JMP

Don't Say You Like It

Gus and I aren't really friends.

We met when I was ten and he was eleven and both of us were still girls. We'd watch WWE, wrestle until one of us tapped out. I was seventeen when we had sex for the first time. I bled everywhere, and Gus liked that. We dated until he moved away for college. I've seen him a handful of times since, usually when he's traveling through town. Last time was a year ago.

I finish my shift and drive from the bakery to the train station to get him. There wasn't time for a shower, so I can smell myself. I smell like flour and sweat. I stay in my car and watch his train pull in. He hops onto the platform with a duffel hanging off his shoulder. He looks good. He's wearing glasses. His hair is long now. Neither of us overcompensates with pixie cuts anymore. He smiles when he spots me. I step out of the car, fighting an urge to vomit, and we side hug. "Thanks for picking me up," he says and falls into the passenger seat.

Gus never shares much. The more I push, the more he shuts down. It always takes us a minute to find each other again. My steering wheel is almost wet from the moisture on my palms. "How are things?" I ask.

"Engagement's off. Shame, he was pretty rich. He gave me a ring that was so—I don't know, it was just too much. Very feminine, honestly."

"That's weird. Trying to remind you you're the girl in the relationship?"

"Shut up." He swats my shoulder. "It's hard to say no when you're vacationing in another country. He could've left me stranded."

I don't have a passport. I've never been to another country. "I'm glad you didn't end up in pieces someplace," I say.

When I pull up to my building, Gus undoes his seatbelt and opens the door before I can bring the car to a stop. "And you?" he asks. He's talking over his shoulder now, walking ahead of me like he lives here. "You got a girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

I roll my eyes. "I don't date dudes." I follow him down the stairwell and through the dingy hallway to my unit. I tell him there's some people I fool around with. He steps aside so I can unlock the door. He's watching me. I can feel goosebumps forming on the back of my neck.

He tosses his bag next to the couch and flops himself down with a dramatic stretch. His stomach's peeking out between his sweater and jeans. I look away, pretending to organize two pieces of paper. "How long's your layover," I ask.

"Twenty-four hours. My train leaves at five tomorrow."

"I put a pillow and a blanket on the couch for you."

"I see." There's a smile in his voice. He knows the couch is a pretense.

I rustle two beers from the fridge. Gus drinks without hesitation then pulls a face, searching the label. "Why is this eight percent?" He takes another sip.

"It's good. It tastes like apples." I join him on the couch, leaving a space between us. "I'll make dinner in an hour, if you wanna help."

"Course." He shivers and a fraction of the space closes.

The sun goes down. We move through the apartment turning on all the lamps so we can see each other in that soft, personal way, and then we sink into the couch again. He drapes his legs over my thighs and drains the rest of his second beer. I'm already on my third.

He's grinning in a way that makes me think he's trying to convince himself he doesn't want to eat me. His cheeks are red. He burps into the back of his hand before placing it on my kneecap. "No, no, no," he says, and he's talking to my knee. He's staring at it, at his hand on it. "Listen," he says, "his boyfriend brought up the idea of the threesome, I wasn't even there! And the thing is—and this is really what told me I needed to get the fuck out of there—he threw my shark in the trash! Remember when we were kids, I won that shark at Six Flags? He threw it away! He said it didn't match the décor! I hate that bitch." He looks up at me and gives my knee a slap. I laugh.

"Are you still trying to go to med school?" I ask.

"Fuck if I know," he says. He's looking down at my knee again, rubbing a small circle with the pad of his thumb. "Money's the issue. My credit isn't good enough to get the loans I'd need."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay, life goes on. Is it your left or your right leg that bothers you?"

"Left leg, right shoulder."

"I always forget," he says, prodding me like he's tenderizing meat.

"Maybe you could be a physical therapist."

"I don't think so," he says. "I don't really like touching people."

"You like touching me."

For a moment his gaze is cold in that professional way, like a surgeon's. "Do you have any wine?" he asks, craning his neck toward the kitchen.

"I think so. I can check." I slide his legs off my lap and start to stand, but he snatches my wrist and pulls me onto him. I come down with one hand on his shoulder and one beside his face. He leans back, wrapping his legs around my waist, and we pause. I shift my weight and slip a hand under his sweater. My fingers find his ribcage, press into the space between the bones. I want to hook beneath one of them, and tug. I wonder if I could pull him apart. I wonder if he'd like it. He moans.

We move from the couch to the bedroom where I get my strapon. We go until I'm dizzy and he's worse, a shaking puddle, and then we're facing each other, resting on our sides, the strap flung onto the floor. My aggression—the jealousy, loneliness, my sense of betrayal—feels small enough to ignore now, exorcized by bringing him to the verge of tears. He asked for it. He always does. Sometimes I imagine it's his way of apologizing. I know he just likes rough sex.

He paws at my shoulder. I think he wants me to turn around so we can spoon, but no. He pushes himself up and suddenly he's straddling me. "Your turn," he says. He's grinning. "I know I'm not usually in a topping mood, but recently I've been getting into it."

"I don't know," I say. He kisses me. The kissing is nice. Even from this position, it feels familiar. He bites me. He presses his weight into me. I want to panic, but it's okay. I hate him a little, but the hate makes it hotter. I trust him. "Wait," I say, and then he's clambering off me. He's leaning over the edge of the bed, digging through the clothes on the floor. Is he looking for my strap? There's a bug in the back of my brain, a prayer he won't find it. It disappeared. It never existed. Of course he didn't bring his own.

I'm so relieved when he gives up that I pull him back on top of me. He bites my neck. His hand cups my crotch. I feel the pressure of his fingers inside and erupt in searing pain. I can't speak. I feel like I can barely breathe. I grab his shoulders and try to use my body weight to throw him away from me, like I used to when we were kids wrestling along to WWE, but I can't get enough leverage. I can feel my body shaking. He stops. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm okay."

"Something happen?"

"Nothing happened. I want a cigarette."

"I thought because, well because we used to—"

"It was too fast."

"I'm sorry," he says. He's studying me with concern.

"Don't do that."

"What."

"You should tell me to suck it up."

"Rich," he says, "do you need to talk?"

"I'm gonna have a cigarette."

He watches me grab my coat and stuff my feet into a pair of shitty sneakers before getting up and following me outside. I slide two Marlboros from my pack. "I don't get it," he says, "you're one of the horniest guys I know."

"People get obsessed with what they can't have."

"But you've had it."

"Not in the way I want to. The way I want to hurts."

"Hurts?"

"It stings."

"Stings. You never said anything."

"I thought it hurt for everyone."

"No," he laughs, "it really doesn't."

"Okay. What's it feel like?"

He won't look me in the eye. He's looking up at the stars and clouds. "It feels so good I can't cum from it."

"Huh," I say.

My stomach twists like one of those swirly drinks you get at beach-themed bars. I wonder if I could convince him to follow me up the fire escape so I could push him off. "Did something happen?" he asks.

"No, nothing I can recall."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, probably." I tap the ash and watch it flutter to the ground. "Once a doctor floated the idea that something could've happened, like, before I could speak."

"Wait, what?" He goes quiet for a beat. "Are you saying—who would do that to a baby?"

"Look," I pause. "She told me she was 18 months." And then both of us are giggling like girls, crudely and at the expense of someone else, some impossible baby. I can't see the moon.

"I have to detransition," Gus says. He stomps out his butt with the tip of his shoe. "T was fucking with my liver, so I had to stop. I'm surprised you can't tell. I thought you'd be able to smell it on me."

"No, I guess I can't. Is this what you want?"

"Not really," he laughs. He's shaking his head. "I'm excited about full-body orgasms again. Being able to cry. Softer skin, maybe. But no, it's not my choice."

"I'm sorry."

"Worse things could happen," he shrugs. "Can I show you something?" He leads me back inside. We take off our coats. I sit on the bed while he grabs his bag. "Turn around," he says, moving his hands in a shooing motion. "I want it to be a surprise." I can hear him rooting around, laughing to himself. "Okay," he says, "look."

He's holding a ratty orange t-shirt. Flakey screen-print of a wolf mascot and a clipart violin. He flips it over so I can pick out our names, his and mine, from the list on the back. Seventh grade orchestra. "Good lord, Gus. You still have that?"

"Of course. I lost mine so you gave me yours. You don't throw away a gift."

"You don't. I would've taken it to Goodwill."

"This? It's a good shirt! You know you're turning red, right? It's in your ears."

I can feel it spreading to my neck. "We should sleep," I say. He laughs and changes into the shirt. I fall asleep with an arm around his waist.

He wakes before I do. He lets me rest, playing on his phone. He uses his left hand to type and his right to comb through my hair. I fall in and out of sleep, surrounded by the smell of him and the faintness of his touch. He digs his nails into my scalp and scratches hard enough to rouse me. I crack my eyes just to see how he looks on my sheets. His hair is tied up, messily. Glasses sitting crookedly—I wonder if that could be my fault. We had a fight once where I pinned his arms to his side, and he headbutted me, breaking his nose. Gus is intense.

He insists we brunch at a place downtown. It's out of my budget, but he promises he'll take care of it as long as I drive so he can drink. He opens the menu on his phone and reads it to me in spurts, pausing to type a response to a text, while I circle the block and hunt for a space that doesn't require me to parallel park.

The hostess leads us to a half-booth, half-table next to the restroom in the back of the café. Gus takes the booth. He shivers and it makes me laugh. I hand him my jacket. He pulls it over his shoulders. He looks silly, domesticated almost, with my barn jacket overtop his tight-fit jeans and thin sweater. I can feel the redness in my ears again, so I hide my face behind the menu.

He orders a mimosa with caramel around the rim. I get a sweet tea. We each try the other's drink. He presses his shoe against mine. "How was graduation?" I ask him.

"I didn't go," he says, distracted. "It's just undergrad, nothing major." He's preoccupied by the couple seated at the neighboring table, a girl and a twink. "Do we know them?" he asks.

I recognize the girl immediately. It's Ophelia. Her shaggy bob. Neon fingernails. She went to high school with us. Like Gus, she moved away for college. She came back last year to start a job at the insurance agency that happens to hold offices next to the bakery. I'd be standing in the shared lot, sticky with sweat and flour, having my mid-shift smoke break, when she'd be coming in for work. The first time we kissed was behind the dumpster wedged in the alley between our buildings. She slept over a few times, but it never led to anything more than that.

I can't ID the twink, but they look vaguely familiar. Faded blue hair, stud earring. Ophelia's partner, I'm guessing. I've probably seen their face on Instagram.

Ophelia catches my gaze, breaks into an open-mouthed smile. "Richard!" she says. I wonder if we didn't work out because she's so friendly. "And Gus, right? I think we had a class together."

"Physics," Gus says. He's smiling and nodding, shifting into his charismatic social persona. "We should push our tables together," he says. "I'd love to catch up."

I help him move the table. He rewards me with another sip of his drink. It's sweet.

"This is Aiden," Ophelia says, gesturing at the twink. I almost roll my eyes. Aiden waves. Gus insists on ordering mimosas for the table. I can't remember what he's doing for work these days. I didn't think to ask.

"You moved back home?" Ophelia asks.

"No," Gus says, pressing his foot against mine, "just visiting for a bit. You?"

"After graduation, yeah," says Ophelia. "Rent's cheaper. Plus, I got a job with the insurance company in town. The pay's actually pretty good." Ophelia swills her drink, bracelets clinking on her wrist. "And it's nice to be close to family. My great aunt is getting kinda old, so."

Gus nods sympathetically. No one moves here on purpose. People get stuck here. Or they're forced to return. "What'd you major in?" he asks.

College talk. I finish my drink. Another is placed in front of me. Gus must've ordered the bottomless mimosas. He's a good talker, a good buffer. I can enjoy my buzz, tuning in and out of the conversation that's happening around me, without feeling like I'm being watched.

Aiden hasn't said a word. They seem, I don't know, almost frazzled? Exasperated, maybe. I guess you don't go on a date with a hot girl so she can give her attention to someone else. Gus always seems to want me more when he's partnered with someone else. Which is fine. I don't mind being the secret. We like to exchange pics at inappropriate times, like when I'm at the bakery and he's scouting wedding venues. Then, when he reaches me, he's foaming at the mouth.

I've emptied my glass again. I need to pee. I can see the bathroom from here. It's unoccupied. I excuse myself and lock the bathroom door behind me. The fan starts up when I flip on the light. I could be fine with this. Going to cafés. Watching him make friends. Watching him laugh and talk with his hands, occasionally dipping below the table to touch my thigh so I know I'm real. If the engagement's off, will he move back home? I finish up and wash my hands. The fan shuts off when I kill the light, and their chatter becomes audible through the wall. "I've seen him on Grindr. He showed me his dick." Laughter. "To be fair, I showed him mine too." Is that Aiden? That's why they look familiar. Grindr.

"Rich's a great guy," Gus starts.

"A great lay," says Ophelia. "He's angsty, right? Like a teenager." Now she's giggling.

"Ugh," says Gus. "He's got the potential to be decent. But he's too wrapped up in how good it feels to feel bad for himself."

"It surprised me," Ophelia says, "when I moved back and found him here? I thought he hated this place."

"He does," Gus says. "He's always planning his escape. Kinda pathetic."

I flip the light back on to bring the fan to life again. I wait, I don't know how long, and when I return to the table, I play dumb. I can't help it. "Ready to go?" I say goodbye to Ophelia, lifting my jacket from Gus's shoulders. I don't look at Aiden, I can't. Gus follows me, bouncing like a puppy, to the car. I've lost my buzz. Driving home, I ask him about his life in the city.

"What about it," he says.

"Do you like it," I say.

He laughs. "Yes, I like it. Don't know if it would be your scene though."

"Do you think I'm pathetic?"

"Pathetic? Come on, Rich."

"Pathetic. Because I don't know how to leave this place."

"Rich, I don't think you're pathetic."

"Then take me with you."

"Stop," he says.

"Please," I say.

"Stop," he repeats, "stop, stop, stop." He slumps forward and holds his head between his knees. I grab the back of his collar and try to yank him upright. I hate him so much.

"Please," I say.

"Let go!" he says. I let go. He keeps his head between his knees. "Stop begging. I don't want to see it."

"Am I pathetic?"

"You're so fucking weak."

I park the car. Gus shuffles behind me into the building, down the stairwell, through the hallway. We sit down on opposite ends of the couch. "I need to shower," he says, without turning to look at me.

"Go ahead." I scroll through my phone without looking at anything. He locks himself in the bathroom. I hear the shower start up, then the rushing water. At some point, I decide I want my stupid t-shirt back. I go into the bedroom to rifle through his bag. It's a low pull, some shit revenge, but I don't care. He doesn't need it. He shouldn't get to keep it. I root around until I spot it, grabbing it by one of its ratty orange sleeves, tugging until it pops free in an explosion of sweaters and socks and something that falls with a metallic clink against the floor. It's a ring. I pick it up and turn it carefully inches from my face. It's gold with three gemstones. The stones are diamonds, I think. It's tasteful. I don't know. It looks expensive. My head spins.

I hear the shower shut off. I start grabbing the loose clothes—but then he's there, in the doorway, and I'm wrist deep in his duffel. "Get out of my bag," he says. "Richard. Don't be a creep."

"I wanted my shirt back," I say. "Found this." I hold up the ring so he can see it. His eyebrows knit together.

"Look," he says, tightening the grip on the towel around his waist, "we haven't broken up yet. He pays my rent." He lunges for the ring. I pull away. "Give it!" he says. He lunges again, getting a weak grip on my forearm. His palm is wet. I shake him off and scramble over the bed and out into the living room. I can hear him fumbling around the bedroom, cursing.

He comes out a minute later, buttoning a pair of jeans at his waist—no underwear. His hair is dripping. "Richard!" He grabs a throw pillow from the couch and chucks it at my head. "Stop being a fucking child!"

"You're a liar," I say. I enclose the ring in my fist.

He stomps up to me, backs me up against the living room wall. He snatches my wrist and digs his thumb into the veins. "It costs more than you do. Drop it."

Down dog. He makes me so mad. "You're gonna live with that bitch like a faggot for the rest of your life!"

"You're a faggot!" he says. "You fuck men!"

"I'm not a fucking fruit about it!"

"You don't understand how anything works! I have a chance to live a decent life, you're not going to–"

"Does he know you're here?"

He pulls back and slaps me across the face. He hits me harder than he hit me when we were kids. It stings. I throw the ring towards the kitchen. He turns to follow the sound of its clattering, and I reach for him—wrap my arms round his waist and tackle him. I straddle him. He's damp and he squirms. I'd rip a hole in him with my hands if I could. "Is it because of him," I say, "that you're detransitioning?"

"Get off me."

"Tell me the truth!"

He spits up at me, and I move my hands around his neck. He grips my shoulders and tries to shove me away. I squeeze in from the sides. It's not like we haven't done this before. He digs his nails into me, but I squeeze harder. His face is changing color. He taps out against my shoulder. I swallow and wait a fraction of a second. He taps again, and I let go. He gasps and sputters, twisting his body to the side. "Fuck you," he says. I sit back, still straddling him. He catches his breath, face flushed, and looks at me through hooded eyes. "Let's have sex before I go," he says.

"Get out of my house," I say. I get off him and stand to my feet. "I can't keep doing this."

"This is a house?"

"Out!"

"Let me put a fucking shirt on!"

I storm off to my room and shove the rest of his shit into his bag. I bring the duffel out to the living room and throw it at the door. I can hear him lying on the tile, looking. I don't want to hurt him anymore. I just want him gone.

He gets up, and I watch him stuff his feet into his gay little sneakers. He bends toward his bag, pulls out a shirt, and stretches it over his head. "You're a loser," he says. He hoists the duffel over his shoulder and pulls open the door—and I see my next-door neighbor yank her kids inside her unit. "You're a loser," he repeats. "You're a loser and a slut. And you're going to wish so bad for me to come back, and I won't." I place my hand on the doorknob, and I start to shut the door—nudging him outside. He turns toward me and presses his forehead against mine. I start to speak.

"Maybe I could—"

"No, Richard," he says, and his voice wavers, "you really couldn't." He doesn't want me to see him cry. I don't want him to see me cry. He pulls back. "You have nothing to say?" he asks. "Are you not going to say anything?"

"But I said it. Gus," I say. I'm trying to recall a fight we had where I walked away feeling like I had won. None come to mind. Then I say, "I hope he makes you wear a wedding dress."

He walks out, and I close the door.

JMP is a 23-year-old ceramics artist living in Fredericksburg, VA. He enjoys getting covered in clay and PBR with lime.