"Can you shake it up
Just once for me
Your little globe just so we can see
The snow blowing 'round your hands"
- "Master & a Hound" by Gregory Alan Isakov -
*****
The gymnasium echoes with keen applause as names are called, each graduate receiving a reserved acknowledgment. Samuel sits among them, a solitary figure cloaked in the unspoken judgment of his peers. But minutes later, when the name "Samuel" finally reverberates through the hall, the claps turn hesitant and muted, rippling through the weighing air.
It's no secret that the Birman cat has an association with the reputation he earned during his freshman year, the boy who tore his senior best friend's varsity jacket. Because of envy. Because of his desire for betrayal. But most importantly? Because of a lie that took root and Samuel not caring care enough to resolve it.
He used to wonder why Tyson chose to believe the other students, but considering everything, Samuel no longer wonders why; now, he just wants to get the hell out of this graduation ceremony. Out of this forsaken town.
Samuel walks onto the stage, feeling the eyes boring on his back. It makes him uncomfortable, but he tells himself to get over it. So, Samuel moves mechanically through the ritual of the ABCs, his mind detached from the moment. He is on autopilot as he walks back to his seat and waits for the ceremony to end. Graduation feels like a distant memory until it even concludes out of nowhere.
As the audience disperses into other enthusiastic relatives waiting patiently to finally celebrate the day when kids grow up and gradually separate themselves from their loved ones, Samuel quietly slips away.
The wide-open exit beckons, an escape route from a town that has relentlessly etched scars into his soul. Someday, he will leave this town. Besides, Samuel has not applied for any scholarship yet. But he knows he will. He knows he must escape this town with all his might. Besides, today, the supposed day when parents are expected to show up doesn't apply when it comes to Samuel's, and that's enough motive among other bigger motives. Today, his father remains a phantom, probably in someone else's bed. Today, his mother is a casualty of her own self-inflicted stupor from the previous night's revelry.
And every day, they are a pain in his ass.
In the silence of his departure, an unexpected warmth pierces through Samuel's furs when a lithe, overenergetic wolf wraps her arms around Samuel, squealing and overjoyed at the day she finally graduates, or at least the ulterior motive that may have been hidden beyond her countenance.
At first, Samuel recoils, but the longer the embrace, the better it feels on Samuel's furs that he practically melts into the girl. For a brief moment, the loneliness that clings to Samuel like a second skin dissipates. Amid the sensation, the Birman cat finds himself reciprocating the same gesture at the nameless wolf girl, surprising her.
When the wolf girl feels a paw bringing her closer to the person she's hugging, she looks down and finds Samuel lost in the moment, his breaths so structured and steady. It doesn't take long for the discomfort plastered on her face to crumble away, changing into a smile.
So, she lets him.
When they part ways, the nameless wolf girl runs around searching for other unknown strangers to hug, while Samuel returns to a home that is devoid of the things that make it a home. Maybe Samuel isn't exactly the best person to ask what a home is, but after that hug with the wolf girl, he knows enough that it has to be home.
*****
Samuel
God knows I'm lying the second I say, "I'm fine being on my own. Got my plate full, either way, especially with the part-time and volunteer program," in response to Matty's question about the very reason behind my single status after his boastful revelation about his first sex with his newer girlfriend.
I've been deceiving God, assuming there's no secrecy between me and a potential God. If God has been keeping tabs on my life, then He's well aware of the burning desire I harbor for that elusive first kiss.
If God exists, He's well aware of the longing to feel the warmth of another's touch, to be enveloped in a tender embrace where every caress feels like a revelation; those intimate moments where time seems to stand still, where inhibitions are out of the window.
If God exists, He's well aware of my hunger for losing myself in a moment, locking eyes with another amidst the creaks and squeaks of a bed frame, shamelessly indulging in obscene voices and, possibly, bodily fluids as well.
If God truly exists, I'm convinced He's well aware that these are the very sinful desires compelling me to sit beside a good-looking German Shepherd right now, a companion seemingly as lonely and desperate as I am; as experienceless and miserable as I am.
Our paths crossed on Tweeter through a private account reserved for diving into more explicit content. While browsing a gay community sharing personal and risqué stories, I stumbled upon his comment beneath a post featuring a particularly striking and very exposed Cheetah. Intrigued, I checked out his profile picture, revealing a sinewy and lean physique that quickly became the star of my post-release fantasies. Caught up in the moment, I dropped a message to the handsome guy, not even thinking about the potential catfishing situation:
"ur so hot i wish ur in monteverde 🥵"
Hours later, his reply pinged in, confirming his address is, indeed, in Monteverde Glen and telling me that he is also enrolled at HU. His name? Alwin, a (stud)ent working through his fourth semester of Communications. A guy. A total stranger.
At first, the idea of randomly bumping into someone this easy on the eyes practically felt predestined. But that fleeting excitement got swiftly swapped out by a harsh reality check: it's just hormones. Or maybe it's sheer desperation.
Nevertheless, we met up at a café two days later, which brings us here tonight, almost stripped down, our elbows awkwardly nudging each other. He's ogling my unmemorable physique, while I'm zeroing in on his beefy arm. He knows damn well my soft spot for strong biceps. I love the sense of security they radiate. I love how he's letting me eye it up without uttering a word.
As I inch my hand closer to touch him, he jerks back, and I catch the subtle signs of discomfort — his pupils darting around, his Adam's apple bobbing. Unsure of my next move, I ponder: should I go for another touch? Should I voice my desires? Should I play coy and lounge on his bed, teasing him? Should I suggest he take the lead instead? Should I be blunt or play it cool?
To complicate matters further, the fact that we're both virgins hangs over us like a dark cloud, a detail he spilled during our earlier texts. Though a part of me doubts the validity of his claim, when Alwin says, "Sorry if I'm being a bit awkward," I realize he's not bluffing. Or at least, that's the story I choose to buy into.
Carefully selecting my words, I pose the question, not seeking confirmation but rather employing it rhetorically. Hopefully, it will remain rhetorical. "Are you really... a virgin?"
He shoots back with a brisk nod. "But I've tried cuddling if that counts?"
I reciprocate with a knowing hum. "I've never tried cuddling. Just... letting you know."
"Well, are you... up for a cuddle?" The question effortlessly slips from his lips, like he knows it's the right move. After all, a cuddle seems pretty tame, and passing up the chance with this jackpot of a man so attractive would be downright foolish.
"Yeah, I reckon. B-But you're... okay with it, right?"
Before I toss out another rhetorical, he slaps a hand on my shoulder, grinning cheekily. "You're lonely, huh?"
His words nearly choke me, but after realizing the shared desperation for love between us, I manage a dry chuckle. "Aren't we all?"
Soon, we're lying side by side, my hand gripping his bicep. Mustering the courage, I ask, "Are you going to... get handsy too?"
Alwin responds with a gentle nod and a smile that warms my heart. Then, he places his hand on my chest, stroking my fur in a circular pattern. Our eyes lock, and our hands venture into uncharted territory, exploring the details of each other's fur. The texture becomes the main attraction, the perfect place to lose ourselves.
At one point, I marvel at how a guy as good-looking as Alwin is still a virgin. Questions flood my mind: What made him pick me? Is he keeping his cards close about his sexuality? Is he genuine, or am I just an escape? Did he play me, or did I willingly play along?
The onslaught of uncertainty casts a shadow over the moment, suffocating any chance of genuine enjoyment as Alwin's hands trace the contours of my tent. Even his touch fails to distract me from the gnawing sense of discomfort. And I hate myself for it. I blame myself for it.
Sensing my detachment, Alwin halts and asks, "Did I... make you uncomfortable?"
I muster a feeble shake of my head, unable to meet his gaze. "No, it's just... I don't think I can go through with this."
Alwin sits up, his head tilting in concern. "What do you mean? You want me to... stop?"
I hesitate, torn between honesty and the fear of hurting him. "I don't know, I... I think I just lost the mood, Al."
A sigh escapes Alwin, disappointment evident in his features. "You don't like cuddling with me?"
Knitting my eyebrows, I sit up as well, quickly shaking my head. "Oh, no, no, no. I do like the cuddling itself; it's just that I..." My gaze fixates on a particular crease in Alwin's plain gray bedsheet. "It's just that I think I'm... too... miserable to enjoy it right now."
Alwin's expression shifts to one of confusion, attempting to decipher my cryptic words. "Do you... wanna touch my junk? Or to kiss? Or—"
The question I've been suppressing finally spills out. "Did you lie about being a virgin?"
Alwin pauses, contemplating. And contemplating means doubt. And doubt means it's a maybe.
Instead of saying the words I crave to hear, Alwin releases a dejected sigh as he confesses, "Yes, I did."
The next question slides from my lips with the precision of a well-choreographed sex, reminiscent of the fantasies I'd spun in my mind earlier — ones that never made it beyond the confines of my imagination. "Are you with someone?"
Alwin shakes his head sharply. "I don't stoop that low, Sam."
"Why did you agree to meet me?"
Alwin sighs again. "I was desperate, alright? But... I really wanna taste you."
"So... I'm your escape?"
Alwin chuckles, finding amusement in my remark. "And, what, I'm not your escape too?"
Realizing the hypocrisy in my question, I mentally berate myself. "Oh, no, I didn't mean it that way. I'm just trying to—"
Alwin interrupts, and the chance of intimacy has fully dissipated. "Just so you know, Sam, this is me trying to let myself be intimate again after I broke up with my last boyfriend. For once, don't... think you know everything about someone's life. Don't assume you know everything about someone's life just because we're lonely gays. We don't break the same way." Alwin moves to sit on the edge of his bed, staring at the closed curtain across the room. "I'm finished here. I'll drive you back to your dorm tomorrow morning. You can crash on the floor."
Without giving me a chance to explain or collect my thoughts, Alwin abruptly rises from the bed and begins to dress. It's around ten o'clock, and Alwin sits on his bed while I groan on the floor, kneading away the sore in my neck. Noticing my discomfort, Alwin peeks out from the side of his bed, his face guilt-ridden. "You know? I think I'm being too harsh. You can take the bed with me, Sam."
Initially hesitant, I eventually accept his offer after he assures me that sharing the bed is fine, despite our earlier flunked attempt at a one-night stand. At some point, as we both lie awake, occupied with our thoughts or phones, I catch Alwin off guard with a request, "Can you... hug me?"
Alwin looks at me, his eyes probing the depths of mine. Setting his phone on the night table, he whispers with a smile so warm I almost believed it was hope, "Of course, Sam."
Soon enough, I'm out like a light in his embrace, only to wake up the next morning at the crack of seven. His arms are no longer wrapped around me; instead, Alwin's emitting soft snores reminiscent of a cub in a deep, serene slumber. His body has shifted to face the opposite direction. I gently rouse the dog, and after a bit of prodding, he's awake. In about twenty minutes, Alwin freshens up and drops me back at the dorm.
As I step out of the car, I shoot Alwin a wave. He zooms off with a curt nod, disappearing into the street. Once back in my dorm room, where Matty still sleeps soundly, I flop onto the springy bed, ready to send Alwin a thank-you message. As I'm about to hit send, reality slaps me in the face: I'm not cut out for this.
After much consideration, the message transforms into a farewell note. A thankful one. I then block him, both his number and social media, hoping I am not making a mistake and praying that Alwin will understand my decision. The voices in my head get drowned out by the AC's white noise as I drift into sleep. Luckily, my afternoon classes will save me from the agony of an early wake-up.
*****
Five days after my failed attempt at a regrettable one-night stand, Matty and I embark on a mission to replenish our meager dorm fridge, venturing to an Asian grocery store a solid twenty-minute drive away. March is looming, and Matty's incessant demands for me to whip him up an Asian dish have been ringing in my ears. I've been scrimping and saving, even cutting back on the cigarettes I haven't touched in two weeks, all in a futile effort to stretch my meager funds.
However, a glimmer of financial relief arrived with an update on my SNAP application yesterday, declaring that I'm eligible.
The cherry on top? An EBT card is on its way, set to grace the campus mail in just a week.
In the wake of this news, I'm feeling the call for a celebration — a fresh pack of cigarettes and the luxury of Asian ingredients for a culinary extravaganza. Yet, as I scrutinize some shallots and the exorbitant price tag catches my eye, doubt creeps in. I hesitate to toss one into the shopping cart. Out of nowhere, Matty materializes beside me, snatching a bundle of shallots in his grasp and tossing it into the cart. He quips, "We can split up. No, don't get it twisted; I'm not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I just want you to cook up something for me out of the selfishness of my heart."
I chuckle, scoffing at his apparent nonchalance. Deep down, a weight lifts off my chest. Despite lingering moments of feeling undeserving and guilty for Matty's unrelenting kindness since my first week as a dorm-dweller, it's still baffling to find myself entangled with a wealthy roommate who claims to despise being taken advantage of, yet continues to bankroll my existence. And all without a dent in his lavish lifestyle. I'm forever thankful this is my reality and not some makjang K-drama about class division and power struggle.
After a while, the cart is brimming with essentials: two cartons of milk, a modest pack of white rice, a variety of chilis, spices, sachets of MSGs, and sundries. While it might not be a huge haul on my end, Matty's assistance is making a difference. He may regard his gestures as routine, given his fat wallet, but his unhesitating generosity towards someone like me, who can be a pain in his ass at times (especially when I'm ticked off) makes me question the reason: does he extend the same kindness to his other friends?
Whatever it is, I'm well aware it's not my business, and it's not my right to judge him when I'm the one leeching onto him. God, I hope I'm not leeching.
As Matty and I head toward a cashier with no queue, my breath catches when I spot a familiar German Shepherd posted up behind the counter.
It's Alwin, wearing a work uniform, an apron, and a nametag.
"Oh. Samuel," he greets, devoid of any malice or bitterness in his tone. If anything, there's a certain buoyancy that churns my stomach.
"Yeah... Hi, Al." I manage weakly as Matty unloads our items onto the conveyor belt.
"Well... If you're wondering, yeah, I work part-time here." Absentmindedly scanning the purchases, he speaks again, "And I see you've got a friend. Or...?"
"He's my friend. A-And my roommate too." I interject quickly, steering the conversation away from any inadvertent revelations. Judging by the way Alwin scrutinizes me and then glances at Matty, who returns the gaze, it's evident that Alwin realizes Matty isn't privy to my sexual orientation. In fact, when Alwin introduces himself to Matty and Matty inquires about his relationship with me, Alwin simply responds, "I'm his friend, too."
Adding to the charade, I chime in, "Yeah, from the organization I just joined, Matt." And just like that, my secret remains safe.
"Small world, huh?" Alwin remarks with a chuckle as he continues to ring up our items.
"I mean, when you attend the same university, it definitely is, so..." I reply, a nervous giggle escaping me.
Engaged in seemingly pleasant banter, the three of us keep the conversation going, but my heart pulls at the reins, urging this charade to wrap up. After settling our purchases and exchanging goodbyes, we make our way back to Matty's car, a paper bag in tow. Once inside the car, Matty turns to me.
"I never figured you for having friends outside of me and your EngLit buddies. And, well... the tiger."
"You're undervaluing my social prowess, Matty. I'm an introvert, not some hermit." Though in reality, I want to be a hermit.
"Fair. By the way, I noticed some turmeric and lemongrass back there. That is the most Asian shit I've ever seen."
"Southeast Asian, mind you. But disclaimer: I just can cook, not a culinary wizard."
Matty revs the engine. "I literally brag to my buddies about having a roommate who can cook something actually really, really good. They're all green with envy." With that, he maneuvers the car out of the parking lot.
"So, what, I'm the prized possession on the top shelf? The loyal slave whipping up dishes whenever you demand?" I needle him deliberately, earning a disapproving click of his tongue.
"Dude, come on, you know I don't mean it like that."
Giggling, I pat the dog's shoulder. "I know, I know. Just messing around."
As the car merges back onto the street, Matty probes again, "But seriously, though. What's on the menu?"
I respond with a simple smile. "You'll find out."
*****
After nearly an hour spent crafting the dish, the room is saturated with its enticing aroma, even managing to stir an insatiable appetite within me. I finally half-yell to Matty, "It's ready!"
From his bed, where he's engrossed in some videos, Matty springs up. "On my way!" He strides into the kitchenette to find a bowl of golden-broth soup filled to the brim with veggies, vermicelli, and shredded chicken, crowned with a sprinkle of green onions and a side of half-cut boiled egg. Beside it, a plate of steaming rice beckons invitingly, and the dog takes a seat with keen interest. "I swear, the moment you start cooking, my nose is in heaven."
"I guess it pays off to invest in a rice cooker and a decent pot."
Observing only one serving on the table, Matty shoots me a questioning look. "You're not eating?"
"Oh, right." I ladle myself a bowl of the soup, mixing up the white rice within the broth, letting the spices infuse the rice with its colors. Settling across from Matty, I watch as he takes a sip of the broth, his face lighting up. "The wonders of Mexican and Asian cuisine. Never cease to amaze me."
"Give the rice a little broth bath. Just for the experience, you know." With that suggestion, I dive into the bowl of soup, finding myself nostalgic for home — or at least for the time when my mom was still a functioning alcoholic before she ceased to function altogether. "It's not as stellar as I imagined, but it's still pretty damn good."
"You're just being modest. This slaps, dude." Matty shovels a spoonful of the concoction into his mouth, only to spit it out immediately as the heat scorches his tongue, prompting him to hiss and gasp. "That's freakin' hot."
"Be careful, it's hot," I tease before taking another bite.
"You should've said that before I took a mouthful."
"I assumed you were smart enough to notice it's still steaming."
"Fuck you." Matty giggles, and I shoot him an unimpressed look. Chuckling, he then inquires, "What's this, anyway?"
"It's called chicken soto. It could've been even better with some fried shallots, lime juice, and chili paste, but I forgot about them. Luckily, we have some eggs left to boil, so... I'm glad you're still enjoying it."
Matty gives an approving nod. "Well, I could definitely get used to this. Minus the chili paste."
"I mean, I can squeeze in some time to cook for you from time to time, but you're always out, and I hate wasting ingredients, so I usually buy stuff just for myself. Plus, you're big on takeouts."
"Maybe I should invest in your culinary skills too. I assume this dish is from your hometown?"
"Well... to say the least? My aunt used to cook this a lot for me whenever I felt under the weather. It's hearty and comforting, perfect for cold winters like this."
"Got it. What else can you cook?"
I hum thoughtfully. "Well..."
Allowing the bowl of soto to warm up a bit, our conversation flows, extending long after our bowls are empty. Amid our conversation, my phone vibrates on the table's edge.
"Hold on, my phone's ringing," I interrupt, reaching for the device. Glancing at the caller ID, Tyson's name appears. Part of me contemplates hitting the reject button, but I suppress my pride, an exercise I've grown accustomed to whenever he initiates contact.
Rising from my seat and distancing myself from a curious Matty, I stroll to my bed and answer the call.
"What?"
At first, I'm met with a loud exhale. "I..." Then Tyson falls silent.
"Hello?"
He speaks again. "I think I, uh... kinda need your help?"
Recognizing Tyson's reluctance to share more details, I respond with a skeptical hum. "With what?"
Tyson clicks his tongue, hesitating before finally letting it all out. "You know what? Just... Meet me in the parking lot. It's easier to tell you in person, and I'm outside the dorm right now, so..."
"I'm sorry, you're where now?" Trying to quell my curiosity, I stroll over to the window facing the parking lot. Peering through the glass, I squint, attempting to identify a copper-painted Range Rover. The lot is packed, and my car recognition skills are less than stellar.
Tyson persists. "It's not that big of a deal, I swear, but... I don't know who else to turn to for help but you."
While it would be callous to claim indifference, I can't deny that I'm torn. I can't simply brush off his plea, especially considering his support during my bout of illness and financial constraint on Christmas. Scanning the parking lot again, I press, "Are you really out there?"
"Look, look. I'll honk."
Beep! Beeeep!
Sure enough, a car honks outside. "Can you... turn on the blinkers? I still can't figure out which one's—" And then, one copper Range Rover flickers its front blinkers. "Oh."
"Can you see it now?"
Yes, I spot it, but I simply assure Tyson that I'll meet him there, urging him to keep the blinkers on. Ending the call, I toss the phone onto my bed and take a final deep breath, wondering: what's going on with this guy?
Yet, as I've grown to tolerate his presence more, I cast aside my ponderings and swiftly attire myself in a winter coat and shoes, earning a quizzical glance from Matty, who has been observing the entire scene.
"Why're you all bundled up?"
"It's fine, I'll be out just a minute." With that, I exit the room and, shortly after, approach a particular Range Rover whose blinkers continue their rhythmic dance. As I draw near, the blinkers cease, and the man behind the wheel steps out of the car, one gloved paw nestled inside his winter coat pocket.
"Hey, Sam. Sorry if I'm ruining your weekend or something."
"No, no, I was just... having dinner with Matty. What's going on?"
Instead of advancing toward me, he heads to the middle seat door, pausing there to gaze at me, seemingly deep in thought. Then, his paw hovers over the door handle. "I... want you to meet someone you might or might not remember."
As he opens the car door, I approach the contemplative tiger, my gaze lingers on the furrowed lines adorning his forehead. I anticipate meeting Foster, assuming this is one of Tyson's attempts at redemption, especially considering Foster's status as Tyson's closest friend.
However, when I peer inside the vehicle, I'm greeted not by Foster, but by a tiger — a girl, likely in her teenage years. She appears to be a college freshman, like me. My mind races, ruling out the possibility of Tyson having kidnapped someone's daughter. Upon closer inspection, I notice her puffy eyes and her arms tightly wrapped over her chest. Perhaps she's Tyson's girlfriend or close friend.
Yet, Tyson shatters my assumptions with his next words. "So... Sam? This is my sister."
I struggle to piece together the puzzle: how on earth did his sister end up here? "Wait, wait... Stacy?"
Before Tyson can respond, the girl in the car interjects, her voice strained. "That's me."
Still trying to connect the dots, that's when I recall it: Tyson's parents' ongoing divorce woes.
Standing there awkwardly, I'm inundated with visions of what might unfold next, drawing glances from the siblings, who exchange wary looks. Despite my insistence that they come to my dorm room and my offer of a bowl of soto, I'm still lost in my thoughts. Matty tries to get my attention from his spot on the bed, but my head is too preoccupied to acknowledge him.
Cyclical questions swirl around in my mind: what's going on?
Deep down, I cling to the hope that this is all just a misunderstanding.
Please, let this be nothing, because now I really need to get out of this room.[]