"So, how does this work?" Bud asks from behind the wall of khaki pants between us. "I tell you all the bad stuff I've ever done, and you absolve me?"
"It's not that kind of confessional," I say. "And what bad stuff have you ever done?"
"You'll never know. It's not that kind of confessional," he teases.
After two sleepless nights worrying about Bud's future in love, I decide I can't put off the discussion any longer. I considered inviting him to church where we could hold the confessional in the choir closet, but I know he would have felt strange about trespassing on hallowed Joshua ground, so I suggested we hold the event in his massive walk-in closet.
"It's just a chance for us to talk. About anything," I say through the pants curtain. "Full truth. No shame. Ask what you want. Tell what you want. This is a safe space."
"Can we hold hands?" he asks. I spy his fingers creeping along the floor toward me. It makes me smile.
"Good question." Joshua and I were terrified to touch each other when we were growing up, even when we weren't in the sanctum of the choir closet confessional. "It might get awkward or embarrassing," I say, "so it depends whether holding hands would make that easier or harder."
"Why are we doing this again? When we could just as easily not be doing it."
"I need to talk to you," I say. "This is easier for me."
"Oh, well as long as it's easier for you, that's all that matters."
I laugh and take his hand, lacing our fingers together and giving a squeeze. We're definitely holding hands for this.
"Let's ask some easy warm-up questions," I say. "Then we can get into it. We'll take turns. But the rules say, if there's a long pause or silence you can fill, go ahead. No moving the curtain. And no leaving until we're both finished."
"Got it."
"When is your birthday?"
Long pause.
"That's supposed to be the easy warm up question," I say.
"I know," he says. "Pick a different one."
"No. Just answer it. It's the rules."
"Are you making these up as you go along?"
"Birthday, Bud."
He sighs for twenty seconds before he answers. "May tenth."
"Oh my God, Bud. That's next week."
"Yup. My turn. Who's the first person you ever kissed?"
"Tom."
"Awesome. Did he know he was gay at the time, or did you help him figure that out?"
"Ha ha. And you already asked your question, so I don't have to answer the second one."
He blows a raspberry through the partition. "Fine."
"Do you masturbate?" I ask.
"Jesus!" He laughs. "Is that supposed to be a warmup question?"
"No. We're passed that."
"Uh..."
"No shame, Bud. It's the rules."
"Okay. Yes," he says. "But I don't do it the way you do."
"What do you mean?" I know what he means. Nobody does it like I do.
"Rules, Dot. It's my turn."
I roll my eyes. Maybe I shouldn't have been such a hard ass about the rules.
I wait for him to ask a question, but he doesn't speak for ten seconds. "Too long," I say. "What do you mean you don't 'do it' the way I do?"
He growls and squeezes my fingers. "I mean when you do it, it's like, an experience. Something you make with yourself that's... special and beautiful."
And lonely, I could add.
"It's not special for you?" I ask.
"Hang on, isn't it my turn?"
"New rule. Juicy topics allow for rapid fire questions from both sides."
"Seriously?"
I squeeze his hand 'yes'.
"No. It's not special for me," he says flatly. "It's routine maintenance. That's all."
"But it feels good, right?"
"Sometimes." His voice is quiet. I know this is uncomfortable for him, but I want to understand. So, I can help him. It's not about me. I'm going to keep telling myself that.
"How old were you the first time?" I ask.
"Twelve. You?"
"Thirteen," I say. "My first time was an accident."
"An accident?"
"It happened after I went skinny dipping with Joshua. I got, like, crazy turned on and then on the bike ride home it caught up with me."
"Wow. That's awesome," he says admiringly. "I had to work for all my orgasms. All... twenty-four of them." He trails off and tries to let go of my hand, but I don't let him.
"I hope you're joking."
"I'm not," he says.
"You've only had twenty-four orgasms since you were twelve years old?" It's not possible. "In six years?"
"How many have you had?"
"I don't know. Twenty-four hundred? More than I can count."
"Hm."
"Is it because ... you don't get turned on easily?"
"Maybe. Or maybe it's because I'm not that into me. I'm like most people that way."
"Don't say that, Bud," I say, already cursing this stupid confessional setup because I can't see him. "Lots of people are into you."
He laughs bitterly. "Full truth, Dot. You made up the rules."
"Well, they are," I say. "Vincent said he would marry you the minute you turned eighteen. The women at Mae Mae's diner were practically drooling over you. My brother thinks you're the most beautiful person he's ever met. And I'm--"
"That's not because they want to have sex with me, Dot," he snaps. "They're just being nice because I'm a fat guy with no friends. I'm used to adults treating me like that."
"You didn't let me finish," I say impatiently. He pulls his hand away and I reach under the wall of pants to retrieve it. He lets me hold on, but he's not gripping back.
"And it doesn't matter," he says angrily, "because I don't want to have sex with anyone. So, who cares if anyone is into me, or if I get turned on or not?"
"I care!" I shout.
He shuts up and I can hear him grit his teeth over the next mean thing he wants to say about himself. "You shouldn't," he says so softly I can barely hear him.
I take a breath and swallow over the lump in my throat. This went south very quickly.
"I want to see you," I say. I reach my arm across the row of pants, and he swats it away.
"No. I don't want you to see me," he growls. "Let's finish this. Ask whatever the hell you want, Dot. Pick me apart until you're satisfied. It's not going to change anything. I'm going to be the same freak I was when I came in here as when I leave. You'll see."
My chest aches over his words, and I struggle to gather my thoughts and find the gentlest way possible through the rest of this conversation.
"You're not a freak," I say, shakily. "I just want to understand, so I can be the best friend I can be for you. That's all."
"I know," he sighs. "I'm sorry." He turns my hand over and slides his underneath it, bringing his thumb to my palm and drawing a small circle. "Go ahead."
I clear my throat and continue with a swarm of angst-ridden butterflies in my stomach. "Are you afraid of sex because someone hurt you? Like, when you were little?"
"No," he says from a hundred miles away. "No one hurt me."
I'm relieved. Of course, I am. But if this was the origin of Bud's aversion to sex, it's one he could get past. With help. It would mean there's a fix. Not an easy one. But a fix.
"Has it always been like this for you? Or did things change as you got older?"
"It's always been like this for me," he says, pressing deeper into my palm with his thumb.
"Have you ever tried to be... with someone?" The circle he's making in my palm grows wider and the pressure lifts to feather light. I shudder under the gentleness of his touch and my blood rushes warm. "Or let someone... try to be with you. To make you ..." I swallow hard as my throat catches, "feel something. Something good."
His voice is low and tentative. "I've never had the chance to be with someone. And no one's ever wanted to make me feel something good. But--"
"Then how do you know?" I blurt out, suddenly convinced that Bud's low self-esteem is all that's crushing his libido. We can fix this. I can fix it. "You can't know if you haven't tried."
"It doesn't matter," he says defeated. "And I do know, Dot. I've always known. This is who I am."
"No," I say with desperate tears building in my eyes. "It's not. I can help you with this, Bud. I want you to let me try. You have to try once. To be sure."
"Dot, stop. Please. I don't want you to help me." He grips my hand tighter, to steady me.
"Why not?" I cry. "It's me. I'll take care of you. We can go really slow, and if doesn't feel right, I promise I'll stop."
"NO!" he yells. He drops my hand and forces the partition aside, putting himself in front of me and pleading with his eyes for me to understand him. "Jesus, Dot, I'll hire a hooker before I let myself ... experiment on you like that. Are you crazy? It will ruin us. I promise you. You'll find something you can't stand about me. About my body or the way I touch you. Or what if it doesn't work? What if we try and I fail you?" His eyes are filling up with tears and mine are emptying themselves onto my cheeks. "It will go wrong... because of me. And I won't be able to live with that. I can't live with that. It's bad enough your friends see us as a real couple, and that Joshua thinks I'm giving you everything he can't, when I'm not. And you deserve everything, Dot. Everything good. And I just keep wishing, every time we kiss, that this time will be the time it happens. That I'll feel it. Whatever it is I need to feel to be everything for you. But if it hasn't happened yet..."
I'm sobbing. His reaches for me and pulls me into his lap. I bury my face in his neck, covering it with tear-soaked kisses. "I'm sorry," I sniff. "I understand now. And I'm sorry."
"No, I'm sorry. Because... it's not going to happen," he whispers.
If you had told me on the first day of my senior year, that in eight months, Bud Beaumont, social outcast and clique swinger, was going to tell me we could never have sex together and it would break my heart into a million pieces, I would have laughed in your face.
But here we are.
Bud yanks a pair of pants off a hanger behind him and we each take a leg and blow our noses into it. Then we laugh because it's ridiculous.
"Is this how your confessionals with Joshua used to go?" he asks. "I hate to say this. But they kind of suck."
"Yeah. They sucked for us, too," I say, wiping my eyes. "But we never talked about anything this important."
He runs his hands over my hair and kisses my forehead. "It was important. That we talked about it," he says. "And it sucked. A lot. But I feel better now. I'm glad you made me do that."
"I didn't make you," I say.
"Oh, you definitely made me," he teases.
I bring my fingers to his lips and tap them gently, thinking about the way they feel. How they taste. What they mean to me. What he means to me. When did it become so much?
"I don't mind that our friends think we're a couple," I say. "I kind of like it."
"I guess that means I have to like it, too?" He smiles.
"No." I blush. "You can ... not like it."
"Well, I don't," he says. "Not like it."
"Good." I drag my thumb over his bottom lip and my stomach flutters. "What about kissing? Can we still do that?"
He presses my fingers to his lips and then slides them over his cheek. "I hope so," he says. I draw him closer, until I can taste his salty breath against my mouth. "It's kind of the only reason I hang out with you."
I laugh into his lips until they're pressed against mine. And I let him kiss the sense right out of me. Because nothing about me and Bud makes sense anymore.
And I don't... not like that.
* * * * *