Hanging Loose by Lou Harper Page A

grumbled but went on. “No, not me. But plenty of the guys I knew went both ways.” He stopped for a moment, blinking into a distance only he could see. “There was this writer I met a long time ago. He’s dead now. He’d been with women, but he considered himself gay anyway. He told me once that it’s not who you slept with that mattered, but whom you fell in love with.”
    That made me pause. I’d never thought of it that way. We finished our meal in silence while I chewed on this new notion. I cleared off the containers and took Arthur’s shopping list. I turned back from the door.
    “Do you have any regrets?” I asked him.
    “A bunch. That’s life.”
    “Any big ones?”
    “Just one.” He cast a pensive glance toward the “Wall of Lovers,” but I couldn’t tell which photo his gaze landed on. “If you want the advice of an old man, don’t be afraid of making mistakes. That’s life. Just be sure you’re making them for the right reason.”
    It was now or never. “Do you think Jez likes me?”
    He stared at me as if I’d announced that I’d joined the Church of Scientology.
    “Aren’t you two together already?”
    “No, we’re just roomies. I sort of told him I was straight, except I’m not really…”
    Arthur laughed so hard that tears ran down his crumpled cheeks. I was miffed. He laughed till he started to cough and had to scramble for his water. He put the glass down and wiped his eyes.
    “I’m sorry, kid. I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said, wheezing. “I was just thinking how youth is wasted on the young.”
    I gave him a dirty look.
    “Of course he likes you. The way he looks at you, that’s not constipation in his eyes. Trust me, I’m old enough to know.”
    “What should I do?”
    “Tackle him and screw his brains out. There’s nothing like the direct approach.”
    Dirty old coot.

Chapter Eight
     
    When I got home, the house was empty. I was puttering around restlessly when Roger called. One of the waitresses was out, and he wanted me to come in for a few hours. I almost said no, but agreed in the end. It was good; being busy, not having time to think, eased my mind.
    It was dusk by the time I got home again. I found Jez in the kitchen, fiddling with something at the counter. I stopped in the doorway to study him. He was all warm tones, from his tanned skin to his brown shorts and golden hair. It was very silly, I know, but those colors made me think of an ice-cream sundae. I wondered: if I licked him, would he taste sweet? Suddenly there was too much saliva in my mouth, and my heart beat like it was trying to escape. I was rooted to the spot, in danger of spending eternity in the doorway.
    He glanced at me over his shoulder with a casual smile.
    “Feeling better?”
    “Much,” was all I could croak out before my voice would betray me.
    He turned his attention back to the counter. The spell broke, and my feet moved again. I stole up behind him, and after a moment of hesitation, put my palm at his nape. Something clunked to the cutting board, and he stilled, even stopped breathing.
    I slowly slid my hand down along the groove of his spine, with every pore of my being focused on the sensation. I felt every smooth inch with a rare intensity. I reached the waistband of the shorts and kept going. He spun around and planted his hands on either side of my head. I realized just then how big his hands were. All this time I’d never noticed. For some reason, thinking about them made me even more aroused. He gripped my head and stared warily into my eyes. He even sniffed me.
    “Did you take something?” There was a hint of concern in his voice.
    “Like what?” I gulped like a fish out of water.
    “Pills?”
    “Aspirin this morning. Why?”
    “Because I don’t smell alcohol or pot on you, and you only hit on me when you’re buzzed.”
    He had a point. I wasn’t buzzed, but I felt like it. Maybe because my heart was beating too fast to get oxygen to my brain. I was full