Page 162 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“Then tonight wasn’t a total bust.”
I wasn’t as irritated as I sounded. On the one hand, we’d just driven over two hundred miles on a Saturday night to hang out in rented tuxes at a house party. On the other hand, I no longer had to worry about what would happen if Allen and I ended up naked across from each other, our dicks cocked and loaded. I knew what I wanted to happen between us—I fantasized about it often enough—which is why it worried me. What did Allen want? The thought had to have crossed his mind in the weeks leading up to the party.
“Sorry things turned out so shitty,” Allen said.
“It’s not your fault,” I said without looking at him. Donnie Wahlberg’s abs had momentarily stolen my attention.
“I know, but I kind of dragged you into this whole mess.”
I shrugged. “It hasn’t been a total waste of time. At least I know the kind of gay man I don’t want to be when I’m in my forties.”
“What kind of gay man is that?”
“The kind that bathes in Axe body spray,” I said.
Allen laughed. “It’s nice to see you in good spirits. You always seem so gloomy.”
“Do I?”
“You never want to leave the house, dude.”
“I like to dance.”
He glared at me. “Like once a year, and only when your friend Molly is around.”
“So I like to stay in. I enjoy reading. That’s not a crime.”
“I envy you. I’ve never told you that, but it’s true. I can’t stand to be at my own apartment. My own thoughts are suffocating. Even when I leave the house, I still can’t get away from myself. Why do you think I’m always drinking?”
“Are you serious?”
Allen nodded. “If I stayed in as much as you do, I would go crazy. I need to always be on the move, like a shark.” Then, under his breath, he added, “Like a drunk shark.”
It had never occurred to me that he might consider his own drinking problematic. It’s not as if we were alcoholics. We were just doing what you do when you’re twenty-one. The ambient light lit up Allen’s face, highlighting his perfect cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. It was ridiculous to think that anyone who looked like this could have any problems.
“You’ve been drinking tonight, but you don’t seem drunk now,” I said, trying to reassure him. I was in the unfamiliar position of comforting Allen, whose self-esteem never seemed to flag. Now he was crumbling before me.
“You’re right,” he said. “I was holding back. It takes enormous willpower to not get tanked.”
“Why hold back? I thought we were staying with Justine after the party. You said she lives close by, right?”
“I’ve been thinking we might just head home.”
That didn’t sound like a bad idea. If we were lucky, we could get back to Iowa before the sun came up, meaning I could get a few hours of shut-eye before my study group at one. “If you were thinking of leaving early, I’m always happy to be the designated driver. You know that.”
“You’re too good to me,” he said. “Why is that?”
“We’re friends,” I said quickly.
Allen was silent. I sensed some tension brewing just below the surface of our conversation. We’d gotten too deep, too fast. I’d been worried about seeing him naked at the orgy; instead, I wound up seeing him more naked than I’d ever expected.
“Bunga bunga,” I said.
Allen shot me a sideways glance.
“Berlusconi used to throw these parties—”
“Who?”
