Nᴏᴛ Gᴀʏ {Tᴇᴇɴ/Jᴏʜɴʟᴏᴄᴋ}

№ 7

I thought a lot about Mary.

Not in the way that one would think. I thought about what happened and I was confused. Because kissing wasn't supposed to turn people off, but that's what it did to me. And that made no sense whatsoever. Because when people play kissing games at parties or kiss people because of a dare or a challenge, the other person rarely ever cares that someone kissed them out of the blue.

So why didn't I like it?

I had always imagined my first kiss being magical, like fireworks or shooting stars or old-fashioned romance movies. But this wasn't, and I couldn't understand why not. And I was frustrated that it wasn't. My first kiss, down the drain. Whoosh. There it went, and all for nothing.

Men were supposed to like being kissed by pretty girls. Not that she was extremely pretty in the first place, but I had read that the average male likes any romantic contact as it's how their brains are wired with the testosterone and such.

What was I feeling?

My mind kept wandering back to Sherlock no matter how hard I tried to distract myself. Was he really gay? Was it possible for homosexuality to be contagious, after all? No, because I wasn't gay. I was not feeling gay. Right? What did gay even feel like?

What had I gotten myself into?

Solving crimes instead of calling the police, running off and avoiding my family, ending up making out with a serial killer's undercover assistant. These things were dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous, which brought me back to my previous question.

What does gay feel like?

I had to act cool. I needed to keep it casual and together and nonchalant. And I needed to get an answer for my question.

"Harry?" I asked, knocking softly on her door.

She opened it just a crack, peeking through it at me. "What do you need?"

I sighed. "I have a question."

She nodded. "What is it?"

"A private question," I whispered through my teeth, "That neither of us want Mum or Dad to overhear."

She narrowed her eyes and hesitantly let me inside her room, closing the door behind me and sitting cross-legged on the floor. I sat down as well, and she looked at me expectantly.

"Well?"

I pursed my lips. "I um..." I sighed, trying to get over my bloody stupid anxiety and just ask. They were just words, no different from the others I had spoken for the last near-nineteen years of my life.

Harry sighed. "I haven't got all year, you know."

"Okay," I said. "I'm just... What..." I paused again, biting my lip and furrowing my brow. "What does it feel like... to be gay?"

She tensed up suddenly. "Why do you ask?" she demanded defensively.

I shrunk back. "I know about your girlfriend, Harry. And I need to know what it's like so that I can be sure-"

"I don't have a girlfriend," Harry growled.

"No, Harry, that's not what I'm asking-"

"I think, John," she said, "That it's a good time to leave my room."

"Okay," I said, standing up. "I just... I'm sorry. I love you no matter what, and I accept-"

"Out."

She pointed at the door with a weakly extended finger, and I could see her breath shake as she inhaled, her eyes closed.

"Ask someone else."