Guiltless Summer (T.K. Craft - New Orleans, LA)

 

I feel like I was taught really early how I was supposed to feel when I did something “wrong.” I mean, I don’t think it was just me. How many movies have you seen where the heroine makes a mistake and grapples with her guilt? The consequences of poor decision making seemed like the foundation of every story I’d heard since I was a child. So, when Steve's lips pressed against mine that night in June, I knew how I was supposed to feel. I had kissed another boy who wasn’t my boyfriend. I knew this should make me feel, at least a little bit, guilty. So, when I didn’t feel like I had done anything wrong I was worried. Why didn’t I feel the things that twenty years of storytelling told me I was supposed to feel? Maybe another person would have just let that go, but for some reason I couldn’t. I started to think there was something wrong with me. I started to ask myself how far would I have to go for this to feel wrong?
 
            It took less convincing than I thought to get Steve on board. And by that I mean, it took no convincing at all. In fact, we didn’t actually talk about it at all. Things just fell into place. I found it strange how slow my indiscretion moved. In all those stories I heard the moments were supposed to be quick and heated. Cheating lovers had moments of passion that burned brightly at night and were reignited with feelings of guilt in the morning light. For Steve and I, it was a long slow series of moments that built passion. Maybe that’s how I avoided feeling guilty? I eased my body into it. After every sweaty summer night with Steve, I awoke to another morning expecting a pang of guilt to hit me. It never did.
 
            I spent that whole summer guilt free. My nights with Steve became a routine. I had one night class that summer that met three nights a week. I’d spend the whole class texting his phone and when the class let out we would we meet up in the quad. We’d sit among the stone pillars and tall buildings catching up for an hour or so until our stomachs started growling with hunger. We’d get pizza from one of the cheap basement restaurants on one of the hilly streets on campus. There our light hearted conversations would deepen over greasy slices. I’d always lose track and it would be so late the buses would stop running. Steve would grin and suggest I spend the night with him at his dorm. Every time, that same stupid grin.
 
            Again, we moved slow. We'd sleep together but only in the literal sense. We'd kiss a little and lay down in his bed falling asleep wrapped up in one another. We wouldn’t even take off our clothes; there was no urgency to move forward. Some of my fondest memories are of Steve pressed against me, fully clothed and lightly snoring. I never doubted that he wanted our relationship to advance, I felt the poke of his erection in my hip through all our layers. But we just talked, and kissed, and slept soundly beside one another. It was weeks before I even saw his body.
 
            It wasn’t until August that Steve made any move to break our routine. One night, I emerged from my class to the familiar feel of the sticky summer air and Steve’s grinning face. He waited outside the school building and when I locked eyes with him, he pulled a pizza box from behind his back. That night we had a picnic in a nearby park. We laughed and ate our slices under a street light. The night was warmer than usual so I suggested we remove our shirts. He laughed and rolled his eyes.
            “I’m serious!” I said back to him laughing. He still didn’t believe me, so I reached down and pulled my shirt over my head.
            Steve let his smile drop for a minute as his eyes took in the sight of my torso. I balled up my shirt and threw it at him which brought the smile back to his face. He rose off the ground and shimmied his hips to a beat in his head. Slowly and teasingly, he lifted his own shirt up. I loved the way his chest looked, lightly covered in hair, glistening with sweat under the dim lamp light. The shirt got caught around his neck and chin ending his dance and distracting my gaze.
            “Gah! I think I’m stuck!” He laughed, struggling to remove the shirt.
            “Let me help you.” I said, shaking my head.
            I stepped up to Steve and placed my hand lightly on his bare shoulder. He stopped struggling then and I could hear his breathing. He bent forward comically and I managed to pull the shirt fully off of his frame.
            “That was close!” He joked, straightening up.
            My hand had come to rest on his chest and we both stopped laughing. The air was still, and it was quiet aside from the sound of insects buzzing in the summer air. There was something awkward about this moment, a palpable feeling from both us not knowing where to go from here. Images of my boyfriend flashed into my head, searching for moments similar to this one. It was almost like I was trying to find some feeling of remorse. Like if I could match this moment to one that I had experienced already then, I would trigger that elusive feeling of guilt. If I was committed to someone else, shouldn’t this moment of charged intimacy feel like a betrayal?
 
            Maybe I wasn’t actually doing anything wrong? I mean, all we were doing was kissing and sleeping. Maybe this was just an innocent series of encounters. Like Steve and I were making up for lost time. Making up for the little explorations teens who weren’t gay had in High School. Maybe my night class would end for the semester and we’d just go back to being acquaintances that see each other on campus or at parties. I’ve gone further with guys whose names I can’t even remember. Why should this be any different? Yet, in a way, the slow and steady build of this summer felt more significant than any series of hookups. I admitted to myself that I was thinking of Steve more and more.
 
Steve looked a little self-conscious as I scanned his body. He ran a hand through his fair hair and looked around, unsure. I ran my own hand up and down his chest. Soon after, I started gently pushing him down into the grass. My hand moved to the growing erection in his jeans, visible even in the low light. As I rubbed the coarse denim I thought. “This is it! This is the moment that is too far.” But, again, the pang of guilt never came.
 
            A late-night jogger rounded the corner, startling us. We jumped up laughing and wiping damp grass from our skin and clothes. As we collected our shirts and folded up the blanket I glanced at the time on my phone.
            “Looks like I’ll actually make the last bus this time.” I said.
           
            “Or you could just spend the night again.” He replied, flashing me that damn smile.
            We took our pizza back to his dorm. The small concrete room had become so familiar to me in the past few weeks. Normally I would make myself at home in his room but tonight felt different somehow. I lingered near the door, waiting for an invitation. He turned and saw my hesitation. Then he moved his hands to the top button of his jeans and slowly removed the dirty stained denim. He stood in front of me in his underwear, scrunched up boxer-briefs that were well worn, with the goofiest grin on his face.
 
            I must have looked at him with a strange expression because he said. “You can't get those grass stains in my bed.”
 
            I smirked at him and unhooked my belt, taking the few steps from the doorway to where he stood. His breath hitched as he looked at me in anticipation. Drawing the moment out, I slid the belt out of each loop of my own jeans, one at a time, slowly. He laughed softly and tapped his foot, feigning impatience. I slowed down even more in response, undoing the top button then pausing to yawn dramatically. He gave me a devilish look and playfully lunged at me. I danced out of his way but he was light on his feet and grabbed my hips. He pulled me into a soft kiss and let his hands explore my waist.
 
            Finding the top of my pants he grasped the zipper and pulled it down slowly. He never broke our kiss, his eyes never looked down at the work he was doing. He gave my pants one final tug and they feel down to my ankles. I wobbled a little on my feet so he pulled me in tighter. I stepped out of the jeans using him for support. As I pressed by body against his I realized there was only the two thin layers of our underwear that separated our hardness from each other. It didn’t take long for our playfulness to give way to something more serious. Our breathing quickly grew ragged as our hips pressed together. Steve kicked our fallen jeans away from us and guided me down on the bed, the air was a competing mix of musk and earth.
 
            Steve reached a hand into the waistband of my underwear and glanced into my eyes. Something about that look sent a new feeling through my body. Maybe this new burst of passion was finally triggering all the things I knew I was supposed to be feeling. Then again, it wasn't guilt that I felt at that moment, but something felt wrong, like a twinge of panic. Steve recognized something flashing across my face and pulled his hand back.
 
            “S..Sorry” He stammered, pulling his whole body away from me. Retreating to the other side of the bed.
 
            I sat up. “No. It's me.” I said plainly, a little sharply.
 
            Our nakedness was suddenly awkward. His erection almost comical pushing at the top of his underwear. We both looked away from one another. I looked at the stained ceiling, the unkempt floor of his dorm, anywhere to not look in his eye.
 
            “Is it because of him?” Steve asked me suddenly.
 
            I looked at Steve’s face, he was sitting with his legs hanging over the bed, facing away from me. I rarely thought about him at all when Steve and I were together. In fact, my boyfriend had been less and less on my mind with each passing week.
 
            “No.” I said firmly. “That's not it at all!” I scrambled closer to him, so our thighs were touching. I placed a hand there, trying to comfort him. Another jolt of panic shot through me. My hand tensed on his thigh.
            “We… we just haven’t talked about it at all.” He said, still not looking at me.
            “Steve…I…” I wasn’t sure what to say. In my head there were all these thoughts at once, things I wanted to express. I wanted to explain to him the things that happened. The things I remember, the things that I can only guess. I wanted to tell him how I thought this pace would be slow enough for me not to freak out. Tell him how sorry I was that I was wrong. At the same time, I didn’t want to tell him my tragic fucking tale. I just wanted to go back to sleeping in with him.
            Finally I blurted out “Sexy stuff is just hard for me.”
            He looked at me suddenly, a brief smirk flashing across his lips. I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Poor choice of words” he said. Taking the opportunity to readjust himself. I laughed a little more at the gesture. A feeling of relief washed over me. He wasn't freaked out, he wasn't taking it personally.
 
            “I just…” I started to speak but there really wasn’t anything more I wanted to say.
 
            We sat in silence for what felt like a long time.
 
            When he finally spoke, he said: “Let's just go to sleep okay?” He reached out and grabbed the hand that rested on his thigh.
 
Once more, I let him guide me down onto the bed. He held onto my hand as he pulled the covers over top of both of us with the other hand. He never let my hand go as he snuggled in behind me. There was lingering tension in my body, and my mind continued racing, but it all began to ease away slowly when the soft sounds of his snoring filled the silence in his dorm.
            After a few minutes of snoring, I felt him harden against me again. It was comforting in a way, reinforcing the idea that I hadn’t scared him away. Eventually my mind calmed enough to let me drift away to sleep.
 
            I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point, I stopped expecting myself to feel guilty. Our time together never felt wrong. There would be many nights like this. The slow build of heat in the summer would remain even as the season faded. With the end of my night class came midday dates and longer hours together. And while it would be a long time before the panic quieted enough for our nights to become shirt-less, pants-less, and underwear-less, eventually we’d find a new physicality for our nights. My constant expectation of guilt gave way to a curiosity and hope about the nature of my panic. I felt like I had no benchmark. There were no stories to guide me or teach me how I was supposed to feel. It was just work and patience and time. As Winter came, and we longed for the memories of our summer nights, we learned to use our bodies to find new ways of keeping warm.