The short stubble that dotted his jawline, the goatee that grew shorter as it trailed up his cheeks into sideburns that almost disappeared, shifted with the shape of his face as he smiled and laughed. It splashed into his dimples like cliff divers into the Acapulco Bay as his flesh stretched and moved with the easy, sexy pull on his features. I found it hard to look away when he spoke. But our beers dried up and the bar grew more crowded, so we decided to relinquish the table.

The tension between us was almost negligible, but it was there. Would Luis head back to the Bronx or did he want to continue hanging out? Would I walk back to Hell’s Kitchen alone? Never to see him again?

I mean, it would make sense. We’d had a good time, but he hadn’t initiated a hookup and neither had I. There would be no reason to exchange numbers or try to hang out again. We lived mere miles from one another, but by New York standards, we may as well have lived on different continents. Traversing from Hell’s Kitchen to the South Bronx by public transit would take damn near an hour on a good day. What would we do? Hang out after he got off work at the garage? It seemed a strange dynamic. What if he had responsibilities at home? Maybe he took care of his folks or younger siblings, or worse yet, what if he had a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend? We hadn’t really discussed our private lives. Not in detail.

Why was I getting so wrapped up in this person who had been a complete stranger less than two hours ago? Someone I had never seen before today? It was odd behavior on my part. Historically, I’d been a discerning thinker who’d always been able to separate romance and sex. But I didn’t want to leave him yet. Something about his presence was comforting, and I wasn’t ready to give it up.

“So,” I started as we stood from the table. “You headed back to the Bronx?”

“Uh,” he stuttered almost nervously, as though he’d had other plans. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Might as well. Probably nothin’ else to do here.”

Luis glanced around as though he were trying to find a reason to stay. At the bar, in Chelsea, in Manhattan. Or maybe with me.

I took a chance. “I’m just gonna start back to the neighborhood. Maybe see if the power’s back on yet. You’re welcome to join me… if you want.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Maybe I’ll stop by the garage and see if the boss man needs help.”

—

Luis’s boss had closed the garage. As we approached Forty-Fifth Street, we noticed the shop door had been rolled down and the racks of tires that normally graced the sidewalk had been taken inside. It appeared as though the power had not yet been restored either. People still lingered in bodega doorways and fanned themselves on their stoops as they drank and smoked the day away.

“Shit. Sorry you walked all the way up here. I figured the power might be back on by now.”

“No problem. I enjoyed the walk… even though it’s hot as hell,” he laughed.

Our walk was nice. The conversation was easy and we got to know each other a little better, as much as two people possibly could as they hoofed in temperatures hovering around a hundred degrees.

Sweat formed a V on the front of Luis’s tank top. Smaller Vs trailed down the sides under his arms. The front of my T-shirt was speckled with sweat, and I wiped the sheen from my forehead with my bicep, the sleeve of my tee acting as a sweat rag. I could smell the heat on me, a combination of deodorant and a light sweat mingling under my arms. It was only natural in that condition, but I felt myself grow self-conscious. Not self-conscious enough to send Luis home, though.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted from him. If we hooked up, it would likely be a onetime thing. Would I be okay with that? I told myself I would. But I would have been just as happy hanging out with him on my couch, talking about nothing.

I’d always been able to draw a line with people, to put them in their respective boxes; they were friends, tricks, or relationship material. Very rarely had anyone crossed over those lines or occupied two boxes at once. Luis was confusing me, though. I wasn’t sure which box, if any, he would fit into. It seemed unlikely that he’d be relationship material. I could picture him hanging out with his boys on a Friday night, getting drunk and not getting home until four in the morning, never calling or texting to let me know where he was.

But that was conjecture. I hardly knew him. I didn’t know what his goals in life were. I knew nothing of his hopes, his dreams, his ambitions. The kind of life he wanted to make for himself. Nearly the same number of years had passed us by. The same global events. Maybe we could find common ground. We’d had a good time together so far.

But it was wishful thinking.

Maybe.

Probably.

“You wanna come up? I’ve got water. It’s probably warm, but?—”

“Sure.”

He didn’t even have to think about it. He knew what he wanted. Whether that was water, more time with me, or just a fuck, I wasn’t sure. But I couldn’t be bothered to give it too much thought. I would put him in the one-night-stand box and call it a fucking day.

We climbed three flights of stairs in the stagnant hallway. The black-and-off-white tiled landings scuffed with shoe marks were almost nauseating in their complacency. Nothing seemed to move, least of all the air.

Short locks of dark hair, matted with perspiration, stuck to my forehead by the time we reached my front door. I brushed them out of the way with the back of my hand, almost swatting them away. My hair wasn’t long enough to go much of anywhere but it suddenly felt heavy on my head.

Luis stood close to me on the landing as I stuck the key into the lock and twisted it to the left. I could almost feel his breath on the back of my neck, the heat from his frame jumping to mine. He didn’t touch me. He simply hovered, teasing me, leading me on. Turning me on. I pushed the door open and invited him in, turning my head over my shoulder to face him. We were maybe six inches apart. He smiled and thanked me before following me in.

The air in my apartment was still warm, still motionless, still uncomfortable, but felt somewhat better than it did on the street outside. At least there were no exhaust fumes from passing buses and idling cars on the curb, packed with friends and neighbors basking in the air-conditioning.

“Mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Sure. It’s through there.” I motioned toward the bathroom.

My apartment was dim and silent. I heard Luis’s stream hit the bowl and splash into the water pooled at the bottom of the toilet. Damn, these old apartments and their acoustics. While he relieved himself, I threw all the windows open again, trying to circulate some air, and then grabbed a couple of bottles of water from the fridge. They still had the slightest chill to them, and I was eternally grateful.

I stepped over my couch and ducked through the window, pushing onto the fire escape. The densely populated neighborhood sprawled out before me. The scene was the same as it was before I’d left my apartment hours ago, the only difference being the particular faces that inhabited the space.

A few moments later, a presence made itself known behind me, the firmness of pectoral muscles against my back, the weaving of legs between mine, the softness of lips pressing against the back of my neck. Two large hands, calloused and rough and minorly grease-stained, gripped the iron railing on either side of mine. Luis’s physique trapped me in place, imprinting itself on me. The warmth of his body… the intensity of his scent… they pummeled me. Enraptured me.

Sweat beaded on my forehead and dripped down my chest. The sudden discomfort of moisture under my arms took me aback and forced me to address the reality of the situation we were in. Self-consciousness slowly crept into my brain and told me that my freshness had likely expired. That I’d maybe become too ripe to enjoy.

“God, you smell good,” Luis mentioned as his lips disconnected from my neck.

I lifted my arm and pretended to smell myself, a self-mocking gesture meant to lend levity to the situation. “I need a bath.”

Luis kissed me again, this time on the curve of my neck, forcing me to lean my head to one side, to allow him easier access. He then inhaled deeply, pulling the heat from my flesh into his core. “Nah. You don’t.”

My skin was sweat-slicked, only drying long enough for a new batch of perspiration to push itself from my pores. I’m sure it tasted salty and rich, but Luis didn’t seem to mind as he wrapped his hands around my waist and slowly slid them up my sides, just under my T-shirt. His fingertips tickled the fine, dark hair that coated my abdomen and chest. His hands eased themselves around my frame and his fingers brushed against my nipples, causing them to contract and harden under his touch. He kissed my jawline where it met my neck, just below my ear.

And then he stopped.

I didn’t want him to, and his pause didn’t feel final, but he dropped his arms from my frame and placed his hands back on the railing. I took a small step backward and allowed my ass to graze the adequate bulge that had formed in his jeans. Luis moaned into my ear and stayed exactly where he stood.

We simply watched the scene play out in front of us with his lips next to my ear. Witnessed the drama of the city below in the midst of a heat wave. In the midst of a blackout that had halted almost everything. Everything except human interaction.

“They don’t usually last this long, ya know?” Luis started. “I think the longest one I’ve been through was, like, two hours.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Same. It’ll probably come back on soon.”

“I hope so. I flushed the toilet but it wasn’t filling back up. Sorry about that.”

“Shit,” I laughed, turning myself around to face him, leaning my back against the railing, still surrounded by his muscled limbs. “I forgot to mention it. The water’s out. I should have said something.”

He smiled before leaning in and taking my mouth, pressing his lips to mine softly. I returned the gesture and connected with him, opening my lips to pull his bottom one between mine, to taste his mouth. The scent of beer still lingered on him. I’m sure he could taste it on me as well. We kissed, our tongues eventually finding their way into each other’s mouths. The heat between us was intense but gentle. Accepting and reciprocating.

As we fell deeper into one another, as our senses heightened but our reasoning diminished, nerves about my back leaning against the railing of the fire escape crept in. We were four stories up. I had no doubt Luis would grab me if I slipped, but I didn’t feel like taking that chance.

I pulled away from him. “Wanna go inside?”

“Sure,” he agreed with a lustful grin.

I grabbed the bottles of water from the landing and handed one to him. He twisted the cap and downed half of it in one slug. His Adam’s apple lifted and bobbed as he swallowed and the stubble danced across his neck, a five o’clock shadow that would probably look even sexier on the second day.

I tossed back my water as we stepped through the open window, over the couch, and onto the rug-covered parquet floor of my living room, crumpling the plastic in my fist before recapping it. I once read somewhere that it was best to downsize items before tossing them into the recycling bin and it stuck with me. I had no idea if that was true. I had no idea if the recycling even made it to the recycling center or if it was simply tossed into the back of the garbage truck with the trash. I guess it didn’t matter at that moment. But Luis did the same thing before handing his bottle to me.

I walked them to the kitchen and tossed them out, and before I could even turn around, I was pinned to the wall, my arms above my head, locked at the wrists by Luis’s strong hands. The hem of my T-shirt raised with the movement, showing off the lower part of my midsection. That olive patch of flat, furry stomach contrasted with the bright white waistband of my gray briefs where they rose above the waistband of my shorts.

Luis attacked my neck with his mouth, forcing my jawline up and my head to the side so he could taste me, so he could devour me. And I let him. My face was inches from his armpit as he made out with my neck, and without thinking, I breathed him in. I hadn’t intended to, but the heat of the day lingered on him and I found the scent of him irresistible. The black hairs that curled around themselves glistened in the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. His presence alone was masculine and erotic. And tempting beyond belief.

Maybe I knew we’d hook up the moment I saw him turn the corner onto Forty-Fifth Street. Maybe I figured it out when he appeared next to my table at the bar in the Village. Maybe it wasn’t clear until I invited him up to my apartment. But at that moment, with his lips on my neck and my arms pinned to the wall above me, the decision had been made, and I wanted to be nowhere else.

Deodorant and cologne were no match for Luis’s rugged sweat, for his sex, and while the former both clung to him, playing with my senses like dogs play with bones, the latter had punched through to become the aching, heady scent that caused my dick to stir and my hips to buck against the kitchen wall.

Luis finally released my arms from his grip only to grasp the bottom of my T-shirt and yank it over my head, completely exposing my upper half to him. Had the air conditioner been working, the sudden exposure would have been erotically satisfying. It felt nice being ripped from my clothing by a hot guy, but the air was so thick that my undoing lacked the refreshing comfort of a cool blast pummeling my skin.

As soon as he had my shirt off, as soon as it hit the ground, he pinned my arms above my head again and buried his face in my pit, inhaling my scent, licking me, drinking me in. Maybe Luis had a thing for pits. Maybe he had a thing for me. I didn’t care. The sensations he gave me felt intensely carnal and distinctly taboo. A piece of me I would have rarely allowed anyone to indulge in—maybe no one—was being taken advantage of. And what did I care? Luis was simply a hookup. I’d probably never see him again.

After he’d bathed my pits, he dropped my arms and nipped at each of my nipples, lightly biting them, causing me to wince from the playful pain he’d inflicted on me. He then licked and kissed them before shifting even lower to kiss the flesh around my navel, playing with that sensitive area of my stomach, never giving me the chance to stop him. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to stop him from doing anything.

He unbuttoned and unzipped my shorts, and I quickly kicked off my sneakers so I could easily shed the rest of my clothing. My shorts tumbled down my thighs and landed in a heap at my ankles, and Luis wasted no time nosing at the growing pouch of my briefs, inhaling deeply as he explored my package. My dick was completely stiff inside them, punching at the fabric, stretching it. A small wet spot appeared where the tip of my cock met the cotton, and Luis kissed it before hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling them down my frame, freeing my growing erection.

His force was aggressive, all but tearing my briefs from my frame. My dick bounced up, excitement on its brain. He gently kissed the tip, then licked his lips before opening his mouth and sliding down my length, barely touching me with his tongue. The heat from his breath enveloped me. It made me writhe in anticipation.

Everything was hot: the temperature outside, the air in my apartment, Luis’s mouth on my flesh. But somehow, at that moment, it all worked.

Luis teased me like that for a while before wrapping his lips firmly around me, tasting me, taking me into him. His tongue danced a wild number up and down the length of my cock and sent knee-weakening pulses through my body. He took me into his throat and massaged the head of my cock with his tightness, his wetness. He planted his face at the base of my cock and traced his nose through my pubic hair, closing his eyes as he took my scent into him. He gently fondled my balls and brought me close to a climax I didn’t want to experience yet. Not before I’d had a chance to explore more of his body.

Once he felt he’d satisfied me enough, when my fingertips grasped at the wall behind me in vain and every muscle around my midsection began to tighten, he tore off of me and grabbed my waist, turning me around. He made me lead him to my bedroom. I was completely naked and Luis was fully clothed, and for some reason, that turned me on.

He playfully slapped my ass as we stood at the side of my bed. That full bed that I’d pushed against the wall with the window in that tiny bedroom to create more space for movement while getting dressed in front of the closet. To make entering and exiting the room less arduous. I turned around to face Luis and he bit his bottom lip with more sex appeal than I imagined was possible. He then pushed gently on my shoulders and I fell backward onto the bed, exposed to him, open to him. Beneath him.

With a gentle nudge to the back of each foot with the toes of the other, he lost his Timberland boots, then pulled off his socks, tossing them to the floor. He yanked his white tank over his head and sent it cascading. His chest and abdomen were nearly smooth, only a few wispy black hairs dotting the valleys between the defined mounds of muscle that made up his pecs. God, he was sexy.

“You want my dick?” he asked.

I did. But I wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted me to say, so I didn’t answer. His smile had disappeared from his face, though remnants of it lingered in his eyes.

“I asked you a question.”

Shit, he was serious. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Yeah. I want your dick.”

“Good. Get on your knees.”

I did as I was told, sliding down the side of the bed onto my knees. My heart beat fast and my feet shoved under the drape of the comforter as Luis unbuckled his pants and pulled his semihard cock out over the band of his boxer briefs. His dick was beautiful: thick, smooth, and uncut, with one noticeable vein running along the top side of it, disappearing under the surface about halfway down its length. His foreskin had partially retracted over the head, which was slick with precome. A thick bush of curly black hair sprouted from the base and trailed around his thickness, tapering off a little when it reached his ball sack.

He guided me with cogent language. “Put it in your mouth.”

I kissed the tip, then slid his length between my lips, using as much saliva as I could muster to lube him up. His flesh was warm. A wild, earthy scent lazily hung from his pubic hair; a remnant of a day spent pounding the pavement in hundred-degree heat. I didn’t mind it. In fact, it turned me on. The mild flavor was natural and virile.

“That’s it,” he continued as I pushed further down his length, increasing the pressure each time I pulled back. “Suck that dick.”

He slid his jeans and underwear down his thighs but didn’t take them off. Not completely. I think he wanted to exert some control, to show me who was in charge by keeping me naked and himself dressed, at least partially.

The palm of his hand landed on the back of my head, his fingers applying gentle pressure to my scalp, easing me down his length. Guiding me. He knew what he liked and he wanted to make sure I brought him the pleasure he desired.

His foreskin pulled further back the harder he grew in my mouth, and eventually, there was only a single wrinkle of flesh resting just beneath the head of his cock, framing it beautifully. My tongue ran circles around it, lightly grazing the crown while trying to draw erotic noises from him. He complied, supplying me with husky moans that kept me going, that provided me with inspiration.

Luis placed his hands on either side of my head and gently forced me down his dick, assisting me with the blowjob I was giving him. The tip hit the back of my throat and he stopped, easing his grip and removing his hands. It was as though he thought he might hurt me, as though he suddenly felt he was coaxing me into doing something I might not want to do.

He wasn’t. I wanted nothing more at that moment. He wasn’t relationship material, after all. This was a hookup, quick and dirty.

But the fact that he showed concern made it easier to comply. It provided me with a sense of comfort, a knowledge that I could squeeze his thigh if I needed to and he would stop everything to make me feel at ease. Maybe we should have agreed to those terms upfront, but something about Luis told me he wasn’t a threat. The second-guesses and the nervous eye shifts and the not always knowing what to say or how to respond told me things about him. That he wasn’t some malicious, domineering character by nature. That, at one point, he’d searched for acceptance like the rest of us.

I took the opportunity to grab the base of his cock, and with a few quick pumps, worked him back into my mouth, licking and sucking every inch of him. He laced his fingers together behind his neck, cradling his head as it rolled backward. With the pull of his arms, his chest stretched wide, and he unwittingly offered himself to me. But I was too focused on the matter at hand to pay too much attention to the way his abs flexed as he pulled, to the way the sunlight spilling through the bedroom window pronounced his muscular definition with shadows dancing. Too focused to notice the way the beads of sweat balancing on his frame made him look like he’d just stepped out of the shower or wrapped up a tough workout at the gym.

The slit of his cock leaked small pearlescent drops of fluid at a steady rate, and I swept my tongue across the head to catch them, to taste them, to swallow them into me. His flavor was sweet and salty and earthy and masculine, and I would have fed from that tap daily if given the opportunity.

It had been weeks since I’d had sex with anyone, days since I’d gotten myself off, and suddenly, I felt ravenous. Like I’d been starved of some necessary life force and had just been given the chance to indulge. Only, I didn’t know how long that opportunity might last, and I didn’t want to waste time.

I guided Luis’s length into my throat and swallowed hard, capturing him in my tightness while I buried my nose in his feral bush. His hands immediately fell to my shoulders and gripped them tightly. Deep moans escaped him as his torso heaved and he bent himself over me, almost as if he were trying to escape my grasp without really wanting to. His body just couldn’t handle the sensations I gave him while milking his cock with my throat muscles.

He was trapped in my embrace as I reached around and gripped his tight cheeks, pulling him into me. They flexed, and my fingers played with the hairs that grew thinner and softer the further out they traveled, coarser and thicker the closer they sprouted to his crevice. I suddenly wanted to taste him there too, but I wasn’t sure what kind of boundaries were in place.

Suddenly, he pulled himself from me, taking a stance. His thick length was covered in saliva, and a strand of it dripped to the floor as he emerged from my mouth. “Can’t,” he started, his breath stunted. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

He smiled and gripped me underneath my arms, drawing me up to him, taking my mouth into his, and kissing me deeply as his hands explored my back. I took the opportunity to play with his ass again, something I’d become mildly obsessed with over the course of twenty seconds. It was clear that my fingers playing in his crack made his knees weak and pushed him closer to the edge. Luis panted as I separated his globes and slowly ran a finger down his crevice, but pulled away when I got too close to his opening. I guess I wasn’t going to get to indulge in that forbidden treat. Not just then, anyway.

Instead, he grabbed my sides and spun me around, bending me over the side of the bed. I felt him kicking his jeans off and peeling out of his underwear before dropping to his knees and burying his face in my ass. The feeling of his stubble on my cheeks made me tense at first, but I quickly relaxed into it, my forehead burrowing into the comforter, my hands splayed out across its softness.

I wasn’t as fresh as a morning daisy—neither of us were—but Luis didn’t back away. I was showered and clean, but no amount of scrubbing could compete with a day in the sun, a day walking up and down New York City sidewalks in the intense heat. Luis reveled in my earthy spice, however. At first, he simply nipped at my furry cheeks and kissed his way down my crack. But then he dove in and furiously licked at my hole, making me clench and tighten in surprise, then flex and open for him as I found comfort in the way he explored my entrance.

Soon, I’d feel him enter me, spread me, stretch me beyond belief with his cock as he held my back in place for his welcome arrival.

But not yet. Not until he apparently savored me and tasted every flavor I had to offer. Not until he dug into me with his tongue and traversed every knot and ridge. Not until he explored me, dragging himself from my balls, up my taint, and nosing at my bud, drawing my essence into him. Luis seemed to linger there for minutes on end, testing me, teasing me, pressuring me to open for him. He seemed to have a thing for the rawness of a man, for the naturalness of the male body.

I flinched and moaned and cried out as he rimmed me, as he repeatedly dipped into my opening, then pulled out and planted kisses on me. And with each brush of his tongue across my opening, with each crush of him into me, my flesh ignited and I begged him to fuck me.

Once he was satisfied with his handiwork, once I’d given up control and begged for his cock, he gathered himself behind me. I felt him pull to his feet, place his hands on my waist, and draw me to a kneeling position, kneeing the back of my legs and pushing me to rearrange myself on the bed. He wanted my head resting on the pillow and my legs spread out behind me, supine on my stomach.

Luis positioned himself behind me, then took a moment to cover me with his frame, to turn my head toward his with his fingers and kiss me deeply from behind. That kiss wasn’t just so I could taste myself on his lips—which I did, and savored. It was meant to convey feeling. To convey an emotion of appreciation, of mutual admiration and trust, of knowledge and understanding of what we were about to engage in, of the action he was about to take. Of exactly what he was about to impart on me.

After he kissed my mouth, he kissed my chin, then my shoulder. He then crawled down my back and fell between my legs again. I dropped my head to the pillow and raised my hips slightly off the bed, assuming a position that would make his entrance easier on the both of us. Words weren’t spoken. Luis simply kissed my hole, his tongue leaving a trail of saliva between the two of us as he pulled away.

Finally, like a mirage in the desert, a gentle breeze blew through the window and tickled my beaded flesh. It was as though I’d never felt the wind before, never experienced a breath of fresh air. I only hoped the breezes would keep coming, that they would be the start of a trend. Of milder temperatures and midsummer breezes sailing over me while I slept naked at night, stretched out under a cool bedsheet. At the very least, I hoped for more bearable days in the high eighties rather than the high nineties, let alone a hundred fucking degrees pounding down on top of the city.

Luis’s weight felt good on top of me, even in this heat wave. His presence was comfortable. His heat was a nice change of pace. A different kind of heat, one that was altogether welcomed.

The tip of his cock pressed against my opening, and I closed my eyes while pushing out around him. He held the base of his length in one hand and my waist in the other, holding me steady as his hairy thighs rubbed against mine. We were both warm and slicked with sweat, the motionless ceiling fan above us doing nothing for anyone. I prayed for another breeze.

But thoughts of anything other than Luis’s cock when it penetrated my opening and slid a few inches inside of me were gone with that fucking breeze. I gasped and croaked at the sensation of searing pain that shot through me. I clawed at the comforter, twisting my fingers into the fabric.

But I wanted it. So badly.

Luis paused and I breathed, and as I caught my breath and relaxed into him, he continued easing himself into me, slowly and gently. By the time I felt his pubic hair brush against my ass, I knew he’d buried himself in me completely, and I silently begged for him to never leave me. His cock felt so good inside of me. So perfect. So natural. A sense of completeness washed over me as I adjusted to how full I felt; incredibly stretched and exposed in the grip of a stranger, but perfectly comfortable under his weight.

Luis scooped his arms underneath my chest and pulled my body up to meet his. My back, tight and moderately defined, faint lines running courses around natural pockets of muscle, leaned into his chest. His lips fell to my shoulder, then my neck, as he began to move his hips, pulling himself slightly out of me before pushing back in, finding his rhythm.

Every movement seemed intentional, every warm breath on the back of my neck and every bead of sweat crashing into my skin from his frame seemed almost planned to accentuate the experience. He knew how to fuck.

Luis was forceful in bed in the best kind of way. I didn’t have to make any decisions. At work, I was constantly deciding upon this or that, never knowing whether I was making the right choice… for the company, for my team, for the future of my job. In bed was the last place I wanted that kind of responsibility. Luis made that easy.

Maybe he felt the opposite about his work. Perhaps he had to play by the book and wasn’t afforded the opportunity to make any decisions on his own. At a garage, I imagined there wouldn’t be too many choices one could be faced with. This part goes there and that piece of equipment is tested in this way. It seemed pretty black-and-white. Maybe in the bedroom, he was able to choose what he wanted to do and how he wanted it done. Perhaps sex was where he found a sense of freedom.

My dick was as hard as a steel flag pole while he fucked himself into me over and over. It stood at attention, pointing to the sky as it sprouted endless beads of precome that dripped down my shaft like oil droplets from one of those decorative old rain lamps. Luis would occasionally pull his hand from my chest and swipe a finger across the slit, scooping up the sticky fluid, either to feed me or to enjoy himself.

I tried not to touch myself out of fear that I might explode too early. Every touch of Luis’s hand on my cock made me feel like I might come, so I couldn’t risk forcing it myself. But if Luis’s heavy grunts and deep moans were any indication, he wasn’t going to last very long either. Maybe it was the heat getting to us. Or maybe, just maybe, we really enjoyed being with one another.

As his orgasm approached from deep within, he released my body from his grip and focused that grip on my waist, holding me in place as he rocked himself into me, then out, then in, then out, over and over again.

I dropped my chest to the comforter and grabbed my dick. If he was going to come, I figured I might as well indulge too.

My back was slick with sweat as Luis deep-dicked me, pulling me down to the base of his cock and using my ass to get himself off. He slowly rubbed a hand up and down my back as he fucked me. I squeezed myself around him, hoping to add to his pleasure, to my own pleasure. I wanted him to come just as much as I’m sure he wanted to. We were using each other to get off. That was it. And I was fine with it.

He must have felt the change in pressure on his cock. He gripped my hips tightly and slammed into me a few times. I was ready to explode, so I held the base of my cock tightly, trying desperately to keep my ejaculate at bay, waiting for Luis’s cue.

It didn’t take long. “Oh… fuck… gonna… come,” he panted, his words dotting his thrusts as he pulled out of me. A forceful jet of hot fluid rocketed against my warm flesh, bulleting my ass cheek hard before quickly dribbling into my crevice and down between my legs.

My comforter would be a mess, but then, it was going to be a mess anyway as soon as I let go of my cock and allowed my orgasm to proceed. It could probably stand a wash anyway.

I was deviously ecstatic about making Luis come, but I didn’t want his load to be wasted on my comforter. At that moment, I wanted him to be a part of me. Wanted to feel him inside of me. I wanted him to take me, to claim me, to conquer me. So, I pushed my ass backward, against him, and he found his way back into me, releasing the rest of his load deep inside me.

With Luis’s throbbing dick twitching in my hole, filling my insides with his warmth, my firmness had no choice but to erupt. A shock wave worked its way through my body, shooting tingling sensations up and down my arms and through my core. Those sensations expelled themselves through the tip of my cock, hitting every nerve ending on the way out. I shuddered and spasmed as I came, and Luis did the same behind me, his body tightening and flexing against mine as he unloaded himself into me. His hands gripped my waist tightly and my fingers dug into the comforter, until eventually, our bodies had expelled everything they’d needed to expel amidst of fury of erotic declarations.

I collapsed onto my bed and Luis followed suit, crashing down beside me, running his hand up and down my back one last time before dipping his finger into the crack of my ass to admire his work. I smiled at his touch. He smiled at my smile.

We lay there for a moment, panting and recovering, lost in a hazy bliss of sexual release. And after that moment, an uninvited wave of awkwardness suddenly crashed over us, interrupting the blissful glow that had taken hold for that brief moment. Neither of us knew what to say to the other, if anything at all. Did words need to be spoken? Or did clothes simply need to be pulled back on before we implied our goodbyes at my front door?

Sweat beaded on Luis’s brow. My pillow was damp. His chest and arms were shiny and slick, as were mine.

But then, out of nowhere, like a sign from above, the lights flickered on and the unmistakable clink and rumble of the air conditioner kicking on could be heard in my living room. It was like the heavens opened, but neither of us bothered to get up. Some semblance of comfort had found us.

Cheers and applause from the street below erupted and echoed through the windows. The entire neighborhood must have been back on. Tonight’s unsanctioned, unpermitted block party would probably be the biggest yet. Once everyone had a chance to cool off and recharge, anyway.

“I guess I should get going,” Luis said, a quiver of something resembling expectation or hope binding his words.

I knew how these things went. He wasn’t supposed to stay and I wasn’t supposed to want him to. But I did.

“You can stay,” I fumbled. “To cool off for a minute. If you want.”

Awkward. I somehow made an awkward moment even more awkward. But he smiled, awkwardly.

I rolled over onto my back and we lay beside each other, our breathing patterns finding a normal rhythm. Neither of us said a word. We just breathed and listened to the people outside chatter about this and that. Most of what they spoke about was muffled, but now and then, someone would raise their voice. Then, a bus pushed down Tenth Avenue, expelling exhaust and traffic noise.

“Maybe I’ll just go grab a slice or somethin’,” he started, lifting himself from the bed, trying to find his clothes on the floor, fumbling around while attempting to pull his jeans up and step into his boots. “You hungry?”

Was I? Not really. But he’d invited me to do something. That was against the rules for a hookup. I didn’t understand the feelings I was having, the wavering back and forth about something so innocent, so trivial. I wanted him but I didn’t want to want him. I wanted to play by the rules of casual sex but I wanted to buck the trend at the same time. My mind was playing tricks on me. “Nah. I’m alright.”

“Cool.”

Was it? Maybe it wasn’t. Why was I suddenly questioning every decision I’d ever made?

The word cool had been shrouded in subtle disappointment, a sort of defeat falling from his lips. I stood from the bed and followed Luis into the living room, grabbing a handful of my clothes from the kitchen floor on the way. We stood facing each other in front of the air conditioner blast for a few fractured moments, unsure of what to say.

“Alright. Maybe I’ll see you around, then?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “Maybe.”

God, why did every word I was saying sound so noncommittal? So rude? I hated when people did that shit to me.

“Cool.”

There it was again. That letdown I wasn’t sure how to address, to counteract. Luis turned, taking a step toward the door, then swiveled and paused before approaching me. He pressed his lips against mine. It was a gentle sort of kiss, one that was simultaneously depleted and hopeful. A final goodbye. A goodbye that said thanks… even though I’ll probably never see you again… even though I really want to .

When his lips parted from mine, my lips smiled a shy grin. I didn’t want to give my hand away but a sparkler had been ignited in my stomach. Trembling heat worked its way up my frame, blushing my cheeks when it finally found my face. I was all nervous energy, swirling and singing.

Luis grabbed my briefs from the wad of clothing in my hand and held them up with one finger. A name brand traced its way around the white waistband in navy blue. The seams were damp with sweat, and a one-inch-long hole had been ripped just under the elastic band on the side. It must have happened when Luis was tearing them off my frame.

I laughed as I tossed the rest of my clothes onto the couch. “I should probably throw those away.”

Luis used them to wipe the sweat from his forehead and under his arms. He then pulled me close and kissed me again, with more force and desperation than the last time. Intensity radiated from his full lips, his magic finding its way to me. When he finally pulled away, he brought my briefs to his face and inhaled. “Maybe I’ll hang on to ’em. That way, I’ll have something to remember you by. A piece of you—to get me off later.”

It was a joke, but it made my dick twitch with arousal, and I wondered to myself how much truth traced the edges of that joke. I’d heard that half of what people say when they’re joking is actually true—that sometimes people joke about things they’re too nervous to talk about. I was certainly guilty of that. I licked my lips. “You have your phone?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Put this number in.”

He pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans and I proceeded to give him my number.

“That’s something better to remember me by. But you can keep those anyway.” I nodded toward my briefs now clenched in his fist.

A wide smile drew across his face, coloring his expression with subdued excitement, a sort of joy that wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone. The sort that people kept bottled up inside for fear of embarrassing themselves. For fear of showing their true colors.

“Cool.”

The word was drenched in hope that time, swimming in incitement. It was delivered with the sort of carefree exhilaration captured by the first warm day of spring, or the anticipation of the first drop on a roller coaster, or diving into a lake on a hot day, not knowing whether the water will be frigid or not, laughing all the way.

“And next time,” he continued, the confidence returning to his voice, “maybe you’ll fuck me silly.”

“You bottom?”

“I’m versatile… for the right person. You?”

“For the right person.”

Luis grinned, and I laughed through my smile. He leaned in and kissed me again, a kiss that was almost as sweet as our fuck had been desperate. His free hand gently brushed the back of my neck, causing the hair to stand on end. My thumb looped into the back of his jeans, tickling the hairs in the cleft of his ass, which made him giggle into our kiss. I found myself not only enthralled but proud that I could draw such a playful reaction from him.

“I’ll text you,” he confirmed as he exited my front door and stumbled down the hallway to the stairwell. He turned to get another look at me leaning naked against my doorframe while he shoved my briefs into his back pocket.

“You better.”

I couldn’t wait.