“I am too fucking dumb for this,” I groan.
Dillon puts his pen down. “Have you ever been tested for ADHD?”
“Nah, my mom wouldn’t let me because she said that Ritalin makes you bipolar.”
Dillon is silent.
“Yeah, she has some theories,” I explain sheepishly. “Everything I learn in college makes it harder to go home. And my mom isn’t dumb! It’s just…whatever.”
Ugh, Dillon looks so goddam sympathetic. “I don’t really think you’re stupid, Jay. I think nobody taught you how to learn in a system that isn’t built for you. Wait, why are you standing up?”
I hadn’t realized I was out of my seat. I sit. “What?”
“No, I was just saying that you probably learn differently.”
“Like a disability?”
“No, just like,” here Dillon sighs, and I can’t tell if it’s at me or not, “I’m not qualified to, like, diagnose you or anything, but…maybe you get distracted in tests because you’re bored.”
“Tests are boring, though.”
“Have you noticed I’ve turned all of our studying into games?”
“What? No.”
“Oh cool,” he says happily.
“You look so fucking pleased with yourself.”
Dillon laughs, “I am!”
I narrow my eyes. “If this has all been a project for one of your fucking ed classes, so help me God…”
“It’s not,” he swears, still chuckling. “I don’t know if it’s effective yet.”
Maybe I should be mad that he thinks he has me all figure out, but it’s kind of nice when Dillon isn’t scolding me. “You know what’s a great fuckin motivator? Rewards. Where’s my gold star? Where’s my pizza party?”
“I don’t have sticker money laying around, man,” he replies with a grin.
I poke him. “Gimme a treat!”
“Can you think of a treat that isn’t food or money? Like an experience?”
I give him my best the-fuck-you-talking-about face, and Dillon laughs.
“So for me, sometimes I get 15 minutes of mindless scrolling for every hour of studying.”
He probably has time limits set on all his social media apps. Fucking goody two-shoes.
“I do that all the time. I need the extra—what’s it called?—outside motivation.”
“An extrinsic reward? Then I offer you this firm handshake.”
I knock his dumb hand away. “Give me an experience reward.”
Dillon thinks for a little bit. “I guess you can come to my room and we’ll watch a classic Bond film?” Then he adds, “I need to finish one for my seminar. So I’ll be taking notes and I might pause a lot.”
It’s not a good reward, but it’s not nothing and it keeps me out of Carter’s frat house. “Daniel Craig or no deal.”
“What? Ugh, fine.”
“What fucking seminar makes you watch James fucking Bond?”
“Masculinity in Film. I’m writing a paper contrasting American John Wayne, Dirty Harry masculinity to the British James Bond type."
"Why is your bed so high?"
"So I can put my stuff underneath it." Dillon hops on his bed and points to the other messy one. "You can sit on Brantley's bed or his chair—the girls next door borrowed mine yesterday—but he eats in bed a lot so I’d take the chair if I were you."
I eye the rickety-looking chair. “Why does it have that brown stuff on it?”
Dillon looks at it for a second and shrugs. “I guess you can sit on my bed.”
“He’s fucking gross.”
He nods. “Two months and then I’m getting a new roommate.”
“Good,” I grumble as I climb up the bed frame.
“I’ll pick a hot one so that if you accidentally make out with him you won’t regret it,” Dillon says.
“Fuck off!” I yell, but that’s fucking funny.
We settle in with our backs against the wall to watch Casino Royale, Dillon occasionally taking notes. He asks me questions sometimes, like if I think that an American hero would be shown clambering all over the place like a gecko. Maybe, but eventually he’d just shoot the guy. Or if it’s cool to make up a cocktail and name it after the lady you’re flirting with. Fuck yeah, that’s smooth as hell.
"That's who I'd be, if I were a character,” I declare. “James Motherfucking Bond."
Dillon laughs, "You'd have to have a fucked-up youth."
"I still have time. Plus, look at the kind of pussy he pulls." I say that, and immediately think, Whoops. Was that insensitive?
"You don't have that kind of game," Dillon scoffs.
"I got game coming outta my ass."
Dillon makes a disbelieving noise. "Your game is old, son. You have, like, two moves."
I send a pillow sailing toward his head. "Fuck you! You wouldn't recognize my game, anyway."
Sitting upright, Dillon argues, "I've seen you in action. You tease some poor girl, then you get all grope-y. She either allows it, or backs off and you do that douchey, 'C'mon, baby' thing."
That is uncomfortably close to the truth, even if I wouldn't call it "groping" or "'douchey." I give Dillon the finger. "It works, asswipe."
"Sure, on idiots."
"That's sexist," I say proudly. Now who's the douche?
"No, I could do that, too," Dillon replies, leaning over to shove my head. "If I had a thing for dumb guys."
That makes me laugh. "Bullshit."
"If it's real game, it'll work on anyone."
I snort. “It does. You just haven’t tried it.”
He scoots close to me. “Oh, so I should get up all in your space, like you do with girls, and then kiss you?"
The whole right side of my face feels hot. Is this how close I get to girls? Nah, I’m smoother than this.
I stay still. "Do it and see what happens." Please don't do it.
"Maybe I will," Dillon says all low and smooth as he leans in.
"Go ahead." I'll sock him in the jaw. Anyway, he forgot to put a hand on the thigh, which is my go-to move.
"You're shaking," he almost whispers, all soft and gentle.
No I'm not. "Shut the fuck up."
"Don't be mad, baby." Dillon puts an arm around me. "Don't be mad. It's cute. Guys like that, guys like that."
I'm seriously going to punch him now. "I don't talk like that."
"Except you totally do!"
"In this whole entire fucking world," I retort, finally looking at him, "there is no one more full of sh—"
The rest is put on hold, because my brain has to process that a dude is kissing me. Like mouth-on-mouth, kissing me. And I'm sober.
"There!" Dillon says cheerfully as he pulls back. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?"
I shake my head because I literally have no words. It was, like, just—what?—I'm not sure…Did he seriously just kiss me? But then his mouth is on mine again.
Dillon smiles. "You looked like you could use one more. Let me know when the world starts ending, straight boy."
"You gotta try harder than that," I say, because I know how to be smooth.
So of course he comes back in for another one. And another, and then I feel his hand slide from my shoulder to the back of my neck, and then Dillon's tongue is all up in my mouth. Like on my teeth, on my tongue, slipping between my lips, and even though it's super weird to just kind of sit here while he kisses me, it's like…he's…not…a bad kisser. It's about technique, is all. Mix up the tongue with some nibbling, don't get sloppy outside the lips, get a hand in her hair, and tease just enough so that the girl starts getting a little hot and bothered. Or not the girl, if you're Dillon and you're gay. And it’s his hand in my hair while his other arm wraps around my back. I feel kind of small, like he’s protecting me, which is why this is a classic hold that girls really relax into. And I get it. He's doing all the right things, so it's good kissing, but his whiskers are rough on my lips.
I push him away. "Okay, that's enough." It takes all my self-control to keep my breathing even and my legs from sprinting out of the room. It's not a big deal. I'm not a homophobe anymore. Dillon is a friend. He's a friend who just put his face all over my face. Fuck. Holy fuck. Just watch the movie. Nothing is weird. Am I going to have whisker burn on my face? Holy shit.
Pay attention to the movie. For fuck's sake. I wonder what Dillon is thinking. No, I don't wonder. We should have watched Step Brothers. Why did Dillon do that? I don't care; it doesn't matter. It'd be like if he kissed a girl. Like, that's what it was. That's all it was. What if he tries it again? He won't. Should I leave? I need a good excuse though. Is there homework I haven't done yet? Probably, but I can't think enough to remember what it is. I am so weirded out right now. Sure, I kissed him back, but I was proving a point. And now I have some, you know, data points on what it’s like to be on the receiving end of my very good flirtation techniques. It’s fine. It was a joke.
"Idiot," Dillon says calmly.
I flip him off without taking my eyes off the screen. “That just proves how good my game is, bitch.”
Dillon laughs and sits back, and we pretend like nothing happened until the movie is over. Then we still pretend nothing happened when he helps me with Statistics. Except for how Dillon keeps giving me the side eye, and chuckling when I sock him in the shoulder. It could have ended there, but instead it all goes to shit a couple weeks later.
“Tests are boring, though.”
“Have you noticed I’ve turned all of our studying into games?”
“What? No.”
“Oh cool,” he says happily.
“You look so fucking pleased with yourself.”
Dillon laughs, “I am!”
I narrow my eyes. “If this has all been a project for one of your fucking ed classes, so help me God…”
“It’s not,” he swears, still chuckling. “I don’t know if it’s effective yet.”
Maybe I should be mad that he thinks he has me all figure out, but it’s kind of nice when Dillon isn’t scolding me. “You know what’s a great fuckin motivator? Rewards. Where’s my gold star? Where’s my pizza party?”
“I don’t have sticker money laying around, man,” he replies with a grin.
I poke him. “Gimme a treat!”
“Can you think of a treat that isn’t food or money? Like an experience?”
I give him my best the-fuck-you-talking-about face, and Dillon laughs.
“So for me, sometimes I get 15 minutes of mindless scrolling for every hour of studying.”
He probably has time limits set on all his social media apps. Fucking goody two-shoes.
“I do that all the time. I need the extra—what’s it called?—outside motivation.”
“An extrinsic reward? Then I offer you this firm handshake.”
I knock his dumb hand away. “Give me an experience reward.”
Dillon thinks for a little bit. “I guess you can come to my room and we’ll watch a classic Bond film?” Then he adds, “I need to finish one for my seminar. So I’ll be taking notes and I might pause a lot.”
It’s not a good reward, but it’s not nothing and it keeps me out of Carter’s frat house. “Daniel Craig or no deal.”
“What? Ugh, fine.”
“What fucking seminar makes you watch James fucking Bond?”
“Masculinity in Film. I’m writing a paper contrasting American John Wayne, Dirty Harry masculinity to the British James Bond type."
"Why is your bed so high?"
"So I can put my stuff underneath it." Dillon hops on his bed and points to the other messy one. "You can sit on Brantley's bed or his chair—the girls next door borrowed mine yesterday—but he eats in bed a lot so I’d take the chair if I were you."
I eye the rickety-looking chair. “Why does it have that brown stuff on it?”
Dillon looks at it for a second and shrugs. “I guess you can sit on my bed.”
“He’s fucking gross.”
He nods. “Two months and then I’m getting a new roommate.”
“Good,” I grumble as I climb up the bed frame.
“I’ll pick a hot one so that if you accidentally make out with him you won’t regret it,” Dillon says.
“Fuck off!” I yell, but that’s fucking funny.
We settle in with our backs against the wall to watch Casino Royale, Dillon occasionally taking notes. He asks me questions sometimes, like if I think that an American hero would be shown clambering all over the place like a gecko. Maybe, but eventually he’d just shoot the guy. Or if it’s cool to make up a cocktail and name it after the lady you’re flirting with. Fuck yeah, that’s smooth as hell.
"That's who I'd be, if I were a character,” I declare. “James Motherfucking Bond."
Dillon laughs, "You'd have to have a fucked-up youth."
"I still have time. Plus, look at the kind of pussy he pulls." I say that, and immediately think, Whoops. Was that insensitive?
"You don't have that kind of game," Dillon scoffs.
"I got game coming outta my ass."
Dillon makes a disbelieving noise. "Your game is old, son. You have, like, two moves."
I send a pillow sailing toward his head. "Fuck you! You wouldn't recognize my game, anyway."
Sitting upright, Dillon argues, "I've seen you in action. You tease some poor girl, then you get all grope-y. She either allows it, or backs off and you do that douchey, 'C'mon, baby' thing."
That is uncomfortably close to the truth, even if I wouldn't call it "groping" or "'douchey." I give Dillon the finger. "It works, asswipe."
"Sure, on idiots."
"That's sexist," I say proudly. Now who's the douche?
"No, I could do that, too," Dillon replies, leaning over to shove my head. "If I had a thing for dumb guys."
That makes me laugh. "Bullshit."
"If it's real game, it'll work on anyone."
I snort. “It does. You just haven’t tried it.”
He scoots close to me. “Oh, so I should get up all in your space, like you do with girls, and then kiss you?"
The whole right side of my face feels hot. Is this how close I get to girls? Nah, I’m smoother than this.
I stay still. "Do it and see what happens." Please don't do it.
"Maybe I will," Dillon says all low and smooth as he leans in.
"Go ahead." I'll sock him in the jaw. Anyway, he forgot to put a hand on the thigh, which is my go-to move.
"You're shaking," he almost whispers, all soft and gentle.
No I'm not. "Shut the fuck up."
"Don't be mad, baby." Dillon puts an arm around me. "Don't be mad. It's cute. Guys like that, guys like that."
I'm seriously going to punch him now. "I don't talk like that."
"Except you totally do!"
"In this whole entire fucking world," I retort, finally looking at him, "there is no one more full of sh—"
The rest is put on hold, because my brain has to process that a dude is kissing me. Like mouth-on-mouth, kissing me. And I'm sober.
"There!" Dillon says cheerfully as he pulls back. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?"
I shake my head because I literally have no words. It was, like, just—what?—I'm not sure…Did he seriously just kiss me? But then his mouth is on mine again.
Dillon smiles. "You looked like you could use one more. Let me know when the world starts ending, straight boy."
"You gotta try harder than that," I say, because I know how to be smooth.
So of course he comes back in for another one. And another, and then I feel his hand slide from my shoulder to the back of my neck, and then Dillon's tongue is all up in my mouth. Like on my teeth, on my tongue, slipping between my lips, and even though it's super weird to just kind of sit here while he kisses me, it's like…he's…not…a bad kisser. It's about technique, is all. Mix up the tongue with some nibbling, don't get sloppy outside the lips, get a hand in her hair, and tease just enough so that the girl starts getting a little hot and bothered. Or not the girl, if you're Dillon and you're gay. And it’s his hand in my hair while his other arm wraps around my back. I feel kind of small, like he’s protecting me, which is why this is a classic hold that girls really relax into. And I get it. He's doing all the right things, so it's good kissing, but his whiskers are rough on my lips.
I push him away. "Okay, that's enough." It takes all my self-control to keep my breathing even and my legs from sprinting out of the room. It's not a big deal. I'm not a homophobe anymore. Dillon is a friend. He's a friend who just put his face all over my face. Fuck. Holy fuck. Just watch the movie. Nothing is weird. Am I going to have whisker burn on my face? Holy shit.
Pay attention to the movie. For fuck's sake. I wonder what Dillon is thinking. No, I don't wonder. We should have watched Step Brothers. Why did Dillon do that? I don't care; it doesn't matter. It'd be like if he kissed a girl. Like, that's what it was. That's all it was. What if he tries it again? He won't. Should I leave? I need a good excuse though. Is there homework I haven't done yet? Probably, but I can't think enough to remember what it is. I am so weirded out right now. Sure, I kissed him back, but I was proving a point. And now I have some, you know, data points on what it’s like to be on the receiving end of my very good flirtation techniques. It’s fine. It was a joke.
"Idiot," Dillon says calmly.
I flip him off without taking my eyes off the screen. “That just proves how good my game is, bitch.”
Dillon laughs and sits back, and we pretend like nothing happened until the movie is over. Then we still pretend nothing happened when he helps me with Statistics. Except for how Dillon keeps giving me the side eye, and chuckling when I sock him in the shoulder. It could have ended there, but instead it all goes to shit a couple weeks later.
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