Southern Comfort, orginal, fragment
This is actually the first part of the story that spawned the Moving In. The short story happens much later and I planned on finishing this first. That didn't happen.
The time period for this would have been before Graduate school attempt #2, but after attempt #1. So around 2005?
All his friends kept telling Will he needed to get laid. Like having sex was going to solve all his problems. It wasn't. He knew that. But trying to convince his friends of that fact was like talking to a brick wall.
"What you need is a girlfriend," Richard said.
"What I need is for you to drop it," Will replied. Not that Richard would left it drop. Three years out of college and he was saying it.
"Everyone else has a girlfriend," Richard pointed out. "Except for Homeless. Homeless has a wife.
Homeless was Mike, who'd gotten his name in highschool for the simple reason that he spent practically every waking hour of the day somewhere other than his house. By junior year, Mike's parents didn't even bother to make dinner for him. They were surprised when he actually did come home.
"I know Homeless has a wife. I was there at the wedding."
"Without a date, I might add." Richard grinned as if he'd just proved some great point.
"Whatever. This conversation is over." Will gathered up the remains of his lunch, which consisted of an empty Bojangle's wrapper and his half finished sweet tea.
"This conversation is never over," Richard replied. He didn't bother getting up to follow Will, since he was only half way through his lunch."And you wouldn't be this hostile if you were getting laid."
***
There had been girls. Dates, really, that his friends had set him up on. Most of them had been in college. The problem was Will's taste in dates and his friend's dates were completely different. In college, his friends only looked for three things in a woman: how big her breasts were, how much beer she drank, and how east it was to get her into bed.
Will was not interested.
As the years went by, his friend's taste grew up. They started appreciating personality as well as looks. Hell, some of them even went for women with actual brain and motivation. Homeless, who at one point had aspired to be a driver at the local Pizza Hut and nothing more, had paired up with the nicest, smartest, and sweetest girl ever, She made three times what Homeless did, and Mike didn't care. If that wasn't a sign of maturity, Will didn't know what was.
The blind dates continued, only with girls that could actually think for themselves. Will went on them to be nice. His friends worked hard to find "the perfect girl" for him, the least he could do was go on the date. He always paid for the girl's meal, because Will knew the whole thing was futile.
There was no "perfect girl" for him. Will was gay. He liked guys. He really liked guys. And there was no getting around the fact that the people his friends set him up with were all female.
He'd never told anyone he was gay. Living in the South was like living with a "Don't ask, don't tell" policy permanently in place. You just didn't talk about it. Not unless you lived somewhere like Chapel Hill.
It didn't bother Will most days. He tried not to think about the days when it did bother him. No one knew. At least he'd done a good job of keeping it a secret.
Or so he thought.
The time period for this would have been before Graduate school attempt #2, but after attempt #1. So around 2005?
All his friends kept telling Will he needed to get laid. Like having sex was going to solve all his problems. It wasn't. He knew that. But trying to convince his friends of that fact was like talking to a brick wall.
"What you need is a girlfriend," Richard said.
"What I need is for you to drop it," Will replied. Not that Richard would left it drop. Three years out of college and he was saying it.
"Everyone else has a girlfriend," Richard pointed out. "Except for Homeless. Homeless has a wife.
Homeless was Mike, who'd gotten his name in highschool for the simple reason that he spent practically every waking hour of the day somewhere other than his house. By junior year, Mike's parents didn't even bother to make dinner for him. They were surprised when he actually did come home.
"I know Homeless has a wife. I was there at the wedding."
"Without a date, I might add." Richard grinned as if he'd just proved some great point.
"Whatever. This conversation is over." Will gathered up the remains of his lunch, which consisted of an empty Bojangle's wrapper and his half finished sweet tea.
"This conversation is never over," Richard replied. He didn't bother getting up to follow Will, since he was only half way through his lunch."And you wouldn't be this hostile if you were getting laid."
***
There had been girls. Dates, really, that his friends had set him up on. Most of them had been in college. The problem was Will's taste in dates and his friend's dates were completely different. In college, his friends only looked for three things in a woman: how big her breasts were, how much beer she drank, and how east it was to get her into bed.
Will was not interested.
As the years went by, his friend's taste grew up. They started appreciating personality as well as looks. Hell, some of them even went for women with actual brain and motivation. Homeless, who at one point had aspired to be a driver at the local Pizza Hut and nothing more, had paired up with the nicest, smartest, and sweetest girl ever, She made three times what Homeless did, and Mike didn't care. If that wasn't a sign of maturity, Will didn't know what was.
The blind dates continued, only with girls that could actually think for themselves. Will went on them to be nice. His friends worked hard to find "the perfect girl" for him, the least he could do was go on the date. He always paid for the girl's meal, because Will knew the whole thing was futile.
There was no "perfect girl" for him. Will was gay. He liked guys. He really liked guys. And there was no getting around the fact that the people his friends set him up with were all female.
He'd never told anyone he was gay. Living in the South was like living with a "Don't ask, don't tell" policy permanently in place. You just didn't talk about it. Not unless you lived somewhere like Chapel Hill.
It didn't bother Will most days. He tried not to think about the days when it did bother him. No one knew. At least he'd done a good job of keeping it a secret.
Or so he thought.