ten things i'd say to the straight guy who made an exception for me

♥️

One.

When we went on dates, I notice you checked our waitress out. It didn't bother me, really, or at least that's what I told myself...

It isn't much of anything, something I would've missed had I blinked, or rubbed my eye. But when it comes to you, my attention is never divided, it never strays. You're the only person on this planet I can look straight in the eye without thinking about it. But this time, I wish I had blinked, I wish I had shied away. It's nothing more than a quick shift of your gorgeous, stormy gray eyes timed perfectly to when she turns on the balls of her feet and walks away.

I notice the way the left side of your pristine white collar is tucked in a little, I notice how the charcoal sweater you wear over it clings to your muscular frame hard; like I do whenever we're taking our chilly midnight walks. The shifty eyes, I'd rather not have noticed. You pretend it didn't happen, or maybe it was some subconscious habit, or maybe you don't even remember it anymore because now you're looking at me like you Whitney Houston love me and I can't help but smile in return.

"So how did your day go?" Your eyebrow cocks and I can tell that you've easily caught remnants of insecurity so very clearly displayed on my face.

My gaze slides upwards as if to look at the thoughts in my brain and read them out loud. "Pretty boring, classes and all that." I murmur, idly drumming my fingers against the wood of the table. "You?" I meet your eyes and in looking at you, I can't help but feel so fucking inferior. With your broad shoulders and golden skin. Those barely noticeable but cute freckles panning from the bridge of your nose to either side of your face and sharp platinum eyes. Like God spent his time picking each of his Crayola crayons down to the 'tickle-me-pink' of your lips when he drew you but then turned around and colored me with shitty dollar store Roseart. What does the boy sitting across the table see in me?

Scratching the side of your face, you give me a small smile. "I'm still tired from football practice."

"You play football?" The waitress asks. She's setting down our complimentary glasses of water and pulling her pad from her apron pocket before clicking open her pen. She slides a flirty smile your way. Oblivious, you nod your answer and before you can turn your attention back to me, she's prompting you with other questions.

...so the next time I went shopping I picked out sweaters that hugged the curves of my torso so I could hopefully be a little more feminine so I could hopefully keep your attention like you kept mine—I would have hated to see you go.

Two.

We met after you walked up to me at a frat party and you didn't even seem all that gay but we were drunk and I'd been crushing on you since the beginning of the school year so I couldn't help but get excited when you asked me to...

I'm not really the partying type of guy because all the cute guys are straight and all my friends are girls but they drag me to the stupid party anyway. They make me dress up even though nobody would take a second glance at me no matter what clothes I wear, and the doorman doesn't let me in because I'm a guy but I guess it all ended up working out. We slip in through the back and everything is cool. And by cool, I mean the girls are having fun and I'm happy that they're happy. That is until I have a few red solo cups in me and you appear in my alcohol tainted vision. I don't even have a chance to speak or squawk out my first name because you're pulling me onto the dance floor and grinding all six feet and three inches of your body against mine.

I vaguely hear cat calls from my friends dancing with their guys and this, right here? This is when I start to like these kinds of parties. Then you whisper in my ear, the way all horny, drunk douchebags do when they want something. My defenses were weak. It was like the bass of your voice was louder than the music, reaching the pit of my stomach and commanding me to do whatever you asked. I could smell the alcohol even with your lips at my ear, rose skin brushing past the brown as you murmur dirty things that go straight to my root chakra about how there's a free room upstairs that we should occupy.