Page 12 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
Oh, my God. Emma is sothirsty.
Am I really going to go through with this? Am I really going to grit my teeth, close my eyes, and have sex with her? In so many ways, this is so unfair to her. It’s her first time. She’s losing something as important as her virginity. And she’s giving it up to a gay dude. I mean, I love her. But not likethat.
But on top of Emma’s feelings, what about mine? It’s alsomyfirst time. I’m losing my virginity too. Do I really want my first sexual experience to be with a girl? I mean, I feel no attraction to her at all.
I’ve tried to force myself to be into her, romantically, but of course it doesn’t work like that, especially if you’re as gay as I am.
They say that your sexuality falls along a spectrum, that most people aren’t totally straight or totally gay, that they’re somewhere in between, on a scale of 1 to 6, with 6 being super homosexual. But me, I’m definitely a 6. Hell . . . I’m probably an 11.
So how did I end up here, standing face to face with Emma, about to have sex with her? These acting skills I’ve gotten compliments about in Drama class: maybe I’ve always had them.
In elementary school, I knew that I was different. But back then, I didn’t quite know how. In middle school, I realized I liked boys, and since then I’ve been trying to hide that fact to the best of my ability. These days, I’m an expert at demonstrating my “straightness” to my family, to my friends, to everyone—at least the world’s stereotypical idea of “straightness.”
I mean, I know gender lines blur nowadays, and boys can do “girl” things and girls can do “boy” things and none of that necessarily says anything about your sexuality. But I don’t live in a big, generally liberal city like Los Angeles or San Francisco or New York, where people tend to be more open to alternate ideas of what’s “masculine” and what’s “feminine.”
Here in Point Liberty, dudes are dudes and girls are girls, and when they don’t act like they’re “supposed” to act, well, it means trouble.
So, using my brother’s natural masculinity as an example, I’m very conscious about the way I walk, how I sit, my whole physical vibe. I dress in simple clothes, all in muted colors—no pink, no turquoise, nothing that would be a “red flag,” which means lots of black, blue, earth tones.
I listen to my guy friends talk, and I’ve become an expert at talking like them, at talking about girls around campus. (“Amber is hot,” and “I’d bang Rebecca,” and, if I want to add some specificity to come across as more authentic, “Check outTiffany’s ass.”) It feels kind of gross to me, speaking like that, but I need to “keep up appearances,” so I just follow the guys.
My friends started getting girlfriends as freshmen and sophomores, and they started to look at me suspiciously the longer I remained unattached. No dates, no nothing, no anything to back up the straight identity I tried so hard to project.
So along came Emma, who asked me to the junior prom last year (yeah, she’s normally bold like that), and we eventually became boyfriend/girlfriend.
So far, we hold hands, give each other little kisses on the lips, sometimes make out, cuddle on the couch, nothing too crazy. I can do all of that and be pretty convincing. She seems to think that I’m comfortable with all that stuff (I’m not) and I like it (I don’t).
But getting naked and having actual sex? Like, my dick actually going inside her? This is next level, and I’m worried AF.
Emma plants her lips on mine and pushes against me until we’re both completely inside the house. Still kissing me, she uses the bottom of her foot to kick the front door closed.
“Hold on,” I say, as I lean away from her. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Let’s take it slow.”
The expression on her face changes. She was enthusiastic, hungry, but now she looks worried. I think she’s wondering if I’m backing out, if I’m rejecting her advances.
To ease Emma’s fears, I quickly say, “I’m so excited about making love to you . . .” (It sounds so cheesy to me, but I knowhow to handle her.) “. . . but I want to savor every moment. Slowly. It’s hotter that way.”
I put my hand on her cheek and brush it tenderly. She lets out an excited breath.
Jesus, that’s all it took to get her going. Shereallywants it, and she really wants itnow.
I take her hand and pull her toward the couch until we’re sitting, facing each other.
Emma nods. “I agree. Slowly.”
“Yeah. Let’s just hang out for a bit, enjoy each other’s company tonight, and then we’ll ease into it.” I gently kiss her on the lips.
When I pull away, Emma releases another breath.
She pulls out her phone. “I’ll put on some music.”
She rotates the phone sideways, pops out the collapsible stand on the back of it, and sets it down on the glass coffee table, angled so that we both can see it. She navigates to one of the playlists she’s created, one with a bunch of her favorite music videos. She presses play, and a Shawn Mendes video starts.
It opens with a closeup of Shawn’s face, and the camera pulls back to show him wearing a white tank top. About halfway into the video, he lies down on a bed, and I can’t help but study his face, his toned arms, the seemingly perfect hair that lines his armpit.
I look up from the phone. Emma is staring at me, a look of deep concern on her face.
“What?” I ask, softly, sincerely.
