Saturday mornings are the days when I stretch, scratch myself, and wait for the sun to be high in the sky before I move from my bed. I knew when I got into teaching that not being a morning person could be the death of me, but I learned to cope and cherish my mornings off. Friday nights I might go to a bar with a couple of the other teachers, maybe dinner with a friend, but it’s Saturday mornings that I like most. Time to myself, to think about nothing, to revel in my weekend freedom; it’s a cleansing of all the worries about my job and my students.
This Saturday I stretch and yawn, and manage to stick my fingers right up someon’s nose. The person yelps and tumbles to the floor, taking all my covers in the process. I am naked, my mouth tastes terrible, I have a headache, and there is someone else tangled up in my comforter. I stare, speechless, as a tousled head pokes itself out of the covers and gives me a grin.
“Dude, there are so many other ways to wake a guy up.”
Part of my brain screeches to a halt—I never bring guys home, it’s just not something I do, so why is there someone in my room? The other part goes into high gear. What did I do last night? Where did I meet this kid? What’s his name? Did I use a condom? The face peering at me from the floor is smooth, young, fresh, a bad blue dye job on the hair, but even that points to youth—shit shit shit is he even old enough to be legal? Did I just commit statutory rape? Am I going to jail for sex I can’t even remember?
The first thing to come out of my mouth is: “I never do this.”
The kid laughs, the carefree kind with his head thrown back and his neck exposed, still cocooned in my white sheets. “I know, man. You told me like eight times last night. It’s cool.”
“How old are you?” I have never been good with surprises. Or liquor.
“Twenty.” He cocks his head at me. “Do you not remember this conversation?”
I can feel the blood rushing to my face, embarrassed at seeming like a drunk. “Sorry, last night is mostly a blur.” Twenty? I feel like I’ve broken a law, or some code of conduct, as though his parents are going to come and stone me.
The kid sits all the way up and wraps the comforter more tightly around him. “It’s all good. Recap: we met at Claude’s Burgers when you left the bar. Your friends all live in the opposite direction so they got a cab. You were going to get a cab, but you like burgers.”
He speaks the truth. I do like burgers.
“I was there with some friends,” he continues, “and you couldn’t find your wallet, and my friends were messing with you a little bit, so I bought you a burger. You asked for a ride home, apologized three times for asking, but I was the only one with a vehicle, so I took you on my scooter.”
A scooter? Where is my car?
“I invited myself in, found your wallet in your back pocket, and here we are,” he finishes. “Should I leave now, or do I get breakfast?” He starts to get up, and the sheets slip down around his waist. “I would have left, but I’m hungry and I didn’t want you to think I had robbed you or anything.”
I desperately want to tell him to go, but feel the need to repair my image after forgetting everything about the night before. “It’s fine, I’ll make breakfast,” I say quickly.
I grab my pants from last night—they smell strongly of booze—and pull them on as I shuffle out of the room. From past experience I know that I will remember what happened later in the evening, but having a key player in last night’s scene following me into my kitchen, still naked, is bothering me.
“What’s your name, kid?” I ask, grabbing cream cheese and French bread from the fridge.
He snorts. “Kid? How old are you?”
I give him a look, glad that he’s seated at the bar and therefore covered from the waist down. “Old enough to know better. Is it Devlin?”
He smiles at me, and I know why I took him home. “You’re close. Devlin was there last night. I’m Adam.”
“Sorry. Pecans or no pecans on your toast?” My tone is polite, but I feel as though I am talking to one of my student’s parents or older siblings, smiling without meaning it. What had I been thinking?
Adam shuffles a little bit on the bar stool, the kind that indicates familiarity rather than being uncomfortable, and responds, “Pecans, most def. Can I do anything? Get out plates, or pour orange juice or something?”
I shake my head and make a noncommittal noise, taking care not to turn around again. He reminds me of a puppy with a Free To Good Home sign attached, and how it’s always so tempting to think I can be that good home even though common sense says I’m better suited to betta fish than dogs. Adam is cute, upturned nose and freckles and bright blue eyes included, and his aw-shucks attitude is charming. Even the fact that he’s sitting on my barstool without a stitch of clothing on was endearing, but dammit, I know better.
“Why are you so uptight, man?” Adam’s voice breaks into my thoughts, and I realize that I have been spreading schmear on the same piece of bread for the last minute. “I mean, other than that you never do this.”
I give him a quick smile, unnerved at being read so easily, and reply, “Oh, just thinking about work and such. You’ll get there someday.”
He rolls his eyes at that. “So they tell me. College is about all I can handle right now.”
Adam is offering me a safe conversation topic, and I leap at it. “You go to State?”
“Yeah. I’m a sophomore.”
Oh my god. I slept with a child. I wonder if having sex with someone a decade younger than I makes me a pedophile. “What are you studying?”
He rolls his eyes again. “Business management, which is a fancy way of saying I wish I was the kid whose dad has a job waiting for him whenever he’s ready.”
I laugh, nodding in agreement and thinking about our maturity differences. Indicating the baking dish I ask, “How many pieces do you want?”
This time the grin is devilish. “After last night, dude, I’ll need three at least.”
My face is suddenly hot.
Adam laughs. “Dude, you’re blushing like a girl. Do you really not remember what happened?”
“Do you want me to give you a play-by-play? It was good, even if you were fucked up, but I think after breakfast we can totally top that.”
I shut the oven door and turn around fully, bracing myself on the counter behind me. “Adam, I hate to be rude—“
“I know,” he interrupts, the cheeky expression inviting me to halt my lecture.
“—but you know this isn’t going anywhere, right?” I use the same tone as I do when explaining bad news to my first graders, and the same control when Adam’s face falls a little. “I’m too old for you, and you don’t seem the type who wants a sugar daddy.”
That’s a lie. He does seem the type, because even I am tempted to take it all back and tell him he can sleep over any time he wants, and buy him some clothes and a toothbrush for my place. What is it about this kid?
“Dude,” he says in a tone I don’t quite understand, “I wasn’t like, saying we needed to date or anything, but I figure if you never invite guys over you might as well remember this one time.”
I do laugh at that, and his smile tells me it was the right thing to do, but I still shake my head. “How old do you think I am?”
He shrugs. “Twenty-six?”
Adam clearly hadn’t looked in my wallet. “Thirty-two.”
“Dude, that’s not that old.”
I busy myself with getting out fruit, milk, juice, dishes. “I was twelve when you were born. I was driving when you were in preschool. I graduated college while you were in elementary school. I’ve been teaching for eight years. You probably still play soccer barefoot in the Quad and have shaving cream wars with the guys down the hall.”
Adam narrows his eyes playfully at me. “You wish you could still have shaving cream fights.”
This time my laugh sounds exactly like the one my father used to make when he thought I was being fanciful and immature. “Not really.”
It’s the first time he’s used my name; I had assumed he’d forgotten mine as I had forgotten his. I face him; he is leaning against the bar now, one hand propped against his temple, his smile benevolent and amused. My eyes roam down his athlete’s body—minimally defined chest, ridged abdomen, bulging thighs and calves—then rest on his cock, nesting and dormant in the chill of my kitchen. My mind hears a throaty moan, one that I know must have come from last night; my ear knows neither of us have spoken yet, but the sound is so real, so present that I jump.
My gaze snaps back up to his face. Even though his expressions is serious his eyes are smiling, probably because I just ogled him like some gross old man who hangs out at clubs and waits for the unsuspecting young to get too drunk to know better. I’m disgusted with myself, but I think he’s teasing me.
“Dude,” Adam says, “I totally didn’t know you had so many hang-ups about younger guys. I’m sorry. I can jet if you want me to; Waffle House is on the way back to campus.”
I immediately feel guilty for making a naked man feel unwelcome in my home, plus I had already made more French toast than I could eat alone, and I have a thing about pouring milk back into the jug after it has been sitting in a glass, so I say lightly, “No, no, it’s completely on me. I owe you for the burger.”
The toast is ready, so I put Adam’s plate on the bar and set mine on the counter so I don’t have to put too much effort into not looking at his body while we eat. All his movements are sinuous, the way he slides back into his chair and runs his fingers through his hair before he picks up his fork. It’s even kind of cute when he wrinkles his nose and sniffs his armpit, then makes a face and continues eating. One of the Lost Boys is nude and eating French toast at my breakfast bar.
Adam looks up and grins. “Can’t make up your mind about me, huh?”
I raise my glass to him. “You’re very perceptive.”
“I’ll help,” he offers around a mouthful of fruit. “I’m not a minor, I don’t kiss and tell, if you’re worried about your street cred, I don’t do drugs, I’m clean and I use condoms, and I won’t ask you to buy me or my buddies booze. I’m not trying to steal your shit, I’m flexible and I’m completely trainable.” He waves a forkful of toast at me and gives me a knowing fisheye. “You’d be an idiot not to sleep with me again.”
One of my eyebrows goes up almost involuntarily. “What, would your self-esteem take a hit?”
Another killer grin, and I want to reach out and brush the drop of syrup from his lower lip with my thumb. My brain starts telling my what could happen after I touch his lip and blood rushes from my head and builds in my loins.
“Totally,” Adam agrees. “I’ll be so unsure of my manhood and value that I’ll start using drugs, sleeping with strangers, and will end up turning tricks on the streets of Vegas.” He pouts, which on any other young adult would be petulant and aggravating. “You gotta help me out, man. Save me from the streets.”
“You already slept with a stranger,” I point out.
“I’m talking about the kind who won’t serve me breakfast or blush when I catch them staring at my dick.”
“I could have severed heads sitting next to my orange juice concentrate, or hidden in my dresser.”
“You don’t,” Adam says. “I checked the freezer last night when I accepted the ice cream bar you offered.”
God, I’m pathetic. “I offered you an ice cream bar?” I can’t control the shameful grimace.
Adam waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, dude. I also checked your dresser drawers.”
I’m too jittery to eat any more so I push my plate away from me. “This is insane,” I inform him. “Why are you so interested in me?”
Adam shrugs as he steals my leftovers. “I dunno, man. You seem like you could use the company.”
A twenty-year old child wants to have pity sex with me? “Sure, I could use company,” I snap. “I’m gay and I teach first grade, kiddo. It’s hard to have a sex life when everyone is already concerned that you’re Chester Molester.”
“Relax your balls, Lyle,” Adam replies easily. “You’re single, experienced enough to give me a good dicking, and I like talking to you.”
I huff at that. “You need to raise your standards, baby.”
“Okay, so I think you’re hot, too.” The words are barely distinguishable as Adam shoves nearly a whole piece of toast in his mouth. “Quit fucking fishing for compliments, or I’ll totally think you have low self-esteem or something.”
With a shrug I pick up my fork again. I do make damn good French toast.
I think he takes pity on me, in the end, when he wanders back into the bedroom after I refuse help with the dishes. The sound of the shower only distracts me for a moment. That kind of what’s-yours-is-mine behavior tells me that my young guest might be a middle child, or at least have an older brother who’s close to him in age. Adam emerges fully dressed about twenty minutes later, after I’ve washed off my face in the kitchen sink.
Oh my god, he is the cutest fucking kid, I think, and I can’t help smiling a little bit. Suddenly Adam is shy, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at his feet. I’m afraid he’ll ask me if we can see each other again.
“So I’m gonna head out,” he says. “Thanks for breakfast and everything.”
“Yeah, sure,” I reply inanely.
“Um, is it—well, like, uh…” Adam scratched his jaw. “Or, um, it was nice to meet you.”
“You too, Adam.”
Swiftly he comes around the bar, grabs the back of my neck, and kisses me. Holy shit. I can’t taste good, but his tongue is in my mouth like he’s fishing for something. His lips are supple and soft, insistent. I’m melting like butter in a microwave. Is this why I slept with him? Starting right now I don’t mind.
“All right, then,” I say softly when he pulls back.
He bites his lip and drops his hand. “I wanted a goodbye kiss.”
“You got it, kid.”
Adam smiles a little bit. “Don’t see me out, Lyle. The neighbors might notice.” With that he walks out of the kitchen.