Actually, this didn't have to be bad. Marc was totally a bourbon guy. Bourbon was a manly drink. Marc was a manly man. Maybe he'd be impressed with my choice. Maybe we could finally live out Couch Night, the fantasy I'd carried for the past ten months.
Ten whole months since the first time I touched his peen. With my chin.
Not that I thought about that. Much. In I went, bourbon at the ready.
Two
"You're home," Marc exclaimed when I walked in with the bagged liquor in my arms. His expression seemed to be a cross between shocked and mortified. The shock was understandable since I'd never come home unexpectedly on a Friday night, but the mortification did seem to be a little bit of overkill.
Until I really looked at him. And then I myself was a bit mortified because, was he not wearing pants?
Nope, those were totally just boxer-briefs. Red boxer-briefs. Tight red boxer-briefs.
Oh my. Who knew boxer-briefs were so...revealing? Maybe mortified wasn't quite the word I was looking for. Astonished was more like it. Bewildered and amazed worked in a pinch as well.
"Um. Sorry. This is awkward," Marc said, reaching for a blanket to cover his legs.
No! No, don't cover them, I silently screamed. I'd seen him in his jogging shorts, but that hadn't given the full effect. This was the full effect, and I needed to bask in it a little longer. Because those were some excellent legs. Superhero legs, if you will. And you will.
And then I had a stroke of utter brilliance. I removed my own pants without a word, leaving them in a pile by the door. The undies stayed on; I'm not a floozy. Just a fan of being Roman in Rome. Besides, if I were going to have something to look at, he should too. I also had fairly nice legs, if I say so myself, and, thank goodness, I'd shaved that afternoon.
Also, my boyshorts were printed all over like Spiderman's suit. Excellent, right? And no one had ever seen them but me. Time to rectify that.
"There! Now it's not awkward." I put my hands on my hips, posed, and waited for Marc's impressed noises.
No impressed noises were forthcoming.
Then I remembered. Marc wasn't a normal guy. He was a fancy guy. Professors are always fancy, right? That was why I had originally thought he probably liked bourbon, even though I'd never actually seen any laying around. I figured he had the good stuff hidden away in his bedroom or something. He didn't really know me, after all, and liquor is a valuable commodity. I'd hide it too.
Anyway, it was pretty safe to assume that fancy guys were not Spidey guys. Watchmen, maybe … ? But for sure not Spidey.
In fact, he was visibly weirded out. Well, bro, you de-pantsed first.
Though, now that I thought about it, maybe stripping down had been a bit of a weird move on my part.
"I'm not sure that actually helps," he said, confirming my suspicions. But he didn't move to reach for the blanket again. And he did give my legs an appreciative look. So, progress.
Still, not quite the start to the great couch night I'd envisioned. Maybe it would be better once we loosened up.
Speaking of …
"Bourbon?" I offered.
"Bourbon," he agreed. "Definitely bourbon."
Yes, definitely bourbon. We were warming up, this was going to be great. I crossed to the kitchen and splashed Kentucky's finest (okay, fifth-finest. Sixth. Shut up, I'm on a budget.) over a little ice and wondered if it was super amateur to add Coke. And if it was too late to slip on some pajama shorts.
Because holy cow, I'd taken off my pants in front of my hot roommate. What had I done?
See, not only do I make panic decisions when I'm overwhelmed with choices, but also when I'm overwhelmed just in general. Marc Kirby in his boxer briefs was rahthah overwhelming. I imagined we'd probably have gotten to that point, someday, eventually, maybe, if we'd both been around a bit more when the other was home. The hanging around intimately thing. That's what happens with roommates. They get so used to each other that walking around without pants gets to be no big deal. At least me and my lady roommates always had.
Marc was not a lady. And we were definitely not at this point of familiarity.
But I couldn't back down now. Then Marc would be alone in his underwear. And, after the way I'd dodged him that day we'd met, I probably owed him.
Thank god I had some liquid courage to help with that. Obviously, I shot back the entire glass of bourbon and poured another before filling one for him. Obviously.
I returned to the living room and handed him his drink super smoothly, with my newly steadied hand. Then I perched on the couch as though it were just another Friday for us two roommates, just sipping on some whiskey in our skivvies, even though we had literally never hung out. In our whole lives.
"Crazy schedules, huh?" I tossed out. Making conversation. As you do.
Marc swirled his glass without taking a sip. "Almost like living alone," he said. "I imagine you'll see me more in the future. Thesis done. Graduation is next week. I'll have nothing to keep me occupied during the day. Hope that's not going to infringe on your couch sleeping."
Low blow, but I laughed. "Guess I better get used to sleeping in my bed." But what I was really thinking was that I'd get to see him more and wondering exactly what that meant. Like, more often? Or more … bodily?
I had no sense of that, but I did sense that those were not thoughts a roommate should be having, particularly when said roommate was a friend's cousin. So off-limits for anything but drawing. "Did you say you'd been offered a job at UMKC?"
"I did. I'll be teaching a couple of courses in the undergraduate department. I start this fall."
"Oh, that's fantastic. Will you be signing another lease, then?" It was an honest question on my part and the panic that was stirring at the thought of him leaving had everything to do with logistics. I couldn't afford this place without him, but then he might have wanted to keep it alone, and where would I go?
It was nothing to do with being worried I wouldn't see him again, even in passing. Nothing at all. I waited nervously for his answer.
"Guh," Marc finally replied.
Not the response I'd expected. He couldn't even answer me properly.
Men had a habit of ruining all of your daydreams about them, I'd noticed. Looked like he was to be no exception.
Then I actually looked, and he was bright red. "Oh, god! Are you okay?"
Marc didn't answer, which made me suspect he couldn't answer.
"Shit! You're choking!" I'd taken a first aid class in high school, so I knew what to do. First, you loudly state the obvious. Second, you ask for their permission to save them, because otherwise their corpse can sue you.
I did not make that up. It's a real thing.
I moved closer to him, sitting up on my knees. "Would you like for me to perform the Heimlich?" I shouted in his ear, because it's never clear how much of their surroundings dying people are aware of.
"Jiminy Christmas!" Marc exclaimed. "Stop yelling in my ear. I'm not choking. I'm burning." He waited until I relaxed and sat back to explain further. "I just … well, I don't really like bourbon."
Wait, what? Not bourbon? He was going to be a history professor. What else would he-oh. Oh, of course. Scotch. I'm an idiot!
Although I bought this for me, I reminded myself, not him. It was beside the point that I didn't like bourbon either. I could not be blamed for my panic decisions.
Certainly not because he'd been in the back of my mind. Pssht.
"I could put some Coke in it," I said conciliatorily. Please note that I could not have pronounced 'conciliatorily' at that point because I'd finished my drink. And I was feeling it.
He didn't answer, but merely thrust his glass at me.
I had spent many an evening picturing him above me thrusting something else, so I took what I got, and also took the opportunity to put some soda in my own glass as well when I refilled it yet again.
"Why are you here, anyway?" he asked when I returned. I assumed he was not so demented that he forgot I lived here. He'd written a thesis, after all. He was an intelligent man.
"Pipe burst at work." I sipped some more bourbon.
"No orgies tonight?"
"Guh?" I responded. Bourbon was not a fun thing to choke on, it turned out. I now understood Marc's earlier distress.
"Artists. You are an artist," he enunciated so clearly that I knew he was drunk already. Lightweight. It was also beside the point that I was too. Professors had to schmooze, you had to hold your liquor for that. It was known. He continued.
"I know a thing or two about artists. You spend your time boinking college students and bartenders and same-sex acquaintances."
It was difficult to know what to think about that. On one hand, I was flattered to think he thought basically every person I met wanted to do it with me. On the other, I was super insulted that he thought my standards were so low as to boink anyone who was in college or in a bar or who was a chick.
"No … orgies," I said as casually as I was capable of. "Not tonight, anyway."
"Disappointing," Marc said more unintelligibly as he gulped another finger of bourbon. I'd brought the bottle back with me from the kitchen and stuck it on the coffee table.